HERE LIES
SAMUEL RILEY LITTLEFIELD
1968-1979
May God Protect and Keep Him
May God protect him. Because Frank Littlefield sure hadn’t. Frank had practically sealed Samuel’s coffin shut through stupidity and indifference. A big brother was supposed to be his brother’s keeper.
The dream.
“Look,” said Storie, pulling Littlefield from his reverie. She pointed to a flattened path in the grass that led from the forest.
“Something dragged me here.”
“Something?”
Sure. The Hung Preacher, the Bell Monster, the Tooth Fairy. Maybe even the Bride of Frankenstein. Take your pick. She’ll believe any of them, won’t she?
“The back of your shirt is dirty,” she said. “And your collar’s torn. You look like you pulled an all-night drunk.”
“Gee, thanks. I feel like it.”
“Must have been a hell of a church service. What did they do, make you go back for second helpings of the wine until you blacked out?”
Communion. Vague images floated through his head, images of taking something into his mouth from Archer McFall’s fingers. He swallowed and probed his mouth with a thick tongue. He wanted to spit but couldn’t muster enough saliva.
The red church stood silent at the top of the rise. The belfry was black with shadows. He watched for a moment, but the shadows didn’t move. His fingers explored the shredded fabric of his collar. Whatever had made the wounds had stopped inches from his neck. He had been spared, but why?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Looky,” said Tim. “There’s the sheriff and that lady cop. Out in the churchyard.”
Ronnie looked past his dad to the two police officers. The sheriff was sitting in front of a tombstone, his hair all messed up. The woman waved at them. He started to wave back, then remembered what Dad had said.
Dad glanced over into the cemetery, then back to the gravel road. He kept his hands clenched around the steering wheel. Ronnie knew that when Dad set his jaw so that it creased, he didn’t want to be bothered.
“Shouldn’t we tell them about the dead person we saw last night? And the monster?”
David glanced into the rearview mirror and froze Tim with a hard look. “Those things are best not talked about.”
“Is it because the sheriff was at the church with Mom? Is he one of the bad people?” Tim didn’t know when to shut up.
“Let the Lord sort that out,” Dad said. “Our job is to keep our eyes on our own paths.”
They rounded the bend and the church was out of sight. Below the road, the river raced them, losing by a wide margin. The water was low because no rain had fallen in weeks. Ronnie looked for places that might make good swimming holes. Anything to avoid thinking about you-know-what.
“Why do we have to go to school, Daddy?” The motor of Tim’s mouth couldn’t idle for long.
“The best thing to do is to keep everything as normal as possible.”
“Is that why we can’t tell anybody what happened?”
“Yep. So you two are going to school and I’m going to work.”
“What about Mom?”
Oops, Ronnie thought. What a dingle-dork.
“Your mom will be okay,” Dad said. “Just took a fool notion. We all do that once in a while. Now let’s talk about something else.”
Ronnie looked out the window. He didn’t mind going to school, even if his nose was still a little sore. The swelling had gone down, and the only problem was that the packing in his nose muffled his speech. Kids would be making fun of him. But at least at school, the Bell Monster had plenty of victims to choose from if it came aknocking. Ronnie wouldn’t mind seeing two or three of his classmates come face-to-face with whatever the thing was. But that wish sounded like a sin of the heart, and Ronnie couldn’t risk any more of those.
“Got your medicine?” Dad asked. Ronnie nodded.
Yep. A good old pain pill. He would go through the day with a dorked-up brain, that was for sure. He wondered if that was why Whizzer Buchanan smoked those stinky pot cigarettes he brought to school. If so, maybe Whizzer wasn’t as loony as Ronnie thought.
Because there was something to be said for going through life in a fog. In the fog, you couldn’t see the monsters coming. In the fog, they got you before you knew what hit you.
They reached Barkersville Elementary about a half hour late. Dad said he would pick them up in the afternoon. Ronnie was relieved he didn’t have to spend all day worrying about having to walk past the red church. He and Tim got excuse notes from the principal’s office and went into the hall.
“See you, Tim,” said Ronnie.
“Are you going to tell anybody?”
“Tell anybody what?”
Tim just didn’t get it. If Dad said do something, you did it. Dad had his reasons.
“You know. The monster.”
“Lock it and throw away the key,” said Ronnie, imitating turning a key against his tight lips and tossing the invisible key over his shoulder.
“Even about finding Boonie Houck?”
“If anybody asks, just say the police told you not to talk about it.”
“Cool,” said Tim, his eyes widening behind his glasses. “We’re sort of like heroes.”
“Yeah, sure.” Heroes. Brave as hell, that was Ronnie, all right. Ran from Boonie Houck and busted his nose. Left Tim to fend for himself when the monster had chased them both. Chickened out when something came scratching around the bedroom window.
At least here at school, the biggest horror was Mrs. Rathbone’s pre-algebra class.
“Meet me out front after school,” Ronnie said. He turned toward the upper-grade wing. He’d taken about six steps before Tim called.
“Ronnie?” The word echoed off the cinder block walls. Ronnie looked around, hoping none of the teachers came out in the hall to shush them.
“Yeah?”
“Is everything going to be okay?”
“Of course it is.”
“With Mom and Dad? And everything?”
Ronnie walked back, made sure no one was in the hall, and gave Tim a quick hug. “Sure. Your big brother’s here. I’ll make sure nothing happens to us.”
Tim almost looked convinced.
“Now get to class, squirt,” Ronnie said. Tim hustled down the hall. Ronnie got his books from his locker, then went to Mrs. Rathbone’s room. He hung his head as he walked to his assigned desk near the back of the class.
“Why, Mr. Day, we’re fortunate that you have graced us with your presence today,” Mrs. Rathbone said, folding her arms, stretching her ever-present acrylic sweater over her sharp shoulders.
Ronnie stifled a groan and glanced at Melanie in the next row. He slid into his desk and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Rathbone. We . . . had an accident at home.”
“I see,” she said, touching her nose in derision. She imitated his stuffy tone as the class giggled. “I trust you have your homework, nevertheless?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” He shuffled through his papers. He hadn’t done his homework. Who else but crazy Mrs. Rathbone assigned homework over the weekend?
“Then would you share with us the answer to problem number seventeen?”
Ronnie gulped and pretended to scan down a piece of paper. Mrs. Rathbone was almost as scary as the Bell Monster. Sweat collected along his hairline. He was about to blurt a random answer when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Melanie wiggling her fingers. He rolled his eyes toward her while holding up his paper to hide his face. Melanie had scrawled something and angled her paper toward him so that Mrs. Rathbone couldn’t see it.
X = 7.
He looked over his paper at Mrs. Rathbone. “X equals seven?”
The teacher frowned. “Very good,” she said, unable to hide the sour disappointment in her voice. She turned her attention to the next victim.
After class, Ronnie caught up with Melanie at her locker. With his heart pounding, he said,
“Thanks.”
“It was nothing.” She smiled. Ronnie grew about two feet and felt as if he’d already taken the pain pill. “Besides, you’ve helped me a couple of times.”
He nodded, unable to think of what to say next.
“What happened to your nose?” she asked.
“Broke it.”
“Ouch. Does it hurt?”
“Yeah.”
Around them, kids slammed lockers and the intercom ordered somebody to the office. Ronnie checked the clock on the wall. He’d better hurry to his next class before he’d have to think of something else to say.
“How did you break it?” she asked, her eyes blue and bright and her pretty lips parted in waiting.
He swallowed. Better to stare down Mrs. Rathbone than to talk face-to-face with Melanie. But she was looking at him as if what he had to say actually mattered.
It was now or never, one of those stupid turning points again. Did everything require bravery?
We’re sort of like heroes.
Well, maybe.
He lowered his voice conspiratorially, his heart fluttering as she leaned closer to listen. He wished his nose worked so he could smell her hair. “You ever heard of Boonie Houck?”
She shook her head. The warning bell rang.
“I got to go,” he said.
She put her hand on his arm. “Sit with me at lunch and tell me about it,” she said, then disappeared into the bustle of students.
Ronnie floated to his next class. He’d just learned that fogs came in different flavors.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sheila stood on the steps of the red church and stared it down.
Just a building. Wood and nails and stone and glass. A little shabby, the roof bowed in the middle from age. Walls that creak a little when the wind blows, and mice probably skittering around under the foundation. Nothing but a building.
Then why all the ghost stories? Sure, the Scottish and English and Irish settlers brought their folk legends to the mountains, something to spook the children when gathered around a winter’s fire. Maybe preachers were always a favorite target of gossipers, and gossip turned to whispered legend. If Frank could fall for that “Hung Preacher” nonsense, then that was a testament to the power of a whisper.
Even in the flatlands, every town had a haunted house or two. There was one in Charlotte, an old brick house a few blocks from where she had grown up. She had pedaled her bike past it several times, searching the darkness of the broken windows for movement.
One bright autumn morning, Sheila saw something move in the dead space behind a shutter. She stopped her bike and looked up from the edge of the overgrown yard. Something or someone was watching her. She had shivered and pedaled madly away. She hadn’t believed the place was haunted, yet she had never accepted her friends’ Halloween dares to enter it.
Now, after all her derision of Frank’s stories, she hesitated at the church door. Of course this place held horrors for Frank. His brother had died here while Frank watched. A memory like that would haunt anybody. But did that explain why the hair on her forearms tingled erect when she touched the doorknob?
Sheila looked around the churchyard. Frank was at the edge of the forest, searching the ground. Other than the noise of his moving through the brush, the hill was quiet. Though the sun glared down, she was chilled by the shadow of the huge old dogwood. Its branches hovered over her, long bony fingers, reaching, reaching . . . .
Nonsense. You’re just catching whatever craziness is infecting everybody else in Whispering Pines. You deal in facts, and don’t you forget it.
She went inside. The foyer was dark, since it had no windows. She blinked and headed into the sanctuary. The handmade pews were lined neatly on both sides, even though the heights of them varied slightly. Storie admired the woodwork of the beams and the carved railing that marked off the dais. Once upon a time, somebody had put a lot of love into this church.
The church smelled of hay and her nose itched from dust. The church had been used as a barn, Frank had said. The church had undergone a haphazard cleaning job since the Houck murder. She wondered if the intent had been to hide evidence, and regretted not ordering the church sealed off with yellow crime scene tape. But Frank said he’d checked the church thoroughly.
She approached the pulpit, aware of her footsteps and heartbeat intruding on the stillness of the church. She wasn’t religious, but she was respectful of houses of God. Still, the Christian God was all about getting to the truth, right? So maybe Jesus wouldn’t mind her snooping around a bit.
Nothing seemed amiss in the sanctuary and a quick look in the vestry revealed only cobwebs and dark corners. She crossed the dais and stood at the lectern, looking out over pews and imagining what it would be like to have a congregation to address. If she were going to understand Archer McFall’s motives, she had to put herself in his place. All murderers had a motive, however senseless in the eyes of sane people.
A preacher as prime suspect? That’s about as loopy as a murderous ghost.
She put her hands on the lectern and realized her palms were sweating. Was this the power that lured McFall from California, to leave a life of sun and cash to preach in these cold mountains? Did McFall have a messiah complex or something? No, that was giving him too much credit. The only reason he was a suspect at all was that she couldn’t come up with anything better.
She checked over the dais one more time, and on the second pass she saw the stain. It was old and brown, faded into the oak floorboards. It looked like a bloodstain, though too ancient to be from Boonie Houck’s murder. She knelt and traced her finger around the edges of it.
The stain made a pattern. She stood and studied it. If you looked hard enough, you could imagine it was an angel, all wings and...
She smiled to herself. Yep, she’d failed her own Rorschach test. So much for those criminal psychology classes. It was time to see if Frank had found anything.
She touched the railing as she stepped off the dais, and something clung to her hand. At first she thought it was dust, but she held her hand to the light coming through the windows. Rust-colored flakes glistened against her skin. Dried blood.
Sheila stooped and looked at the rail, wishing that she’d brought a flashlight. A few flakes of dried blood were scattered across the wood. How had Frank missed seeing them? She thought maybe she’d better be more discriminating about the things Frank said. After all, he believed in ghosts.
She had a solid clue at last, something the labs could work with. They could at least determine whether the blood was Houck’s or, if she were lucky, the killer’s. She wondered how many fingerprints were lying about the church. Even if they were from fifty different hands, at least she would have a suspect pool.
Sheila backtracked down the aisle, scanning the floor for more bloodstains. No luck.
She went through the foyer, better able to see this time because her eyes had adjusted to the dimness. A coat rack was nailed to one wall, wooden pegs angled out like deer antlers. Sheila bumped into the bell rope and it swayed against her blazer with a whispering sound. The rope led up into the belfry.
Wait a second. Frank said there wasn’t a bell rope. Why would he lie about something like that? And what ELSE has he lied about?
Well, at least this explains why those witnesses had reported hearing bells on the nights of the murders. Probably some kids messing around in here.
She hurried from the church to share her news with Frank. She wanted to see his face when he was confronted with his lies. “Hey, Sheriff,” she called.
He stepped out from a laurel thicket. He looked a little better now, though his eyes were bloodshot and his hair unkempt. “I didn’t find anything,” he said with a shrug.
Big surprise.
“Well, I did. Bloodstains.”
“Bloodstains?”
“In the church.”
Frank’s eyebrows rose. “I’ll be damned.”
“I thought you would be. And another th
ing. You know the ringing bells that you kept talking about?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I have a simple explanation for that.”
“How simple?”
“Follow me.”
She jogged to the church steps and waited for Frank. “In here. I thought you said there wasn’t a bell rope because of-”
“Right. There hasn’t been a bell rope for over a hundred and thirty years. Because people wanted to forget that mess about the Hung Preacher.”
Sure. That’s why the legend is alive and kicking today, isn’t it? Because they did such a damned good job of forgetting?
She smiled to herself as she followed Frank up the steps. THIS will show him.
She blinked. The rope was gone.
She gazed up into the small hole that led to the belfry. Nothing. Had someone pulled it up? If so, whoever it was would still be up there. They would have seen anybody running from the church.
Frank had his hands on his hips, looking at her.
“I swear. There was a rope here.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“I’m serious. Give me a boost up to that hole.”
The sheriff shook his head. “No way in hell, Sheila. The last time I did that, I lost a brother. I’m not about to lose you.”
She balled her fists. “Damn it, I saw a rope. Are you going to tell me one of your ghosts tied it to the bell?”
“There’s no rope.”
“Do you think I imagined it? That I’m catching whatever craziness seems to be spreading around these parts?”
The sheriff sighed. “Look, maybe I’ve been a fool. Forget all that crap about the ghosts. If I really believed in ghosts, why would I bother to investigate the case?”
“Because you’re the sheriff. You have to act like you know what you’re doing.”
“You’re not going up in the belfry.”
“There’s no way you’re going to fit. One of us has to look. We can’t just sit back and cower while people keep getting murdered.”
Sheila grabbed two of the coat-rack pegs and pulled herself up, then positioned one foot against the doorknob. If the murderer was dumb enough to play stupid tricks, he was just begging to be caught. She wondered if she should draw her revolver, but her hands were occupied. If the murderer was waiting with a weapon . . .
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers Page 17