River of Bones

by Angela J. Townsend

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  No answer. Was someone trying to scare me, to prove the house was haunted? To make it more appealing for a sale? Maybe make a bed and breakfast out of the old place, or a hotel? Didn’t all tourist traps have chilling ghost stories to draw visitors?

  My legs wobbled beneath me. The imposing staircase rose into the dark like a ride at the county fair. It seemed to wind on forever. I groped along the wall for a light switch and found one, broken in half. I flipped the stub off and on. Nothing. I crept up the stairs with only the moon’s pale beams to guide me. Dirt and grit ground into the soles of my wet feet as I climbed the wooden staircase. Each step creaked and groaned, as if warning someone of my approach.

  At the landing, I entered into a long hallway. Darkness blurred every nook and cranny. Yellow moonlight flooded in through the leaded glass windows at the end, casting ghostly shadows along the walls. The door to my right opened, then slammed shut. My heart galloped. “Who’s there?” I demanded. “You can’t scare me!”

  A faint stream of light shone from underneath the doorframe. I inched forward, cautiously, resisting the urge to run. To get away. I strained to pick up any sound and fixed my eyes on the strange flickering light seeping from beneath the door.

  I grabbed the big glass doorknob.

  It turned in my hand.

  I yanked my arm back. My scalp tingled, never a good sign. “Who’s there? I have a gun!” Cold water drizzled from my hair, slithering down my spine to the dirty floor.

  Footsteps shuffled inside the room. Muffled voices hissed into whispers.

  “I’m calling the cops!” I lied. My Blackberry, along with all my other stuff, was in my bag, in Mom’s van. How could I have been so stupid to have left it? Not that it mattered, I'd probably never get a signal way out here.

  The whispering stopped. The door creaked open. The flickering light gone. A bolt of panic struck my veins. My legs trembled, but I only stood there, locked with fear, staring at the open doorway. An icy breeze swirled from the room. Cautiously, I reached inside, fumbling along the wall for a light switch. The papered walls felt damp and spongy, almost slimy. My fingers brushed against wrinkly skin.

  I jerked my hand away, swallowing a scream, my skin rippling with goose bumps. A whimper, soft at first, then loud and insistent, echoed from inside the room. A baby’s cry. How was that possible? Unless…could it be a transient? A homeless mother taking advantage of an abandoned house?

  I reached for the switch again and flipped it on. “Hello?”

  I stood alone in a small room. A single bulb, suspended from the plaster ceiling, dimly lit the walls decorated in a moldy circus pattern. Deep wrinkles, creases and swells made the rotting wallpaper seem as if it were crawling along the baseboards.

  A rocking horse, a broken chair and several antique toys littered the floor. A wooden crib with brown decaying lace rested under a circular window.

  Near the crib stood an antique dresser with a faded blue doily, a Jack-in the-box, and a porcelain bear. Something about its face made the bear look sinister, standing guard over the room. Watching.

  A board snapped behind me. Wheeling, I searched the room. In a dark corner, I spotted a flash of movement. A child-size chair. Slowly it started to rock. My ears pulled tight to my scalp. What was causing it to move? There wasn’t even a breeze now. My neck stiffened, my breath caught in my throat. A shuffle came from near the antique dresser. The handle on the Jack-in-the-box turned, making a strange grinding noise. My feet rooted to the floor. The box sprang open and a faded blue clown burst out, swaying back and forth, shrieking insanely, pinning me with its button eyes.

  I tore out of the room, nearly tripping over a toy train. The door slammed shut behind me. Spinning around, I saw the faint light streaming from under the doorsill switch off. My pulse beat at my temples like a rock hammer. This couldn’t be real. Then it hit me. I knew all about staging scary scenes with spooky props. Someone was up to something. Anger flashed into my cheeks. It was that jerk real estate agent. He and my mother had set the whole thing up, so he could film me looking terrified, proving the house was haunted. Later, my mother would make the headlines, looking like a hero, chasing away the ghosts.

  “Ha, ha,” I yelled. “Nice try. I’m not falling for this. You can’t scare me. I don’t believe in ghosts!”

  Walking backward, searching for a hidden camera around the door, I bumped into a freestanding lamp. Under the pleated shade I found a button and turned it on. The meager watt bulb illuminated a long corridor consisting of eight doors and a staircase disappearing into the third floor. I’d search every room, every dirty corner of this old dump until I found out who was behind the scare fest.

  Tattered rugs coated with dust rested on the hardwood floors. Artwork hung on the walls, half-covered with filthy, moth-eaten cloth. I lifted my foot and shuddered, grime stuck to the bottoms of my feet like paste.

  I crept to the first door, opened it quickly, and flipped on the light. Peeling blue paint and faded wallpaper decorated the walls. Oblong windows stretched from floor to ceiling. The next few rooms were much the same, with sparse furniture blanketed by dust.

  The very last bedroom stood at the end of the hall. I gently pushed on the massive oak door. Its hinges groaned, sending haunting echoes throughout the house. I poked my head into a large master bedroom with big bay windows. Cobwebs clung to my hair as I stepped inside. Shuddering, I swept them away, checking out the room. Dirty lavender wallpaper, ragged in the corners, covered the walls. Matching velvet curtains framed the windows. Dominating the center of the room stood a massive canopied four-poster bed.

  I pulled down the heavy canvas tarp protecting the bed. A lion, carved into the middle of the headboard, stared with watchful eyes.

  Under more sheets, I found antique furniture and a dressing table. A gritty layer of dust coated the room. It wouldn't take much to fix it up. I’d clean every inch of it, and Benny and I would sleep here in peace. I wouldn’t let anyone scare us. I’d find all the hidden wires in the morning.

  I left the room and closed the bedroom door. At the end of the hallway, another staircase led up. I hesitated before heading up. Something about it made me uneasy, perhaps the way it wound higher into total darkness. Maybe a whole camera crew hid on the third floor. Whoever they were, I would catch them and spoil their lame plan.

  Sassy rose from her bed. No matter how she tossed and turned, her old bones wouldn’t allow her to sleep, nor would the nagging thoughts plaguing her mind. She stoked the fire, lowered herself to the rocker and waited. In the amber glow of the flames, she watched the fire devour the hunk of hardwood she’d chopped the day before. There’d be lots of changes in the swamp, now that the darkness had awakened. She shook her head and clucked. Lots of changes indeed. She picked up the poker and drew a triangle in the ash. At each point she drew a watchful eye.

  A protection from evil.

  She huffed and sat back in the chair, her spine cracking. Sassy tossed the poker aside. She shivered, pulling the ragged shawl that once belonged to her mother tighter around her rawboned shoulders. All the ash and brick dust in the world couldn’t stop it, couldn’t save her. If it wanted her—it’d fetch her. She turned to peer out the window. And if she tried to help them folks, stick her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, it’d come for sure. Make her pay for the trespass. But she was old, and she’d lived in fear for all these years—maybe it was time to do something worthwhile before the good Lord took her home.

  She closed her eyes and waited. Somewhere in the far reaches of her mind she heard Papa Doc’s drums beating out a warning she chose to ignore. If they came, she’d help them. It wasn’t right to turn your back on folks, no matter what her mother had believed. Sassy shook her head. No. It wasn’t right at all.

  I hurried to the bathroom to get Benny and my wet clothes. On the way back, I grabbed a handful of candy bars from the kitchen and headed into the living room. I set Benny down on an old sofa, liste
ning to his gentle snoring while I hung my clothes by the fire. It comforted me to know that at least he was getting some rest. As for me, I doubted I'd ever be able to crash in such a creepy place. I curled up next to him, pigging out on the chocolate bars, the ultimate comfort food, happy to be eating alone.

  I never—ever—eat in front of anyone because when I was a kid, I was fat. Not chubby. Not chunky. But seriously—Teletubbie fat. Most kids in my class couldn't wait for recess, the time of the day where you could hang out with friends, play on the monkey bars or swing until your toes almost touched the sky. But I loathed every excruciating second of it. There were no teachers in earshot to catch the taunting words, the cruel jokes.

  “Gross! Look at that muffin top!”

  “Seriously, lose the blubber!”

  The worst part is that I never stood up to any of them. They stabbed at me with their insults, and I never flinched. Never cried. It made me feel powerful that they couldn't make me bleed. I knew I'd never fit in so why did it matter? I'd be in a new school with new mean girls and new taunts, living wherever my mom landed next.

  The summer I turned sixteen, I had my wisdom teeth pulled and got a dry socket. I couldn't eat for weeks, and the weight just melted off. From that point on, I watched everything I ate—carefully. It was like the only thing I could truly control in my life. Even when all we had was fast food, I’d count out the fries and only eat eight of them, or take two small bites out of each chicken nugget.

  I flipped one of the empty wrappers and examined the chart on the back. Only a bazillion calories. Great. Damage done. My stomach churned. I knew better than to eat that much chocolate, but I couldn't resist it. I laid my head against the arm of the sofa, and snuggled close to Benny. Thoughts of Wolf kept drifting in. Aside from his joking and playfulness, there was something about him I couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something masked behind that perfect smile.

  Mulling over my thoughts, I tried to doze off, but every creak and groan of the eerie house caused me to sit up, wide awake. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought about Mom. I thought about Benny. I thought about life. I thought about death. I thought about Wolf and what he thought about me. I thought about thoughts.

  My. Brain. Wouldn't. Shut. Off.

  Sassy awoke at 6:30, tossing and turning, a full hour before her wind-up alarm clock was set to ring. Old age had a funny way of keeping people awake at night and then rousing them out of bed too early. She shuffled to a basin in the kitchen and washed her wrinkled face, humming an endless chain of half forgotten melodies. She donned the simple blue housedress, shawl and overshoes she wore each morning before going out to tend the plants.

  Today was a special day—mail day. The only thing she looked forward to. Perfect that it came in the middle of the week, it helped to break things up.

  Sassy made her way outside, down the front steps and muddy path to the mailbox. Mailman didn’t come no more, road was too rough. But kind folks from the Baptist church dropped off her mail once a week, leaving it in the rickety box. She sometimes wished they’d come to the house and sit a spell. Share a cup of tea and tell her how things were in town. But city folks are busy. No time for such foolishness with some old hermit. Sassy opened the box carefully in case something spilled out, then laughed out loud. Lord she was silly in her old age. No one ever sent her that much mail.

  “Well now. What could this be?” She peered inside for a closer look. A large box had been crammed into the center to keep it from getting wet. Sassy could hardly breathe with anticipation. She couldn’t remember ordering anything, but low and behold her name was clearly written across the top. No postmark, either. Curious. Probably a gift from the church ladies. Even though it’d been a coon’s age since she’d gone to church, they never forgot to share in leftover cookies.

  Sassy tucked the package under her arm and hobbled down the path and into the house. Probably a dozen snickerdoodles from last Sunday’s service. Just as soon as she opened it and put them away, she’d make her way to the old plantation house. Maybe even take some with her as an offering. Much as she hated going over there, she knew it was the right thing to do. She’d warn them people, even if it made no difference. Least she could say that this time she tried.

  Sunlight streamed in through the tattered curtains. I woke with my throat throbbing, blisters on my tonsils and the worst chills ever. I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a bottled water and some herbal pain killer. Willow bark extract. I rolled my eyes. Plain old aspirin wasn’t good enough for Mom. Of course not. She had to order something that tasted like liquid barf and tree sap.

  Benny fussed awake a few moments later. I fed him a cheese bagel and an apple juice. I craved a cherry soda with big chunks of ice to coat my sore throat. A nasty habit that drove my mother over the edge and earned me hour-long lectures about the evils of high fructose corn syrup and tooth rot. What a hypocrite, considering she guzzled gallons of soda—diet, of course. Like that was any better.

  Maybe I could get Wolf to drive me to the store. Then I remembered three important things: no purse, no phone, no money. I ran my hand through my hair and added a few more things to the list: no comb, no lip gloss, or eyeliner either. All the basic tools a girl needs to transform from a plain Jane into a beauty queen. Or something like that. Not that I had a chance with a guy like Wolf, the good-looking biker type who probably only dated prom queens—not clumsy, awkward chicks with control issues and social phobia.

  I shuffled into the bathroom and slipped into my clothes. One pocket of my shorts wasn’t completely dry, but at least I didn’t smell like a sewer.

  I bent over and shook my hair to give it some body when I noticed something weird. My toenails were a funny color under the chipped red polish. I leaned closer for a better view. I squinted, scraping the polish with my thumbnail. What the heck? They looked almost—black.

  A loud knock sent my heart into emergency pounding. The knock sounded again. Calm down, psycho, it’s probably just Wolf. I hesitated, wondering how I looked. Without a mirror it was hard to tell, but I guessed it wasn't good. The knock came again. More insistent. Louder. I swung the door open and stared.

  It wasn't Wolf.

  A cop stood on the porch. I stared up at his stiff blue uniform with brown trim and a Smokey Bear hat, my throat growing tighter by the second. He was enormous, with a head that sat on his muscular shoulders like a bowling ball, and a ruddy complexion with tiny veins crisscrossing his nose. Too much stress or one too many swigs from the bottle. A pair of mirrored sunglasses concealed his eyes. Maybe they were as red as his nose.

  “Miss Moore?”

  I swallowed hard. “Yes.” Thanks to Mom, there was something about cops that made me nervous.

  He leaned against the doorframe, at the same time tipping his head toward me in introduction. “I’m Officer Cain. Your mother home?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?” He craned his neck, peering over my shoulder into the house.

  “I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon.” My heart danced. What trouble had she gotten us into now? “Is there something wrong?”

  “We found her Volkswagen bus about a mile up the road. The vehicle is buried pretty good in the brush. I saw the Nebraska license plates and knew Joe Crawford had hired someone from out of the area to work here. When he told me it was a single mom and kids, I thought I’d better do a welfare check.”

  This guy sure took his job seriously. Good thing Mom wasn’t around. She’d have a serious case of blue fever and be slobbering all over him.

  A rush of guilt rolled over me like a rock slide. “You don’t think something happened to her, do you?”

  “We don’t know anything yet. Don’t want to jump to conclusions. Did she say where she was going?”

  “She forgot the house keys and went back to the real estate office for them.”

  He slapped a fat mosquito near his collar. “That’s strange. Joe said he hadn’t seen her since early yesterd
ay.”

  I stared at the bloody smear on the big cop’s neck. I wasn’t going to panic. Of course, the real estate agent wasn’t going to admit to seeing Mom again. He was married and didn’t want to get caught. They were probably mashing out in the bushes when the van died or got stuck or something. No telling with Mom. Maybe she ran off with some old swamp bum because he had a Rolex or something.

  I felt guilty all over again for thinking those horrible things. It wasn't like I didn't love my mother. But her love was like a very sharp blade. If you slipped and let your guard down, you'd get cut. It wasn't like it was intentional; it was just her nature. I couldn't trust her and she never trusted herself either. She was spontaneous to the point of being dangerous, and it was so interwoven into the fiber of her being that she was totally unaware of it. I knew she loved us, but her compulsion for money and romance were stronger.

  Growing up, I wanted her to be like other moms who took the time to ask their daughters about their day, their life, boyfriends—anything. It hurt me to know she wasn’t the least bit interested in my life. It was always all about her.

  There were times when I'd grab few precious moments with her, resting my head on her leg as she read my tarot cards. Fanning them out in front of me, she'd explain the suits: the wands, the cups and the Swords. She'd brush my long hair and share the story of how we received our coloring from the Celts, ferocious warriors who would draw out spears from their wounded bellies and hurl them back at their enemies.

  “We come from ruthless stock,” she would say, stroking my head. “You need to learn to be stronger. Stop being so self-conscious. Be brave like your ancestors. Let go. Remember who you are—who you come from.”

  I longed to be all those things: self-confident, brave and strong. But it wasn't like I could just flip a switch inside and change—no matter how badly I wanted to. Every time I tried, I’d fail. I'd have another panic attack or awkward moment.