The Haunting of Steely Woods

by Bonnie Elizabeth

  Mostly Lucy stayed in the woods, afraid of what might happen to a girl in town who had no father and whose sister was clearly willing to do whatever it took for a little money. Lucy herself didn’t know what else she might do but she wanted to put off the life her sister led for as long as possible.

  She shuddered thinking about it as the door slammed behind Alma while she went out to wash up. How much longer could they go on like that?

  3

  Traci: September Now

  I huddled in my office, pulling on the sweater I kept hanging over the back of the chair. I had scooted the chair back so that the sun hit me more completely but my body remained encased in ice, the sun not able to penetrate the depths of my core where the ice had formed. The chemical smell of industrial cleansers made my stomach turn.

  Around me I heard keyboards clacking, heels tapping, and voices murmuring. Outside, horns honked and brakes periodically squealed. I think that people in Charlotte should learn to use their brakes and gas pedals a bit more gently, but that was just me. I mean, I can speed with the best of them—hadn’t I made Portland from halfway to Seattle in under an hour one scary, dreary night nineteen and three quarters years ago?

  I crossed my arms against my chest both to warm myself and to control the shivers and shakes that worked their way through my body. Deborah’s news shouldn’t have terrified me like that. I mean I was thousands of miles away from Steely Woods, across a very large river called the Mississippi. I should be safe.

  Don’t laugh. When I knew I had to leave, when I couldn’t concentrate any longer on anything but my terror, I had researched the ways to protect oneself from the paranormal. The dreams I had in my apartment in Portland were so real I felt as if I were back at Steely Woods. Once I found damp footprints in the hallway walking towards my bedroom.

  That had done it.

  Vampires weren’t supposed to be able to cross running water and it seemed like that was true for a lot of spirits. So I made sure to put at least one big ass flood of running water between me and Steely Woods. The Mississippi. I wasn’t taking any chances that the Columbia ran the wrong way (I was below that too) or that the Rio Grande had mostly dried up or that the creek beside a house was too narrow. No. I would have no loopholes for ghosts to come after me.

  It was one reason I didn’t go to Tess in Las Vegas. It wasn’t far enough, but it also wasn’t past some running water. I think if I hadn’t had all my confidence ripped from me by the thing at the rest stop, the thing I fled from because I was lucky enough to have been rescued by a pair of teenagers needing to pee, I might have fled to England. After all, it was a fricking island, past the Mississippi and beyond the great Atlantic. How much harder would it have been to be followed there?

  I still think about it, though. Running to England. If my bank ever needs someone to go to their London branch and work, I’m on it. I’d put my name in for one such position, but it wasn’t in marketing and I’d no experience in any other division so I wasn’t chosen. Instead, I was still in Charlotte where the sun shone regularly and the skies were nearly always blue and it was hard to picture ghosts in the new apartment complex where I lived, or in the homes that were building up on the west side near the airport that seemed to grow and expand every few years.

  Charlotte was growing. It was alive.

  I was inside that aliveness, though I remained half dead.

  When I stopped shivering, though I was still cold, practically fast frozen deep inside, I pulled the chair slowly back to my desk and tried to focus on work. It was hard to work through details of planning radio spots, but fortunately I was an assistant and much of my work was organized previously so I only had to follow written instructions. Thankfully, that was all I had to do throughout the early hours.

  At lunch time, I felt I was far enough ahead that I could go out and grab a bite to eat. My boss wasn’t a task master or anything, but keeping people at bay meant I often ate at my desk, door closed.

  “Hey!” Deborah smiled brightly as she met me at the elevator, Will in tow. Will smiled shyly at me, his head down so that he appeared to make eye contact with my breasts. I knew better. Will was too shy to look anywhere and if you asked him what he was looking at, he’d have turned red as a beet.

  “Hey,” I said. I was trying to think of an excuse to go back to my office.

  “I was just telling Will how you were from the same area as I was and had probably been to Steely Woods Rest Stop.” Deborah didn’t stop smiling, as if that was something to be proud of or joyful about.

  “I am,” I said.

  Will nodded. “I was reading about it after Deborah told me. They call it the haunted rest stop.”

  Now that was new. I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean I knew it was haunted, but I didn’t think others thought of it like that.

  Another nod. “No other rest stop has such a history of women dying there. And no one knows who kills them.”

  “I can’t believe it. I’ve stopped there, I don’t know how many times,” Deborah said. “You’d think there would be warnings. It totally freaks me out.”

  If she were freaked out, she’d feel like I did, arms crossed, shivering in the comfortable coolness of the elevator. But no, she was smiling and moving easily, not a fearful cell in her body. Even Will seemed more freaked out than she did, but perhaps that’s because Will always seems a bit freaked out.

  I was glad when we reached the lobby. Maybe Deborah would let me go and she’d stop talking about the rest stop.

  “Are you eating? We should all go over to the deli,” Deborah said. “Come on.”

  It was hard to refuse and I lacked the social skills to do so with any grace, so I followed her out, trailing slightly behind her and Will who continued discussing the inherent dangers of rest stops for women, whether they were haunted places or merely great hunting grounds for serial killers.

  “I read this book where a serial killer only hunts at various rest stops. That way he kills in many different states and jurisdictions so no one really knows he’s a serial killer,” Will said. “I forget who wrote it. I read so much and can never keep authors straight.”

  Deborah nodded. “It’s a great premise. It would be really easy if he were a truck driver, too, because he’d have reason to be all those places.”

  I tried to tune them out, tried listening to the low classical music that played in the background, real Brahms and not something from my teen ears played by violins. Other people were talking about normal things, how the burgers at the bar across the way were bigger and cheaper than if you went down the street to a place that was trendier.

  Other people were talking about loan interest rates and the crazy woman who came in demanding to be given a low interest loan for a new boat simply because she needed it for her husband’s birthday.

  I’d have loved to be involved in a normal conversation like that.

  I relished the sun outside, where it was warm and wonderful and if I stood in the bright light, unencumbered by shadows long enough the warmth might burn through the chill that had infected my core. Sadly, Deborah was walking too fast, and the traffic signals were with her. I returned to the shade of a building all too soon.

  Behind me, a car honked. Another chugged exhaust which made the whole sidewalk smell of dead coal. I coughed lightly. At least the sounds kept me from having to answer anything Deborah said as she talked, her arms waving around, nearly hitting a man in a gray suit walking the other direction.

  I brushed by a slow moving woman in a brown dress that hung low on her thin frame and then moved around an equally slow moving man in shorts and shirt sleeves.

  Finally, we reached the deli where the usual line snaked outside the door. Their sandwiches are amazing, but the wait takes some time. Because of that, people usually took sandwiches to go, so I knew there would be a good chance we’d be able to snag a table.

  I pushed through the door, the dim inside light meeting my eyes. I got a glimpse of one of the workers. Behind
her, a pale skull, a few strands of hair standing up on end.

  Bile rose up in my gorge.

  A normal person would have stood up taller, trying to see what they thought they were seeing.

  I knew all too well.

  My haunting had found me that morning. Sometimes she did. Sometimes she didn’t. Always in nightmares. Only rarely, when I was particularly upset, in day-mares.

  I backed up, not wanting to go in the deli.

  “Traci?” Deborah said concerned. Will held my arm, perhaps thinking I was falling backwards. I could have been.

  “I need to go,” I said. “I don’t feel well all of a sudden.”

  I didn’t give either of them time to react. I turned and hurried back to the office. I paused for a moment in the bright sun. I didn’t seem to be haunted in the bright light of day. The dead prefer the shadows, night time, or dark and cloudy days where they can creep along the edges of life.

  I breathed in and out. I was no longer hungry.

  A tall woman carrying a briefcase brushed passed me so quickly and so closely that I was turned nearly completely around. Now I was facing the way I had come. I turned back to my office before any skeletal faces could peer out at me through a shadowed window and went inside.

  4

  Traci: September Now

  I tried to stay in bright places for the next few days, becoming lizard-like in my need for light and sun and warmth. Due to my inability to get warm, I huddled in front of heaters when I could. I made sure every light in every room was on, adding some electric lanterns around my apartment for the places where lamps and overheads weren’t quite bright enough.

  I had a clear plastic shower curtain so that the shower wasn’t darkened in the least while I washed in water so hot my skin turned a particularly unflattering shade of fuchsia before I finished. But the warmth helped. It calmed me a little, relaxed my muscles marginally, though my heart continued to beat too fast.

  I take medications for anxiety. I also have some for hallucinations, which, sadly, made my experiences worse. Almost as if in attempting to change the balance of my brain chemistry, I became more susceptible to the spirits, exactly the opposite of what I needed and wanted. When things like this happened, though, no medication was enough.

  My nightmares came back, although I was never certain if they were really nightmares. I’d dream I woke up in my bed and hear a faucet drip in the bathroom down the hall. I’d huddle under the covers, pulling them up around my chin, hiding from the creature I was certain invaded my home.

  Even in my dreams the lights were on, though in my dream they were a sickly yellow with shadows that hovered on the edges of the rooms. I’d cower under my blanket, reminding myself over and over that it was just a dream. Just a dream.

  My heart would pound and the room would go so cold that I’d be sure I’d been transported to a giant freezer or perhaps the Antarctic in a storm. I wouldn’t look though.

  Then I’d feel a pull on my blanket.

  Boney fingers would pull against the fabric, curling around the edge near my face.

  I’d smell the scent of freshly turned earth.

  Usually I’d scream in my dream.

  Only then, would I wake myself up, sitting straight up, the room lights on, bright and clear showing me the pale wood of the floors, the dressers in equally pale wood and my bright yellow walls. The semi-gloss paint would reflect light, getting into the corners, keeping even those spaces clear of shadows. The closet door remained closed and I had drawers beneath my bed so nothing could live under there and come crawling out.

  I kept the bedroom door open so I could see the light from the hallway, always on. There were no windows in the passage and it was the only way I could make sure no shadows lurked.

  I’d look out, but never leave the bed. No matter how badly I might have to go, I never, ever got up and used the bathroom at night. Not when I was alone. If I were living with someone I could see myself going, but only if they knew I’d be in there. While I doubted they could rescue me from a ghost, having someone nearby felt safer somehow.

  Ever since I had heard about the death at Steely Woods, I had had the dream twice a night. I was tired and irritable during the day. I ate poorly, something that is common when I’m overwhelmed. I worried that my work was suffering. I couldn’t afford to lose my job, too.

  I considered calling a therapist, a different one. I’ve been through seven already, two in Portland, the other five here. I’d tried being brutally honest about what happened, which got me the drugs. I’d tried hedging, talking about nightmares after nearly dying at a rest stop. I talked about it as if the would-be murderer had been human and not made of rotting flesh, but the therapists always poked and prodded and then gave me platitudes about PTSD.

  I sometimes go to an acupuncturist, which, while it doesn’t take away the fear, it sometimes allows me to feel as if I can manage it, as if I could be powerful enough to stand my ground and not fall apart upon seeing the ghost or zombie or whatever the hell it was in the rest stop so long ago.

  I considered calling the acupuncturist, but I put it off, as I always did, trying to power through the days, attempting to forget about the terror that haunted me.

  On Friday morning, my boss, Nils came into my office while I attempted to make sense of a document on my computer screen. He didn’t knock, nor did he interrupt me. It’s hard to be interrupted when you can’t make sense of something. As always, my heart beat too fast and my feet danced around under the desk. My back ached from stress. My eyes burned from trying to focus on the computer, and I both looked forward to and dreaded the weekend.

  “On Monday we’re taking a road trip,” Nils said in his usual quiet voice that somehow seems to carry across vast spaces. He’s a large man, both tall and broad. He exudes life force. He is, as one of my counselors said, grounded, though of course she wasn’t saying it about Nils. She was talking about me becoming grounded. When she said the word grounded, I immediately thought of Nils. He’s like a tall tree in the forest that’s stood there for a hundred years or more, roots sinking deeply into the earth, pulling him down and anchoring him to the world.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “A radio show outside of Raleigh. I’m taking Deborah, Anson, and you along with me. Pack a bag. We’re only supposed to be there for the day but they want us to plan for two, just in case. Sandy has already booked rooms at the Sheraton.”

  Rooms plural, because heaven forbid we have to share with each other. That would require the bank to understand our sexuality and our preferences and they didn’t want any sense of impropriety. Which meant I’d be alone in a hotel room. I have extra electric lanterns that I pack for that, just in case. But I still hate it. I can’t light up a hotel like I can my apartment, though I try. At least Sheratons typically have good light.

  I nodded and tried to smile, like this was all fine. My tapping feet gave lie to that, although the desk hid them from easy view. Maybe Nils wouldn’t notice.

  The line between my hair and my forehead began to feel damp. My palms were soaking and I didn’t dare type anything on my computer.

  “Have a good weekend. Plan to be here early on Monday, I’d like to leave by seven. I’ll have a van rented and we can all go together,” Nils finished. He had a slight frown, probably noticing the sweat. I’d traveled with him before. He knows I’m not a good traveler.

  Usually we go by plane. I wait to use the bathrooms on planes, probably the only person to do so. But I’ve never been attacked in an airplane bathroom. They’re probably too small even for a ghost to share. I feel more comfortable in there, at least mentally. Physically, I’m no more comfortable than anyone else.

  I couldn’t remember the last time we’d driven, but I knew this wasn’t the first. It had been a completely different group and I was new, an assistant to an assistant or something like that, carrying papers, getting coffee, planning the reservations so I knew what I was getting into. I’d talk to Sandy later about the lo
gistics.

  Nils left, finally. I stood up and stretched, looking over the city. The last thing I wanted was to leave it, particularly not now, not when I was already keyed up. I could probably get an acupuncture appointment, but there was no way I’d get into a new therapist before Monday. I rubbed my hands down the sides of my pants and then cupped my neck to stretch. My mind raced wondering how I’d get through the trip north.

  5

  Lucy: Summer Then

  Lucy thought she’d never stop crying. No reason to stop crying. She hurt physically, where Clyde Marks had finally taken her virginity, but worse was the pain of betrayal. Alma had given her to him. Lucy had hidden several weekends in a row between the trees in the woods, laying flat on the ground, her stomach pressed to the cool dirt in the shade of her favorite firs, the smell of loam reaching her nose so thickly that she could taste it in the back of her throat.

  Birds chirped and small creatures scurried around her, she lay so still, barely breathing, enjoying being one with the little woodland. It wasn’t so bad having to leave early on Sunday, not really.

  Except he came Saturday, all dressed up. He’d given Alma money and Alma had smiled at Lucy and nodded once at her and then again towards the sleeping area in the trailer. Dread had spilled through Lucy’s back and into her body, filling her until she was frozen in front of the two predators.

  Then came anger at her sister who was supposed to protect her, who was instead selling her to this brute of a man.

  “Remember Clyde, her first time! Be gentle!” Alma had sung, leaving the two of them in the trailer, alone, taking the money to do whatever it was she wanted.

  Lucy wondered how much it was. How much was her body worth? How much was her trust worth?

  Clyde had been reasonably gentle and if she’d had any feelings for him, Lucy had to admit it probably wouldn’t have been so bad. But now she hated him. And she hated Alma.