“Always.”
Then he looked at Harley, and in a pleasant voice, he said, “Harley.”
“Reverend.”
When the Reverend Wilson had passed by and was out of hearing distance, Alveda returned her attention to Harley. She dusted snowflakes from her coat sleeves, and with the smile still on her face, she said, “And I’ll tell you something else, too. If that pig comes anywhere near my gingerbread house, I’m calling Animal Control, and I’ll see your business is banned from Small Town Christmas—”
Before she could say more, a crowd of people passed by on the sidewalk, a tall, thin man leading a group of tourists. Though he was a young person, probably in his mid-twenties, he wore an all-black suit, antiquated in style, and reminiscent of a Puritan minister. It cast a drabness that put his youthful face in relief.
Harley had seen him on Main Street in recent days, soliciting tourists with brochures for his ghost walks, promising to entertain them with the town’s tales of woe and horror. Behind him the tourists paraded down Main Street, with looks of expectation and delight on their faces as they progressed onward to their next stop, the “haunted woods” of Briarwood Park. “The Ghosts of Christmases Past,” the brochures read. Beneath the title, “Justin Wheeler, Paranormal Expert and Hunter of Ghosts,” was written.
An attractive young woman followed behind him, half-listening to his oration with rote boredom. Her looks and attire mirrored his. Gothic. Slivers of ivory skin peeked from her black period dress, and a wealth of dark hair fell over her shoulders. According to the local accounts, her name was Heather Knowlton, and she and Justin were graduate students at the University of Tennessee.
When they had passed, Alveda, under her breath, said, “Heathens.”
Then, she started down the sidewalk presumably in search of something, anything, to separate the two cookies.
Harley returned to her shop, surprised by herself in her encounter with Alveda. In the past, she never would have ventured outside like that, much less spoken to Alveda that way. She wondered from where the newfound confidence had originated. For as long as she could remember, she had been an unassuming wallflower, only speaking after someone had spoken to her first. It was a refreshing change, she thought, and empowering.
She pulled the shop door to a close. Matilda lay sprawled and sleeping beside the potbellied stove, her snores forming a symphony with the fire as it crackled and popped. Ever since Matilda had won the Prize Pig Contest at the Pioneer Days Festival that fall, Sheriff Jed Turner and Mayor Ruby Montgomery had acknowledged the pig’s contributions to increased tourism. Not only was she allowed inside Smoky Mountain Spirits, but she was also allowed in most of the establishments throughout town.
Past Matilda, and stationed behind a long row of leather stools, was the bar her grandfather had installed in years past, when he had renovated the building, which was 135 years old. Mounted to the exposed brick walls were rows of shelves lined with whiskey, moonshine, and apple brandy, all affixed with the Henrickson’s label.
She returned to the bar and readied the ingredients for the day’s most popular drink, the Smoky Mountain Morning. After brewing a pot of coffee, she removed a bottle of Henrickson’s Whiskey from the shelf, along with a bottle of Demerara syrup, and a container of whipped cream from the refrigerator.
With a good half-hour left before opening, Harley decided to take Matilda for her morning walk in Briarwood Park. She grabbed the pig’s leash, and the two headed for the back door.
7
“Over the River and Through the woods”
Sun peeked through gray blankets of clouds, igniting puddles of melted snow on the pavement, as Harley and Matilda made their way down the alleyway to Main Street. With the gingerbread house safely avoided and behind them, they crossed the street and entered the paved walking trail leading to Briarwood Park.
Most of the locals were accustomed to seeing Matilda on her leash, but the tourists stopped to stare, coo, and laugh, and the elf costume brought even more delight.
Harley’s boots transitioned from smooth pavement to gravel trail as they left downtown and headed north toward the tall pines of Briarwood Park. When they entered the gates, a gust of cold wind whirled through clusters of trees, carrying the aroma of damp earth and wood rot.
They wove through canopies of pines, the trail morphing from a gravel walkway, to a snow-covered path littered with pine needles. Tree limbs dripped with melted snow, falling in cold splashes on Harley’s hands, shoulders, and the brim of her hat.
Up ahead, about one hundred feet along the trail, a woman appeared among a copse of trees. Her head was turned, and she stared into the distance. Though Harley could not see her face, she sensed she was troubled.
8
Little Women
Jennifer Williams’s clothes were dirty, with bits of leaf debris clinging to her navy peacoat, jeans, and her auburn ponytail as it fell past her shoulders.
Harley wondered if she had taken a fall during her walk from Briarwood to her antiques store downtown, Modern Vintage. She assumed Jennifer must have spent the early morning hours at Briarcliffe, appraising the antiques. Of anyone in Notchey Creek, she was the most qualified and knowledgeable.
After high school graduation, she had moved to New York where she had lived for over twenty years, attending college, then working as an appraiser for Christie’s. With her husband’s passing a year prior, she had returned to her small hometown, taking over her mother’s antiques store, Modern Vintage, with her childhood best friend, Samantha Jacobs. Samantha was one of the best furniture restorers in the region, and her talent, along with Jennifer’s knowledge of antiques, made for a successful business team.
Harley had felt so sure of their talent, she had recommended their services to Beau, who needed someone to appraise the antiques and restore a few pieces of furniture. Jennifer and Samantha had accepted the assignment with vigor, and were currently working on the project.
Harley had known Jennifer since she was a child, after the two met at the school book fair. She was in the sixth grade, and Jennifer was home from graduate school, volunteering at the middle school for the event.
All of the children in Harley’s class had run from their desks that day, fighting one another to get out the door and down the hallway to the rows of makeshift shelves filled with colorful paperbacks for sale.
Harley had remained behind, seated at her desk, with her head down, knowing she did not have the money to buy a book and she did not want to tempt herself by going to look at them. She lowered her forehead to her desk and dreamed that someday she would have all of the books in the world at her disposal.
Then a shadow cast over her and a delicate hand rested on her shoulder.
Harley raised her head, then her eyes to find Jennifer Williams standing over her, a look of compassion on her beautiful face. She lowered the book she held in her hands to the desk and said, “This was my favorite when I was your age.”
Harley studied the paperback edition of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. “What’s it about?” she asked.
“It’s about four girls—sisters. Their father’s gone off to serve as a chaplain in the Civil War, and they’re left at home with their mom. And throughout the course of all of it, they learn a lot about life, about themselves, about love, and each other.” She smiled at Harley. “Anyway, I’d like for you to have it.”
Harley lifted the book with both hands and hugged it to her chest with appreciation. “Thank you. But why me? Why are you giving it to me?”
After a few moments of reflection, Jennifer said, “One of the girls in the book—she reminds me very much of you.”
“Which one?”
“Well, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”
Jennifer never divulged which of the March sisters she felt held a likeness to Harley. And Harley, after having read the novel, decided she must have been referring to the quiet and unassuming Beth, and henceforth, laid the question to rest.
Years later, when Jennifer had moved back to Notchey Creek and the two had been reunited, Harley posed the question to her once more. Jennifer answered “no,” that it was not Beth she bore the true likeness to, and if she had not figured out the correct sister yet, well, it merely meant she had not fully come into her own. And that was fine, Jennifer said, because coming into one’s own took time and trial and a lot of life experience.
On that day when Jennifer had gifted Harley the book she had cherished ever since, the woman added, “And I’m also giving it to you, because I know you’ll love it—just like I always have.” She smiled, peering down at Harley. “And I can tell one thing about you, Harley Henrickson. Once you love, you love with your whole heart.”
And with all of her heart she did love it, reading the book time and time again, Christmas after Christmas, until the ink had faded and the cover had begun to fray, her joy in its pages never abating.
Harley’s mind returned to the present, where she stood on the snowy path in Briarwood Park, and Jennifer Williams stared into the distance with leaves in her hair.
9
The Return of the Native
“Good morning,” Harley called.
Jennifer whipped her body around, placing her hand on her chest. The color had drained from her complexion, and her eyes had a haunted look.
“Oh, Harley, you scared me!”
“I’m sorry.” Harley gave a warm smile in apology. “We’re just out for our morning walk.”
Under normal circumstances, Jennifer would have walked over and given the younger woman a big hug, just as she had since Harley was a child. But something ailed Jennifer that morning. Her troubled mind was someplace else, and it seemed focused on the woods.
Harley examined her in thought. Her face, her demeanor did not seem cold, per se, just lifeless. She wondered what had happened to bring about the transformation. When she had seen Jennifer just a few days ago, she had seemed perfectly fine. What had broken her spirit? Was it her late husband’s death? Her mother’s?
“Is everything okay?” Harley asked.
Jennifer hesitated, then forced a smile. “I’m fine. I just …” She released a long stream of air from her lungs, her mind seeming to search for the right words. She peered once again at the woods, before returning to Harley. “I think I just … well, I … Oh, Harley, please don’t think I’m crazy when I tell you this, but I think I might’ve seen something just now—in the woods.”
Harley followed Jennifer’s gaze to the stretch of pinewood forest, the formations jagged and black at the edges, gray in the center in a foreground of snow. There was certainly nothing there now. She wondered if Justin Wheeler, still leading one of his ghost tours, had entered the woods.
“Oh, don’t listen to me,” Jennifer said. “I’m just being silly. I know that’s all it is.” She shook her head. “I find myself doing it all the time now—scaring myself … like some crazy person. Even when I’m up at Briarcliffe, I hear a strange noise, feel a cold draft, and my mind jumps to all these crazy conclusions.”
While she had not used the word “ghost” specifically, she had been obviously alluding to it. Harley considered this possibility, then discounted it. Briarcliffe was merely an old house, and old houses tended toward drafts and strange noises, caused by the aging of the infrastructure, the settling of the foundation. For her part, she did not believe in ghosts and felt the strange occurrences at Briarcliffe and in Briarwood Park could be attributed to plausible, concrete explanations.
In addition, she knew Jennifer had taken her mother’s death very hard, as she had been very close to her. So, when her mother had died last year, a part of Jennifer had died with her. She had fallen into a deep depression for months afterward, and while she had since seemingly recovered from the crippling sadness, she still received regular therapy from Dr. Jeremy Griggs, a psychiatrist in town.
Along with her mother, Jennifer had also lost her husband of several years. Larry had been a stockbroker in New York and twenty years Jennifer’s senior. He had invested in Apple back in the eighties, and when he died, he left his young, beautiful wife a very wealthy woman.
All of this served as delicious fodder for the Notchey Creek rumor mill, revving up its engine, billowing a dark cloud of disparaging gossip around Jennifer.
And so when she moved back to her hometown, as a widow and an orphan, she had received no comfort from anyone except for Harley and her childhood best friend, Samantha Jacobs. Instead of offering sympathy, many spread malicious gossip behind her back, calling her a gold digger, a black widow, and even a slut.
And while Jennifer had her fair share of problems, they were not of her own doing, at least not from Harley’s perspective. Just by being the beautiful, wealthy, and talented person she was, she had aroused the suspicion, jealousy, and dislike of others.
And here she was, Harley thought, sad and unsure of herself. Hearing things in the house. Seeing things in the woods. Skittish in every move she made.
She tried to reassure her. “I’m sure it’s just the wind causing the trees to act up. No need to worry. And Justin Wheeler’s tour groups are always passing through here. Maybe it was just one of them.”
She smiled, but seemed uncertain.
“Are you just coming from Briarcliffe?” Harley asked.
“Ah, no, the house.”
Jennifer had bought the Johnson house in Briarwood and was living in an apartment above her store while the home was being remodeled. The house had a troubled history, and Harley assumed Jennifer hoped to exorcise its demons by remodeling it from basement to attic.
“And you know,” Jennifer said, “I still can’t thank you enough, Harley, for getting that job for us—at Briarcliffe. It’s been so great for us—our business.”
“Beau says y’all have been doing a great job.”
“He has?” Her face lit up with delighted surprise, then she examined the pines as they rose above them, then to the tip of Briarcliffe’s roof visible in the distance. Her voice adopted a wistful tone, and she said, “You know, I always used to dream about living in Briarwood—when I was little.” She looked at Harley to see if she had felt the same way, and Harley merely gave a nod of understanding.
“But you have a house there now,” Harley said. “You’ll be living there soon.”
“Doesn’t really matter. You have to be born and bred on the hill to be of the hill. Even if you move away like I did, make your own fortune, come back as an equal, you’re still not one of them, still not accepted.”
This particular discussion seemed to exasperate Jennifer’s already troubled mind, and Harley decided to change the subject.
“Where’s Samantha?” she asked.
“On a buying trip—in Louisville. Hopefully restocking our shelves with stuff for the holidays. She’ll be back tomorrow though … at least I think.” She peered at the woods again, then rapped her fingers—-one, two, three, four, five—against her thigh. “Anyway, Sam says she’s just about finished with Beau’s desk. Hopes to get it back to him this week sometime.”
Beau would be pleased. He had been excited about his father’s refinished desk and hoped to place it in the office of his new recording studio.
“Speaking of,” Jennifer said, “I probably should be heading back.” She waved goodbye to Harley and Matilda, and over her shoulder said, “I’ll see you tonight at the meeting.”
10
Hunger Pains
Harley and Matilda continued their walk, weaving their way along the trail. Above the impact of their feet hitting the path, voices echoed through the forest. As they climbed the hill and parted the clearing to a valley of pinewood forest, a group of people appeared below. Justin Wheeler stood in their midst, preaching in stentorian tones.
“We’re in the presence of a troubled spirit,” he said.
In a theatrical gesture, he held his hand to his ear. “Listen! I can hear her now. She’s come back to this troubled place, come back to tell us her story
of sorrow. Speak to us, unquiet spirit, speak to us!”
Watching from the hill, Matilda cocked her snout in the air, her nostrils flaring.
Oh, no!
The pig yanked at the leash and charged forward, down the hill, dragging Harley behind her. Ahead, in the midst of the tour group, Justin Wheeler still beckoned to the troubled spirit.
“She’s here, I tell you! She’s among us! Can you hear her coming?”
Harley slammed her boots in the mud and snow, slipping on pinecones as she tried to gain traction, pulling back on Matilda’s leash with her entire body. But the pig raged forward, down the slippery slope, Harley’s boot heels sliding like snow skis through the slush.
“Matilda, slow down! Matilda, stop, no!”
Harley dug in her heels once more, and when Matilda came to a halt, Harley crashed into the pig’s backside, plowing two tracks of mud with her boots. They had landed in the middle of the tour group, and a sea of faces gaped at them, their astonished expressions clouded by breaths of fog.
A bulging belly and a blue fanny pack met Harley at eye-level, nearly touching her nose. Above the belly and fanny pack, a middle-aged man with a balding pate leered at them.
“That’s not a ghost,” he said, examining Matilda with a perplexed look on his face. “It’s a … well, it’s some kind of pig-elf! And a farm boy.”
“Girl,” Harley muttered.
Matilda angled her snout in the man’s direction, zeroing in on his fanny pack. Realizing the pig’s intentions, he gasped and crept backward, only to have her corner him to a nearby tree. Behind them, the man’s wife watched speechless, as if she were unsure whether to laugh or scream.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 3