“Grandma Dee!”
“Without any sort of prompting, she turns away from the bridge and climbs the riverbank. I’m small, and not very skilled in the water, so it takes me some time to catch up with her. Panting, I walked a few paces behind her.
“Baby…where’s my baby?” she muttered.
“Confused, I follow her. She’s walking at such a brisk pace that I’m struggling to keep up with her. We make it to the bridge. It’s cooler in there than it is outside, and I’m leery of the shadows. She stands at the mouth of the bridge and stares.
‘Angelina!’ she called. ‘Where’s my baby Angel? Why do you hide from mommy?’
“I reach and put my hand on her naked hip.
‘Grandma Dee, who’s Angelina?’
“She startles and looks down at me. She stares at me as if seeing me for the first time in her life. The expression scares me, so I take a step away from her.
“She ventures further onto the bridge. ‘Angel! Where’s baby Angel?’
“She had called me ‘Angel’ during the entirety of our visit, so I figured that was her pet name for me.
‘I’m right here, Grandma.’ I said, tentatively touching her hip again.
“She looks down at me and a warm smile passes over her face.
‘There you are, my little nugget.’
“She swoops me up and holds me tight against her.
‘Don’t ever hide from me, again,’ she whispered in my ear.
‘I won’t, I promise.’
“She carries me back all the way to the house. She was not a big woman. She was small and waif-like, almost brittle, but she clutched me against her chest in an almost desperate fashion. I reveled in the attention, although I didn’t understand until later what her embrace actually signified. I didn’t know who she thought I was.
“We got back to the house, and my mother was livid. Imagine your grandmother and your five year-old child arriving home naked from a midnight playdate. I remember my mother trying to take me from my Grandma Dee’s arms and Grandma Dee refusing to let me go. She kept screaming over and over, ‘no one will take her away from me again!’ If my memory serves me correctly, we left to go home the following morning. It wasn’t long after that Grandma Dee was placed in a nursing home.”
“That’s so sad,” I say, feeling my heart break.
Mom nods. “I think Grandma Dee knew all along that her daughter was dead, she just didn’t have a way to prove it. I was told years later that she’d walk the bridge at night looking for her, just to see if the rumors were true, and that was before the Alzheimer’s. I think in the beginning, the rumors angered her, because she still had hope; but I also believe that a mother has a sixth sense about her child. I think after a while, she just knew that Angelina was dead. I bonded with my great grandmother only briefly, and I was already completely enthralled with her. I can’t imagine how much more I would have loved her if I had had the opportunity to spend more time with her. So, it makes sense for Angelina to have desperately loved her mother, because I know how I felt about her, myself. So, I understand how it would have raised red flags for her to just disappear without a trace.”
“But you’d think if she was a ghost, she would have at least appeared to her mother, just for the sake of giving her some closure.”
How cruel are you, Angelina?
“Grandma Dee never saw her because there’s no such thing as ghosts, Annie. It started as a story from a delusional old drunk that escalated into a legend that did nothing but torment an already suffering mother. I admit I went with the crowd in search of her when I was a teenager, but I only did it once and felt guilty about it afterwards. I felt I was dishonoring my grandmother. I don’t know what Angelina was like in life, but she was a real person—a daughter and sister to people that loved her. I wish I knew what happened to her. I wish everyone did.”
17
Annie
The train tracks follow the river. East Street follows the train tracks. The river hugs the town in a horseshoe, and I can see nearly every monopoly-sized house from my bedroom window. Even though I could trace East Street with my finger, it’s considered “the far side” of town.
Moof texted me after suppertime to let me know that he had my stuff. I don’t know what strings he pulled, but he got me my cigarettes. Everyone knows where Bella’s Buns is, so Moof provided directions from there. I followed Main Street until it ran out, and turned left at the stop sign. I followed Derby Road and made a right at the McDonalds. Moof said when I started “seeing peckers” then I was getting close. I asked him what he meant by that and he just laughed and hung up. At the next stop sign, I see what he means. A crudely drawn penis is spray painted in orange across the doors of an abandoned building.
“Welcome to East Street,” I say, and take a left.
I pass a mangy dog with skinny ribs rummaging in a trash can. I see two little boys playing in a mud puddle wearing nothing but their underwear. I pass a woman in a tube top and cut off shorts with a mess of frizzy hair. She strikes a suggestive pose until she sees who’s driving. She purses her lips and gives me a look that says, “little girl, you don’t belong here.”
The things I do just to get some ciggies.
Moof told me he lived in a yellow house. The closest thing I find to yellow is a yucky sort of beige that might have been yellow a few years ago, before time and train dirt ruined the paint job. I pull into a driveway that has more weeds than gravel. I take a nervous breath and hope I’m in the right spot. I get the feeling that knocking on the wrong door around here could be dangerous.
I get out of the car and knock on the door. While I wait, I lick my finger and run it across the wood of the house. Yep, there’s yellow under there, beneath all the layers of dirt. The door creaks open and I jerk my hand down.
I’m ready to smile and greet my friend, but I’m cut short once I get a look at Moof’s face.
“Holy shit, Moof! What happened?”
He looks over my shoulder and out to the street. “Come inside.”
It’s more of a command than an invitation. I guess lounging in the yard on a sunny day is out of the question on this street. I’ve barely slipped in when he locks the door behind me. The first thing that hits me is the smell of cigarette smoke. No judgement from me in that regard, but it’s the underlying smell that tightens my throat. There’s a stench beneath the smoke. Something rotten. Something stale.
“Come up to my room,” he says. Again, this is a command. There’s nothing suggestive about it. I’ve never felt threatened by Moof. If anything, I feel he’s protecting me. I get the impression that downstairs isn’t much safer than outside.
“Are you by yourself?” I ask, following him up the stairs.
“For the time being.”
I don’t get a good look at the house, other than a glance at the living room on the way through. The coffee table is completely covered with beer bottles and take out boxes. Various things are on the floor: shoes, clothes, papers, etc.
We get to Moof’s room and it’s rather neat, compared to the rest of the house. There’s a Psychedelic Starfish poster hanging over a twin bed with plaid sheets. There’s a bean bag chair, a lava lamp, a Buddha figurine flashing the peace sign. I smile. Everything in this room screams Moof.
“So…my hippie friend, are you alright?”
“I’ve had worse.” He gestures to the beanbag chair. “Have a seat.”
I settle down into the lump of plastic.
I choose not to pressure him into telling me how he got a black eye. Instead, I gaze at him softly, hoping he can feel that I’m here for him.
He slides open a nightstand drawer and pulls out a carton of Winstons. “My pops is a mean ass drunk. Always has been, always will be, until he drinks himself into the ground.”
“That’s where you got the shiner?” I whisper.
“Yeah, he beats my mother, too. My mama can be a bitch sometimes, bless her heart, but ain’t nobody gonna mess with my mama.
If I’m around and Pop gets to feeling hateful, I put an end to it. He’s hardly around though, so that helps. He has his booze and his whores, and as long as Mama brings home money from the diner, he basically leaves us alone.”
I remember the waitress with The Cough that offered Charles cigarettes on the first night we arrived at Vein River. The only other waitress was an older woman named Gretchen, so the grumpy waitress must be Moof’s mother. Now I understand why she was so grumpy.
“I’m so sorry, Moof.”
He shrugs one shoulder and refuses eye contact.
I can sense that he’s dropping into a funk, so I suggest lighting one up. He gives a cockeyed grin and pulls a pipe from the drawer. He takes a hit and passes it to me. I take a bump and look out of his bedroom window. While driving here, I knew I was passing old houses. I even passed a few shabby Victorians, but the most impressive structure is the behemoth a street over from Moof’s house.
Figuring a change of subject would be helpful to Moof, I ask him about it.
“So, what’s that huge building over there?”
“The looney bin.”
“What?”
“It was a small scale lunatic asylum in the mid-1800s.”
“Well, that’s charming.”
Moof snorts and comes to stand beside me at the window.
“That is a two story Cleveland sandstone with an offset octagonal turret, a hipped roof with red pantiles, and a pair of fang-toothed gargoyles for good measure.”
I blink at him, astounded. “You know a lot about buildings.”
“I want to build houses after I graduate. Not just normal, everyday houses. I want to build mansions; beautiful things that make people stop and stare. I want people stopping traffic just to take a picture of it.”
“Damn, Moof. I honestly didn’t see you as an architect.”
“Why? Because I live on the bad side of town and enjoy a little reefer?”
“Not at all. I just imagined you in a rock band.”
He gives me that lop-sided grin again. “That’s my back-up plan.”
“You’ll go far, Moof, I’m sure of it,” I say, bumping playfully against his shoulder. He shrugs me off, but I can tell he appreciates what I said.
“Anyway,” he says, tapping his fingernail against the glass. “That foreboding structure that I lovingly call “The Looney Bin” is now called The Grand Oaks Retirement Home. There’s an entire history of abuse and neglect at that place. Lobotomies, electroshock therapies, rape, murder—you name it. When this neighborhood was developed in the 1930s, they unearthed hundreds of bodies from unmarked graves. Five years ago, the neighbor’s dog was found chewing on a human femur, so it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s still a limb or two under this very house.”
I wrinkle my nose at him.
“It’s a morbid fascination, I know, but you did ask.”
“Yeah, I guess I did…”
“In the late 1930s, they spruced the place up and a bell tower was added to the end of the building. It functioned as a church and catholic school until the mid-1980s. The newer brick construction is out of place against the darker, aged sandstone, but the tower served its purpose. Twenty years after the tower was built, a nun was found hanging from the rafters. Her swaying body rang the bell an hour before morning prayer—the only cue to the other nuns that anything was amiss. It was ruled a suicide and the situation wasn’t investigated any further. Now the building functions as a rest home for senior citizens.”
“Seems to be a reoccurring theme around here. A hanging nun, a hanging chick on the bridge…”
“I’ve pondered about that myself. It does seem an odd coincidence.”
“Do you think they could be connected?”
“It’s a possibility. Angelina and the nun would have been alive at the same time.”
“You’re sure there was actually a hanging nun? Not just an urban legend that was made up?”
“Positive. Her name was Mary Elizabeth Stone. There’s a plaque memorializing her on the front of the building.”
“Let’s see, Angelina disappeared sometime in the mid-40s, this nun died in the fifties. It’s safe to say that they probably knew each other.”
Moof nods his head. “Look who’s going all detective and shit.”
“Oh, shut up, Moof. Did you know Angelina was a relative of mine?”
“Yeah, in some fashion, since you inherited the property. A great aunt or cousin of some sort?”
“My great-great aunt.”
“And you’ve brought it on yourself to solve the family mystery?”
I shrug. “You have to admit it’s interesting. The entire town has demonized and immortalized her at the same time. She dropped off the face of the earth and came back as the boogeyman.”
Moof sucks on his lip and nods his head. “Something definitely happened. There’s too many sightings of her, too many people with The Cough, my mother included. You can’t fake coughing up blood, there’s no faking that shit. Besides, in order to become a boogeyman, or a demon, or a ghost that haunts a bridge, or whatever, you have to be dead in order to do that. I’ve always believed that angry spirits are victims of some sort of trauma.”
“Has your mom ever told you how she got The Cough?”
“Nobody that has The Cough wants to talk about how they got it. So, it must be some rough shit. As far as my mother is concerned, her life is a lie. She lives as if her husband treats her like gold and bloody noses are perfectly normal. I’ve asked her about it and she tells me that it’s nonsense, but she’s quick to say in the same breath that if she ever finds out I’ve been on the bridge at night, she’ll beat the mortal hell out of me. She won’t tell me what happened, but there’s no doubt she’s scared.”
“I’ve got something to tell you, Moof.”
His ears perk up. “What’s that?”
“Aria has The Cough.”
“Really? No way! How?”
“Well…she kidnapped my cat for some reason, and left a note on my bed basically saying that she put him on the bridge. I’m assuming she was trying to scare me. It worked. When I got there, she was lying on the bridge all out of sorts. And get this—she’s aged. She has wrinkles and there’s gray in her hair. She looks just like Charles Oates. So, this shit is true, Moof, no doubt about it.”
“Humph,” he says, scratching his chin. “Not meaning to sound like a dick, but it couldn’t have happened to a better person.”
“Moof!”
He shrugs. “Well damn, I guess Angelina has finally hit someone in our generation. And here I thought it was all bullshit.”
“Weird shit’s been happening at my house, too. Weird noises, bumps in the night, that sort of thing.”
“Well, you better be careful.”
“I have a plan about that. Do you know Widow Jenkins?”
“Oh yeah, flaky chick with way too much makeup.”
“She claims that she can cleanse the house.”
“I’d be taking her up on that, if I were you.”
“I’m going to.”
Moof checks his phone. “I hate to run you off, but Dad’s shift will be over soon.”
“When things get too crazy here, you’re always welcome at my place. You know that, right?” I make my offer lightly, trying to ease the look of shame that flashes across his eyes.
He nods. “You better go. There’s bigger monsters than Angelina if you get caught after dark near East Street.”
I leave Moof with a heavy heart. My first impression of him was a slender boy in a beanie with a light and comical nature. I don’t believe it’s a front. I believe when he’s comfortable, his relaxed personality comes to the surface. I can’t blame him for having a dark side, especially given his environment. I vaguely wonder if Mom would adopt him and let me have a brother, but then I remember his devotion. He’d never abandon his own mother.
The sun is no longer visible in the sky, the last rays of light turning a somber purple. It’s still technically
daylight, right? It isn’t dark yet, so Angelina’s bridge shouldn’t be a threat. At least no more a threat than she already has been.
I come to a stop in front of the bridge. It’s light outside, but dark in there. The canopy along with the setting sun has cast a shadow across the entire structure. I press the gas pedal with more bravado than I really feel. People say when you see her on the bridge, you’re cursed, so I contemplate closing my eyes and just shooting straight across. I doubt I’d drive in a straight line with my eyes closed. Plus, what if someone approaches from the other side? Okay, so driving blind is out. I grit my teeth and squeeze the steering wheel. I have to remind myself to breathe.
Rat-tat-tat.
I’m in the middle of the bridge.
What was that?
I throw it in reverse and pull back a few feet. Nothing. I put it in drive and pull forward.
Rat-tat-tat. There’s a scratching sound across the hood of my truck.
I pull forward.
Scre-e-e-ech…
I wince. I know the tales. I can just imagine a pale, white foot being drug across the hood of my truck.
BLAM!
The entire body of the truck lurches, the tires bouncing off the ground. The windshield shatters in a piercing waterfall, the glass cutting into my forearms.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
Something invisible rams the truck from above, the roof caving in like an egg carton. I push on the driver’s side door. It won’t budge. I scoot frantically on my belly to the passenger side door. I pull on the handle. It’s jammed too.
“Please, please!” I scream. “Somebody help me!”
I crawl into the floorboard just in time, as the roof collapses around me. Shards of glass trickle down my shirt, but I’m too scared to pay it much notice.
I reach across the gearshift and punch the gas pedal to the floor. I scream like an Amazon woman; the tires screech with equal conviction. The truck accelerates to a deathly speed with no one at the wheel, so it does what any truck with no guidance will do.
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