by Angel Smits
The final canister was open and in the trays. Cold air swept past her. The dark room occupied a back corner of the house, making it normally cooler than the rest of the house, but this was different. Something out of the cold north settled over the room. It took most of her strength to look into the developing tray.
As before, an image she hadn’t photographed appeared on the film. Delta DeLange lay across the brass bed that had been in Faith’s dreams of late. She stared with the sightless eyes of the dead. The picture continued to develop, and Faith saw the dark stain on Delta’s chest.
In the foreground a figure formed, and Faith gasped. It was Cord . . . no, she corrected herself . . . it was Rafe. He held a pistol in his hand.
The look in his eyes frightened Faith. No remorse, no regret. He’d intended to kill her. The smile turning up the corner of his mouth boasted pride, as if he’d set out to accomplish some great task.
Dear God, he’d killed her in cold blood.
Terror, strong and unbending, filled Faith and the room around her. There was no escape.
Three photographs remained in the trays, waiting to be immersed in the final chemicals that would bring them to life. Or, in this case, to death.
“Faith?” Clarissa’s voice came through the door, and Faith’s heart slowed slightly.
“Y . . . yes. Wait a minute.” Hastily, she covered the undeveloped pictures and pulled the door open. She yanked Clarissa’s arm and slammed the door behind her. “Quick, look at the images before they fade.”
She pulled Clarissa to the print trays. The figures were clear, though they quickly withered.
“Oh, merciful heaven.” Clarissa watched until they were completely gone, leaving a blank white page.
Clarissa paled and her eyes widened with shock. Faith watched the golden curls on her head tremble in the dim light.
“There are three more pictures to develop,” Faith whispered, afraid of startling either of them.
“I’ll be right outside the door. Can you do them all at once?”
“Yeah. I’ll do just like before. When I call, get in here quick, before they’re gone.”
It took several minutes for the next two pictures to develop, as if something slowed the process. Still there were no new images, but the last photograph sent terror shooting through Faith.
Delta stood before the camera. Laughter danced in her eyes. The laughter from earlier echoed in Faith’s memory. Delta held a gun in her hand, a gun pointed directly at the camera.
The image wavered and Delta faded away. The image behind her tore a scream from Faith’s throat. Cord lay on the floor of the old-fashioned bedroom. Not Rafe. Cord.
He wore the same clothes he’d been wearing the first day they’d met in the casino. Jeans. Flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbow. No mustache decorated his upper lip. His eyes stared wide and lifeless. A dark stain covered the front of his shirt.
Suddenly, bright golden flames appeared in the picture, eating away at the image. “No.” Faith screamed. “No.”
The sound of the door crashing open vaguely registered as Clarissa ran in.
“How can I beat a ghost? How?” Faith’s voice broke with fright. Her eyes met Clarissa’s as the last of the images faded to black. Faith saw her own terror reflected in Clarissa’s face.
Clarissa guided Faith to the living room—a solid, normal room. Then she went back and closed the darkroom door. Neither of them needed to return there any time soon. They’d gotten the message.
“She’s going to kill him.” Faith wanted to run to the phone and call to see if he was okay. One glance at the clock told her he probably hadn’t yet reached Cripple Creek. If she left a message with Johnny would Cord even return her call? His anger came back to her, deep and strong and painful. Frustrated, she resisted the urge to kick something.
Clarissa rushed across the room and picked up a book. Thumbing through the pages, she stopped about half way through it. “Here it is. There has been some research, primarily by Dr. Waylon Marshall at a university in California, that suggests spirits use film images to send messages. Some say good-bye to loved ones; others seem intent on revenge. They tease their victims through horrific images.”
“Tease? Oh, that’s the word. But what message is she sending?” Faith buried her face in her hands, the image of Cord’s lifeless body indelibly burned into her mind’s eye.
“It means she’s got a plan. To tease you. To make threats. The question is, will she follow through? Can she?”
Faith had no doubts about Delta’s intent. “So, we just sit back and let her kill Cord?” Anger brought Faith to her feet and she paced. “It’s not like I can have her arrested. Or shoot her with a gun. Even vampires have wooden stakes and werewolves silver bullets. Can’t you unbolt Frankenstein’s head?” she babbled. “But how do you stop a ghost?”
“Hold on. We don’t know if she has the power to do it.”
“We don’t know that she doesn’t.”
There were no more answers—none that Faith wanted to hear anyway. Pain penetrated her shock. “I can’t let him die.”
“He’s got to get out of Cripple Creek. He’ll be safe here, I believe.” Clarissa stared into space, her brow creased in a frown.
“I . . . I’m not so sure about that.”
“Why?” Clarissa’s gaze focused on Faith.
“I think I heard her laughter this morning. That’s part of why he left.”
Clarissa crossed her arms in an unmistakable sign she intended to get the whole story.
“He thought I wanted him to be Rafe. She called Rafe’s name, and he thought I said it.”
“Great.” Clarissa threw up her hands. “What about the dreams?”
“I had another one last night.” The terror of the dream returned along with the memories of how Cord had taken the pain away. “About Timmy’s death.”
“I don’t think those are coming from Delta,” Clarissa said and at Faith’s look of surprise, she explained. “For one, they aren’t things Delta would know about. I think they’re memory whispers. Leftovers from the past.”
Memories of the past. They were back to the same old problem. Were they Rafe and Maria reincarnated? How they’d dealt with the recent dreams infused her cheeks with warmth. Did Cord think she was Maria? Last night had gone a long way in helping him think that.
The rat. She wanted to kick something again and gave the trashcan a shove. Broken glass tinkled, breaking the silence. So many pictures destroyed today . . .
Destroyed. “Oh, God.”
“What?” Clarissa looked up.
“My pictures. They’re ruined. I can’t print those in the book.”
“Maybe she just ruined the prints.”
Faith doubted it, and from the tone of Clarissa’s voice, so did she. Faith rushed back to her darkroom. The developed film that she intended to cut into strips later hung beside the prints. She pulled them into the light, looking for something, anything.
Every frame was blank. Nothing remained of all that work.
Her eyes burned, and she rubbed them to stall the tears. What more could go wrong?
Fourteen
AFTER CLARISSA LEFT, the panic set in. The events of the past few days tumbled about in Faith’s brain. The destroyed pictures. Delta’s unearthly threats. The argument with Cord . . . making love with him. With that thought, she dropped to the couch and buried her face in her hands. Heat warmed her cheeks and other parts of her body.
If she returned to Cripple Creek would he think she was following him? Would she be able to stand her ground and resist him if he touched her? She groaned, the sound muffled by her hands.
Going back was no longer optional. It was mandatory. Her deadline loomed like a black cloud on the horizon—a black cloud lined not with s
ilver but red past due notices.
What was worse was not knowing who she feared facing most—a ghost or Cord.
“I refuse to be intimidated,” she whispered to Singe who barely moved a whisker in response. “Oh, what good are you?” She hugged the animal to her chest. “I should at least warn him, right?” Again the cat simply stared. Even if Cord was still angry, he deserved to be warned. But that was all. She dialed the casino. This was simply a business call.
“You’ve reached the Double Barrel Saloon,” Cord’s prerecorded voice slid across her nerves, tingling with the memory of his touch. She closed her eyes and listened, disappointed when the beep came and she had to leave a message.
What should she say? A simple, “Call me” was all she left. As the evening wore on, she stared at the silent phone. She left a second message, but another hour dragged by. She fidgeted and paced, barely taking notice of Singe until his tail smacked her leg.
With the setting of the sun, the shadows and darkness that lurked around her house intensified and grew. Had they always been like that? She flipped on light switches, and while the fireplace banished the encroaching darkness, nothing really helped.
In her mind’s eyes she saw the photo images again, too vivid to ever forget. She shivered, despite the warmth of the room. Where was Cord? Was he already hurt . . . or dead? She forced her mind away from that possibility. Why hadn’t he called?
She hated to admit that she already knew why. He was still angry. He didn’t buy any of this stuff, and if he did, he didn’t want any part of it. He probably thought she was desperate, calling him like this.
That same uncharacteristic indignant anger threatened to return, but she refused to let it. Outside the wind picked up, smacking the branches of the lilac bush against the siding. Faith jumped nearly a foot. “This is nuts.” She bent down and picked up the cat. Several minutes later, she had packed a small bag and stuffed the cat into his carrier.
“It’s been awhile since we saw Mom and Dad,” she explained to the cat who stared at her through the wire door. “Let’s go visit.”
She climbed into the car and quickly backed out of the garage. For the first time since she’d bought the tiny house, it didn’t feel comfortable. Her vision blurred for just a second as she stared at her home. Home. Was it really a home, or just a place to hang her hat? Again, she couldn’t answer her own question.
Instead, she drove into the night to her parents’ townhouse. At least there the shadows faded.
BATTLING TRAFFIC THE next day, she finally reached the mountains by mid-afternoon. Fall foliage brought tourists and gamblers from all over the state—and the country—this time of year. Faith tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she followed a line of cars up the two-lane road. At this rate, she’d never get to Cripple Creek before dark.
She’d left her parents’ as early as she could without concerning them, which meant sharing breakfast, a meal that lasted longer than her usual cup of coffee and toast on the run. She’d toyed with the idea of asking her father’s advice about the Maria-Rafe situation but quickly discarded it. How could she explain to him about Maria? Or her relationship with Cord? No, her father wasn’t someone she could turn to now. That knowledge bothered her. She wanted to be independent, but somehow knowing her parents weren’t even an option disturbed her.
The taillights of the car in front of her glowed red and she hit the brakes—again. Cursing the traffic and her own impatience she forced her mind to concentrate on the road.
The winding highway climbed toward Pikes Peak. Where an old mine shaft cut into the hillside, she slowed and pulled over at a wide spot in the road. She stepped out of her car. Maybe if she waited, the rush would disappear.
She looked across the incredible valley. A few wispy bits of cloud settled on the horizon of a gold and green carpet. She snapped off a few shots as the mournful sound of a train’s whistle echoed across the valley. Heaviness settled in her chest, and with it, an emotion she recognized as homesickness.
Homesickness for what? For her house? She didn’t think so. For a time and people long gone? Maybe. Her throat ached. She climbed into the car and pulled back onto the two-lane highway.
The road wound tighter and higher. Sharp turns revealed steep drop offs. Not paying attention up here could be deadly. How she’d managed to stay safely on the road in that horrid rain the night she’d run from here, she didn’t know. Even in daylight the road was treacherous.
Just before she reached the first tunnel she saw the spot where she’d stopped that night. She turned off the road. Her palms sweated against the steering wheel. That tree. She’d seen the vision of Timmy there. She stared at it. Nothing appeared now.
Something did catch her eye, though. A dirt path to the right of the tree. Curiosity raised its ever-present head. An eighteen-wheeler passed just then, creeping by. She had plenty of time if the line of cars behind the truck was any indication.
She swung her camera over her shoulder, locked the car and pocketed her keys. The clear blue sky indicated a good day for a hike. She glanced down at her sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes. She was even dressed for it.
Pushing past the broad boughs of the tree, she stepped through its shadow and into the bright sun. A wildflower-covered meadow swept away from her. Late summer grasses grew thick and green, and aspen trees bloomed golden. She took a few pictures, enjoying the contrast of the gold against the deep sky.
The path cut across the edge of the field, disappearing in places as a light breeze bent the tall grasses. Excitement bubbled in her blood. Instinct told her something good would be at the end of the trail. Her mind conjured up images of a mineshaft. Maybe the skeletal remnants of the workings were buried in the field grasses. Great lighting today. Ideas perked as she walked.
At the top of the rise, she stopped and surveyed the valley below. Beautiful. Click. Click. The path divided where the ground leveled out. One trail widened while the other narrowed to little more than patches of dirt between tufts of grass. The fainter one intrigued her, seeming forlorn in the open field. It meandered toward the aspen grove to the left.
Some shots of the sky from beneath the golden leaves would be beautiful. She hurried her step until she hit rough ground. Caution would be a good thing here. She didn’t relish the idea of hurting herself and being stuck out here until someone found her—which by the looks of this path could be years.
A few late summer flowers bloomed at the base of the trees where they were sheltered from the cooler breezes that announced the coming of fall. Their vibrant reds and golds filled the viewfinder. The trees closed around her with a welcome embrace.
Finishing a roll of film, she took a break to change it. The calm, quiet air relaxed her for the first time in what seemed ages, and she breathed in the sweet-scented air.
In the distance, weathered, gray wood caught her eye. A structure of some sort lay ahead. She hurried toward it. The trees parted, and she found herself looking at a house, or what was left of one.
It was small, but not uncomfortably so. One story, it sat nestled up against a hill, as if to protect it from the cold winds. A verandah ran along the front. She envisioned a pair of rockers there. The windows were long gone, though the tattered remnant of a curtain hung in one of the side openings. No breeze stirred the fabric.
She stepped closer, her heart in her throat. She’d expected an abandoned claim, or even a played out mine with its shaft house and rigging reaching toward the sky. This hard-bitten mining district didn’t even hint at a quaint family atmosphere. She loved surprises and smiled at this one.
Sticks crackled beneath her feet. Hesitantly, she climbed up onto the verandah. The wood, while faded and gray, held beneath her weight. She moved carefully, just in case.
The small parlor and kitchen stood empty. The only other room, the bedroom, was large compared to the rest of the
house.
Not one stick of furniture remained. No pictures hung on the walls. The only object left was the wood-burning stove. Even the cook stove was gone.
The building remained, but the people left nothing of themselves behind. Saddened by what she did—and didn’t—find, Faith didn’t like being here.
The back door stood open, and she walked through to a tiny porch. She reached for the railing, which wiggled. She pulled her hand back. Gingerly, she stepped to the ground.
A distant rumble sounded. Looking up, she noted that while the skies were clear, faint wisps of clouds slid by. She shrugged off the apprehension creeping up her spine and headed back around the house.
The thought suddenly struck her that she hadn’t taken any pictures. She shivered. She didn’t want to take any pictures, not of this empty, lonely place. She rounded the corner and headed toward her car. The thunder indicated a storm despite the lack of clouds overhead.
Her toe hit a stone. She stumbled and fell into a soft bed of leaves at the base of an aspen stand. She laughed at her own clumsiness and rolled to see what had tripped her. The corner of a gray stone peeked out from the leaves.
It was unnaturally smooth. She reached out and brushed the leaves away.
A tombstone.
Rafe Cumberland. The name reverberated inside her head. Was that sound a scream? Tim Gibson had said there were graves somewhere in the hills. She dug around in the mildewed leaves, sending dirt and leaves flying around her. She found a second gray stone. “Timmy Cumberland. Sleep with the angels.” This time she said the words aloud. She knew she did, they echoed back at her.
“No.” She hadn’t planned to do this. What had brought her here? She looked around. “Delta. Is that you?” Anger built inside her. “Stop this. What do you want from me?”
No answer came back to her. She faced the stones, so lost here in the woods. Wasn’t there anyone to watch over them? The forlorn air of the house answered her.