by Etta Faire
Rosalie nodded and put her hand on Mrs. Winehouse’s arm.
Mrs. Winehouse continued. “Same thing happened with her first two husbands. She just believes the good in people. That’s not a bad thing. But sometimes, it’s not a good thing either.”
She shook her head and stood up straighter. I tried to think of a way to change the subject, but the devil in my arms had begun kicking my hip.
Mrs. Winehouse and her husband were pretty much raising Shelby’s kids right now so she could move on to a real-life without Bobby. But it was hard.
I heard the sound of gems scattering along the floorboards. I looked over. One of the kids had his hand in a bin while the twins were tossing pieces of obsidian to each other. The oldest one filmed everything on his phone.
Mrs. Winehouse waved a finger at them, and they all stopped.
I told myself I didn’t care anymore, anyway. Cleaning up after Shelby’s kids was the least I could do at this point.
She turned back to me. “I just came in for some bird repellant. Lila told me I needed to ask for the special blend. You heard Shelby got attacked by birds the other day, right? She’s fine. Don’t worry, but she just can’t have that happen again.”
Rosalie and I both looked at each other.
“Lila came in here and bought some already,” Rosalie said, cringing at the sound of more gemstones hitting the floor.
Mrs. Winehouse set her purse on the counter. “She gave me money to buy another one. She’s so sweet. I told her she didn’t need to pay for it, but she insisted. She dropped the first batch. It broke everywhere.”
I gasped, thinking about Lila’s reaction to the bird repellant and how she could barely touch it. I somehow stopped myself from asking if Lila had dropped the bird repellant all over her guest house.
But when a suspected bird shifter buys bird repellant then ends up getting rid of an unwanted family member in the process, you have to wonder.
Rosalie hustled into the back to get the special blend, and Mrs. Winehouse finally looked over at her grandchildren. “You boys have exactly one minute to get all of these gems picked up or I will take away screens for the rest of the day. Go.”
They moved fast. Picking up gems, but throwing them in any bin they wanted. Nothing was sorted. I might as well have let the devil down and saved my ears.
“I wanted to ask you something,” I said to Mrs. Winehouse as she reached her arms out for Bobby junior. I happily handed him back to her, my ears still stinging, along with my hip now. “I’m investigating a new ghost for that ghost book I’m writing.” I bit my lip, wondering if I should say it. “Her name is Mandy Smalls.”
There. I’d done it. It would be all over town soon, and I told myself it didn’t matter. I cared about Mandy more than I cared about the scrapbook.
Mrs. Winehouse’s eyes widened. “You saw Camp Dead Lake.”
“Yes.”
“My one big Hollywood moment. I always thought what an amazing life it would be to make movies all the time, get away from all the hustle and bustle of real-life. But then, when that poor woman got murdered, I changed my mind real fast. It does not pay to be even the least bit famous. All the crazy people come out.”
“And speaking of crazy,” I said as Rosalie came out smiling, another batch of bird repellant in her hand, the second “special blend at full price” this week.
“Do you know Crazy Hank?” I asked. “Somebody at one of the bars mentioned his name when I asked about the movie.”
She looked at the ceiling. “I haven’t heard that name in ages,” she said, turning to give her grandchildren a quick glare to remind them that time was ticking away on their minute. They went back to picking up gems. “He was a town character back in the day. I hear he lives over in Noville now. Still very strange. Obsessed with horror movies. Turned his house into a weird horror museum that nobody goes to.” She laughed. “He’d be a good one to ask about your ghost, if you can get past the crazy part. Or Vernon. He’s got a great memory.”
She was talking about Vernon Gleason, Dr. Dog, the sleazy veterinarian.
“I’ll talk to crazy over creepy, thank you,” I said, making her laugh. “Do you know Hank’s last name?”
She shook her head no as Rosalie handed her the bag and the receipt.
“I double-bagged it,” Rosalie said. “Don’t let this one drop.”
I thought back to Lila’s purchase. That one had been double-bagged too.
Mrs. Winehouse nodded and thanked Rosalie, then turned to me. “We all just called him Crazy Hank in school. Once again, I bet Vernon would remember. They were good friends growing up. The only thing I remember about Hank is he started calling himself crazy after his dad died when we were all in about fifth grade. Ask Vernon, though…”
“I bet I can find him on the internet,” I said because there was no way I was asking Vernon. “Did you notice anything else weird about the movie or the actors?”
“Everything was weird,” she said.
She put her fingers in her mouth, letting out the kind of screeching whistle that rang through the store. The baby laughed and put his hands over his ears. The four older kids stopped what they were doing, chucked the last bits of gems back into the bins, and ran toward her.
She turned to me before she left. “The strangest part was just how little anyone seemed to care about the murder, you know? My husband was friends with a lot of police officers at the time,” she said, motioning for the kids to head to the door. “They told him this was an ‘outsider problem,’ and once the outsiders left, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
She turned back toward the door. “It wasn’t long before the whole town believed that way,” she said. “And we all stopped talking about it, just like that.” She snapped.
It sounded like the start of the small town hiding stuff.
Chapter 13
Change of Plans
Shelby called me the next day after breakfast. It was good to know “telling on someone’s mom” still worked in life.
I’d hate to have to give that one up.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner,” she said. “I knew I’d be busy with this nursing program, but I never thought I’d be this busy. And, I haven’t even started my clinical training yet.”
“I get it,” I said, like I knew what that meant, like I was busy too.
I was lying on my bed, staring at my ceiling because my room was one of the few places in the house where my ex couldn’t enter. And I did not need his commentary on this phone call.
“I only have a minute to talk,” she said.
“Me too,” I added. It was a lie. I had the whole day off, and my investigation was going nowhere. “So what happened with the bird attack?”
My voice sounded strained. Our conversation was awkward. I felt like a woman eating Pringles while her friend drank a kale smoothie.
I was just thankful for ghost repellant so Jackson couldn’t make comments.
“You know how weird it was. You were attacked, too,” Shelby said, her voice rising up. “And honestly, I’m a little freaked out. I hate talking about it.”
She took a long inhale and continued. “After I saw you at the Shop-Quik, I went straight over to school. I did not even notice black birds following me. But, apparently, they were.” She lowered her voice. “And some of them were big ones, like the size of a cat. Okay, there was only one big one, far as I saw, but the others were not tiny. I didn’t know birds could get that big. Did you?”
I sucked in my lips. I did know birds could get that big, and I had noticed blackbirds following her, but I hadn’t said anything. “That’s so weird,” I said instead of admitting any of that to my freaked-out friend.
She went on, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I’m just gonna be honest. I haven’t even told this last part to anyone. Not my parents. Not my friends at the nursing program. Not even Lila.”
I tried not to be offended that Lila was getting top-billing on that list o
f close people.
“But I’m going to tell you,” she said. “So promise you won’t mention this to anyone. I’m only telling you because you’ve had bird attacks too.”
“Mum’s the word,” I said, like a nosy librarian.
“When I rushed over to my class — and I was late like usual so there weren’t too many people around…” She paused like she was gathering her thoughts, trying to figure out how to get herself to say it. “I smelled something weird, like a dead animal…”
I nodded along. The attacking birds sometimes smelled like roadkill.
Shelby was still talking in a whisper. “Then, I swear, I heard growling.”
She emphasized the word before going on. “It sounded like human growling but different, and it was coming from the roof. So, of course, I looked up. That’s when I saw it, the big one, sitting there with his friends. Greasy black feathers, thick deformed beaks. Were those birds at your attacks too?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ve heard from others that they were at theirs.”
“Others?” she asked. “How many others have there been? I thought you were the only one besides me. Others?”
I could hear her breathing picking up.
I tried to calm her down. “I am the only one, this time around. I meant there have been other bird attacks in the past. In the fifties,” I said as reassuringly as I could, even though there had been other recent attacks. Old George had been attacked not too long ago and so had Rosalie’s boyfriend.
Was I a part of the small town hiding stuff now?
Her whisper got quieter. “I’ve been thinking about this, Carly Mae. Do you remember when you joked about shapeshifters that one time, and I told you that I’ve had a bad feeling about Potter Grove for a while?”
“I’ve heard shapeshifters are just a rumor,” I said.
“That’s what Lila said, too.”
Neither one of us said anything for a few seconds.
“I think they were shifters,” she finally whispered. “They talked.”
“Talked?” I bolted up from the bed and coughed. “You heard… you heard them talking?”
“I know it’s crazy, but I thought I heard someone say, ‘Next.’ That’s weird, right? Did you hear that too? Next… It was real low like that.” Her voice took on a manly, low quality when she said the word “Next.”
I paused to think about it. This was a new one. No one had ever said they’d heard that. It was almost like receiving a blue note.
“No, Shelby,” I said. “But maybe I just didn’t hear it because it was too low…”
Her laugh cut me off. “It’s crazy, I know. It was probably someone else talking,” she said. “Anyway, those birds went straight for my head after that. My head. I screamed. People came out of classrooms, tried to help. But those birds did not give up. I had to hurry inside. We barely got the door shut.”
“Wow, I’m so sorry,” I said. I meant it. Her attack sounded way too much like the one Delilah had described when she witnessed a fatal bird attack in the 50s.
I didn’t mention that to Shelby, though.
“I’m thinking about leaving Potter Grove once I graduate.” Her voice was small, sad. “I’ve lived here my entire life. But, I can’t raise my kids in a place where fiancés go missing and birds talk and attack you. It’s not normal. It’s not safe.”
“Please tell me you’re joking about leaving,” I said.
“I don’t know anything yet. But, in the meantime, I’m not going anywhere without that special blend bird repellant.” She laughed a little. “Even though the smell is almost as bad as the birds.”
“This is actually the better-smelling version too,” I replied. “The first round didn’t have citronella or tea tree oil.”
It felt good to talk to Shelby again, and I was glad that it no longer felt awkward.
I heard one of her sons complaining in the background that there weren’t any good snacks at Grandma’s, asking when they were moving out.
“I’ve gotta go help my mom get set up with the kids before I head off to class. But we’re having a little birthday party for Bobby Junior at the end of the month. Nothing special. I mean, he’s turning one, for crying out loud. It’s more of an adult party. Do you and Justin wanna come?”
“Of course,” I said as we hung up. I smiled to myself, glad to have a semblance of a real-life again.
But, as soon as I hit the off button on my landline, I remembered I hadn’t asked her if there was a pattern to her bird attack, too.
Both of my attacks had resulted in the same pattern along my arms, with four dots in a row on the outside, and four on the inside, all evenly spaced.
I still didn’t really know what that meant.
But, these bird attacks were getting stranger by the minute. And I completely understood why Shelby wanted to leave.
My ex was waiting for me in the hall as I took the phone back downstairs. I barely noticed him anymore.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said as he followed me down. “Another bird attack? Sounds like things are heating up around here. The prophecies. The curses. The mere fact Caleb wants your help is proof enough the world must be ending soon.”
I didn’t laugh at his joke, mostly because it was way too close to the truth. And I hadn’t even told him about the weird satellite dish at Justin’s yet.
My laptop was sitting on the dining table, like usual, and I headed over to it, determined to find Crazy Hank now that I had so many clues about him.
Jackson read over my shoulder as I typed in my search terms. “Why are you looking for a horror museum in Noville?”
“I saw Mrs. Winehouse yesterday. She remembers Crazy Hank, and she’s pretty sure he owns one.”
Mandy appeared by Jackson’s side. She was faded, and I was surprised to see her. Most ghosts needed rest after a channeling, but I was starting to realize, like living humans, ghosts weren’t all the same, and not all of them needed the rest.
I hit the enter button, smiling when my search results came up.
Crazy Hank’s House of Horror. Located in historic Noville, this private collection has the best horror memorabilia from the 60s through today.
I clicked on the link, and a bright green page came up. The website looked just like I expected it to look. Dark red “dripping-blood” font that spelled out Crazy Hank’s House of Horror at the top of the green page.
Photos of the museum spanned the bottom part of it. Larger-than-life, wax-looking monsters cluttered what was probably once a living room. Heads, devils, creepy lifeless dolls…
“I wonder why they call him Crazy Hank,” my ex said by my side.
I ignored him and studied the website, looking for the man from the channeling or anything I recognized from Camp Dead Lake. This had to be the right guy.
That’s when I saw it. In the background, behind a wall of hatchets and some mutant animals in display cases, was a blonde mannequin wearing Mandy’s pink t-shirt and acid-washed jean jacket and pants. I gasped. It was the same outfit she was wearing now and had been wearing when she was murdered.
Why hadn’t the police kept the outfit she’d died in? Shouldn’t that have been stored in an evidence box somewhere? Was it even checked with a magnifying glass like they did on the cop shows?
I didn’t say any of this to the ghosts looking over my shoulder. But it did seem like the police hadn’t cared at all about Mandy’s murder.
I pulled Mandy’s case folder over, realizing now just how thin it was. I had originally thought Caleb had only made copies for me of the relevant parts. But now I wondered if this thin folder was all there was.
I pulled out what looked like a page of catalogued evidence.
Movie film from victim and on floor
Torn script
Hook
Bag of sheep’s blood
Burned film reel in fire pit
Pencil and notebook
Utensil rack full of fake knives
Champagne gl
ass
There should have been much more. Her outfit, for one.
I scanned the rest of the papers, mostly the interviews.
The Lockes had been interviewed together. Graham had been interviewed once by himself and a second time with his kids. Somer and Ned had separate interviews.
You couldn’t interview people together. That was Cop Show 101.
No wonder Lilith had been disgusted about the way the small town had hidden things.
It felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach and I wasn’t even Mandy’s sister.
I leaned back in my chair. It creaked under my weight. That’s when I saw his name. Glen Bellings had been the sheriff in 1987, and he’d conducted most of the interviews.
I recently met Glen in 1944 when I investigated the puppet master case. He was a rookie cop back then, but he had botched that case too.
It was almost like he was botching cases on purpose.
Mandy moved in closer. “I’d like to see the interviews they did after my death.”
Jackson nodded. “Great idea. Then, I say, we all go for a trip to a horror movie museum in Noville.”
I checked my laptop. There weren’t any museum hours listed anywhere on the site, only an address and a phone number. And Noville was an hour and a half away. I did not want to drive all the way over there on the hopes it was open.
I picked up my landline phone and dialed the number on the website. After two rings, a recorded message answered with a gruff voice.
“Hi. Crazy Hank here. You’ve reached the number for Crazy Hank’s House of Horror. Located in historic Noville, my private collection has the best horror memorabilia from the 60s through today.”
That was it. No “leave a message after the beep.” No museum hours. No new information, except the fact that Hank’s voice sounded raspier and a little more tired than it had in the 80s. Thirty years of cigarettes and orange soda had probably taken its toll.