
THE GARDENER
by
MichelleDePaepe
AMAZON EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
MichelleDePaepe on Amazon
Copyright © 2010 by MichelleDePaepe
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THE GARDENER
July
Opal Peabody stood on the porch of the old Blake house, a Victorian castle complete with a round Queen Anne turret and gingerbread trim. Her stomach felt queasy, and she wondered why in the world she had stage fright after thirty years of doing séances for folks in the small town of Calathia, Kansas.
She clutched her leather bag embroidered with velvet stars with sweaty hands and rocked on the heels of her granny boots as she rang the doorbell a second time and waited for VirginiaBlake to answer.
Then, she brushed damp salt and pepper hair away from the rims of her thick glasses, rolled up her sleeves, and cursed her choice of the long-sleeved purple tunic over her plump body on this miserably hot evening.
A few seconds later, Virginia opened the door.
Opal laughed as she saw wide-eyed fear on the old woman's face. "You look as if Satan himself were standing on your porch."
"I'm sorry," Virginia said as she glanced out towards the street. "Thank you for coming, Madame."
"My pleasure, dear," she said as she walked into the parlor.
Virginia fingered the white hairs trickling out of her bun. Then, she squeezed her hands together and kneaded her arthritic knuckles back and forth like dough. "You haven't told anyone have you?"
"Never. Anything we do here is between you and me. Now...where shall I set up?"
Virginia ignored the question as the swelling inside of her burst loose. "Henry's been gone for so long now. You'd think it would get better. But everyday, it just seems to get worse. I'm out in the garden pulling weeds or cuttin' roses, and I think I hear his old tractor pulling up to the barn. That barn burnt down five years ago, and he's been gone longer than that. Sometimes, I hear him calling my name, whistling on the wind with that shrill blow he used to call me to the house when the water was boiling, and he was ready for me to run in with the fresh-picked sweet corn."
Opal nodded and placed a comforting hand on Virginia's shoulder. She was used to hearing the deepest secrets and longings from her clients. They often trusted her with things that they'd never told another living soul.
"I still dance with him, you know. Sometimes I take his clothes out from the basement and put on some waltz music, and we just twirl and twirl like we used to when we were dating...before we got married and our daughter was born." Virginia looked down as if the admission was shameful.
"That's quite alright, dear. Why...just last week, I was talking to---" Opal stopped herself, realizing that she was about to break her client confidentiality. She wandered in to the dining room. "How about here?" she asked as she set her bag down on the cherry wood table.
"That's fine. Wherever you like."
She opened her bag, then met Virginia's spellbound stare. She could see that the woman was overwrought with emotion and needed to be calmed before they started. "That's a lovely apron."
Virginia's cheeks flushed as pink as the embroidered roses on the lace curtains covering the window beside them. She looked down and smoothed her hands over the quilted cotton, a patchwork of paisley, gingham, and various remnants of former dresses. "Thank you. I do a little sewing in the winter when I can't work out in the gardens." She began to twist the hem of her apron, wrenching it hard enough to strain the seams. Then, she pressed her fingers up to her lips. "You don't think I'm crazy, do you?"
"Of course not." Opal reached out and squeezed her hand. "I've done this for many folks in town. You'd be surprised how many of them you might even know."
"Well, let's get on with it then. I suppose...I really don't know how any of this goes."
"Don't worry. I'll walk you through it." She reached into the bag and took out her tools---a large midnight blue silk scarf, a white tapered candle, a silver-plated lighter, and a bell. "I'll need a piece of clothing...anything that reminds you of him."
Opal quickly began to set the table with her spiritual picnic. Her red fingernails flew about like busy ladybugs, and the charms on her silver rings tinkled like tiny wind chimes. Motionless, Virginia seemed mesmerized.
"The sun's almost set. It's time."
"I'll be right back," Virginia mumbled as she turned to go upstairs.
A moment later, she returned with a black and white photograph and an old mahogany pipe still sweetly scented with charred tobacco from her dead husband's last smoke.
"Ahhh...these should work just fine." Opal picked the photo up and studied the couple sitting on the porch steps. "He was a handsome devil, wasn't he?"
Virginia smiled as she looked at the photo. "My goodness, yes! That photo was taken shortly after we were married."
"It looks like the same house behind you."
"It is. I was born in this house. It's been in my family for generations."
Opal looked up at the wood beams in the parlor and the tin ceiling in the kitchen, noticing the antiquity of the home. She coughed and glanced around the room again. "How long did you say it was since Henry passed away?"
"It's been twenty years this month. I guess the Lord needed him more than me. But, some days that's just hard to believe. No woman should have to be a widow for such a---"
"Hmmm...I didn't realize it was that long." Opal paused. Most of her clients wanted to contact the recently deceased, and she'd had limited success with that. It looked like she was going to have to roll up her sleeves and put on a good show tonight.
Deep crevices appeared on Virginia's forehead. "Is there something wrong?"
"No. Not at all. Don't you worry, dear," she said as she gave Virginia's hand a quick squeeze from across the table. "I've got a good feeling that Henry's never too far from here...no matter how long its been since he passed."
She lit the candle with the lighter then rose to switch off a lamp in the living room. As she made her way back to the kitchen table, she glanced at the bay window next to them. There was still a faint sliver of light from the bruised purple and orange sky peeking through the curtains. But, most of the illumination came from the moon, an eerie round reddish eye that seemed to peer in at them with an inquisitive stare. "It should be dark enough now. We can begin."
Virginia nodded as she sat across from Opal. Her trembling hands gripped the edges of the table, turning her knuckles white.
"Try to calm down, dear. I need you to clear your mind of all negative thoughts."
"I'll try," she said. "But, I'm so nervous. What should I do?"
"Just close your eyes and try to think of your beloved Henry standing right by your side again."
A girlish giggle escaped from her lips as she squeezed her eyes closed. "Alright...I'll try."
From her smile, Opal guessed that she had locked onto a cherished memory. "Shall we begin?"
Virginia nodded.
Opal shook the bell. Then, she took Virginia's hands and tried to ignore the tremors that radiated through her fingertips. She mumbled in a low monotone, repeating a jumble of syllables that often made her clients think she was speaking in a foreign tongue.
Sweat oozed between their hands, a product of the warm house and Virginia's anxiety. Opal began to rock back and forth, her wood chair creaking and groaning with each sway.
She continued chanting as Virginia's knees began to shake underneath the table. Poor woman. I hope I can give her some peace tonight.
She cracked an eyelid open and saw that Virginia eyes were still squeezed shut. Nevertheless, she continued her routine, fluttering her eyelashes as if she was viewing something far away in a dream. "Henry..." she whispered. "HenryBenjaminBlake."
Virginia sighed.
"Henry...are you there?" At this point, she normally would have paused for effect, allowing the silence to heighten the thrill of the performance. This was also the time where she had to be the most vigilant. One time, she had almost fallen asleep in the middle of a séance.
But, now she focused her attention on really making something happen as she tried to concentrate on tuning in to the other world, so she could search for Virginia's husband.
"Do you see him?"
"Not yet." If there was any chance of actually making contact with this sweet lady's dead husband...she wanted it to happen. True connections were so terribly rare, but sometimes it worked. She delved deeper into her subconscious to search for some link with the legions of the dead. "Henry...can you hear me?"
Then, something strange occurred.
A shadow passed across her closed eyes as if something had just blocked the light from the candle. She knew it must have come from her dreamlike thoughts and wondered if she was beginning to doze off. She wiggled her toes in her shoes to keep herself alert.
Deep in the recesses of her mind, she saw the dark other world plane. It was a black void, filled with swirls of mist and faceless spirits. She heard moans and disembodied voices, but this was the furthest point that she usually got in the process before the connection drifted away like a leaf floating downstream far out of her reach.
But, there it was again---the shadow. Was it trying to make contact with her?
"Henry..." she whispered. "Is that you?"
"Can you see him?" Virginia's voice squeaked like a child.
Opal peeked through her eyelashes and saw a tear dripping down Virginia's cheek. Her heart bled. "I can see him. He's in a field of wheat...wearing blue jean overalls. He's standing next to a tractor with the wind blowing through his hair."
Virginia was silent for a moment. "But, Henry was bald when he died."
Opal took a deep breath and continued with her lie. "He's younger than he was then. I'm seeing an image from earlier in his life."
"Ohhh," Virginia gasped. "Can you bring him back? Can I talk to him?"
How could she let this dear woman down? The truth was that she couldn't see anything. There was a cacophony of voices, but no faces in her vision. She decided to try an ancient magical chant that she had recently found in an old spell book. "Emtahd netseef tabbe! Emtahd netseef tabbe!" She repeated it thirteen times, growing louder with each rendition.
Then, something happened.
The veil of fog lifted from the scene as the blur of faces in the darkness sharpened. She caught glimpses of individual spirits---a young girl with the hacking cough of tuberculosis, a thin woman in a prim dress with a face as pale as winter snow, and a man with a shiny head in a flannel shirt and overalls. Was it Henry? Had she found him? Her heart raced with excitement.
"HenryBlake...come to us. Let us see you and speak with you again."
But, Opal clenched her teeth as the shadow loomed larger than before. It kept coming closer, blocking her view of the other souls. With all her will, she tried to push it back. It worked for a moment, but then the shadow returned. It seemed to push against her, suffocating her with its determination to get to the forefront of all the other souls. Unlike the others, it had no face. It was a black void---a pit of desperation and anger.
Why hadn't she done a formal circle of protection to prevent a negative spirit from causing interference? She reminded herself that she had never had need before. In the past, her brief successes with contacting those who had passed on had been limited to a quick positive communication with a loved one---a bark from a dog or a whisper of loving sentiments from a recently deceased spouse.
Her body tensed as the candle sputtered out and left the two of them in complete darkness.
Virginia wailed as her fingernails dug deeper into Opal's palms. "Peabody?"
Opal cried out again. "Henry...speak to me. Let me know that you can hear me."
Something changed in the air around them. Gooseflesh raised the silvery hair on her forearms and the back of her neck. A tingling sensation started at the top of her head and tickled down to her toes. It reminded her of the time that lightning had struck one of the trees near her house.
She ignored the strange sensations as she continued to call Henry's name. She implored him sweetly and firmly, trying to coax him to pay attention to her summons. She repeated the ancient chant again.
But, she paused when the shadow returned, and she felt it punching and ripping, trying to tear through the cloth that separated this world from the other. Though, she couldn't see who or what it was, it radiated a dark aura of greed and violence as it kept up its offensive push.
Terror altered the timber of her voice as she decided to abort the communication. "I end this..."
She opened her eyes, but saw nothing. It was as if the shadow had covered them with dark fingers, preventing her from seeing anything more in this life or the other.
"Virginia," she whispered, hoping the dear lady was all right.
Their hands slipped apart for a second. Opal grabbed them back, holding her fingers tightly as she heard a whimper. There was an uncomfortable silence. She could only hear the hum of the refrigerator, Virginia's labored breaths, and her own pounding heart.
As the seconds passed, her eyes began to adjust to the dim light from the kitchen window. Enough sanguine moonlight leaked through the patterned holes in the curtains to allow her to see Virginia's motionless form. The electrified air in the room was now bitterly cold, making her shiver.
"Madame..." Virginia whispered.
"Shhh!" Opal said, as she flicked her lighter again and again, trying to spark some life into it.
"Opal...please. What's happened?" Virginia asked, her voice as thin and tight as a piano string.
Suddenly, the lighter's blue and orange flame sprang to life. With her rings clattering, she re-lit the candle. Then, she glanced across the table and saw Virginia's mouth gaping open in a perfect circle. She followed her gaze into the parlor behind them. No...no...it's not possible.
She stared at the outline of a tall figure, barely discernable in the darkness. She could make out the form of a man wearing strange clothing and a lofty hat. Then, a cloud moved across the sky allowing a moonbeam to splay across his face. He had a chocolate brown goatee gracing the chiseled features of his pale olive skin, and there was a wide smile across his face as he looked back at them.
"Henry?" Virginia whispered as if she hoped that somehow he had come back to her in the guise of this handsome young man with radiant green eyes.
"No..." Opal said as she put a finger to her lips. "That's not your Henry."
The Spirit did not know at first what had happened...or where he was, but he knew that something amazing had just occurred.
Over the vast span of time since his death, there had been no pain and no joy...no existence except endless nothingness. His only companionship had been the wails of other faceless wandering souls, unseen and moaning around him.
Now, after over a hundred years of this complete darkness, he shielded his eyes from the blinding golden light of the candle until they adjusted to its brightness. He saw the two women seated at the table. They seemed frightened, staring at him with gawking goldfish mouths and wide eyes filled with reflections of the dancing flame.
"Who are you?" the younger, larger woman with spectacles whispered.
He stared at her. It was so odd to hear a human voice again. The last time that he had heard one, it had been his own.
He remembered his last moment on earth, gasping out God's name just before the last drop of blood oozed out of his body and sapped the strength from his heart. Then, the darkness came, and he felt himself falling, spiraling down towards what seemed like a bottomless fiery inferno below. Before he felt the heat of the flames, a sudden rush of air swirled around him and spiraled him upwards.
But, his charred soul had not been destined for any sort of blissful reward in the afterlife. For an eternity, he drifted in an inky sea, darker than the blackest night without so much as a star to light his way. It seemed that neither God nor the Devil wanted anything to do with him.
The woman's voice he heard now was the same one that had been calling out in the darkness. The sound of her voice, the sound of any voice, had been so sweet to his ears that he hadn't been able to resist the temptation to go towards it.
He remembered her tone becoming frantic at his approach. She had chanted strange words then a wall rippled through the black universe knocking him backwards. He regained himself and plowed towards her again, thinking that nothing would prevent him from this chance to escape his prison.
Now, as his eyes warmed to the candle and the moonlight from the window, he realized that he had made it. He had freed himself from wherever he had been for so miserably long.
But, why were these women looking at him so strangely?
He looked down at his hands and was shocked to see that they were transparent, an opaque protoplasm with the mere outline of fingers. He could see through them down to the hazy shape of his boots.
Realizing that he could move, he moved his arm up to his chest. His hand melted right through the waistcoat...the cravat...the bloodstains.
He tried to feel his face, but could not feel the roughness of his beard or the outline of his cheek. Upon his head, he sensed the silk top hat listing to the left side but could not touch its brim.
His gaze turned back to the women. They sat transfixed, watching his every move. Whoever they were, he wanted to give them thanks for rescuing him. He wondered if he could speak and ask them in what place he had arrived.
But, just then, he looked past the table and saw the pregnant scarlet moon through the curve of the bay windows and had a sense of familiarity.
Had he once stood on this spot before?
The memory was faint---a hazy déjà vu from his former life. It eluded him and floated through his mind like the wisp of a feather floating on a summer breeze.
"Who are you?" the spectacled woman demanded again. Her speech quivered, despite its authoritative volume.
The crispness of her voice annoyed him, and he felt a strange heat emanating from his eyes.
The older woman sat mute with her hands folded in front of her chin. The innocent, eager look on her face amused him. He smiled at her then turned back toward the woman who seemed to think she was in charge. Who did she think she was, commandeering him with such an impudent tone?
Turning in a circle, he looked around the room and noticed the wood stove on the wall behind him and the sideboard with the lamp next to the window. Yes...yes...I know this place.
He found that he could move his legs as he walked in an unsteady gait past the trembling women to the window.
Outside, in the murky light, he saw the crumbled outline of an empty field. In the distance, there were trees...more numerous and much taller than he remembered. But, beyond them, a thin ribbon of water like a shimmering snake reflecting the moon's luminescence sparked a chain of memories in his mind. He saw the stones, a path that he knew lead to the rose garden...and the fountain.
A shiver ran through him. He reached for the bloody spot on his chest again. This time, he felt something.
Dried blood crumbled between his fingers. It felt like rich soil, dissolving into dust. He rubbed it back and forth, then put his hand to his nose, smelling the pungent scent of his own death and the dankness of the earth, coupled with a floral sweetness.
He put a finger to his lips and tasted the musty metallic blend of dirt and blood. Then, he paused and marveled at the beauty of regaining the last component of his human senses.
The sound that came out of him next was something between a laugh and a howl. It echoed throughout the house, vibrating the tin tiles on the kitchen ceiling and rattling the windowpanes. It was a wicked piercing rupture of sound from the depths of his unchained soul.
The women covered their ears with their hands.
As the last breath of it echoed out of him, he beamed with joy. Then, he removed his hat and performed a grandiose bow before them.
"Mille grazie, Signoras."
When he spoke...he commanded her to leave.
Opal stared at the spirit with disbelief. One moment, he seemed as solid as the wood table in front of her. And the next ...he was a translucent fog. But his voice boomed in a thick Latin accent with a fierceness that made her tremble.
For a moment, she couldn't speak or move.
Virginia simply smiled at the man with an idiot's grin. Instead of fear, she seemed to be in a state of rapture.
As the apparition came towards them, they sat mute. Opal's bowels tightened as he came to stand directly in front of her. There was an odor about him like the earthy scent of a freshly dug grave...but its repugnance was almost smothered by a perfume-like sweetness that reminded her of the overwhelming scent in a floral shop.
He bent down and looked at her with blazing green eyes. She was sure that she saw the flames of hell burning within and that this demon was about to strike her dead.
Though some kind of infernal heat churned within him, the air around his body seemed unnaturally cold like a breath of an arctic wind from an opened tomb. It swirled around him, increasing his ghostly ambience.
As they stared at each other, he seemed to study her as much as she examined him. Her thoughts raced as she feared for her life and pondered what to do next.
She had created him. She had brought him forth from the land of the dead. Her panic increased when she couldn't remember the ending of the old gothic fable. Had Frankenstein killed his maker?
Words fell from her mouth before her mind could work out a plan. "In Jesus' name..."
But, her half-hearted prayer was cut short when he put a finger to his lips, and whispered, "Shhh..."
His hot, sweet, rotting breath made her gag.
In desperation, she spouted the invocation that she had used in the séance in reverse, "Ebbat feesten dhatme...ebbat feesten..."
As she kept repeating the phrase, the spirit's smile mocked her efforts. She saw Virginia across the table with her hands clasped together in front of her bosom. Why did she look like a child on Christmas morning? They were both about to die.
His hand reached out towards her, and she closed her eyes. Kill me quickly. Don't make it hurt.
But after a moment, when she didn't feel any pain, she opened them.
The spirit's arm was turned, pointing towards the front door. "Arrivederci, Signora."
Fear overtook any further rational thoughts. She bolted from her chair and ran from the house as fast as her chubby little legs could carry her, leaving the door wide open behind her.
She collapsed over the still-warm grill of her Cadillac, sobbing while she tried to breathe and calm her racing heart.
A few seconds later, she looked back at the old Victorian house, thinking that it was much too dark and quiet...
She thought about calling the police. Then, she realized what a ridiculous idea that was. Despite her popularity with a select few in the town over the years, most people didn't believe in spirits. The tart little receptionist in the Sheriff's office would probably hang up on her if she called 911. Even her son, Karl, a Sheriff's Deputy, wouldn't believe the story that had unfolded there tonight.
She was going to have figure this supernatural dilemma out on her own.
When she restored her nerve, she crept back up the porch steps. The front door was closed though she had left it open when she fled. After finding the doorknob locked, she pounded on the door and yelled. "Virginia! Virginia are you in there?"
But, there was no response. The house remained bathed in the blackness of night with no light inside, except the faint flickering of the candle dancing from behind the closed curtains.
"Virginia!" she screamed as she pounded again on the heavy oak door.
The silence was more frightening than anything.
She leaned out over the porch rail and looked up at the moon. It was a full moon, a Mead Moon---a time in summer when people had lucid sweat-filled dreams and connections were high with the other world. She wondered if somehow, the conditions were just right for interference from hostile spirits.
For the next two hours, she walked around the house, crying out Virginia's name and trying to get in, until exhaustion and frustration made her give up and leave.
She drove home with trembling hands gripping the wheel and tears flooding her cheeks, hoping that the spirit was just a harmless obnoxious entity that had eventually dissipated on its own.
Back safe in her own driveway, she rehearsed the events of the séance in her mind. She knew that hostile spirit intruder stories were rare---something to protect yourself from as a matter of course---but not a common threat. An occurrence like that was as likely as being hit by a car crashing into your house while you were fast asleep in bed. You read about such things happening to others, but sane people didn't lie awake at night worrying about such infrequent things.
But, apparently, she should have worried about the improbable. Hadn't her Aunt Grace taught her years ago how important psychic protection was? Her aunt was the only one that hadn't laughed at her mystical aspirations as she grew up. She only warned her to be careful.
In her defense, there were so few times that she'd even made any sort of spiritual connection---the whole point of protection seemed unnecessary. So, she'd dismissed the precaution as a formality and had gotten lazy since her early years of attempting connections with the dead.
Most of her séances ended up being over ninety percent show, anyway. She'd performed hundreds over the years, always making up for any lack of reality with her dramatic flare and intuition. It didn't seem to matter to her clients. As long as they felt some sort of positive remembrance of their loved one, they never seemed to feel cheated. She always offered a money back guarantee for her services, and it was rare that anyone took her up on it.
But now, she realized that she'd been like a juggler for all these years---playing with lit torches with her eyes closed and never thinking that one might burn her.
Only the burn victim was Virginia.
She sat, slumped over the wheel. "Think, Opal, think," she said out loud with no one to hear but the crickets and the stars.
Who was the spirit? Someone from another time...a young Victorian gentleman? His antique suit was spiffy, and his shoes were shined, but from the look in his eyes and his gruff tone, she doubted that he was any gentleman in the true sense of the word.
And why had he come through instead of HenryBlake?
Either he was a demon intent on mischief, or he was the spirit of a human that must have some profound emotional tie to the old Victorian house.
After more fruitless brainstorming, she went inside her small 1950's cottage and searched for the slim Calathia phone book under a pile of magazines in the kitchen.
She let the phone ring twenty times, but Virginia didn't pick up. Over the course of the evening, she phoned again many times with the same result.
\*\*\*\*\*
As the days passed, she drove over to the Blake house on a daily basis, but no one ever answered the door. She continued to phone, but on the rare occasion someone picked up, there was a click as soon as she spoke.
July turned into August. The wheat and corn in the farmer's fields began to ripen, and the geese flying overhead looked fat with grain. Children in Calathia flooded the streets, carrying backpacks and notebooks as they began their new school year. She asked everyone she saw how Virginia was doing, but most of them said they hadn't seen her much over the last few weeks. More time went by, and still...there was no word of Virginia's fate.
After some pathetic pleading, she convinced her son to go over to the house, but each time he called to report that Virginia said, "she was just fine and to mind his own business," before slamming the door on him.
Recently, she sighted the woman again herself...or at least she thought she did. On a bone dry and windy afternoon, she drove over to the house for the millionth time and parked across the street. After a few minutes, she saw the shadowy outline of a human body pass across the living room window. Her frazzled mind assumed that it was a sign that Virginia was still okay.
It was Sunday, the last official day of summer in September, when she finally saw Virginia in the flesh at County General, the only grocery store in town. As she wheeled her cart into the produce department, she spied Virginia's white-as-snow hair leaning over a bin of apples. Opal ducked behind a rack of potato chips to avoid being seen. Virginia turned in the opposite direction, and she moved in closer, trying to gauge her condition.
As she trailed behind her cart towards the meat counter, she thought Virginia looked as frail as a sparrow. In her short-sleeved frock, her upper arms were no bigger in circumference than her forearms...making them look like two bony toothpicks attached to a skeletal frame.
Opal followed her through the store as she wandered from aisle to aisle, sometimes tossing something in her cart and others just meandering, humming to herself and retracing her steps. It almost seemed that she was just killing time, trying to avoid some dreaded appointment.
When Virginia reached the checkout stand, there were only six or seven items in her cart, very few for such a long time spent shopping.
Opal quietly parked behind her in the line. "Virginia..." she whispered.
Her head darted back and forth at the sound of her name. When she turned around, her eyes grew wide. Then, she picked her purse up and abandoned her cart as she darted towards the automatic doors of the grocery store.
Opal followed, puffing as she traipsed behind the arthritic woman who seemed to have acquired the speed of a gazelle. But, Virginia escaped into the locked doors of her old maroon Lincoln.
She pounded on the glass window. "Please, Virginia! Tell me what happened. I need to know if you're alright!"
Facing straight ahead and not meeting her gaze, Virginia shoved her keys into the ignition and started the car. Then, she thrust it into reverse as Opal jumped back to avoid getting her feet crushed.
She watched Virginia peel out of the parking lot.
\*\*\*\*\*
As the first days of fall turned the air as crisp as fresh pears, she began to give up. She assumed that the spirit must have manifested briefly and then disappeared, or maybe it was still around and had continued on as little more than a nuisance. She hoped that Virginia was just angry with her for the failed attempt to reach Henry.
On some mornings, she got up, dressed for the day, and tried to cheerfully attend her appointments. This week, she gave a private tarot card reading to the Lutheran minister's wife and drove over to the next town to do astrology readings for an unusually progressive quilting group. But, she had not performed a single séance since that hot July evening at VirginiaBlake's.
This afternoon, she had nothing to keep her busy and stave off depression. She reclined back on her sofa and stared up at the ceiling, watching a spider spin a geometrical web from one corner of a picture frame to another on the wall across from her.
Dark raccoon-like rings marred the pale skin underneath her blue eyes. Her stomach gurgled, but she ignored it. Her appetite had all but disappeared lately. In fact, she'd inadvertently lost over ten pounds since mid-summer. All she had to do was think about what a failure she was, and the nausea returned.
After a few more minutes of ignoring her stomach's unruliness, she decided to hoist her catatonic body up to make a ham sandwich. In her haze of gray thoughts, she forgot the mayonnaise and only slathered a thin swipe of mustard across the bread before slapping it together.
Back in the living room, she propped her ankles up on the coffee table and sunk back into the pillows with the plate on her lap. She tried to force down a bite of the dry bread and sighed with half-chewed dough in her mouth. Then, she picked up the remote and clicked on the television. It popped on at the beginning of the local 12:00 news.
"Sad news today...VirginiaBlake, a longtime resident of Calathia, was found dead early this morning on her property out west of County Road. Her body was discovered by her neighbor, AnnieBirmann. Deputy, KarlBauer, says the death seems to have occurred from natural causes, and it appears that no foul play was involved. He said that there have been several reports of vandalism and burglaries on that side of town, but there have been no reports of assaults. Blake was eighty-three. In other news...Sheriff Cardale has announced that he will be retiring at the end of this year..."
Opal began to choke.
She stood up from the couch, wheezing and coughing, trying to eject the bite of ham lodged in her throat. As her face began to turn blue from lack of oxygen, she thrust her left fist into her stomach and forced it out.
Then, she collapsed back into the embroidered pillows, forcing out a puff of dust and shredded rags from the worn corners.
As the news of Virginia's death sunk in, she wrapped her arms around herself and twisted back and forth as if she could physically shake the awful feelings away.
There was no doubt in her mind that the spirit that appeared that hot night in July was somehow involved in VirginiaBlake's death.
Tears welled in her eyes, followed by convulsive sobs. She leaned forward with her face buried in her hands and wetness leaking through her fingers.
For all these years, she had just tried to help people with their grief through her show of smoke and mirrors. It was never for want of compassion that she fudged a little here and there. How was she to know that her charity would lead to somebody's death?
But, after a few minutes, her grief turned to anger. In over thirty years of performing séances for the residents of Calathia, no harm had ever come to any of her clients. Who was this coarse spirit, this black shadow that had forced his way into the plain of the living? All she knew was that he wore an old-fashioned suit and hat, and there had been a frightening hostility in his foreign accent.
Spirits of his nasty caliber were probably evil do-no-gooders who were as mischievous and troublemaking in death as they were in life. They were poltergeists, the kind that caused scary hauntings and threatened humans with bodily harm if they didn't get their way.
And she had left Virginia there alone with him.
I shouldn't have run. I should have stayed, forced my way into the house that night and faced him. "Oh Virginia," she cried. "I'm so sorry..."
After a few minutes, she tried to console herself with the fact that there was a chance that Virginia had just died of old age. And at least now the Blake house was empty. If by chance, the spirit was still there...the house might stand empty for a while, and maybe that would allow any bad energy to dissipate. It was a very old house---it might be condemned now. Then, no one else could come into harm's way.
The dream seemed so real this time, GeorgiaMcKenna knew that she couldn't be imagining it.
Shadows obscured the assailant's face. Beyond his dark silhouette, she could see brilliant crimson roses shooting up behind his shoulders like star-shaped flames from hell. He tightened his grip around her neck. She couldn't breathe, and she realized that she was about to die as she felt the water from the fountain soaking into the back of her white cotton dress.
She gasped for air as a ringing phone startled her out of the nightmare. Her head shot up from where it had been resting on top of her arm, snoozing during an abominably slow afternoon at her art gallery in New York City.
She picked up the receiver and answered in a voice that she hoped sounded perkier than she felt, "Masquerade".
"She's dead," the woman said on the other end.
Georgia jumped out of her chair as she recognized her sister's voice from hundreds of miles away. "Who's dead?"
"She finally kicked the proverbial bucket. Can't say I'm gonna---"
"Marsha..." she moaned. "Who's dead?"
"Grammie."
Georgia lowered the phone to her chest and took a deep breath. She swatted away a tear like an annoying insect. "What happened?"
"Annie found her out back by the river early this morning."
Georgia closed her eyes, simultaneously trying to picture her grandmother, VirginiaElizabethBlake, lying in the weeds on the riverbank and trying to avoid the horrible image.
"Heart attack, maybe? She was eighty-three, not exactly a spring chicken."
Her sister was right. Grammie was a winter chicken as she was fond of saying. But, her health had been remarkable. "What was she doing out there?"
"Can't say. Annie went over around six to bring her some eggs and found the back door open. She spotted her red robe across the field and ran out there, but it was too late. I guess she'd been out there all night like that."
Georgia winced and squeezed her eyes again at the thought of her grandmother laying there all night, stone cold dead, as dewdrops collected in her snow-white hair and spiders spun webs across the slippers that Georgia had given her last Christmas.
"Maybe she was looking for the cat..."
"Hunh?"
"If you made an effort to talk to see her more often, you'd know she found a stray a couple weeks ago."
"For your information, Miss Uppity Town, I just saw her last night."
Georgia hated being called that. When she married David, her college sweetheart, and left Calathia for New York City, Marsha wavered between jealousy and rage at her sister's escape to a fabulous new life away from their small country town. The half-joking name-calling had continued ever since.
"Last night? You saw her?"
"Just briefly. Steven wanted to tell her about an Electrician who might be able to work on the wiring in that old house. When we knocked, she answered but wouldn't let us in. I tell you...she had been acting a little weird for a while. Maybe she was getting senile and just croaked from old age."
"Are you kidding? Grammie was in better shape than either of us. She said she was going to work in her garden until the grave, and her doctor wanted to know what sort of potion she was taking to stay so young."
"Well, maybe that's how things sounded long distance, but I say she'd been acting strange for some time. She wouldn't let the kids come over as often, and stopped going to church and to her Garden Club meetings."
Georgia knew that didn't sound normal for her grandmother. Yet, she would never get an accurate account from Marsha, who still nursed twenty-year old wounds that should have been crusted over and healed long ago.
"The funeral will probably be early next week."
Funeral. She sighed. "I'll see if I can get a flight tomorrow."
"I guess it might be weird for you to stay in Grammie's house by yourself. There's always Hanson's Motel Hell over on Main."
Georgia let out a muted laugh between her tears. "Old EdHanson must be a hundred and four by now. I'd be lucky to have clean sheets and running water."
"I can put one of the boys on the couch if you want to stay here."
"That'd be great."
After she hung up, she realized that her next appointment was due in a few minutes. Reeling from the horrible news, she walked in a trance to the bathroom to freshen up.
She stared into the mirror and rubbed away the smudges of mascara under her eyes. As she smoothed out her cropped rumpled hair, she missed the longer locks that she used to have. After her ex-husband left her for his pixie-ish Brokerage Assistant, she told her flamboyant hairdresser to hack it all off. "I don't give a damn anymore," she told him. Since then, every time her silky dark hair started to get longer, she found herself sitting back in his chair like a bad habit she couldn't break.
Neither Marsha, nor her friends had been there for her during the dark time of the divorce like Grammie had. Back then, she remembered phoning her grandmother several times a week to cry and rant.
She stepped back and surveyed her cherry-red thin wool suit, smoothing out the wrinkles and wondering why she was bothering to primp. Then, she reminded herself that the client due to arrive had pockets as deep as the Grand Canyon. If he was interested enough to take a morning off from his fleet of hotels, then she'd better put on a good show. Business had been slow, and she could use a sale.
As she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, she remembered the dream before Marsha's call. It was the same nightmare that had started in childhood. The sweat-filled nights began when she and her sister came to live with Grammie and Grandpa Blake after they lost their parents in a car accident. It was always the same---the dark silhouette, the rush of water, the hands squeezing around her neck.
Grandpa Blake once caught her running up and down the hallway in the middle of the night, screaming. Grammie turned on the lights while Grandpa held her thrashing arms and tried to wake her up. They sent her to see a child psychologist in Topeka. But, after several months of banal conversations and ink blot tests, he told her grandparents that it was the vivid imagination of a child who had been traumatized by her parents' death. "The water," he said, "...simply represents the flash flood that caused their car accident. She feels guilty that she didn't die with them and re-enacts her pain in her dreams. Don't worry. She'll grow out of it."
Apparently, at thirty-nine, he was wrong.
She glanced around the gallery as she walked back to the front counter. The bright colors and whimsical sculptures seemed to mock the seriousness of her mood. A unique collection, it included a menagerie of acrylic poppy canvasses, sculptures of fairies and swans with purple marble wings, twisted puffs of plaster that reached toward the ceiling like giant ice cream cones, and a large blue frog with an outstretched tongue.
The fantasy theme was her own concept, and she wondered to this day if her ex gave her the start up money only to give her a means to go on after he left.
She turned the CD player on, releasing a tinkle of notes from Mozart and glanced out the window. The portion of sky in view in between the tall buildings had turned pale and gloomy. The first September cold front had arrived as predicted, and hundreds of workers roamed the streets in dusty coats smelling like mothballs and cedar.
New York. She'd once seen it as an intoxicating cornucopia. Now, it felt bland and gray like her heart---like it had all turned to stone.
She knew that Grammie's death was going to be much harder to deal with than Grandpa Blake's, because she hadn't been as close to him. He died twenty years ago, but she still remembered the day that Grammie sent her out to give him a glass of pink lemonade on a sweltering summer afternoon. She found him slumped over the wheel of his tractor, stopped literally dead in his tracks from a stroke while harvesting his corn crop.
Her grandmother took his death the hardest. It was several years before she stopped drinking and was able to smile much again.
Georgia knew how her grandmother felt back then and didn't blame her. In some ways, going through a divorce was a lot like becoming a widow. Her days had become mechanistic and empty after her ex-husband left. When her marriage fell apart, her heart shriveled up into a small black ball as hard and impenetrable as obsidian.
But, the pathetic truth was that she still had wedding photos in her armoire; the one they purchased on their honeymoon in London. Sometimes she rolled over at night, grasping only a pillow...and was sure that she smelled the musky scent of his designer cologne, even though the pillowcase had been washed at least a hundred times since his evil head last touched it.
When the client arrived, a whirlwind of confidence in his Armani suit and hairsprayed wavy blond hair, she found herself giving him, "The Smile"---her unconscious robotic grin.
She gave him her usual spiel about each artist as she toured him around the gallery, but her mind was focused on the thought that she needed to talk to her grandmother's neighbor, Annie. Something just didn't seem right about Grammie's death.
The client stopped in front of a bronze sculpture, leaning over a swan's wing. "Georgia, did you hear me?
"I'm sorry," she said, swiveling her head around to meet his gaze.
"I asked if you've ever been to Chez Michel."
She shrugged, her head still far away. "No...I don't think ..."
"It's an exquisite French restaurant with excellent seafood; the chef is from Marseilles. How about tomorrow night?"
When Georgia didn't reply, he repeated himself again. She tried to focus on what he was asking, but her mind wouldn't let go of the image of her grandmother's body lying beside the river.
"My Grandmother just passed away. I'm leaving town."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe another time..."
She was sure this man wasn't used to being turned down. She gave him "The Smile," again and led him by the elbow to a row of watercolors.
Despite the rebuff, a half hour later, he purchased a small sculpture and made her promise to take a rain check for a future date.
As soon as he stepped out the door, she picked up the phone and dialed her assistant's home number.
"Hey. It's Georgia. I'm going to need you to cover the gallery for a few days. Do you think you'll be alright here alone?"
"Are you going out of town? Where are you going?"
She felt a tear tickle down the side of her face. "Kansas...I'm going to Kansas."
\*\*\*\*\*
At the moment, the thought that her grandmother had once told her that she would inherit the old Victorian house some day didn't cross her mind.
"La sfortuna. Senza Virginia...Io sono solo." The spirit paced about the house, alternating between human footfalls and agitated pulses of ectoplasmic light.
After a while, he calmed himself and assumed a solid form. He sat on the couch in the parlor, dangling one leg over the other, kicking his foot.
Alone now in the empty house, there was no one to have discourse with---no one to feed his ego or to revive his lagging energy.
In the last two months, he'd drawn sustenance from the mere vapors of Virginia's doting attention. But, there was a growing weakness to his limbs that would not be stifled by anything so simple. There were subtle flaws in his appearance including a faint translucent quality to his skin. Though, the hole in his chest seemed to be growing a thin membrane of scar tissue across its width. There was also a lingering hollowness to his voice that in life had once been much more deep and bold.
He knew what he needed. Though, he found that he could eat and drink with gusto, it was the energy emanating from the living that made him hunger. He wished he could absorb more of that wondrous spark that made their flesh radiate with vitality.
But, he wasn't ready to go out into the world. Two months had not been enough time to prepare himself physically or mentally for this new age. He knew that he needed more time to strengthen his human form before he could mingle with the living.
He considered paying a visit to the old couple next door, Annie and Fred---a bad idea, knowing that any misfortune so close after Virginia's death might bring unwanted attention. But, the hunger inside of him for energy was getting so strong---he knew that soon he might not have a choice.
The veins on his temple throbbed as uncontrollable thoughts raced through him causing his skin to turn transparent enough to see the bluish ghostly veins underneath.
What if the house sat vacant for months...or years? He didn't know what he would do.
But, as he glanced around the parlor, he allowed himself a moment of congratulation. At the very least, he had achieved a goal that he had sought over a hundred years ago when this home belonged to Virginia's ancestor, WilliamCrawford. He beat a fist to his chest. Now, he, AlphonsoGiovanni, was the master of this dwelling in his fortunate second life.
Yet...what good was it if he was here alone? The loneliness without dear old Virginia was becoming unbearable. It was truly sad that he had no beautiful signora to share this homestead with. He pined for his former love, Crawford's daughter. So many years had passed since he had gained employment at the home as the family gardener. Oh, dear Margaret...I miss you so.
He considered his next move. History had taught him that fortune was always available if one were open to achieving it...by any means. His creed had not changed after so much time. Where opportunity does not come, one must make it.
Just as he composed the thought, he heard footsteps on the porch. Through the stained glass in the door, he saw a diminutive figure approach. Then, the doorbell rang twice.
Did he dare try to officially pass himself off as human or should he---
The impatient visitor pushed the doorbell four more times in rapid succession.
The spirit focused his remaining energy within, stoking it with fiery thoughts like adding coal to a stove. It made his skin momentarily flush and look more lifelike. Then, he unlatched the door, opened it a couple of inches and retreated to the kitchen before he was seen.
"Hello?" the boy called out as he poked his head inside. "It's Eddie with the Dalton County Sentinel. I'm here to collect for your subscription. Hello? Ma'am? Blake?"
When he spoke from the other room, his voice was confident and friendly. "Come on in, son. What do I owe you?"
"Sir? I'm not really supposed to...is Blake here?"
"No. But, I can help you out. I've just got to find my money clip."
He heard the door creak followed by the squeak of the boy's sneakers on the wood floor. "Where's Blake? She usually gives me cookies for a tip."
Before the boy could speak again, the door slammed shut behind him.
There was a brief scream from his lips as the spirit appeared and walked towards him. The boy backed up a couple of steps then bolted for the door, but found it locked.
He smiled as the shaking boy faced him with his back against the door. What must his little mind be thinking? He couldn't bother with such trifles. The boy had something he needed.
The boy's unblinking eyes seemed unable to tear away, and the spirit also couldn't avoid his own reflection in the mirror next to the foyer as he began to transform.
A wide black chasm appeared across his face where his mouth had once been. Then, his green eyes flashed a brilliant golden light just before they became dark holes filled with glowing flames dancing inside. Then, his humanlike form disintegrated altogether into an amorphous fog that smelled of sulfur and pitch. The mist gathered itself and became thin and taut, a long gray ropelike form that curled as high as the ceiling. A second later, it gathered into a coiled form and snaked towards the boy.
The boy screamed as the spirit swirled around him. His young body stiffened, and he lost consciousness as the spirit enveloped him and devoured his energy.
Moments afterwards, the spirit looked at his image in the mirror again. The vitality of the boy's energy was now within him. There was a warm rosy flush to his skin and a more humanlike vibrancy in his green eyes that was lacking before. He was amazed that his skin looked solid without any ethereal translucency.
He looked around the foyer. There was no trace remaining of the boy or his visit, except for the zippered moneybag that he had been carrying. Every atom of the boy's form and essence had been consumed. Even his clothing seemed to have combusted into oblivion.
But, he would find out later, the flesh of his victims did not always disappear. Future transferals of energy would sometimes be quite messy.
He glanced back at his image and admired his strong jaw as he rubbed his knuckles across his bearded chin. "Avvenente diavolo". His handsomeness would surely serve him well in this new life...and he was anxious to get on with it.
Unfortunately, he knew that he must bide his time. Even with this day's newfound energy, he didn't yet feel that he could venture far from the property.
He decided to stretch his legs out in the gardens. As he reached the back door, he checked himself. He couldn't be sure if the old nosy bodies next door were home or not.
In a manner of seconds, he reduced himself again to mist and seeped out through the doorframe. If the neighbors or anyone else saw him in this form, they would blink once, and he would be gone. They would tell themselves that they had just seen a fast-moving dragonfly or a bumblebee darting about the sky.
As he soared over the path towards the garden, it occurred to him that if he one day succeeded in permanently becoming human again...he might lose the ability to transform.
Ahhh...well...it would be a small sacrifice. One day soon he would know for certain. He only had to figure out how to harvest enough energy to allow him to fully make the transition.
He alit on the edge of the stone fountain within the rose garden. The moss-covered monstrosity seemed to draw him close time and time again. He supposed it was because it was there that his last life had ended.
Glancing down into the puddle of water in the third and largest tier, he thought again how nice it would be to have a beautiful woman by his side. His fingers trickled through the dampness as he remembered his former love, Margaret. It was such a pity that she had to die as she did.
Late that Saturday morning, Opal Peabody sat in her pajamas and robe, slumped back on her sofa. Sleep had been elusive the night before. She had thrashed about in her bed sheets like a catfish caught in a net until the first rays of the amber dawn pierced through her blinds. Now, as the day edged towards noon, she felt as helpless as one of those limbless and clumsy bottom-feeders, trying to figure out what to do about the spirit that likely killed Virginia.
When the brave side of her mind told her that she needed to go over to the Blake house and investigate, the small part of her brain that housed the primitive but powerful emotion of fear took over. She imagined finding the old house looking quiet and peaceful on the outside, but going in and finding a maelstrom of ghostly entities swirling about.
What if...in her ignorance during the séance...she had opened a door to the other side that couldn't be closed? The house could have become a vortex, bleeding out dozens or hundreds of lost souls and demonic spirits. Could she have done the equivalent of opening the gates of a hellish prison into the unsuspecting sweet little town of Calathia?
In the best-case scenario, she figured that she might investigate the Blake house and find nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe, the birds would be singing in the trees and the house would simply look charming, quaint, and empty. Then, she could leave with a sigh, feeling foolish for worrying so much.
But, when the black cloud of despair reigned, she envisioned her worst nightmare. She pictured the handsome spirit meeting her at the door with eyes blazing like lit coals. Then, without speaking a word, he would grab her by the throat and squeeze the life out of her as if she were little more than a wet dishrag.
These scenarios paralyzed her, and she found herself avoiding the urge to make any sort of plan by muddling around her house, tidying up piles and making busywork.
When she paused from sweeping dust bunnies out from under the bed and washing streaks off the windows with vinegar, she knew she was going to be unable to function and go back to her normal life if she didn't go to the Blake house and deal with the spirit and any repercussions from his conjuration.
After mentally flogging herself all morning, she propped her broom against the counter and plopped down at her kitchen table. She sipped hot coffee, made stronger from two extra scoops of French roast, and then she thought back to that first fateful event when she became interested in becoming a psychic. Of course, that it had been that magic day so many years ago had led to this fiasco.
It all began one mid-summer when she was a girl---just fourteen. A gypsy carnival passed through town. Despite her parents' admonition to stay away from the carnies, one day after school she found her feet trekking their own wayward path toward the candy cane tents and colorful flags on the east side of town.
So, I'll be a little late, she told herself as she rehearsed the story that she planned to give her mother about her tardiness.
The next thing she knew, she was at the edge of the field where the carnival had made their home for the night before beginning their circus of rides, games, and fortune telling.
No one seemed to pay her any attention as she wandered between the stands and portable machinery. She wound through the busy workers hawking trinkets and taking coins from the local farmers and cowboys as they tried to win stuffed animals to impress their wives or girlfriends.
As a warm howling wind came up, she ducked around the side of a tent and saw a golden flame lighting up the insides as if it were on fire.
She crouched down to avoid being seen and peeked through an open flap. Inside, she saw a woman seated at a small wooden table across from a large gruff man wearing dusty boots.
Her eyes remained glued to the woman who she imagined was a member of the gypsy tribe that had come over from Eastern Europe to make their fortune traveling around the states. Opal thought she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen---her long raven hair that looked as if it had been woven out of the strands of the darkest midnight sky, skin that was the color of raw wild honey, and cocoa brown eyes. She had never seen anyone so exotic in all her days in the white-as-snow Bread Basket of the mid-west.
She crept closer and hid amongst the cloth flaps of the tent.
The woman placed a small red bean under one of three cups that were made of some rough substance, so dark that they seemed to be made from an unnatural wood from a bewitched forest. She swirled them back and forth as the man's eyes focused on them.
Opal followed the cups too, tracing their path as they moved left, right, and center. She was sure that she knew which cup held the bean when they stopped.
But, in the end, the man guessed wrong...and so did she. The woman had fooled them both!
At first, she felt angered by the trick. But then, she felt awe. What a magnificent magician this woman was!
The man's sun-weathered face reddened, and it was obvious that he felt cheated.
The woman consoled him, covering his hand with her own as she seemed to offer him some sort of recompense for his loss. He nodded, then she procured a small silver bell from under the table and a deck of cards---cards that Opal later learned were Tarot cards---a tool of divination.
She dared to creep closer, so she could hear the woman's words, but they were cloaked in a heavy unfamiliar accent.
Then, the woman took the man's hands in her own, looked into his eyes and asked him something that made the furrows on his brow wrinkle like the earth between rows of corn. She saw a tear cascade down over the stubble on his cheek.
After a moment of hesitation, he drew a card from the fanned out deck.
She turned it over and studied it before nodding some sort of ascent. Then, she rang the bell and took his hands again, and they both closed their eyes.
She began a strange chanting, swaying her head from side to side, whipping her long locks up in the air and growing more and more frenzied with each swing.
At first, Opal had thought that it was all part of a performance, a choreographed dance meant to fool the man into thinking that she was doing something magical.
But then, the table, covered with a crocheted cloth, lifted off the ground and hovered several inches above the dirt floor. A strange mist formed in the air and began to swirl around the table, and she heard a third voice echo from within the tent---a soft woman's purr. It said something. A name? She couldn't make it out, but the man began to weep.
A few minutes later, she hid in the folds of the tent when the man tossed a pile of bills on the table and got up to leave. As he walked out, his cheeks were wet with tears, but underneath his gruff mustache, his face was radiant with joy. Pure joy.
Had the gypsy woman really contacted the dead? Opal wanted to shore up some courage and talk to her, but when she looked back inside the tent...she was gone.
She trudged home, dragging her schoolbooks behind her on a strap. All thoughts of becoming a teacher or a nurse someday were now forever gone. She was going to be a psychic! She would learn how to contact loved ones that had passed on. That would be more of a service to people than anything she could think of.
The next day, she snuck back to the carnival site but found nothing but an empty field where all of the tents and rides had been.
Nevermind, she thought. If I can't learn from a real gypsy, I'll just have to teach myself.
She checked every book out of the library that she could find on the paranormal and hid them under her bed where her mother was unlikely to find them. Then, she stayed up late at night reading them with a flashlight under the covers.
She made her own tarot cards out of the cardboard from cereal boxes and held practice séances in her bedroom with her teddy bears.
Then, one day, she talked her mother into letting her spend a few days with her Aunt Grace who was rumored to have the power of seeing spirits. Her aunt had gone blind in her later years. Opal's devout churchgoing mother had said that it was God's punishment for her delving with the dead.
But, Aunt Grace refused to talk about her spiritual contacts. "You don't want to mess around with things you're too young to understand. Besides...if your mother got word that I'd told you such things, she tar and feather me and run me out of town."
Opal had left disappointed. But, never gave up her quest to hone her psychic skills. She eventually taught elementary school for a few years to make a living, but she always did card readings for her friends and those who asked on the side.
It wasn't until her mother died, that she felt confident enough to turn her obsession into a career. This was despite that fact that in all of her studies, she had never had any great success with spiritual communication. She had learned to give powerfully emotional card readings, but every séance always seemed to end in frustration. She often told the client that the person had passed on to Heaven and was unavailable to speak or she knew enough about the deceased person to fill in the missing details and make them happy at the end.
But once, when she tried to contact her mother's spirit, she succeeded in hearing her voice and seeing a brilliant white light fill the room. What had been different in that attempt? She figured that it was her own raw emotion that finally pushed her over the edge into the plane of the spiritual realm.
From that time forward, she had a little more success in her séances, grasping faint glimpses of the spiritual realm and hearing the voices of the dead, even if she wasn't able pull them back into this world to visit with the living.
Fifty-two years later, she still emulated the gypsy's look. Her hair cascaded down her back in long dark locks (that were now glittered with silvery gray). She wore long flowing skirts around her curvy legs. Her neck, arms, and ankles were adorned with silver and pewter jewelry to connect with the power of the moon. And, she carried her tarot cards and incense in her purse wherever she went.
She didn't care what the conservative townspeople thought about her unconventional style or profession. Enough of them privately believed in the existence of a diaphanous unseen world to keep her in business. She knew many of them plowed their farms and went to church every Sunday on schedule, then snuck out to meet with her to have their palms read or a tarot spread done when their little ones were fast asleep.
Her clients were so appreciative of her efforts that they often gave her a generous tip and referred their friends to her.
She had never let any of them down. Never.
That is...until now.
VirginiaBlake's séance had been the most successful (in terms of actually bringing a spirit back)...but the worst failure of her entire psychic career.
I have to go back there. For the sake of Virginia's memory, I cannot give up on undoing what I've done.
She knew that she had opened Pandora's box a little too wide that hot night in July. Though, if it was still open and spewing out terrible things, she wasn't sure how she was going to close it again.
No matter...I'm going to have to go back there. I'm going to have to get into that house and find out if the spirit is still there.
But, what she would do if she found him---she didn't know.
"Vodka and cranberry juice, please."
Georgia pulled a crisp ten out of her shiny black alligator billfold and handed it to the flight attendant. She poured the contents of the tiny bottles over ice and felt the cool liquid slide down her throat as she leaned back and closed her eyes.
She thought about how just last Sunday, Grammie had told her that the mums were coming into bloom, and the Virginia Creeper was turning a bright orange with dark berries that the birds were going nuts over. She complained about a little arthritis in her hands that made it hard to work the pruners, but she rarely complained of anything else.
Grammie called her regular doctor checkups 'maintenance'. "I have to go in for a little maintenance next week," she said as if it were like getting her oil changed or doing a tune up on her '84 Lincoln.
Georgia knew that until her last day, Grammie could outwork any landscape crew in the garden. Though, she had resigned from the presidency of the Calathia Garden Club a few weeks back. She told Georgia that she was tired of all of the persnickety ladies that wouldn't mind their own business and kept dropping by unannounced, wanting to critique the quality of her hollyhocks and roses and hint around for free snippets of perennials.
But, she also knew that for some reason, Grammie had been increasingly isolating herself. When asked about it, her grandmother replied that she preferred the company of squirrels and flowers to people and liked to spend most of her days poking around in the garden. To some extent, that had always been true. Even in the winter she'd say, "Oh...a little snow don't bother me." And, she'd be out there for hours filling the feeders with sunflower seed and stringing berries and popcorn onto the evergreen branches, so not a sparrow in the county would want for more.
Turbulence rocked the plane back and forth as if it were surfing on waves and jolted out of her memories.
The man next to her began to snore. She did her best to ignore the smell of stale scotch wafting out from his exhalations. With his tan corduroy jacket, dusty cowboy boots, and loosened rumpled tie, she guessed that he might be a salesman for farm equipment or fertilizer. She was glad that he was snoring instead of rambling on about combines or the importance of extra nitrogen for crops.
As the plane settled back onto smooth air, she fumbled for her compact. Instead of pressed powder, she found her fingers clasped around a small plastic bottle. The pills were yellow. Her doctor had prescribed them for anxiety during her divorce. She called them her 'yellow bricks', because they helped her to leave the real world and 'follow the yellow brick road' to the Land of Oz for at least a couple of hours.
And she was going to Kansas...just like in the story. She thought how nice it would be to take one. She could sleep the rest of the way, landing as peacefully as Dorothy in her bright ruby shoes.
Her fingers remained on the bottle as she drained the last drops from her glass. She knew better. Yellow bricks and vodka did not mix. She found her compact, powdered her nose and tucked the bottle back into her purse.
When the plane landed in Topeka, she still had a fifty-mile drive to Calathia. She picked up a blue Ford sedan from the rental desk and hit Highway 70 at full speed.
Smoky dark clouds loomed in the sky ahead of her, threatening rain. As she passed a semi-truck, the road ahead looked like a winding black ribbon with no end. The cool gray sky melded into the soft beiges of wheat stalks and prairie grass. Every few miles she passed a farmhouse or a herd of cows.
The hypnotic unchanging scenery made it hard to stay awake. She fiddled with the radio knob as static-filled radio stations droned out farm reports, country music, and the fading signal from an oldies rock station. She bashed her hand on the dashboard.
Some jazz would be nice.
But, the god of radio merely responded with more static and a shrill whine as she flipped to the AM band.
She realized that her bad mood had little to do with the dearth of big city music. It was more about Grammie's death and the manner of her homecoming. It had been almost three years since she her last trip out here. She had wanted to come back sooner, but the thought of limping back into town like an abandoned dog with her tail between her legs after the divorce was too much to bear.
She hadn't wanted to return until she felt ready to portray the fantasy of a confidant, worldly divorcee breezing into town. The ideal day would be warm and sunny. She would be driving a convertible and wearing dark sunglasses with the wind blowing her scarf back as she flew down the highway. Once in Calathia, everyone would recognize her, ask her how she'd been, wonder about her glamorous lifestyle in New York. She would tell them fabulous stories about the gallery, and parties, and city life. They would widen their eyes and 'ooh' and 'ah' over the exciting things she had seen and done.
She would tell them, "David was such a dolt. I never really loved him anyway. It was all for the money, you know..." Then, she would wink, and the old men on the porch would sit back in their rockers chewing on a blade of grass while the ladies shook their heads and went back to knitting blankets for their grandkids.
But, as she drove, she realized that more than likely, people would whisper and point and stare. They probably wouldn't recognize her at first. They would discreetly try to scrutinize her face from rows away in the grocery store wondering why she looked so familiar.
Then, of course, after a few minutes, they would put it together and reminisce about the little girl she used to be...before she turned her back on Calathia and ran away to become a big city girl. But, when they realized that she had come back for VirginiaBlake's funeral, they would gush with sympathy.
After telling herself to get over her self-pity, she turned her attention back to reality, wondering what was going to happen to her grandmother's house now that she was gone.
Her grandmother had lived in that old Victorian Queen Anne style house ever since she was born in an upstairs bedroom in 1922. Georgia had many memories from living there. She couldn't bear the idea of seeing it abandoned or torn down. She half-hoped that her sister would decide to move back into it with her family and restore it. But, that was unlikely. Marsha would probably sell it off, the first chance she got. To her, the house would be irrevocably linked with her hatred of Grammie, and would be good riddance when it was gone.
She was anxious to see it again. Less than an hour later, instead of heading towards Marsha's house, she found herself going in the other direction. She drove west on County Line road for another three miles.
As she neared the town center, she passed the sign saying, Welcome to Calathia: Population 3,062.
Not much had changed since her last visit. There was still only one stop light in the town, right at the intersection of County Line and Route 9. She sat idling at the red light, looking over at the old buildings that had been there since the town was founded in the late 1800's. There was an abandoned barbershop, a bank that was still functioning, the General Store where most people got their groceries, and now...a new video and DVD store right next to the post office.
When the light turned green, she gunned the accelerator, determined not to let a pickup truck full of teenagers outrun her. Was that her nephew, Stevie, in there? She glanced back, unable to see the boys' faces through the reflection of the clouds on their windshield. Stevie, born out of wedlock before her sister's boyfriend had caved in and married her, was the sole reason (along with a few bottles of gin) that Marsha and her grandmother had a falling out almost two decades ago. It was a pity that anyone could hold a grudge for so long, but Grammie had been grieving for Grandpa and Marsha had an acrid tongue.
A few minutes later, when she snapped back to the present, Georgia realized that this would be the first time ever that she was driving into Calathia without the anticipation of her grandmother's warm hug. Her heart felt ten pounds heavier by the time she reached the gravel driveway---the Blake house. Grammie's house.
Late Saturday morning, Opal prepared for spiritual battle.
As she marked pages in her Bible with passages that she thought might work for self-protection and repelling evil spirits, she wished that she could phone her Aunt Grace and ask her for advice, but the old woman didn't have a phone and the drive to her house out in the country was several hours long.
She thought about the fact that there was going to be no one around to help her if she ran into danger at the Blake house. But, as the sun rose higher, she convinced herself that she was getting overworked for nothing.
What were the chances that the spirit was still there? If spirits could manifest themselves and hang around indefinitely, she figured that we'd see them walking down Main Street in the light of day.
But just in case, she should be prepared.
After a quick warm bath, she rubbed her body with salt to purify it, then sat down in her robe on her living room floor and meditated to clear her mind.
When she finished, her mind was filled with serene thoughts. Leaving the meditation was like coming out of a pleasant dream---a sunny meadow filled with daisies below a heavenly blue expanse where she was surrounded with a pure white light of protection.
Opal had never been a fan of organized religion after having it brow-beaten into her by her mother from an early age, but she had come to a very important conclusion during her psychic studies. If there were such things as ghostly spirits and angels that rescued people from burning buildings---there must surely be an almighty God connected to the whole scheme of things.
But, even with that back door recognition, she had no intention of giving up her New Age toys and trinkets. Her studies of magical correspondences---her herbs, crystals, and aromatic oils---were all tools of her trade that gave her pleasure.
She dressed in a long rainbow-colored smock and placed a black striped agate stone in her pocket, an earthly form of protection.
Then, she found her deck of Tarot cards, shuffled them, and spread them out. After a staring at them for a moment, she closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on her visit to the Blake house. She drew a card---the Ten of Swords. Trouble.
The card depicted a slain man laying face down in a pool of blood with ten swords piercing into his back. She knew that on many levels, the card meant death or at least an ending of some sort.
Something profound might happen today. Someone's life could be forever changed, and possibly not for the good. Her hands trembled as she placed the deck back into her velvet pouch.
After a half hour of shoring herself up to go, she finally dragged herself towards her front door with her bag in her hand.
Before venturing through, she reached up above the doorframe and pulled a small pewter cross off the wall and dropped it into her dress pocket.
Outside, the sky looked like a quilt of slate gray storm clouds dotted with a few broken patches of blue. She looked up and studied it for a moment, worried. The last thing she needed for her fragile nerves was an ominous backdrop of thunder and lightning.
As she shuffled towards her car, she saw a wooden plant stake lying on its side next to a potted marigold. She leaned down to pick it up then checked herself with a giggle. I'm not going vampire hunting. But, she tossed it into her bag, figuring that it might not hurt to bring it along just in case she ran into something otherworldly that could be staked in the heart when all else failed.
She got into her car and gripped the steering wheel, unable to turn the key. No more stalling...
But, she thought of a reason to make a quick detour before checking out the Blake house.
"What's a little more time?" she reminded herself as she headed towards town. "The house is empty."
Georgia sat in the driveway with her hands still clenched around the steering wheel and looked up at the house.
The Gingerbread House.
She had called it that ever since she was six years old and learned that the dark green trim on front of its red brick exterior was called, "gingerbread", back in the Victorian age when it was built by her great great grandfather, WilliamCrawford.
The house showed its age. The front porch sagged a bit in the middle, many of the brick's corners had crumbled to red dust, and parts of the trim were broken and in need of fresh coat of paint.
She looked up at the round Queen Anne turret that had been Grammie's craft room. Tendrils of ivy climbed up it, nearly obscuring the small square window sixteen feet up.
There were already signs that Grammie was gone. The geraniums in her window boxes, usually lush with bright red blooms until the first fall frost, were wilting, and there were dandelion puffballs and cottonwood seedlings dotting the ankle-high lawn.
She killed the engine and stepped out as a flock of black birds exploded from a large cherry tree in the field to the left of the house. They settled amongst some crab apple branches along Annie and Fred's house, fifty yards to the west.
She shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun peeking through the clouds and looked to see if there were any signs of the neighbors around. But, there were no cars outside, and she didn't see anyone in their yard.
Cursing her pointy-heeled boots, she did a hopscotch jig up the muddy driveway, leaping between puddles leftover from an early morning rain shower.
When she reached the first step of the porch, she stopped, unable to bring herself to go inside...not yet. She decided to have a look out back first.
A stone path wound around the east side of the house. It ended at a picket fence with white peeling paint right next to the garage. Its gate led into the backyard and gardens, the field, and the river behind it.
It creaked open with ease as she pressed the rusty latch.
Inside, the stone path split into two directions. She had the choice of going left towards the back door of the house, or right towards the vegetable garden and on to the rose garden.
She went right, silently counting the steps. One summer when their parents were still alive and her sister was only three, Georgia had taught her to count using those stepping stones, rewarding her with little prizes of pretty stones from the river, peonies, or roses.
She rounded a thicket of raspberry bushes and stood in shock at what she saw next.
The vegetable garden was in shambles. Sweet corn swayed in the wind on dry, lifeless stalks. The rhubarb plants had seed stalks reaching for the sky. Bolted lettuce heads looked like strange leafy architectural pyramids. Pumpkin vines sprawled across the mulched path---their orange heads and curled tendrils looking like the remains of battlefield victims amongst the bloody red mess of strawberries that had likely been smashed by crows and marauding raccoons.
"Good Lord..." she said out loud. Maybe Grammie had gotten a little senile in her last days. It wasn't like her to leave a ripened berry unpicked or mature corn ear on the stalks. It was September---much of it should have been harvested, canned, and put away for the winter by now. Yet, it looked like the vegetable garden had been untended for weeks.
She gasped as a garter snake slithered out from underneath a wilted tomato plant. It just missed the toes of her boots as it crossed the path and disappeared into a patch of thistles.
When her heart slowed to a normal rhythm, she glanced back at the tomato plant. Large overripe fruit dangled from it like Christmas ornaments, and something else seemed to be moving down under the foliage. She backed away just before the long pink tail of a field mouse whipped out from one side.
With a heavy sigh, she walked the few yards past the vegetable garden to the arbor that marked the entrance to the rose garden. Two large pink Bourbon rose vines covered its black wrought iron frame. She had to grab a stick and push away spider webs before she could walk through it.
Inside this garden, she was just as amazed at the neglect.
The rose garden was a large teardrop-shaped area with a sixty-foot border of roses surrounding a central area of lawn with the crumbled remains of a stone fountain in the center. It had also been constructed by her great great grandfather, WilliamCrawford, who had been a successful farmer and avid rose breeder. He had planted many of the rose specimens himself over a hundred years ago. The fact that they still survived to this day was a testament to the diligence of care by his progeny over the years.
She winced at the sight of the overgrown tangle of rosebushes around the perimeter. By now, Grammie had usually deadheaded and pruned, inspiring a second fall flush of blooms that she used in her crafts and bouquets. But, they were all tall and gangly with few blooms gracing their skeletal limbs.
She had no doubt that her great great grandfather's bones would roll in his grave if he knew the condition of his prized flowers. His passion for roses began on a whim when he entered a flower contest at the County Fair with one of his grandmother's heirloom roses and won first place. He eventually began breeding his own from specimens he collected from around the world. With the fertile Kansas soil, supplemented by manure from the chicken coop and mineral-rich water from the river, he developed his own renowned line of beautifully colored Hybrid Tea roses. Many of his prized beauties fetched a hefty price from collectors around the country and helped to supplement his income from the farm.
Wary of the thorns, she leaned down to a satiny blood red specimen with only a few petals remaining and inhaled deeply. Its rich perfume made her dizzy.
A few moments later, she retraced her steps along the stone path and headed toward the back of the house. From the far end of the patio, she stood with her hands on her hips and looked out across the empty field to the river, a hundred yards in the distance. She could see a sliver of water from this far back just beyond cottonwoods that lined its banks like mighty soldiers.
She imagined the neighbor, Annie, looking out from that perspective and seeing Grammie's red robe lying in the weeds at the feet of those giant trunks. What could have brought her Grandmother out there so far from the house in the middle of the night?
As she took a step backward on the patio, her heel crunched on something. She looked down and saw a brown eggshell. There were dozens more pieces around it. Annie must have dropped her basket of eggs.
She backed up another step without looking and clanged into something metallic. Turning, she saw a pet food dish with a circle of paw prints around its rim. Maybe Grammie had been out looking for the cat and was startled by something ...and then what?
Caddy corner to the patio, about ten yards across the grass, there was an old green and white shed. It leaned crooked on its foundation, and most of the exposed wood where the last coats of paint had chipped away had been beaten to a silvery gray by the elements. She knew that it used to hold garden tools, but for some reason, after Grandpa's death, Grammie had padlocked it and forbidden anyone to go in it again. She had no idea what Grammie might have been hiding. Maybe she could find a key inside the house.
She looked up at the large pile of farm equipment just to the left of the shed. On top of the cement slab that had once housed a chicken coop, there sat the remains of a century of farming. Rusted tractor wheels, axels, ploughs, rotten wood, and perhaps hundreds of pieces of old farm implements that only an antique collector could appreciate sat in the giant pile. Grandpa never could part with anything...and Grandma never could part with anything of Grandpa's after he died.
She had once dubbed the mess, 'Rustenstuff'. As a young teenager, she had dug herself a hole in the junk next to an old seeder. When she was young, it had been her hiding place to get away from Marsha and sit and draw in her sketchpad...pictures of fairies, elves, and monsters.
She was lost in the memory when she was startled by a shadow next to her.
There were candles lit around the altar casting a shimmering golden glow over the empty wooden pews inside St.Mary's Catholic Church.
Opal tied her scarf tighter under her chin as she looked around and thankfully saw no one that might question her presence. She had half a mind to find some Holy Water and run out the door with it. But, what good would a stolen holy relic do for protection?
"May I help you?" a man's voice asked from behind her.
She turned around and saw a tall lanky man in priestly garb with strawberry-colored hair. He was many years younger than her, but he had the presence of authority that came from more than his collar. "Father..."
"Yes, dear. What can I do for you?"
She fumbled for words. Did she dare tell him the truth for her visit?
She extended her hand, and he clasped it between his warm palms as he smiled.
"My name is Opal Peabody."
There was a pause, as his eyes narrowed and he released her hand.
"You're not a parishioner here."
"No, Father. I'm not. I wouldn't be surprised if you---"
"Yes. I know who you are, and of course I don't approve of your line of work." His lips became tight and thin like stretched rubberbands. "How may I help you, Peabody?"
She decided that it was time for an unofficial confession as she settled down into a pew and motioned for him to join her. "I'm afraid I may have done a bad thing."
His right eyebrow arched into a perfectly round curve.
"You know I sometimes help folks contact with their deceased loved ones?"
He nodded.
"And you've heard that VirginiaBlake was found dead on her property a couple of days ago?"
"Yes---"
"I'm afraid that I may have inadvertently had something to do with that."
His jaw dropped, and she saw him stiffen as if a steel rod had just been inserted inside his spine.
"Oh...no. It's not that! I didn't murder her. Well, not exactly. A couple of months ago, at her request, I performed a séance to reach her dead husband, but instead of reaching him, a demon may have come through instead."
He inhaled a deep breath, looked up at the beams on the ceiling then crossed himself before raising his hand up high in the air. "Thus, the dangers of dallying with---"
"Please, Father. I don't need a sermon. I need help." There's a chance that whatever spirit came through killed Virginia...and may still be in the house. I'm on my way over there to find out."
"I see," he said as he leaned his elbow down on one knee and rubbed his chin.
She told him every detail that she could think of including the strange spirit's odd attire and accent and Virginia refusing to speak to her for two months after his appearance.
"I see," he said again as he began drummed his fingers on his cheek.
The doubt in his voice was unmistakable. She figured that he really didn't believe her, and probably thought she was as crazy as some of the stories he had heard about her...or that she'd had a few cocktails for breakfast along with her toast.
"I know it sounds crazy, but I saw him. He was real. I can't prove that he had anything to do with Virginia's death, but in my heart I know he did."
"In that case...why didn't you try to get help sooner?"
Opal clutched her bag of protective baubles and trinkets closer to her chest then looked up at the wooden statue of Jesus behind the altar. "I don't know. I guess I thought it was something that I could figure out myself, or had myself convinced that the problem had gone away on its own when she refused to talk to me afterwards."
"Maybe you're worried for nothing. Maybe it's not as bad as you've imagined. Why don't you go check out the house and see for yourself. There might not be any reason for your panic."
She looked into his pale Irish eyes. The sincerity that had welcomed her in the door was gone. Maybe to him, evil spirits and demons were bizarre entities that only appeared in scary movies and old European castles. Or, maybe if he believed in such things, he just didn't want any part of it, preferring to stay in his nice candle-lit sanctuary and not get involved---
"Father, at the very least, I was hoping to get a blessing from you...and maybe some Holy Water?"
He stood up as if she had just said the magic words that would allow him to send her on her way. "I think that can be arranged."
Without another word, he turned and walked to his office.
She paced on the hard floor, feeling like a knight pleading to the king for help to fight an imaginary invisible dragon. Instead of sending in troops to help her out, he was going to give her a potion of blessed water and a pat on the back before wishing her good luck in the enchanted forest.
But, when he came back, there was a new seriousness on his face. He held out a white plastic bottle. "You know...demon manifestations are pretty rare. Do you really believe that it was in your power to summon one by accident?"
"I don't know, Father. But whatever he was, he wasn't human...and he wasn't very nice."
"Well...I hope this is all just for nothing," he said as he dipped his thumb into a small pot at his side.
She closed her eyes as he anointed her forehead with oil and said some words in Latin that she didn't understand.
When he finished, she said, "Thank you. If this turns out to be serious, and I need help with an exorcism?"
He shook his head and let out a throaty chuckle. "Exorcisms are rarely done by the Church these days. I'd need solid proof to submit to the Vatican for approval. Then, they might send out an experienced Exorcist...but it could take months for that process."
She hoped that she had that long if her imagined worst case scenario proved true.
"Thank you again, Father. I...I have to go now." She turned and ran back out to her car, because she felt a sudden urgency to get herself back on the road going towards the Blake house.
"Oh...I thought that was you when I saw the car," Annie said as she crept up behind Georgia.
"You startled me!"
"I'm sorry, dear. I came around from the front looking for you."
Georgia watched as her upper lip began to tremble. She thought the old woman might drop the pie she was holding in her hands.
"It's cherry," she quivered. "I got so many quarts off the tree this summer; I've been baking dozens of pies. I thought if it was you over here, you might like to have one."
Georgia took the tin from her. "Thanks, Annie. Really, you didn't have to---"
Annie threw her arms around her, nearly knocking the pie to the ground. She smelled of sugar and cinnamon, and her apron was covered with flour and what might be stardust from Annie's magical baking. Georgia didn't care as it smudged all over her black slacks. At eighty-one, Annie didn't seem to be slowing down. Georgia imagined that she still got up every morning at the crack of dawn and fed her chickens and baked pies. If she made it to a hundred, she would probably still go out in her housedress, apron, and slippers after a storm to pick up sticks that had fallen from the trees. Then, she'd get back to rolling dough for her baked treasures.
Annie held the embrace for another minute before the torrent poured out.
"I'm so sorry Georgia. "It was so awful to find her like that...she was blue like she'd been lying there all night...just waiting for someone to find her. I can't believe it. I mean who would have thought she'd just go so quickly like that. She must have just gone out and had a heart attack. Poor thing...I hope her suffering wasn't long."
Georgia thought that it did seem like such a lonely way to go with no one around but the birds and the moon to witness her last breath. Couldn't it have happened in her bed where she might have been able to reach the phone and dial 911, so someone could have known sooner if not helped in time? "What do you think she was doing out there at night?"
"Oh, I don't know...she might have gone out to look for that wild cat. She'd been feeding him, you know. I saw him once by my barn. Big gray tabby. Real big. Virginia was worried about him with cold weather coming on soon. I guess she thought she might make a pet out of him."
"Well, Grammie did have a love for wild creatures."
"Yes, she did, and maybe that's just what done her in."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. There's not much around the farm these days except geese and pheasants. Maybe a coyote, I suppose. But, I don't think that's it. She lived on this land for a long time. There's not much that would frighten her. But, I think she had an obsession with some kind of critter other than that cat."
"What do you mean?"
"She hadn't been herself you know."
"Do you think she was getting senile? That's what my sister said."
"Well, I'd say something was going on. You've seen how she let things go around here. I'd go over and find her bent over that tangle of roses or picking beans, and she'd be out there just chatting away as if she had someone standing next to her. Always scared the dickens out of her when she finally saw me."
"It's not uncommon to talk to yourself...especially as you get older. She always talked to the birds and the squirrels, probably even her plants."
Annie rolled her eyes. "'Who are you talking' to?' I'd ask her. She'd look around nervously and tell me to mind my own business. I couldn't believe it. Her talking to me that way!"
"It definitely wasn't like her to be rude, but she was lonely, Annie. She wasn't the same ever since Grandpa died. Maybe, she was embarrassed that she was talking to herself."
Annie leaned over and whispered into Georgia's ear, "Yes...but I think she thought she was talking to someone real."
"Annie! Don't go telling people that. Maybe, it was just the cat. He might have been in the bushes."
"Oh no. I won't say another word. But, between you and me...I think she was slipping a little."
Georgia changed the subject, not wanting to hear any more talk about her grandmother being crazy. It just wasn't possible. Her grandmother had always been a little eccentric. That didn't mean anything was wrong with her. She had never detected anything amiss in their phone conversations or letters.
"She hadn't had me over for cards or tea in quite awhile neither. I'd ask her, but she'd always say she had things to do in the garden or was busy muddling around the house."
Georgia sighed. "I'm sorry. I know it must have been difficult."
Annie shrugged and shook her head.
Georgia looked up towards the sun as a jagged cloud drifted by. It was uncomfortable to think that she may never have any further explanation for Grammie's death. She was lost in her memories as an ant scurried over the toe of her boot.
"Are you staying here or at your sister's?"
"Marsha's...tonight, anyway."
"How long are you..." Her voice trailed off as she stopped and looked up towards the window on the northwest corner of the house. "Did you bring someone with you?"
"No," Georgia said as she followed her gaze up.
"I'm must be getting old and seeing things too."
Georgia followed her gaze up to the window. "What did you see?"
"I just thought I saw the curtains move up there."
Georgia shaded her eyes and looked again, but the ruffled curtain over the window that used to be her sister's bedroom hung still. "I don't see anything." She laughed. "You probably just saw the air conditioner come on and blow the curtain."
"Maybe..."
"Well...I'll check it out. I'm going to go inside and have a look around before I go to Marsha's."
"Do you want me to send Fred over to have a look with you? It might be a little spooky going in there alone for the first time."
She thought for a moment, and then said, "Thanks, but I'd rather be alone right now."
"Alright. We're just a holler away if you need anything."
Georgia gave Annie another hug. "I'm going to miss your grandmother."
"Me too," Georgia said.
Annie turned to leave, and then stopped. "You know, this town ain't as safe as it used to be. There's been some burglaries around here."
"I came from New York, remember?" Georgia inhaled a long breath of crisp fall air, taking in the scent of withering leaves and freshly cut hay from the bales in back of Annie's house. "This is the safest place on earth to me."
The spirit watched the two women talking from his perch on the window ledge in the upstairs bedroom. He didn't know who the younger woman was, but as they embraced, it was obvious that she was quite close to the neighbor.
There was something familiar about her. But from this distance, he couldn't make out her features clearly enough to ascertain why.
One did not need a telescope, though, to acknowledge that she was a delightfully beautiful woman. Even with her short, boyish hair, there was a youthful femininity about her. He enjoyed watching the sway of her hips as she gestured and stared at her long slim legs enclosed in her manly pants. Bellissima!
As the women prattled on, he wondered if she was a relative of Virginia's. He knew she had a brash granddaughter on the other side of town who made infrequent visits, and another who lived somewhere far away. Perhaps this woman was her---come back to mourn Virginia's death.
He hoped that she would stay around long enough for him to get to know more about her, because he needed some fresh company. With Virginia gone, he did not relish the loneliness of the house. There was no challenge in a solitary life. He missed Virginia's conversation, the way she hummed as she worked in the garden...the way she had once obeyed him and treated him like a king.
But then, she had been convinced that he was someone else. He had played the role of her dead husband as long as he could stomach it. He faked knowing about their lives together. He told her that he had come from Heaven, and that it was a beautiful place that he was sad to leave until he heard her reaching out to him.
"It is the grace of God that has brought you back to me," she had said to him often as she cupped his cheeks in her hands.
He merely nodded and kissed the back of her wrinkled hand as if she were as radiant as a young bride.
The role-playing came as naturally to him as eating and sleeping. He was not skilled in many things, but persuasion was his forte. It was this talent that had landed him the job of Gardener at the Crawford estate in 1897.
He had been traveling westward, planning to seek his fortune in a silver mine on the west coast, when he chanced to stop for the night in Calathia. Leaning against a buggy post with his rucksack at his side, he saw a beautiful vision---the lovely daughter of WilliamCrawford graced a roadside flower stand on Main Street. When he saw her doe-like eyes, hair as smooth and silky brown as the finest cup of caffe, and lips as kissable as the Mona Lisa's, he knew that he had to have her.
That day, he dreamt of ways to approach her as more than a poor immigrant. Over the next couple of weeks, he set his plan into action. He studied books on roses, the Farmer's Almanac, and journals on gardening that he found in the town library. Then, he laid out in the sun in nothing but his breeches to tan his skin. He plunged his hands into soapy water to weather and chafe them, and ground dirt under his fingernails to make them look like hard-working tools of the trade.
Only after all of this, did he approach the girl's father, WilliamCrawford, with a plea for a job.
The patriarch was impressed with his humility and eagerness to put long hours into the rose garden that he was building as a showcase for his prized roses. He awarded him a room in the tool shed behind the house, and there he spent a multitude of nights peering out the window up at the house towards her room. He watched her brush her long hair in the moonlight on her windowsill and bided his time.
Margaret was her name. MargaretCrawford. The sound of each syllable still felt as sweet as honey on his lips.
It was weeks before he spoke to her. He was a patient man. Then, he began with subtle glances and deliveries of flowers to her room. He told her that he had noble origins. He was really an Italian Count that had fled his homeland to avoid being married off to a woman that he did not love. He said that he was so enamored of the fresh country air and the flowers that he decided to make a simple life as a gardener.
It was this experience in the art of deception that he also used to woo VirginiaBlake. He procured hundred-year-old bottles of Chianti and Merlot that were hidden in the walls of the cellar, and serenaded her with Henry's poetry that he found on scraps of paper in a closet. As his human form grew stronger, he accompanied her out to the garden and kept her company as she planted vegetable seeds and tended her flowers. "Oh, Henry. You never used to care so much about my roses," she giggled and blushed.
Though, as time went on, she cared less and less about the gardens as he drained the life energy from her core.
It lasted for a good while. He was able to keep up the flat modern Kansas farmer shtick that he practiced from listening to the moving picture box and the radio...but then...on occasion...he would relax and forget...dribbling into a little of the old Italian slang from his home country.
Virginia began to get suspicious and questioned him more and more about the details of their former life. When, he couldn't tell her where they had taken their honeymoon or what year their daughter was born, he told her that it had been many years...and his time in Heaven had erased many of his memories.
But, then she began to jump when he entered the room. She snuck outside to the garden by herself...and was obviously disappointed when he followed.
One evening, she tried to attack him with a shovel. He snatched it from her trembling hands, but not before she sliced it across his shin.
He remembered laughing at the feeling of pain. It was blissful. There was even a wet red bloodlike substance that oozed from the wound. That could only mean that he was becoming stronger...and human again.
As he gained a more solid appearance, he took care to hide himself when the neighbors were out. It was best to let them think Virginia was losing her mind...talking to the wind rather than have them ask too many questions.
It was not his fault that Virginia had to be dealt with. When she stopped believing that he was Henry, he had no choice but to tell her the truth. Instead of understanding his plight and rejoicing with him at his newfound life, it only made her enraged.
Now, he regretted that he had succumbed to honesty. Chi piu sa, meno crede. The more one knows, the less one believes.
He should have stuck to his lies and bent her to his will.
But, then again...she was an old woman. She would have died before long anyway.
If he couldn't have Margaret or Virginia for company, he needed someone new to share his new life with.
He glanced out the window again. Benissimo. She is coming this way.
After Annie traipsed back across the field of tawny weeds to her house, Georgia walked around towards the front porch and set the pie down on the bottom step.
She creaked up the steps and glanced at the sad pots of geraniums. They needed water in a hurry, or they'd soon be completely dead. She made a mental note to look for a watering can or pitcher inside.
She found the key under the rooster planter in the same spot that it had been for decades. A groove was worn in the porch wood in its shape.
A gentle breeze blew across the front of the house and caused the porch swing to sway. Nostalgia flooded over her. A boy had given her her first kiss in that swing. She had just had her braces taken off the week before. It was an awkward quick peck, followed by a sharing of art sketches. She had feigned interest in his drawings of sports cars and battle scenes, paying more attention to the way his hair curled up near his ears and framed his soft eyes. She remembered that her little sister spoiled the scene, leaning out one of the front windows at the most inopportune moment and chanting, "Georgia and Jimmy sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G." Somehow, she still blamed Marsha for him breaking up with her---a result of all of the meddling and jealous tantrums.
The key slid into the front lock with ease, and the heavy oak door with stained glass tulips swung open on its own without needing much encouragement.
The house was dark and filled with shadows as she stepped inside. A few sunbeams penetrated through the western windows, seeping through a break in the lace sheers and heavy drapes. They blazed golden stripes across the Oriental rug that covered a large section of the wooden living room floor to the left of the entrance. She could see dust particles dancing in the light like tiny stars glowing in a churning sea of air.
It was disturbingly quiet.
She couldn't remember ever walking in that door without the sound of Grammie's cheery voice to greet her. When she was young and came in the door without Grammie noticing, she could always find her by following the sound of humming. She often hummed while she worked around the house---a slow tune while dusting, something a little faster for scrubbing the kitchen floor, and something light and airy for tending the flowers out in the garden.
Now, there was nothing more than the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock on the far wall next to the fireplace. Grammie never liked the quiet. If she wasn't humming, she always had a waltz playing on the stereo, or the television turned on low volume just to keep her company after Grandpa passed away.
As she walked through the living room (or the "parlor", as her grandmother used to call it), she couldn't help feeling like an intruder. It was a strange feeling, being that the house had once been her home, and felt as warm and safe as a wool blanket on a chilly winter night.
It seemed as if Grammie was still near, watching her in some way. She had had the same feeling when her ex-husband's father passed away. When she helped clean out his apartment, it felt like his ghost was looking over their shoulders, watching every move and listening to every word they spoke. She supposed that unease was normal right after someone died, and that it would pass with time.
But, the feeling of being watched was heavy on her shoulders...and she couldn't shake it.
As she passed into the kitchen, she saw a vase filled with mums and asters in the center of the dining table. Once lavender, orange, and golden yellow, their heads now drooped down, weeping dried brownish petals onto the tabletop. The water in the vase was a swampy green.
The kitchen seemed to be in order. Copper pots hung neatly on their rack; cotton dishtowels were ironed and folded next to the empty dish drainer; tin canisters of flour, sugar, and coffee were in their place lined up in a neat row.
There was only one thing that seemed out of place---the largest knife from the butcher's block lay crosswise in the sink. It appeared to be clean, but it seemed odd when there were no dishes around, and the cutting board was in its place against the blue toile print tiles above the countertop. She supposed that her grandmother might have gotten it out to cut some thick flower stems.
She remembered that she ought to call Marsha and let her know that she had made it to town. But, when she went to the credenza next to the dining table and picked up the phone, there was no dial tone. She clicked the button several times. Surely, Marsha hadn't turned off the utilities already!
She could use her cell phone in the car, but she decided to look through the house some more first.
Next, she tried the light switch next to the broom closet and cursed when it didn't turn on. That might not be her sister's fault---the wiring in the house had been faulty since 1975 when an electrician had done a botched job on the renovation. She had been after her grandmother for years to get it repaired, but her stubborn response usually involved some mention of the reliability of sunlight and candles that worked just fine all the time.
Georgia tried a Tiffany lamp next to the phone. She pulled the chain three times before light radiated through its multi-colored panes.
At the far end of the kitchen on the left side, there was a door that led down to the basement. She put her hand on the knob then changed her mind. The basement never had been her favorite place. It was dark and dank, and the light switch to the lone bulb in the center area was fickle. At some point, she knew she'd have to go through things down there with Marsha. There were three rooms down there with storage of canned goods, dishes, clothes, and Grandpa's old things. But, it could wait.
She poked her head into the library. The easy chair's footrest was open. Next to it, on an oval side table, there lay an open book, face down, and an empty glass.
The title of the book was, Manners and Etiquette for Ladies. It was an old-fashioned rulebook for behavior in the Victorian age. She picked it up and glanced over the section on the open page about the proper way for a woman to keep her home.
An odd choice for an evening read...
The glass next to it had a small amount of liquid dried in the bottom. She picked it up and sniffed.
Gin!
She couldn't believe it. Had Grammie been drinking again after all these years away from the stuff? What could have driven her to take it back up at her age?
A minute later, she found herself wandering towards the spiral staircase that led upstairs. On the second floor, there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the turret room. She wound her way up to the first room on the right.
She opened the door to her old bedroom and surveyed the room that had been hers for over a decade until she moved to New York. Grammie had redecorated years ago, switching out the twin-sized pink ruffled bedspread and curtains for more grown-up floral fabrics and pillows. But, there were still paintings on the walls of sunflowers and vases of roses that were familiar to her hands and eyes.
Next to that room was the turret room, a small circular area with a vaulted ceiling and no door. It was Grammie's craft room. It contained a long wood table filled with a sewing machine, grapevine wreaths, raffia, glue guns, and wire. Racks hung on the ceiling holding upside down bundles of dried roses and herbs. From the layers of dust around, it seemed that her grandmother hadn't even been in there for a while.
She continued on to Grammie's room across the hall. But, she paused before opening the door. Could she really look in there knowing that her grandmother wasn't inside humming as she pinned up her curls?
Inside, she saw Grammie's king-sized four-poster bed with its quilted bedspread. She remembered her grandfather insisting on purchasing that particular bed twenty-five years ago. "Virginia", he'd said, lowering his voice as if it would hide his gruff tone from the girls. "Virginia, I'm a big man...and I don't want any short little frilly thing that my feet are going to hang off of". Grammie agreed to purchase the man-sized bed. But, after he passed away, she removed the masculine brown plaid comforter and replaced it with a floral quilt and a fluff of pillows.
A matching dark wood dresser with an attached mirror engulfed the wall across from it. Its surface was covered with framed black and white photos. She picked up one of her parents. Their faces forced out shivering smiles from a bundle of tweeds and wool. It was winter in Lawrence where they went to college. They met at a party, never suspecting that they would be married, have two children, then lose their lives in a fatal car crash.
There were other photos of her relatives too, nameless pictures that went back decades---aunts, uncles, great grandparents. There were even hazy sepia-toned pictures of ancestors in Union uniforms from the Civil War. Their faces all had a peculiar familiarity about them, but they all seemed like strangers, people from a faraway place that she never knew.
Grammie once likened the passage of time and generations to a great cosmic train. She said, "People get on when they're born. As they grow up, they move further up to the head of the train. When they die, the train stops and they get off. But, their descendents are continually getting on at the rear of the train. They may never meet, but they have all ridden the same train and have the single experience of that journey in common."
Georgia looked at an old photo of a young woman wearing a white cotton dress and a large straw hat standing next to a large rose bush. She was familiar with the face in this picture.
It was MargaretCrawford, her Great Aunt and daughter of WilliamCrawford. There was a family legend that she had thrown herself into the river behind the house when her lover, the family gardener, had run off and left her heart broken. The suicide had been a family disgrace that had been called an accident for many years to avoid family scandal.
As she studied the face, there was something about the dark round shape of her eyes and the thin highly arched brows that reminded her of her own face looking back at her from the mirror. She thought about her grandmother's quote. This girl had definitely ridden the same family 'train'.
She and Marsha had once used a Ouija board to try to contact her ghost when they were teenagers. They had been down in the basement at midnight with a single candle and were scared half out of their wits when Grandpa snuck down and did his most theatrical 'Boo'!
She was lost in her memories when she heard the loud fluster of noise from the room across the hall.
Opal sat in her car across the street from the Blake house, wondering what to do now that she saw a car in the driveway. She hadn't figured that anyone would be there.
It should be empty. Who's there? Should I go in anyway? Under what pretext?
She thought it might be a realtor checking the place out. It was a nice chunk of property with a spacious Victorian dwelling. Maybe some investor from out of town was---
As she squinted at the house through the glaring rays of sunlight that had escaped from the cloud cover, she saw movement inside. Lights turned on and off in different rooms as if someone was touring through it. But, that wasn't what had drawn her attention.
She could tell that something was very different about the house. If she looked hard enough, the walls on either side seemed to breathe in and out with some evil presence.
Was it her imagination? Or, should she run in and rescue the person who had been foolish enough to walk right in to a potential maelstrom of entities?
She hesitated with her hand on the door handle of the car for several minutes and studied the navy-colored sedan parked on the damp gravel. It looked as new as a shiny penny.
There were no car dealerships in Calathia, or within fifty miles, for that matter. She wondered if it was a rental car driven by someone from out of town. A relative of Virginia's? She couldn't remember if Virginia had ever mentioned any family who lived close by during their short miserable night together.
Her attention shifted as she saw something move behind the sheer white curtains of the front window that lined much of the expanse of the porch. At the same time, a light came on in an upstairs room. Now, she knew there were two people in the house.
A shadow---the very tall shadow of a man---was pressed against the cloth. He seemed to be standing very still. Was he watching her just as she was watching him?
He pulled back the curtains, and though she still couldn't make out the man's features, she now clearly saw the rectangular outline of the top hat that she remembered so well from the night of the séance. A shudder ran through her body.
It's him. Oh God...
She blinked her eyes then shut them, hoping that she was home in bed and just having a terrible dream. But, when she reopened them a few seconds later, he was still there, standing like a sentinel manning his post.
So...now she knew. He was in there. Whoever or whatever he was, he hadn't left.
She froze and waited to see what he would do next.
For a minute or longer, he didn't move. Then, she noticed two spots of reddish light emerging from behind the glass. It confused her until she realized that the brilliance was coming from the spirit's eyes. The reddish glow, like the luminescent tips of firebrands reminded her of the description of a demonic pig's glowing red eyes in a horror book that she had read many years back.
Her body became so cold with fear---a shiver ran all the way from the top of her head down to her toes, and she found herself unable to move...to think...to even breathe.
He stared at her with those unreal eyes that didn't blink at all. They seemed mechanical, like the crimson light from an electric alarm clock in the middle of the night, an almost robotic emanation from some kind of invincible monster.
He saw her. There was no doubt about it. Was he giving her a warning to stay away?
For now, it was certainly working. She couldn't imagine dredging up an ounce of the pounds of bravery that she would need to face such an unreal creature.
Another thought shattered the fragile sense of safety that she had as she sat in her locked car. She was only about twenty yards away from the house. It seemed certain that glass or brick couldn't contain such a determined spirit, unless he was somehow spiritually bound to the confines of the property. If not, in any second he could come right through that window and leap across the street at her. She imagined someone later finding her body slumped back against the headrest. They might determine that, like Virginia, she had a heart attack, and God had just called her number.
God. Would he help her now, even though she had forsaken a pious life for the mysteries of the unknown and unleashed one of Satan's dominion?
Feeling the spirit's eyes boring into her, it took tremendous effort to will herself to move. Her hand shook as she fumbled for the pewter cross and held it up against her heart, wondering if those eyes could kill her just by their stare.
She tore her gaze away from the awful sight in the window. Then, she twisted the cross back and forth in her hands. Jesus, help me. Would the Lord bother with her prayers, knowing that she was a spiritual law-breaker? Having broken the biblical rules against divination and fortune telling, would he even listen to her pleas?
She felt alone...so alone...as she felt the eyes bearing into her. It was a sick feeling, like a hot ray of malevolence, piercing into her body.
I can't go in there. I can't do it.
Her plan was officially aborted for now.
She drove a little further down the street until she was out of the direct line of sight from the house. Then, she decided to wait and watch until the visitor left to make sure that he or she was safe.
But, as the minutes ticked by, and the blue sedan didn't pass her on the road, she grew more and more fearful for the driver's safety.
The picture frame slipped from Georgia's hands. It fell, and the glass cracked diagonally across the bottom right corner as it hit the dresser top. She muttered an apology to her grandmother and placed the picture upright in its former spot.
As she walked towards the room across the hall, she heard the noise again. It was a rustling sound, like someone was shuffling a stack of paper.
The room had once been Marsha's. It was the same room where Annie had seen something moving the curtain earlier.
Her first thought was that the stray cat might be locked in the room, or perhaps the window was cracked, and the wind was flipping open the pages of a magazine.
Despite these rationalizations, her hand shook a little as she turned the doorknob.
"Hello...?" she called out as she opened the door.
As she peered in, she saw that the room was empty.
The guest room, as it had been called since Marsha left to move in with Steven, was rarely used. It consisted of a small daybed, a roll-top desk, a nightstand with a porcelain lamp, and an oval braided rug in the center of the floor.
The window was closed, and there were no fluttering papers or magazines in sight.
"Here kitty kitty..." she called.
She looked toward the closet. Perhaps he was locked inside.
As she yanked the door open, she saw a wardrobe of women's suits, formal dresses, and coats. Up above on the shelf, there was a double row of shoeboxes all neatly labeled with their contents in Grammie's script. On the floor, there was a line of shoes...nothing at all that could have made the sound she heard.
Exasperated, she shut the door and decided to look under the bed.
She crouched down and lifted the dust ruffle. Instead of feline eyes or something else to explain the noise, she saw a row of boxes. But, on the right side, she spied an eighteen-inch long wooden chest that she'd never seen before.
She forgot about investigating the noise and took out the wooden chest. She was dismayed to find out that it wouldn't open without a key. She felt around the floor for a key near the other boxes but came up empty handed. With her fingers, she tried to pry open the sides, but the effort only resulted in a torn fingernail. She sucked a drop of blood off the tip where the skin came away.
She cursed and shoved the box back into place. "It's probably nothing but birth certificates and her old marriage license".
She found a Band-aid in the mirrored medicine cabinet over the sink in the hall bathroom. Her finger throbbed with pain as she wrapped it and inadvertently knocked the box off the corner of the sink into the basin. As she retrieved it, she thought she caught a glimpse of movement in the mirror from behind her.
She swiveled around and faced the closed shower curtain. Its peach ruffles and pleats hung silent and still. Without hesitation, she grabbed the edge and flung it back in one swift motion.
There was nothing---only spotless tile and grout and a bar of French-milled lavender soap in the holder.
I'm getting jumpy. I need to go.
She walked, then scurried down the spiral staircase, muttering to herself. Whatever she had seen in the mirror was not peach-colored and frilly. It had been dark, like the outline of a face, and seemed to dissolve in a fraction of a second when she looked back up into the mirror. My hair, she thought. Maybe it was just the reflection of my hair. It moved as I moved my head.
There was some comfort in that rationalization as she remembered that she still needed to water the geraniums on the porch before she left.
On her way into the kitchen, she grabbed the sad flowers from the table, tossed them into the trash, and dumped the putrid water in the sink. Then, she found a pitcher, filled it with water and went out to give the geraniums a good soak.
Before leaving, she opened the refrigerator. It was filled with a full gallon of milk, an unopened loaf of bread, a pitcher of orange juice, and a half-eaten peach cobbler that looked like Annie's work, among a dozen other items that made it appear that her grandmother had gone to the grocery store just before she died. It was a sad reminder that just a few days before, she had been in the house eating and sleeping...and living her life.
Two minutes later, she had the front door locked and was on her way down the steps towards the car. On the last step, she paused.
Where was Annie's pie?
She looked up and down the steps, along the porch and the muddy driveway, and on her car hood...but it was nowhere.
She blew out an exasperated puff of air and sniffed her fingers, smelling the cinnamon that had been on the crust. That was definite proof that she hadn't imagined Annie giving it to her.
As she got back in the car and drove east towards Marsha's, her stomach grumbled with disappointment. She hadn't had one of Annie's pies in years.
A pie thief---out in the middle of the country. Now ain't that a cute one!
Opal watched the sedan whizzed past her, not caring that the careless driver sped through a mud puddle and spattered the side of her white car with muck. Thankful was too weak of a word for the feeling she had when she knew that the visitor to the house had escaped from the house with their life.
She had seen the profile of the driver from behind as the car sped away. Even though she had seen short, cropped dark hair, the slim neckline suggested that the driver was a woman.
Despite the woman's safe departure, she could still feel a dark presence emanating from the Blake house. What had happened in there? Had the spirit revealed himself? Threatened her? Scared her away? Was that why she had driven away like a madwoman with her wheels on fire?
She knew that the spirit was a fixture of the house now as much as its pretty green trim and brick chimney. He had seen her and obviously was not happy with her return. She knew that he would be prepared for her when she came back, and would likely attack her in some way.
A stifled giggle fell out of her mouth. That assumed that she would find the courage to return to the house and face him. If she mustered up the balls to do that, how on earth would she protect herself? The bottle of Holy Water seemed like a joke after what she had seen in the window. She imagined herself brandishing the bottle, only to have him double over in horrible laughter right before he smashed her brains into oblivion.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as a light mist of rain turned the windshield opaque, blurring the glass.
Then, she threw her hands up in the air. "Darn! The woman! I should have followed her...found out who she is. I could have gotten some firsthand information about the spirit and what's going on inside that house! Why didn't I think of that?
She raced down the road to the intersection of County Line and Main. After looking in all directions, she did not see any sign of the blue sedan.
"Stupid. Stupid!"
The nice side of her ego was kinder. It reminded her of the terrible sight that she had just seen in the Blake window. She had been scared to death. How was she supposed to think rationally under such circumstances?
She parked beside the road, trying to think about her next move with a clear mind.
Karl...I should go see my son. He won't believe me, but maybe he could escort me into the house, so I won't have to go alone. But what then?
She didn't know, but something had to be done before anyone else was murdered.
The spirit was disappointed to see the short-haired woman go. He stuck his finger in the pie and pulled it out, dripping with warm succulent cherries. He licked it and savored each drop. It was good...really good. Red juice dribbled down over his beard as he stood behind the parlor curtains and watched her car disappear down the road.
Something about the shape and color of her eyes tugged at the hole in his chest and made it ache.
He had followed her around the house from room to room, remaining in an invisible state as he floated behind her. There was only one moment, when he was so mesmerized by her beauty and the complexity of her perfume, that he let his guard down and found himself briefly rematerializing into his human form. He vanished before she flung back the bath curtain out of suspicion that she wasn't alone.
The event both amused and saddened him. He enjoyed having the power to frighten people. It was such a rush of pleasure after feeling so impotent in the past. But, he was disappointed that he had caused her to rush out of the house after that instead of lingering longer.
He laughed. This new life was certainly going to be a never ending game of juggling his newfound skills. There was no doubt that it was going to be hard to restrain his desires enough to keep them from impetuously ruling his actions.
When he had his fill of the pie, he tossed the tin on the coffee table and paced, muttering to himself. His words dribbled out in a mixture of archaic slang and Italian.
Then, he wandered up to Virginia's room. On the dresser, not far from Margaret's cracked frame, he found what he was looking for.
It was a picture of the woman who had just visited. Her hair was longer, and she was just a girl at the time of the photograph, but there was no mistaking her.
He held the pictures of Margaret and this woman together. Yes...of course they must be related. He could see it in the way their eyes crinkled at the outer corners and their noses turned up into a button-shaped circle. A granddaughter of Virginia's perhaps? At the moment, he couldn't remember her name.
In frustration, he left the room and stomped back downstairs.
Reaching the kitchen, he leaned over the counter and looked out the window towards the gardens. He always found himself there when he was perplexed or upset. The smell of the roses and pungent vegetables seemed to clear his mind when he needed it. Now, he let himself mentally wander out there, but retreated when he remembered what a shambles they were in. What hadn't been neglected to death by Virginia in the end had been destroyed in one of his rages.
He noticed the knife in the kitchen sink, a forgotten memento of the battles with the old woman. He picked it up, and with a dramatic thrust, plunged it back in the butcher block. Silly Virginia. Had she really thought that it would protect her? He remembered her brandishing it like a sword.
A noise like the raspy sound of a metal file on wood caught his attention. It came from the back door.
In less than a second, he was there---a watchdog ready to defend his home.
He stuck the ectoplasm form of his head through the door and saw the striped beast, more wild raccoon than cat, on the doorstep. It seemed to sense him before it looked up with its wide orange eyes. Arching its back, it hissed then ran through the yard and disappeared into the field.
When he tried to pull his head back through the door, he found an odd resistance. In previous attempts at moving through solid objects, he found it as easy as sticking a finger through soft butter. But, this time something made it more difficult.
Once he had his entire body back inside the house, he cursed his luck. Wouldn't it be a cosmic joke on him if he became fully human again, but found himself stuck in the house like a thief locked in a rich man's gold safe with no means of escape?
Then, old man Crawford would have the last laugh from his grave.
He was determined that such a scenario would never happen. The house was certainly his prize now. But, he wanted more. He had escaped from his homeland during a time of great misery when the vineyards had failed to produce for years only to find greater affliction in this country when he couldn't find steady work. Now, he wanted assurance that he would never be cold again, never hungry, or have to worry about a place to lay his head at night.
No, it wasn't just Crawford's house that he wanted. He wanted a woman at his side and a dinner table dripping with succulent meats and fruits.
All those things were denied to him when he worked as a gardener and was forced to sleep on a hard mattress on the dirt floor of the shed with the ticks and the spiders.
Though, he was still very much a spirit more than a whole man at this point, he needed sleep just as any flesh and blood human. In the evenings, he slept in Margaret's old room on the second floor. Many nights his dreams began with work---digging holes, planting rosebushes, pruning, picking off insects, cutting his hands on the thorns. Then, they turned to the object of his love and his lust. He remembered how all that labor had become fruitful in time with Margaret stealing glances at his sweating, tanned chest as he passed by the patio with his wheelbarrow when she took her afternoon tea with her mother. The dreams continued with the blossoming of their secret romance, but always ended with her cold lifeless eyes staring up at him.
In his conscious hours, he wondered. Had he pushed her too far too soon? Perhaps if he had waited just a little longer, he might have won her over despite her fear of her father's disapproval.
No, he mumbled. It wouldn't have mattered. She found me handsome and entertaining, but from the beginning she thought that I was beneath her---just a simpleton from another land with nothing to offer someone of her status.
He should have found a better way to impress her. If nothing else, he might have told her that he had wealth hidden away in another city, forced her to come with him...but then what? She would have seen through the lie eventually when they slept under the stars in their beautiful clothes with nowhere to go and nothing to eat. No matter what he might have done differently, it still would have ended as badly as it did.
In this new life, he had decided that he would stay here in Crawford's house, Margaret's house, and plant roots that would reach down until they metamorphosed with molten rock and bring up the confections of gold, silver, and jewels.
He would not make the same mistake that he had made with Margaret with the beautiful woman who had just left the house.
She'd be back. He knew she would.
But, if that other woman came around again, the older one with the long messy hair and black-rimmed glasses that had been watching him from across the street in her motorcar, he would make sure that it was her last visit.
There was a strong energy field around her...and he knew that he could put it to good use.
"You're not listening to me, Karl!"
"Shhh..." he said with a finger to his lips, looking back towards the receptionist as she filed her nails. "Will you keep your voice down?"
"No," Opal said louder. "I'm not leaving until you hear me out."
His fingers dug into her arm, and she winced as he led her out the front door of the Sheriff's station. Then, he released her and spoke in a whisper. "I can't have you in there jabbering all this nonsense about ghosts. Don't you know I'm in the running for Sheriff? I've got a reputation to---"
"Your political position isn't going to look too good when people start dying in this town. I'm worried that Virginia may not be his only victim if you don't help me."
"So, you want me to do what? Arrest a ghost? Aren't you being just a bit irrational?"
Opal bit her lip and felt on the verge of tears as she looked up at the imposing physique of her son, her only living relative in town and what seemed like her last hope in dealing with the evil spirit. "No...I'm---"
"That's breaking and entering. We can't just barge into someone's house."
"But---"
"As an officer of the law, I can't just help you break in to see if there's some sort of ghost living there. Do you realize how ridiculous your story sounds? Maybe you should go to the doctor and have a checkup...just make sure everything's okay upstairs."
"That's harsh. You haven't seen what I've seen. I'm not making this up."
"Even if I did go with you, I can imagine you pointing at a blank wall and saying, 'There! Did you see that?' And, I would say, 'No,' and go on my merry way."
"So, go just to prove me wrong?" she pleaded as she looked up into his blue eyes.
"Not a chance. When I looked in on Virginia for you while she was still alive, she seemed very irked at you. You must have done something that ticked her off. She's not even cold and in the ground yet, and I'm not going to offend her memory by helping you sneak into her house."
Opal leaned against the brick wall. "You never did approve of my psychic work."
"It's not that..."
"You think I've got a screw loose just like all the other non-believers in this town."
He put a hand on her shoulder and lifted up her chin as it began to tremble. "I'm sorry. I'm not a bible-toting churchgoer passing judgment. Hell...I'm not even sure what I believe. I've just never had cause to believe in anything that I can't see and experience with my own eyes. You know me...I'm as straight-laced and old-fashioned as they come. I've never run across anything in my own life to make me think that there's anything to all this bugabaloo about ghosts and spirits."
She tried to keep herself from losing it as he hugged her and even managed a stuttered laugh. "You mean you were faking astonishment all those times I told you what card you were holding?"
He laughed into her ear. "I figured you had a mirror rigged up behind me somewhere."
"Maybe, sometimes I did. But, not always. Sometimes, I really saw your card in my head. My sensitivities have always been like that---hit or miss. There's nothing so tentative about this spirit, though. I've never run across anything so frightening in all my life."
She pulled away and fumbled for a handkerchief in her purse as he wiped a tear from her nose. "Why don't you just lay low on this ghost thing until after the election, then I'll find some excuse to go over to that house with you and we'll check it out together from top to bottom."
"I don't think it can wait. There was a woman at the house today. If somebody buys it and moves in, I'm really afraid of what might happen to them."
"Well, if I hear of any trouble out there, I'll be sure to check it out."
He gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "I have to go finish some paperwork before my shift is over."
As she opened her car door, she looked back at him with one last pleading glance. But, he remained in his firm stance, with his arms crossed in front of his chest, shaking his head.
She drove away, purposely turning in the opposite direction from her house. Her nerves were so fragile, if she went back home right now, she just might hole up there for a few weeks too afraid to step outside her door.
Instead, she went to the park across from the high school. Then, she sat down on a bench and watched some geese floating on the pond.
She wished that she could shrink herself down as small as a fly, then hitch a ride on one of their backs when they began to migrate south for the winter. Then, if she was lucky, they'd go to some warm sunny place where the sky is always blue and there are never things that go bump in the night or make your hair stand on end.
But, after a few minutes of contemplation, her thoughts circled around again to the dilemma at hand. She understood her son's non-believer's attitude, but she felt angry with him.
Fine, if he won't help me now...I'll wait until Virginia's funeral when it's not likely that any innocent bystanders will be lurking around that house. Then, I'll go back there and just face the bastard. My blood will be on Karl's hands if something happens to me.
It was nearly dark as Georgia crept up the dirt road to her sister's home. Rain droplets dotted the windshield as she saw the little cream-colored farmhouse next to the barn and stables. As she approached, her headlights illuminated a couple of rusty tractors that Steven had been telling Marsha he was going to restore and sell at a collector's price.
She parked in between his new diesel pickup and a petite pink bicycle with sparkly tassels.
As she stepped out of the rental car, the cool rain was just light enough to be a nuisance, not heavy enough to warrant an umbrella. She zipped up her sleek red leather jacket and wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck. Then, she took a deep breath of the moist Kansas air. There always had been something different about the air in Calathia. Tonight, it smelled musty sweet with the fragrance of damp earth and hay.
She walked past the stables and saw a mare poke its head through the gate. It had been just a colt last time Georgia saw her.
"Pretty girl. You've grown so big." She stroked her head and saw misty plumes of cold breath pour out of her nose.
As the horse enjoyed the attention, the front screen door to the house creaked open. "Georgia, is that you?"
She looked toward the house and saw Marsha's impressive figure standing in the doorway. She looked like the perfect combination of beauty queen and housefrau with her frosted blonde up-do and apron covering well-worn jeans. Her nails were seashell pink and a length that seemed impossible for someone that lived on a farm and cut hair to help make ends meet.
At the door, Marsha gave her a hasty hug. The mingled scents of fresh baked bread and roasted chicken wafted around her. It was a clear sign that it was Saturday, and she had the day off. More often, Georgia knew that she would smell like perm chemicals and hairspray from the beauty salon.
"Well, look at you...still looking like 'Uptown'. I thought a divorce might have relaxed you a little."
Georgia unzipped her jacket and ran her fingers through her damp hair. "You've been watching too many soaps. Not everyone jets off to an island for a fling and a tan afterwards."
"Humph," Marsha said as she took Georgia's jacket and hung it on a wooden peg over a bench lined with muddy boots and sneakers.
Then, they stood in the hallway with an awkward moment of silence.
"Jarrod's over at a friend's for the night. But, Clarissa and Stevie are in the den watching a movie. My old man's gone to a neighbor's to borrow some tools."
Clarissa was the youngest of Marsha's three children. Georgia remembered that after Marsha had miscarried two more boys, she had been happy to finally have a girl.
None of them knew her very well. She always remembered their birthdays and sent gifts at Christmas, but remained little more than a long-distance present fairy to them otherwise. Clarissa called her, "Aunt Gorgie". The name stuck, and they all called her that now.
She felt like a skunk for not remembering to bring them anything. They always expected t-shirts or fancy confections from Le Chocolatier.
"Aunt Gorgie!" Clarissa yelled as she jumped off the couch and offered a buttery popcorn-smelling hug. Now almost six, she looked like a ragamuffin with mousy dark hair falling into her eyes.
Stevie, now almost nineteen, had grown nearly a foot since she had seen him last. He looked like a thin wiry version of his father with rumpled hair the color of wheat, not moving from his relaxed position, he merely said, "hey," as teenage boys are want to do.
Clarissa was a bundle of energy. "Can I have a ride in your rental car? Do you want to go out and see my rabbits? See this scar on my knee? I fell off the bicycle yesterday. Didn't even cry. I'm in the first grade now. Did you know that, Aunt Gorgie?"
After a few minutes, Marsha broke up the reunion. "Okay...your aunt has had a long day traveling. Watch your movie, and you can catch up with her later."
Clarissa folded her arms then slumped back to the couch.
As Marsha shuffled her back to the kitchen, Georgia whispered, "Stevie's home on a Saturday night watching a Disney movie?"
"He's grounded for the rest of the weekend. His dad found a marijuana pipe under the seat of the truck after he drove it this afternoon."
Georgia remembered the truck full of teenagers. She realized now that it had been him and a couple of other boys, but decided not to dig him any deeper into trouble. Poor Stevie had been the black sheep of the family since before he was born. When Marsha got pregnant with him out of wedlock, their grandmother had raised such a ruckus about it, that it had still been a sore spot between them almost two decades later. She laughed to herself as she imagined Marsha going out to their grandmother's gravesite each year on Stevie's birthday just to raise her fist in the air and rant.
Marsha put a pot of water on the stove for tea. Without asking Georgia if she wanted any, she put two cups on the table and a chamomile teabag in each. She was quiet as she set out milk and honey.
As the teapot whistled, she asked, "So the divorce is final?"
Georgia glared. "It's been done for over six months."
Minutes later, they sipped their hot tea in silence.
"How's the weather in New York? Is it getting cold yet?"
Georgia narrowed her eyes. "Just a nip. It will probably stay warm for awhile yet."
"And the gallery?"
"Slow."
"How about you? Are you getting out? Staying in touch with friends?"
"What's really on your mind? It's not like you've really cared much about my life before."
Marsha leaned in closer from across the table. "Alright. I need to talk to you about something before Steven gets back."
Georgia crossed her arms over the front of her cashmere sweater.
"We need to talk about Grammie's house. You know...if she gave it to you---"
"What?" But, she thought for a second, remembering the day that she and her now ex-husband packed up a truck to make the move to New York. Grammie had told her that she was planning on leaving the house to her in her will as an incentive to come back home to Calathia some day.
"You know that's not fair. You have to sell it and split---"
Georgia threw her arms up. "I can't even begin to think about this yet. We haven't even had the funeral. We can't start divvying up her---"
Marsha slammed her cup down, sloshing tea onto the checked cotton tablecloth.
"Damnit! I need the money. The crops weren't that good this year, and I want to open my own shop. I've got customers, you know---people that would follow me. I could be the owner, not just some hourly employee who punches in and out."
Georgia cradled her head in her hands. "Do you know if she had a will?"
"She never mentioned it, but I know she had a safety deposit box at First Union. We could check it out on Monday."
"Well, we'll have to abide by her wishes. I'm really not ready to talk about all of this. You could be wrong. Maybe Grammie gave the house to you."
Marsha looked into her teacup as trying to read something in the dregs. "That's about as likely as a pig wearing lipstick. We haven't gotten any closer these last few years, you know."
Grammie lived about three miles away on the west side of town. Georgia knew that in summer Jarrod and Clarissa sometimes rode their bikes over and spent the day there, coming home at dusk with eggs from Annie's and fresh flowers from Grammie's garden. Stevie and his father sometimes helped her do odd jobs around the house. But, it was a rare occasion that Marsha ever accompanied any of them, except on holidays.
Marsha looked at the window as the rain picked up and began to pour down as if someone was standing on the roof tossing buckets of water over the edge.
"When exactly did you last talk to her?"
Marsha cupped her hand over her chin. "I guess it was one night last month".
"You haven't talked to her since August?"
"I don't need you to judge."
"Well, how did she seem to you then?"
"She called asking for Steven. When I told her he wasn't in, she seemed agitated. She asked if I could come over right away, but she wouldn't say why. The boys were out, so Clarissa and I went over there. When we got there, she was sitting on the porch swing just rocking and rocking."
"Did she seem ill?"
"She seemed nervous. She kept biting on her fingernails. "Oh...that Henry," she said. "What am I going to do with him?"
"Henry?"
"Yeah. She was talking about Grandpa like he was still alive. Said he was in there causing a ruckus, making the furniture move, and turning the lights on and off. I told her that was crazy---Grandpa had been dead for years. We had a windstorm that night. I think her mind was playing tricks on her. She probably heard branches scraping the windows, and the power probably went out a few times."
"Did you go in and look around to make her feel better?"
"No. She wasn't making any sense. I told her to go in and go to bed."
"Did she do it?"
"No. After that...we got in a fight about selling the house. I told her that she was getting too old to take care of such a big place...and all that land. No wonder she was imagining such things and getting scared! I figured her mind was playing tricks on her. She shouldn't have been alone in that house for so long."
Georgia sipped the last of her tea with a furrowed brow.
"The woman damn near hit me! I couldn't believe it."
Georgia had a hard time picturing her grandmother in that state. She was a small frail woman who hated violence and treasured life. It wasn't uncommon for her to capture wasps that got in the house and set them free outside rather than swat at them. If she were to swat at a human, she supposed that Marsha would be a likely candidate...but it still seemed out of character. "So, how did it end?"
"I finally just threw up my hands and left."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"It didn't seem important."
Georgia couldn't help blurting out her next thought. "You must actually be relieved now that she's gone."
Marsha narrowed her eyes then snatched the teacup out of Georgia's hand and took it to the sink. "I hope you're not insinuating that I had anything to do with her death."
"I didn't say that. I just meant that...now you don't have to worry about all the past with her anymore."
Marsha swirled around and leaned against the edge of the counter. "We'll see about that. I wouldn't be surprised if that old woman found some way to get the last word in even after she's dead."
A short while later, Georgia said 'goodnight' to the kids. Marsha apologized for the mess as she led her into Jarrod's room, a nest of dirty jeans, boots, truck models, and girlie posters.
After unpacking a few things, she settled into the fresh sheets that smelled like fresh country air from being dried on a line outside. She wasn't thrilled to be Marsha's houseguest, especially under such unhappy circumstances, but as she sunk into the bed, she realized how nice it was to be back in Calathia.
Before she drifted off to sleep, she heard the horse snorting outside and her brother-in-law's heavy boots stomping down the hall towards the master bedroom. Finally, there was a brief whine from a male voice with a squeaky pitch, "...but it's Saturday." And then, Marsha's reprimand, "That doesn't mean you can stay up all night. Get your butt to bed."
Despite the unpleasantness of her sister's shrillness, Georgia turned over on her side, thinking how nice it felt to be back with family. It felt so good, she almost couldn't imagine getting back on a plane in a few days and going back to her lonely life in New York.
Early Sunday morning, before the flushed glow of dawn crept through her blinds, Opal jumped out of bed. Her heart raced and her wide eyes darted around the shadows of her room. It took a moment for her to realize that she was safe in her home, and it had all just been a nightmare.
She'd seen him again. He'd invaded her mind while she slept!
Her hands were sticky with sweat as she wiped the damp hair away from her face and tried to force her consciousness back to reality.
As she felt her way in the dark towards her bathroom to get a drink of water, she kept her eyes shut, afraid to see those glowing eyes peering at her along the way.
Without her glasses on, her image was a blur in the mirror. She fumbled around for a cup, but couldn't find one. So, she cupped her hands, taking a sip then splashing the rest of the cool water over her face.
The dream.
All dreams were important. She knew that from her studies over the years. She had to find her dream journal and write it down quickly before she forgot.
She raced back to the bedroom, turning on lights as she went.
After she found it, she went to the kitchen and sat down at the table. With the house ablaze like a sunlit meadow, the dream seemed a little less ominous and threatening.
She began to write.
\*\*\*\*\*
In the dream, she was at the Blake house many years back...long before Virginia was born. But, she wasn't an occupant or a guest; she was a prisoner.
She was lying on the warm grass, looking up at an angry purple sky. The black clouds churned like sooty steam. She tried to move her arms and legs, but found them bound to her sides.
The shadow of a man loomed above her. She looked up and knew it was him when she saw his eyes lit up like red-hot coals. But, he wasn't dressed in vintage formal attire and a hat. He wore dirt-smudged olive green trousers held up by suspenders over his cream-colored buttoned shirt and a cotton cap. There was a hideous smile above the tufts of his beard.
Then, she saw the shovel in his hand and a rose bush lying on its side beside him.
He walked a few paces away then he began to dig in the soft earth. He threw scoop after scoop of soil over his shoulder, maneuvering the shovel with his tanned muscular arms.
Planting. Planting roses. That's nice. But, there's rain coming...he should hurry.
Then, as the hole grew larger and larger, she realized that he wasn't planning to put the rosebush into it. He had pulled the plant out of the ground in order to dig her grave beneath it.
Despite all of her efforts, she couldn't scream or move from the bounds of rope wrapped around her body.
When he finished digging, he rolled her body towards the hole and kicked her in. She landed amongst a tangle of tree roots, writhing earthworms, and beetles. She said a prayer and prepared to die. Then, she waited for the first shovel full of earth to land on her body.
But, it wasn't earth that rained down on her---it was water. He meant to drown her first. Buckets of water were lined up next to the hole, and he poured them down on her one by one.
She woke from the nightmare as the muddy water reached her gagged mouth and nose.
\*\*\*\*\*
Opal laid down her pen.
What was significant about the garden setting?
She remembered the night of the séance when she had circled the property trying to find a way back in. She had noticed a path behind the house that led to a picketed area and then continued further on around a curve. Did it lead to a garden that had some significance to the spirit's presence? If he had once been a real man, she figured that he might have had some tie to the Blake property.
But, she didn't think that was likely. His presence exuded too much evil to be the ghost of a former human. The only other alternative was a demonic manifestation.
She thought again about the dream. What was it about the roses, the gardens? Had some crazy teenagers snuck back there and performed some sort of satanic ritual during the summer? Maybe, they had invoked something, and she had just been a conduit during the séance allowing it to manifest more fully.
She glanced at her bag on the table. What good would a tiny bottle of holy water do against something so powerful? Unfortunately, she knew that she was going to have to find out. She didn't have any evidence yet to return to Father O'Dell, and Karl had turned out to be a dead end.
As twilight turned into day, she went out in her robe and slippers to retrieve the morning paper. When she flipped to the obituary section, she immediately saw the notice of VirginiaBlake's passing.
The funeral was to be held on Tuesday morning. She had planned to skip it and go straight to the house to confront the spirit. But, how could she? Didn't she at least owe Virginia one last face-to-face apology? Maybe there, she could fish around for details about what happened to her during the last two months of her life. She might learn something that could prove important.
So, she decided that she had to attend the funeral, but would leave early so she could change into her combat boots and prepare for battle.
VirginiaElizabethBlake is survived by her granddaughters, MarshaHayden and GeorgiaMcKenna.
She had a strong feeling now that the woman she had seen at the house was Georgia. She wondered if she could find her at the funeral and warn her that the Blake house was haunted by...someone...something...otherworldly.
No...it was too soon. She had to know what she was dealing with first and try to get rid of it herself.
Georgia...realtor...whoever you are...please don't go back to that house before I can cleanse it of evil.
The smell of bacon awoke Georgia the next morning. She could almost see the tendrils of scent seeping under the doorway and curling up towards her nose.
"Cream and sugar?" Marsha asked as she sat down to the breakfast table.
"Black, please." Georgia rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"
"Quarter to seven. I wondered if you were going to sleep in. The smell of bacon usually gets any stragglers up".
Georgia looked out the kitchen window. As her stomach grumbled again, she saw the sun beginning to crack open the sky. She could see Steven out by the stables already attending to his morning chores. It was Sunday morning, much earlier than she would usually have gotten up back in New York.
"Did you hear Napoleon?"
Georgia shook her head.
"Naughty rooster! Doesn't like anyone to sleep in."
She couldn't believe she had slept through something like that, guessing that she was too used to the sounds of horns and traffic in the city. She hadn't slept well though. She remembered tossing and turning throughout the night. Instead of the usual nightmare, she had dreamt about Grammie. In the dream, she was a child sitting on her lap in the porch swing at the Gingerbread House, listening to stories.
The whole family sat down to a leisurely breakfast. Afterwards, she helped feed the chickens, being careful to keep her designer boots out of the mud and muck.
All morning, she wanted to go back to her grandmother's house, but there was a steady stream of visitors dropping by to express their condolences and drop off another casserole or neon-colored gelatin creation. She was surprised how many of them lamented how they hadn't seen or heard much from her grandmother for the latter part of the summer.
Late that afternoon, the funeral director came by to finalize some details. He got right down to business without the usual preliminary condolences and banter.
"Marsha has already picked out a casket. She chose the 20-gauge steel."
She looked at the computer-generated picture. It was a plain gray box that reminded her of the mushroom-colored lockers from Calathia High. She glanced over at Marsha. "I wish you would have let me in on this decision."
"I thought I'd save you the trouble. It has a nice lining. What's the big deal?"
Georgia grimaced. She couldn't imagine Grammie sleeping forever in a cold metal box. "Is it too late to change our minds?" When he said, 'no', she chose a cherry wood casket with a hand-rubbed satin finish and ivory taffeta. It reminded her of the wood from Grammie's bed and seemed more appropriate to her taste.
Marsha's eyes widened as she leaned over and looked at the price.
"Don't worry. I'll pay the difference."
Marsha recoiled as if she had been slapped and didn't say another word.
Then, they went over details about the service and their choice of officiate. Georgia agreed to add her own eulogy, and they discussed flowers next.
"Roses...you have to have lots of roses. Unfortunately, at this time of year most of them from Grammie's garden are done blooming. It's a shame, because I know she would have liked to have some of her own. Many of them have been growing in her garden for generations. It's been a family tradition to use them for weddings and other ceremonies." She remembered her own wedding in Grammie's garden. She did all of the bouquets, and boutonnieres and lavished the arbor with the same velvety red roses. Their perfume was spicy sweet and added to the fairy tale setting with the puffs of cotton floating down from the sky from the trees back by the river.
"I suppose you'll be paying for those too? Florist's roses are quite expensive."
Georgia lost what little remained of her restraint. "What do you want, Marsha...dandelions...a wreath of bindweed from the roadside?"
Marsha folded her arms. "I just thought we might keep it simple...that's all."
Georgia apologized to the funeral director. "I'm sorry you have to listen to us haggle."
"That's alright. It's a very stressful time."
"Well, since Marsha obviously doesn't want to get into much detail, I'm going to make some choices myself." Numbers swirled around in her head. There was a few thousand in her savings account. She needed to call her assistant. If Hendricks came back and bought one of the larger Nielsens, it would be a nice shot of funds to help with the funeral...and maybe give her assistant a bonus for Christmas. "If there's any issue with money...I'll foot the bill."
Marsha twirled a strand of hair that had fallen out of her tortoise shell hairclip. "I suppose I could chip in a little..."
Georgia went on as if she hadn't heard, "Several dozen red roses and a wreath of them with baby's breath for the coffin."
He scribbled notes as she talked.
When they finished, he gave Georgia his business card. Then, he gave both of them an awkward hug and said, "Well, I'll see you on Tuesday then. Please come a bit early. Oh, do you have any photos of her that you'd like to display?"
Georgia thought about the photos on Grammie's dresser. "I'm sure we can come up with some."
The rest of the day proved to be equally frustrating. Every time she grabbed her purse and keys to go back over to the house, there was another knock on the door.
She spent a fitful second night in Jarrod's bed, tossing and turning with horrible dreams.
\*\*\*\*\*
The next day was Monday. Marsha had Jarrod and Clarissa packed off to school and a breakfast of oatmeal with hot cinnamon apples ready when Georgia got up.
As they ate, Marsha harped on again about how logical it was to sell their Grandmother's house right away, so they could split the money and move on.
Georgia let her sister rant as she ate. "How about a cup of your road tar?"
"The bank opens at nine. How about you hurry up, so we can get going?" Marsha said as she poured.
"Maybe we could keep the house and rent it out...make it an investment property."
"I don't think that's a good idea. The roof has leaks. There are plumbing problems, and the wiring needs work. It's an old house..."
"Yes, it is. I think it dates back to around 1900 or earlier. How can you let go of something like that? It's been in our family forever."
"It's a pile of rotting wood. Did you look at the outside? The bricks are crumbling!"
Georgia thought about the fading green Victorian gingerbread trim. She heard once that every house in that period had its own unique style. The craftsmanship was unparalleled in modern times. "It can be fixed."
"So you pay to fix it. What then? I don't want to deal with maintaining it, and Steven doesn't have the time." Marsha's eyes were on fire. "You live in New York...how would you keep it up and manage any tenants?"
Georgia didn't answer. She didn't know what the right answer was. But, letting go of the house seemed like the wrong idea.
They finished their breakfast and then loaded up in the family pickup. Marsha was sullen as she backed out of the long driveway. Their Grandmother's death certificate sat on the truck's console between them. Georgia kept her elbow far away from it, not wanting to even look at it.
As soon as they reached County Road, Marsha gunned the accelerator. They were only a block away from the bank when the red and blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror.
Marsha pounded the steering wheel. "Damnit!"
"I don't know why you're in such a hurry," Georgia scolded.
"Oh...will you just shut-up!"
Georgia envisioned her hands encircling her sister's throat and throttling her until she begged for forgiveness. The thought passed as Marsha pulled over. She knew their nerves were on edge. Grammie's death was stressing them both out.
"Be sure to smile..." Marsha said as she jokingly batted her eyelashes at her sister and forced a plastic grin.
Georgia watched the impressive form of Deputy KarlBauer stride up from behind them. He wore a tan uniform with black boots and a creamy beige cowboy hat that covered most of his sandy brown hair. Even with the truck's 3-inch lift, he stood tall at Marsha's window as he leaned in and rested his muscular forearm on the window ledge.
"Morning, Hayden."
"Morning, Karl," Marsha said as she handed over her license and registration without any prompt.
Georgia bent forward and drank in his strong jaw and tanned face accented by a thin mustache. She wasn't sure with the reflective glasses covering his eyes, but she judged him to be in his mid-forties.
"Is this the fourth time this year?" he asked.
"Is it really?" Marsha batted her eyelashes with renewed fervor.
"I clocked you doing forty-four in a thirty."
She tossed back her blonde locks and ran her manicured nails down the side of her neck. Then, splayed them briefly across her collarbone and breasts. "Was I? I'm so sorry. I was talking to my sister and must not have been paying attention."
Deputy Bauer lifted his head in Georgia's direction. She tried to smile through the prickling blush that began to warm her face.
"The middle school is just up ahead. If you went much further at that speed, you'd be looking at a pretty hefty fine."
"Oh please, Karl. I'm trying to watch my speed these days, really..."
He began writing on his tablet. "I can't let it go this time. You obviously need more incentive to slow it down."
"I'll give you a thirty-six in a thirty, but this is the last time I'm going to give you any leeway."
"Thank you. I promise I'll try to be more careful."
"By the way," he said to both of them. "I'm sorry about your grandmother."
"Thank you. My sister, Georgia, is out here for the funeral."
"Your sister, hunh?" he said as he took off his glasses and peered over to the passenger side.
Georgia saw his eyes, a clear aquamarine like the water in a swimming pool or the sparkling lagoon of a Caribbean island.
"I don't see the resemblance," he said as he leaned in further and locked her gaze.
"She's from New York," Marsha replied.
Georgia glared at her and then bit down on her lower lip. "Yes...the polluted air in big cities tends to change people's facial features a bit."
"Sarcasm...I like that in a woman...gives her character."
Georgia blushed as she shifted her position, tilting her knees to the left and wondering how she looked in her black slacks and rusty brown silk blouse.
"If I get a chance...I'll stop by the funeral." He tipped his hat in Georgia's direction. "Nice to meet you."
"You too, Deputy. I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."
He smiled. "Just keep an eye on your sister. She's got a lead foot."
Georgia watched in the side mirror as he strode back to his patrol car. She didn't dare to say a word as she saw Marsha's white knuckles clenching the steering wheel. Steam poured out of her ears as they eased back onto the road and coasted into the bank parking lot, anxious to find out what secrets their grandmother's safety deposit box might hold.
That morning, loneliness made the Spirit even more obsessed with finding out more about the dark-haired woman that had visited the house.
Bored with his own company, he peered through the curtains in the spare room upstairs at the house next door and saw FredBirman sitting on the porch cleaning the barrel of a rifle.
The sight made his temper flare.
He touched the wound again on his chest. It had begun to ache. He reached inside his shirt and scratched it. Instead of an indentation, he found his fingers touching fully formed scar tissue. He smiled wide enough to cause pain in his cheeks. Il tempo guarisce tuttii mali. Time heals all wounds?
He remembered that when Virginia died, and when he killed the young paperboy, he had felt a surge of energy as the essence of their life had gone into him.
Would more death bring him even more life?
There had been great changes in his appearance since he first arrived back on earth. Though, he was still far from being completely mortal again, he felt that he was approaching passable, at least in dim light. Unfortunately, he could still see the ancient dirt under the thin ridges of his fingernails. It disgusted him. As many times as he tried to wash and scrape it out, he could not completely get rid of the everlasting filth underneath them.
It was another reminder of his previous lower-classed position. It was cazzatta...bloody nonsense...that he could not shed the affectations of his previous life. How was he to start anew with these hindrances?
It was one more reason to curse the name of WilliamCrawford, who could spend a fortune on the care of a single rose, but was too cheap to keep his gardener in a constant supply of gloves.
He longed to change out of his tired, bloody formal attire. But, what would he wear? He knew that he couldn't walk into town in his outdated formal wear without drawing unwanted attention. Around Virginia, he hadn't cared. But now, he wanted to put on a comfortable pair of trousers and his old wool cap.
Soon, he hoped that he would be strong enough to leave the property and explore Calathia to see how it had changed in the last hundred years. There was a whole new world out there to see, and he was fascinated by the innovations and inventions that had happened since his death.
Virginia had taught him about some of the strange new machines that had been invented. There was the television, the microwave, and fancy new telephones with push buttons and digital screens. The refrigerator and freezer kept things cold without blocks of ice. Apparently, all houses now had electricity, instead of a select few who could afford it. But, indoor plumbing was the most amazing invention to him. He relished being able to do his business without worrying about the weather, spiders, and snakes in the outhouse.
He also found it amazing that something in the makeup of his new protoplasmic being allowed him to control the energy of lights. He only had to think about a light turning off...and it sputtered into darkness without him ever touching the switch. That trick had allowed him to intimidate Virginia when it was needed.
Emotion seemed to increase his power. If he became angry, as he had often done when Virginia didn't do as he asked, he found his face flushing and becoming engorged with blood. He could almost feel a pulse coursing through him---the product of a functioning healed heart lightly pounding in his chest.
But, negative emotion was a difficult thing to contain once that mental beast was unleashed. In his previous life, it had been difficult to control his rage. Out in the garden, if a thorn pricked his finger, he had sometimes gotten angry enough to yank the entire bush out by its roots. Of course, he had replanted it before Crawford discovered the infraction.
There had also been a few incidents with women. If they crossed him, his reaction was always intense, but never predictable. A couple of prostitutes on the east coast probably went to their graves with the scars that he had given them. But, he had never laid a hand on his beloved Margaret---at least not until the end.
As he watched FredBirman polish his gun, he dwelled again on how miserable he had become in the last few days from being stuck in this house. He left the upstairs room and went down to the library where he poured himself another glass of gin.
He took a sip then paused when he smelled a peculiar scent. It was sweet like lilacs. He remembered that Margaret used to wear lilac perfume. He whipped around to see if he had any company. But, when he turned he saw that the library and the kitchen were empty.
He gave it no more thought as he looked up at an old black and white framed photograph propped between the books on the shelf and gave a toast to his old employer. "Thank you, Crawford for welcoming me into your home. No more cleaning sewers or picking rags...no more pruning your damned roses! It will only be la dolce vita for me this time around."
Then, he scoured the ceiling-high shelves for something interesting to read to pass the time until the beautiful woman visitor returned. He passed over the gardening tomes, farming manuals, old Westerns, and tattered romance novels.
After a few minutes, he settled on a large hard cover coffee table book entitled, Modern Art of the Metropolitan Museum.
As he flipped through the colored plates of artwork that spanned the last century, he smiled as he saw the eclectic menagerie of paintings and sculptures by contemporary artists. A self-educated, though poor man in his day, he reminded himself that no scrap of knowledge ever seemed to go to waste.
He leaned back in the chair and braced the book on his lap, intending to devour the book from cover to cover. This might come in handy some day...I'm sure of it.
Opal had never been the nervous sort who chewed on her fingernails. But, as she looked down at their ragged edges and the traces of blood at their tips, she realized that she had recently acquired the habit.
Now that she had decided to delay any confrontation with the spirit until after Virginia's funeral, she didn't know what to do with her self in the meantime. Earlier this morning, she had canceled appointments with two clients, knowing that it would be impossible to concentrate on the cards or conversation.
She pulled a raw finger from her mouth and smacked herself on the hand.
Then, she tossed her uneaten cereal into the sink and remembered someone's famous quote. "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." Obviously, whoever said that had never seen a spirit staring at him through a window with glowing red eyes.
Later in the morning, she went outside and raked up some leaves that had fallen prematurely from the trees lining the sidewalk, swept her porch, and pulled some weeds. The busywork did little to calm her mind.
She went back inside and plopped down on the couch. As her hand reached for the remote, she paused and then dropped it as if it were too hot to touch. She was afraid to turn on the television---too frightened of the possibility of hearing that someone else had been found dead at the Blake house.
Virginia's funeral was still almost twenty-four hours away. That was a lot of hours left for worrying and shredding what was left of her fingernails.
She thought again about visiting her Aunt Grace, but the drive was too long, and she didn't want to have to drive back to Calathia after dark. It wouldn't be a good idea to stay out late on a road trip when tomorrow might be the most challenging day of her life.
Then, a new idea popped into her head. What would happen if she phoned the Blake house? If someone was there visiting, maybe she could find out from them what was going on in the house and if the spirit was causing any trouble.
But, she shuddered as she thought about the possibility of the spirit himself answering the phone. Would he speak to her in a throaty voice, telling her to stay away and leave him alone? Would he scream blasphemies and curses at her, shattering her eardrums over the receiver?
The more she thought about it, the more the idea that he could harm her over the phone seemed preposterous. There must be a physical component to his power. If he could kill with his mind, she figured that she'd already be dead.
She felt helpless to do anything else right now, so she decided to try it.
Her feet shuffled to the kitchen in slow, reluctant steps. When she reached for the phone, her fingers clenched as if she was about to pick up a repulsive bug. Then, she found Virginia's number in her client book. She sat down before she pressed the first number, and paused before hitting the last digit.
"We're sorry. This line has been disconnected. Please..."
She tossed the phone onto the floor, before realizing that she had just heard a recording and not a demonic voice.
No phone line. She was almost relieved, because it meant that she could delay any conversation with the spirit for another day.
But then, she realized what else the lack of a phone line meant. The house was isolated, surrounded by empty fields and the river behind with just one neighbor to the west. If she went to the house by herself, she'd be cut off from any help.
At the funeral tomorrow, she was going to have to corner anyone she could and find out what was going on in that house before she went there. Maybe, she could find Karl and cajole him. Though, her pathetic pleading hadn't done much to convince him before.
The funeral. How was she going to hold herself together without bawling through the whole thing?
To pass time, she searched her closet for something formal enough to wear. After rummaging through the tunics and skirts, she chose a purple dress---a shade of blackberry so dark---that it might pass for black. She imagined that she should be wearing white instead, something pure and spiritual to face the spirit after Virginia was lowered into the ground. But, it dawned on her that in some cultures, white was the color of death and mourning. It didn't matter what color she wore. She was going to need more than a pretty dress to deal with the next day's challenge.
After laying out her clothes for the next day, she felt the need to do another purification ritual. She took a container of salt out of her kitchen cupboard and sprinkled a circle around the perimeter of her house. Then, she burned a wand of sage, walking around each room to let the sanctimonious scent fill the air.
She paused by her front door as she realized that she was behaving as if her own home was possessed. Was she afraid that the spirit might visit her again in her dreams---or worse---attack her in her own home?
She realized that she had no idea what he was capable of and wished that she had a dog or a cat to alert her if any uninvited guest appeared.
More rest seemed to be the only answer to her anxiety. She curled up into a ball on her bed and decided to try to take a nap.
He can't kill me in a dream. Even if he tries, I'll know it's not real and I'll will myself awake.
But, as she drifted off and her thoughts grew fuzzy, she wasn't so sure.
She took deep breaths and inhaled the pungent scent of the sage smoke that still lingered in the air, wondering how Virginia had died. Had she run screaming out of the house with him on her heels? Had her heart simply exploded from fright or had he zapped her with some ray of ethereal evil?
She slept the rest of the day, waking every few hours to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. Then, she returned to her bed, determined to sleep some more and build her strength for the next day's battle. Opal the dragonslayer, charging in on a white horse...
Georgia stood behind Marsha as she smacked the death certificate and a small round key down onto the bank's counter.
Moments later, they sat down in plush leather chairs in front of a solid tank-like mahogany desk. Marsha squirmed and tapped her heel on the marble floor.
"You look more anxious than a three-year-old on Christmas morning. Do you really think there's going to be anything of value in her box? I wouldn't be surprised if Grammie gave most of her valuables away to the county animal shelter."
"We'll just have to see. The old bat might have tucked something away that we don't know about."
A minute later, Marsha surprised her by letting her take the box and open it. As she fumbled with the lock, she thought how much the little metal cylinder reminded her of a coffin pulled from a burial vault. Whatever was inside, it was a piece of Grammie just the same.
Inside, she found several small jewelry boxes and two envelopes. One was marked, "Georgia", and the other, "Marsha".
Marsha leapt out of her chair when she saw the envelope with her name. "Give me that!"
She tore it open, and began to speed-read it with a long fingernail tracing over the handwritten words. A second later, a smile burst across her face as wide as the Grand Canyon.
"What does it say?" Georgia asked.
"If she'd wanted us to share, there'd be one letter instead of two...don't you think?"
Georgia shook her head as she set her own letter down on her lap. Then, she flipped open the lids of the jewelry boxes. Inside, she found a small strand of pearls and sapphire earrings that she knew belonged to her great great grandmother, ElizabethCrawford, and a broach with small inset rubies in the pattern of a rose.
"Aren't you going to open yours?" Marsha prodded.
Georgia hesitated then slid her nail under the flap and sliced it open as she leaned away from Marsha's reach.
The first few lines brought tears to her eyes. They told her what a special granddaughter she was and that her grandmother had loved her very much.
She scanned through the rest of it, but gasped when she reached the last paragraph. Though most of the letter was typed and dated two years back, the last part was added in scribbled handwriting.
Georgia, my time now may be short, but please know that my last days have been enjoyable beyond words. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but you are the only one that I can trust to carry out my wishes. Please take our family home into your care...and take care of Alphonso. I know you'll understand soon. And...be careful. I knew he wasn't Henry before he told me...but I so enjoyed his company.
The last line after that stated where her Will could be found.
She laid the letter in her lap, then changed her mind and picked it up quickly before her sister could snatch it away. What did she mean...Henry...Alphonso? Henry was her dead grandfather. Perhaps Grammie had started the wording of the will before he had passed away. No. That didn't make sense. It was too many years ago. And she had no idea who Alphonso could be. Perhaps Grammie really had gone senile in the end?
"What does your letter say?" Marsha asked.
"If she'd meant us to share..."
Marsha sneered back at her. "Touché."
"She has a Will at the office of Erickson & Erickson."
"Great. We can go there next. Then, we can go to the house and start going through things."
Georgia wasn't as excited. The dung was really going to hit the fan when the lawyer revealed that the house had been left to her. She knew that Marsha might erupt into blasphemies. With her sister in tantrum mode, they weren't likely to feel like going through things in the house. But, she agreed to the plan just to keep the current peace.
A few minutes later, as they whipped out of the parking lot, she asked, "Do you know who Alphonso is?"
"Who?"
"Just somebody Grammie mentioned in her letter."
"Maybe it's that mangy cat she's been feeding."
"Hmmm...could be. I can't have cats in my apartment though."
"She left you the cat?"
"I don't know..."
A smirk bled across Marsha's face. "Is that all? If she didn't give you the house, then I suppose it's ours to sell and split..."
Georgia cast her eyes down.
"Shutup! She did give you the house, didn't she? Son of a..."
"Why would she give it you?" Georgia asked as she folded her arms across her chest and wished she could disappear. Her voice dwindled to a mumble. "You barely talked to her all these years even though you lived so close."
"Oh...and with you so far away...it's not like you were her church buddy every week. What the hell are you going to do with a house in the middle of Kansas?"
Georgia's eyes grew misty. She looked out the window, feigning interest in a group of kids on their way to school. Then, she braced her forehead onto her fist and closed her eyes.
"You're not thinking of moving back here are you? What would you do out here? It's not exactly a big market for fancy-shmancy paintings and statues."
"I didn't say I was considering it," she lied.
"I don't care what your letter said. You know you have to sell that house and split the money with me. It's the only fair thing."
"I don't know what I'm going to do. Until we read the Will, I'm not assuming anything. And you still haven't told me what she said in your letter."
Marsha's posture stiffened. "Let's just say that she apparently wanted to make some amends."
Cleaning up blood was hard work.
The spirit found rags in the hall closet upstairs and a bucket and cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. He muttered to himself as he scrubbed the wall next to the front door like a common servant.
The salesman had come to the door to peddle vacuum cleaners. He had cheerfully let him inside, allowing the man to loosen his tie and relax into the joyous prospect of a sale. Once the door closed behind him, the spirit leapt at the chance to absorb his energy.
In an odd turn of events, the wiry man's eyes bulged with fright during the process, and somehow he had been able to yank the door open behind him and get a foot through.
Still in his human form, the spirit cracked a fist on top of the man's head. Instead of the blow merely stunning him or rendering him unconscious, the man's skull shattered like a glass jug. Bright red blood, brain tissue, and shards of bone splashed across the foyer and all the way up to the ceiling.
He didn't understand it. He knew that he was becoming as strong as he had once been in his former life. But, that was a manly strength, born from hard labor in the gardens. He paused from his cleaning and looked down at his fist. Either, he was acquiring an unnatural strength, or the transfer of energy had weakened the shell of the man's body.
The curses he muttered as he cleaned up the mess would have shocked a sailor. But, he knew that it must be done. The last thing he wanted was for the property to be swarming with polizotto like it had been after Virginia's death.
In his former life, it would have been no trouble to explain to the men in starched uniforms that he had found an intruder in his home and had dispensed with him (in a messy, but justifiable way). But, in his present situation, he needed time to establish legitimate ownership of this domain. He had a plan already germinating in his mind to ensure it...
For now, he was certain that he had covered his bases. No one except the sun's gilded eye had witnessed him carrying the limp form over his shoulder as he trudged across the field or heard the splash as he rolled it down the bank. The man's body would be found far downstream, and it would look as if he had fallen in and bashed his head against a rock.
Though he had used his brute humanlike strength to carry the body out there, he had flitted back over the field to the house like a meandering wave of steam. If anyone had seen him one moment and not the next, perhaps they would think that they had seen a ghost?
He laughed at the thought. For, he could hardly be called a ghost anymore. The man's death had invigorated him further. The brilliant spark inside him now made his flesh so ruddy and plump, it almost looked as if he had spent the afternoon bathing in the sunshine. Indeed, if he snuffed the electric lights and stood in front of a mirror with only the warm glow of candles, one could not distinguish him from a mortal. And, perhaps, he was even ready to attempt a foray into town by night...if not by day?
As he scrubbed at the brownish splatters on the wall, his thoughts turned again to the murder of the paperboy and the salesman. Killing them hadn't required much forethought. It had been instinctual. Like an animal knowing how to hunt prey and devour its flesh, there was something about this new pseudo-body that craved human energy to fulfill its existence.
When his final time came again, he knew that he would go to hell this time for his murderous deeds and not some merely dismal black void, but he didn't care. He was beginning to feel strong now---almost invincible. He wondered if it was possible for him to live forever. Maybe...if he kept on killing and feeding on those beautiful sparks of life?
There were so many things that he longed to do in this lifetime. Sometimes, in his boredom, he pressed the button that turned on the picture machine in the parlor. The images he saw and things he learned about this new age were fantastico! The riches and indulgences that it depicted in its stories and advertisements only whetted his appetite all the more for all the things that he would achieve in this lifetime.
He had pressed Virginia continuously for details about the new electronic devices, politics, war, and transportation.
One day, he hoped to sit behind the wheel of a new fast car. He couldn't imagine the thrill of driving sixty miles an hour! No horse and buggy or early motorcar could have come close to that speed.
WilliamCrawford...if you could see me now! The old patriarch's rotten bones were still in the grave, while he, AlphonsoGiovanni, enjoyed the fruits of his labors and progeny. The reversed fortunes were laughable.
After finishing his cleaning, he lay back on the couch in the parlor with his hands behind his head and said out loud, "Now, Master Crawford---I am the master of your house and you rot somewhere in your grave."
A minute later, a whiff of perfume tickled his nostrils. It was the same sweetness that he had smelled before. He thought about the dark-haired woman again. Was it her lingering scent?
When will you come back to me, mio carmella?
He closed his eyes as he inhaled the sweet perfume and dreamt of the rose garden in its heyday. The mere memory of the countless hours that he had spent in its lush feminine scents had increased his libido. He regretted that he had never had the opportunity to take anything more than soft kisses from his beloved Margaret before she died. Many times, he had fantasized about ripping off her cotton dress underneath the brambles of a luscious pink rose bush in the back of the gardens. If she had allowed him, he could have had at least a few precious moments to partake of her fruits. And, wouldn't her father have been disappointed to find out that the gardener had soiled his most precious flower?
The spirit startled awake from his fantasy as he heard a key turning in the front door.
Ahhh...bellissimo. She's here...
"I still can't believe she gave you this whole stinkin' place!" Marsha said as Georgia pushed open the heavy door to their grandmother's house.
"I didn't write the will," Georgia said in her defense. "I never asked her for the house."
"Really? Because, I'm guessing that you made some secret deal with her this summer after you realized that she was going senile."
Georgia stopped just inside the foyer of the house and turned to glare at her sister. "And maybe you've got some weird paranoia thing going on?"
Marsha's mouth gaped open as she looked into the living room. "What's that?" she asked as she pointed to the coffee table.
She looked over her sister's shoulder at a half-eaten pie on top of a crocheted doily beside an empty glass. As she walked towards it, several flies flitted into the air. "Euggh!" she said as she saw a film of green mold on top of the remains of the uneaten cherry filling. Georgia wondered if it was the same pie that had disappeared from the porch steps? If it was, there hadn't been enough time for it to get moldy. And who had brought it in there?
She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Marsha grimaced. "Gross. Where did that come from?"
She picked it up and took it to the kitchen trashcan. "I don't know, but it's kind of weird. Annie gave me a pie just like this on Saturday when I stopped by. I put it on the porch steps, but it disappeared before I left."
"Well, it looks like we may have had a pie-stealing burglar around. The Dalton County Sentinel said that a few houses were broken into this summer. God, I hope nothing is missing! I'll have a look upstairs. You check down here."
Before Georgia could reply, she darted up the staircase. Splitting up wasn't the plan, she thought. They were supposed to go around the house together and make joint decisions about who would get what. Grammie had given her the house, but left the smaller things for them to haggle out between themselves.
She walked back to the coffee table and sniffed the empty glass. Gin again! She wondered if a kid or vagrant had been using the empty house as his home for the last few days, because this time, it certainly couldn't have been Grammie's drink! The proximity of the house to nearby railroad tracks made the theory of a vagabond intruder more plausible.
The thought that someone had been in Grammie's house making themself at home made her angry instead of frightened. You just didn't expect that sort of thing in the country. People here slept with their windows open at night and left their doors unlocked.
She had never experienced a breakin during her years in New York, but she had once been mugged. To this day, she still regretted that she froze and let the unshaven foul-mouthed crook run off with her purse. In hindsight, she wished that she had knocked the gun, which was probably fake, out of his hands and kicked him square in the center of his universe. If a similar situation ever arose, she swore that she would fight back.
With her guard raised, she made a quick glance around the living room. Nothing else seemed out of place. But, she could tell that someone had been lying on the couch. One of the throw pillows was out of place, and there was a round indentation on it where it looked like someone's head had recently lain.
She walked over to the pillow and felt it and the couch where there was a remaining impression of a body. They were both cool to the touch.
As she looked around the main floor, she almost wished that the intruder was still hiding somewhere in the house, so she could give him a piece of her mind.
A couple of minutes later, she heard the sound of the wood floor creak in the hallway upstairs. Then, she heard her sister opening and closing doors and drawers in the master bedroom.
"Everything alright up there?"
"I've got it covered," Marsha yelled back. "If you haven't found anything down there, go check out the basement."
Who had made her Inspector in Charge? But, wanting to make sure that the house was secure, she conceded to the command to keep looking. As she walked past the dining table into the kitchen, she tensed again with both hands balled up into fists. Seeing no one, she peered into the pantry and into a few drawers before noticing that the knife was no longer in the sink.
She glanced around the counter tops and didn't see it. It made her uneasy.
In the library, there was another curiosity. A couple dozen books were pulled out from the shelves as if someone had briefly looked at them and then not pushed them back in.
She had a reluctant hand on the basement doorknob a few seconds later when she heard Marsha's heels stomp down the staircase.
"So, everything's okay up there?" she asked as they met in the kitchen.
"Yup. I don't think anything's missing. Maybe we just had a vagrant. It's shocking that they didn't steal anything."
Georgia had a new theory. "Or, maybe good old Fred next door snuck over here to pig out on pie and snatch a drink out of sight and earshot from Annie?"
Marsha laughed so hard, a snort came out. She covered her mouth with her manicured nails.
"So, what do you want?" Georgia dared to ask.
"Just a few small things. I found some jewelry upstairs, and I want the silver from the china cabinet."
"Just the things of value, I'm sure. You're really not interested in all of these antiques?" Georgia asked as she gestured at the furniture around the room. She knew that some of them were as old as the house itself, if not older.
"You can have those. I don't care much for that crotchety stuff."
"Well, I guess I'll empty the refrigerator and see what else needs to be done before we leave."
"Fine. Don't take too long though. I've got to get back to the salon. I'll wait for you in the truck," Marsha said. Then, she turned around and went out the front door slamming it behind her.
Georgia sighed, thinking how nice it would be to slip her sister one of her little yellow bricks. The woman could certainly use some calming. Maybe, she needed to lay off the caffeine.
As she headed for the refrigerator, she became aware of the smell of something sweet. The floral scent was pleasant, but puzzling. At first it reminded her of perfume, but as she inhaled more of its subtle complexity, she guessed that it was coming into the house from the gardens. Although, her nose detected the mingled scents of roses, honeysuckle, and lilacs that she knew didn't bloom at this time of year. The sweetness of the air reminded her of her grandmother hard at work among the blooms with her gloves and pruners on a sunny summer day.
Oh, Grammie. What should I do? I love this house---the garden---the memories.
She began to unload the food, dumping anything that looked bad down the disposal and saving a few things to take to Marsha's. She decided to take her time. Her pouty sister could wait a few minutes as she took care of things that needed to be done.
When she finished sorting and dumping, she stepped into the pantry to look for a bag to carry some of the jars and containers of food. But, she paused as a strange sensation came over her. There was the feeling of warm breath on the back of her neck.
As she whipped around, she saw nothing but the kitchen table behind her. She chided herself for her jumpiness. What's the matter with me? Hot flashes already? I'm not quite ready for that.
Then, just as quickly as it had come on, the feeling was gone. She stiffened as she took a stack of paper bags into the kitchen. She was almost finished loading the last of them with a jar of pickles and a package of butter when she heard a scratching sound coming from the back door.
She went over to the door and peered through the lace curtains down to the stoop on the back patio. There she saw a most unusual creature peering back up at her. The enormous tabby cat with eyes the color of pumpkins let out a piercing howl.
After a moment's hesitation, she unlocked the door and opened it.
"Poor kitty. You must be hungry. Poor Alphonso."
The cat rushed in the door and swirled around her legs, covering her slacks with its fur. It howled as it looked up at her with its unusual pleading eyes.
"You must be hungry. I'll..."
But, as she stepped towards the kitchen to look for some food, the cat stopped its tornado around her and arched its back. It growled and hissed in her direction.
"Sour puss! I'm just getting you something to eat."
But, the cat seemed to be staring at something beyond her. She followed its gaze to the corner between the sideboard and the old wood burning stove just past the table.
There was nothing there. But, wait...was there?
Unblinking, she stared at the corner where the two walls met. There was an odd-shaped shadow there. It was tall and thin, and didn't seem to be cast from the lace-draped window.
Then, she was certain that she saw it move.
The cat let out a wail and bared its sharp teeth.
"Grammie? Is that you?" Georgia wasn't certain that she believed in ghosts, but if it was a ghost...she knew that it had to be her grandmother. The thought was both thrilling and unnerving at the same time.
Then, in a blink of an eye, the shadow dissolved, and she found herself staring at the vining tendrils and blooms on the floral wallpaper as the cat darted out the door.
Georgia decided that the rest of the refrigerator cleaning could wait until later. She ran upstairs and grabbed some photos off her grandmother's dresser to put out for the funeral. Then, she left in a hurry, not realizing that her purse was still sitting on the dining table.
Opal did not need an alarm clock to get out of bed the next morning. When the first rays of sunlight fell across her body in golden stripes, they might as well have been clanging pots and pans. She bolted up upright, her heart pounding as she remembered the day's agenda.
As she raced to get ready for Virginia's funeral, she worried about the stir that her presence might cause there. In a small town like Calathia, where everybody knows everybody, you still couldn't be sure just what relationship everyone had with each other. A husband couldn't be too sure just how well his wife knew the cute butcher at County General or the flirtatious mailman. Whispered gossip was just about as common as brown patties in a cow field.
But, Opal knew one thing was for sure about this tight knit community, anyone who knew her name also knew her profession. That point was driven home when she visited Father O'Dell. So, she knew that at the funeral there were sure to be questions about how she knew Virginia and speculations if she didn't answer the question promptly.
She pinned her long salt and pepper hair up into a bun, then put on the dress that she had chosen the day before. The finishing touch was a black silk hat with a mesh veil that covered her eyes, though she knew that it wasn't much of a disguise. Her figure wasn't subtle enough to blend in with the dozens of petite old ladies that were sure to be the majority of the attendants. Anyone who knew her would surely be able to peg her from behind just by seeing her potato-shaped rump.
After glancing up at the clock, she chided herself for all the fussing over her wardrobe and hair. She wasn't going to a beauty pageant. She probably shouldn't be wearing anything nice at all, because she certainly wouldn't be trying to impress the spirit---she'd be trying to banish him back to hell.
When she pulled into the parking lot, there were already plenty of cars there. She tried not to look at the long black hearse next to the curb, waiting to take Virginia on her very last ride.
After parking at the back end of the lot to make a quick escape before the line up behind the hearse, she stepped out, put on a pair of black sunglasses, and looked up at the blue sky. The few wispy clouds clinging to the sea above did little to block out the sun's hot glow.
It's a nice day for a funeral...if there is such a thing, she thought.
As she walked past the rows of cars, she saw a dark blue sedan. It looked like the same one she had seen parked at the Blake house. She hoped she could find out who the owner was with a little snooping.
She slipped inside and saw at least two-dozen people in the chapel, some of them milling around and chatting, and others were already seated staring straight ahead at the open casket at the front of the room. No one said anything to her as she made her way into the room and positioned her backside against a wall, trying to be invisible.
She registered the faces and names of people that she knew, but her eyes kept going back to the coffin. Though, several mourners approached it with bowed heads, most of them seemed to be chatting with each other and delaying its acknowledgement.
It felt like the big black hole in the room, sucking all of the energy from her insides. After another moment, she let it pull her in and demand her reverence.
A tear glistened underneath her eye as she looked at the small prone form dressed in a pastel floral suit with a creamy antique lace trim at the collar. She seemed to have shrunk since she had last seen her alive in the grocery store. Opal thought she looked more like an oversized china doll than a person who had been living and breathing just a few days before. Her features looked abnormally pale with an artificial orangey blush, and her white hair was brushed up high on her forehead. With her closed eyes and rosy lips almost curved up into a smile, it seemed that she was just napping and perhaps dreaming of a sunny day in her garden.
"I'm sorry, Virginia," she whispered. "I never meant any harm to come to you. Whatever that bastard did to you, I promise to give him his due and send him back to hell."
She paused as a short woman, limping along with a cane, approached and held the rest of her penitent thoughts inside.
"She looks lovely, doesn't she?"
Opal nodded as she wiped away another tear.
"Yes," the woman said. "I've known her since we were children. I'll never forget her."
Over her shoulder, Opal saw a woman with dark cropped hair talking to a younger bleached blonde near the entrance, greeting the late attendants as they arrived.
"Yes. She was a wonderful woman. Say, who are those two ladies at the door?"
"Virginia's granddaughters...Marsha and Georgia."
She looked at the profile of Georgia's face and short hair. Was that the owner of the sedan that she had seen out at the house? "Thank God she's alright!"
"What?" The woman asked.
"I'm sorry," Opal said. "Please excuse me." She walked away as if intending to go speak to the sisters at the door. But instead, she went to the last row of chairs, and sat down. As she buried her head in her hands to keep the guests from seeing her melt down into a puddle of tears, she hoped that they would all mind their own business and leave her alone.
She got her wish, because she was still sitting alone a few minutes later. When she was able to dam the flow of misery leaking down her cheeks, she raised her head and wiped her face dry, noticing that more than a few of the seated ladies were dabbing their eyes with hankies as well.
Her mind vacillated between the horrifying image of Virginia's dead body lying at the front of the room and the terrible encounter with the supernatural that she would be having within the next couple of hours.
She hoped that she had remembered to pack the holy water and the sage wand back in her bag. Last night, she had held them in her hand as she rehearsed Bible passages that she hoped would give her some protection from the spirit.
As she mumbled the memorized verses of scripture under her breath, she glanced out a side window towards the parking lot and saw Karl's car turning in.
Good. I'll work on him again. He can't possibly let me go alone if I can make him understand what I saw in the window.
But, somehow, the thought of having an armed deputy at her side was not all that comforting. What good would a gun do? A trained exorcist would be a better bodyguard.
Knowing that wasn't an option, she focused her mind on her rehearsed Bible verses. If things went badly, she figured that it would be nice to have her own coffin look as pretty as Virginia's.
The spirit had not rifled through a woman's purse since his days of picking pockets. This time, he found something more interesting inside than a few dollars and coins.
Georgia.
He rolled the name off his tongue again and again as he held her driver's license in his hand and looked at the small photo. It was a beautiful name---much more beautiful than 'Margaret' he had to admit.
GeorgiaMcKenna from New York City.
He remembered that Virginia had spoken to her over the phone several times and that she was one of Virginia's granddaughters.
When he thought of the other one, Marsha, his lip curled. Her sharp voice grated on his ears when she had been at the house yesterday, rummaging through things with the fury of a cyclone. She seemed to have been searching for something, but he had no clue what it was.
Had she come to this house alone, he would have inhaled every last vapor of her overcharged core.
He returned to his examination of the purse's contents and fingered the small white calling card that said she was the owner of an art gallery called, "Masquerade". How very cosmopolitan.
There was definitely a modern city-wise sharpness to her dress and demeanor, but he was sure that she had soft spots on the inside. Everybody had a weak spot somewhere in their external armor. It was just a matter of finding the sweet way in.
He did not know when she might return, but he had an idea for a little research that might help him make a good impression when he made his introduction.
Setting the purse aside, he went to the library to search for all of the books about art that he could find. After skimming through some chapters on modern developments in Contemporary Art, he doubled over in laughter. Looking at some of the abstract monstrosities depicted, he realized that the world had become less refined in the last century. It seemed that people were impressed with anything novel, no matter how absurd.
Georgia, however, didn't seem like the type to be impressed by artwork that looked like it had been created by a monkey tossing paint on a canvas. There was a seriousness about her---a sadness even. He surmised that it might have something to do with the business card he found for her divorce attorney.
Ahh...a possible chink in the armor.
From the simple contents of her purse, he had divined her name, age, profession, and marital status. That was enough information for him to find a method of seduction.
Knowing that she was in the business of art, it was a shame that he didn't know how to paint like a Botticelli or Raphael. He knew that such mastery included being blessed with a level of skill and talent that he knew he couldn't learn even with a tenth lifetime of study. But, he had many other skills that might serve him just as well. He was a fast learner, adept at self-promotion, and tenacious. And of course, he knew how to woo a woman.
His first task had to be the removal of his bloody formal attire in exchange for something more modern.
He descended down into the basement and went to the back room. In the closet, he found hangers full of men's clothes that had belonged to Virginia's dead husband.
He took off the tall black hat and coat tails. Then, he loosened his cravat. As he unbuttoned his vest, he grimaced at the dark brown bloodstain on his white shirt. Virginia had never questioned him about it, but the woman had been blind with love.
He took off the white cotton shirt and stood bare-chested in front of a mottled mirror on the wall as he examined the wound. The fatal injury was small and covered with a thin membrane of scar tissue, but he was sure that it wouldn't heal completely unless the bullet was removed.
Me ne frego. I don't give a damn. It has to be done.
He braced himself, took a deep breath of air into his lungs then plunged his fingers inside. The pain was excruciating---his howl made the basement windows rattle in their frames.
After a moment of fishing with fingers that felt like burning hooks inside his flesh, he latched onto the cold metal cylinder and pulled it out. But, his screams did not subside until the pain lessened and his panting stopped.
When he recovered from the ordeal, he held the twisted piece of metal before his eyes. Though, he hadn't seen his assailant, he didn't need an expert to tell him what gun it had come from or who had pulled the trigger, firing from behind him like a coward.
He returned to the care of his open wound, surprised that no blood came out of it. Indeed, it seemed that the hole was already beginning to close in and heal itself. But, the crude surgery seemed to have dredged up a stronger stench of earth and decay from his insides. He winced at the pungency emanating from his body. Its aromatic tendrils seemed to float around him in the air like an incense of death.
As he rifled through the clothes in the closet, he saw that they were all of a large or extra large cut. His tall, but lithe, frame was no match for the size of Virginia's former husband. But, finally, after a few moments of searching, he found some things that he thought would do.
He put on a pair of long tan trousers and rolled up the cuffs so they wouldn't drag on the ground. Then, he took the smallest white t-shirt out and put it on, tucking it inside the waistband.
There were several pairs of suspenders dangling from a hanger. Though he needed something to hold the pants up on his taut smaller waist, he knew that those implements were passé in this generation.
No, he thought as he rubbed the soft brown whiskers on his chin, I need something a little more modern.
He found a wide black leather belt underneath the tangle of suspenders and pulled it on, tightening it against his belly.
For shoes, he decided to wear his boots. They fit his feet perfectly and looked passable enough for the times.
After putting them back on, he ran his fingers through his long brown hair and stepped over to the mirror. "Buongiorno," he said as he admired his transformation. His green eyes twinkled back at him as he winked at his own handsome image.
He rubbed over the whiskers on his chin. The goatee could stay, but it needed a bit of a trim.
Before he left the room, he stowed his old suit and tails along with his tall black hat in the back of the closet behind some boxes. Then, he grabbed a gray tweed cap from the top shelf, beat it with one hand to knock off the dust and placed it on top of his head.
One more quick look in the mirror confirmed its dapper addition to his new look.
Then, he went back upstairs to search for some gauze bandages to cover the wound in case it oozed any fluids, a razor, and perhaps some cologne.
Georgia stood in the doorway next to her sister, greeting the guests. In between handshakes, hugs, and the flow of condolences, she smoothed down the wrinkles in her tailored black linen dress. Paired with sheer black nylons, it was an outfit that she usually reserved for art gallery showings---now it seemed a shame to dress so chic for such a sad occasion.
She had refrained on commenting on the ostentatious color of Marsha's attire. Her sister was dressed in a hot pink suit with militant shoulder pads that looked like a relic from the 1980's, and the short strand of oversized black beads around her neck only added unneeded punctuation to the costume. Her animated gestures and lighthearted banter with the guests did nothing to further the belief that she was in mourning.
She was sure that the two of them looked like a comic duo as the conservative townspeople entered.
As they waited for the last of the guests to arrive, a dour-faced woman in a dated polyester dress set up more chairs as Marsha's husband talked to the funeral director. Clarissa sat kicking her feet back and forth and picking at the bow in her hair while her younger brother chased a giggling boy around the rows. At least two-dozen people were already seated, and a few faces looked familiar to her.
In between arrivals, she looked up at the front of the room, pleased with the stunning array of roses. The pink, white, and scarlet bouquets adorned with fern leaves and Baby's Breath, were breathtaking. It seemed a shame that Grammie couldn't see how beautiful they all were.
Then, her attention turned to the glossy cherry wood casket. The lid was open, revealing the profile of her grandmother's face. From this distance, she looked as peaceful as a sleeping princess.
She filled her lungs with a deep breath of the perfumed air before excusing herself and daring to approach her grandmother's body again.
The first time that morning when she had approached the casket, she had been unable to look inside without unleashing a river of tears. This time, she did her best to maintain her composure, knowing that it might be the last time that she ever got a glimpse of her grandmother. I can't believe it, Grammy. You weren't supposed to go yet. I really was meaning to make it out here sooner. I'm so sorry...
Her silent questions flowed like water. What were you doing out there so late at night? Were you looking for that cat? Did something frighten you? Why didn't you go to Annie's for help? Georgia grasped the cold white hand. It felt like soft, cool marble and gave her no clues to her questions.
Then, she stepped back a couple of feet, shutting her eyes and trying to emblazon the picture of her grandmother's face on her mind forever.
Someone touched the back of her shoulder, and she jumped.
When she turned, she found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. They were as clear and sparkling as the depressingly cheerful morning sky. Her mouth hung open to say hello, but the word lodged in her throat.
"Officer Bauer!" Marsha interrupted from behind, looking sheepish as if he might have shown up just to arrest her.
"Marsha---" he nodded with a glance. "Georgia---" he nodded again as he looked into her eyes and clasped her hand in his. "I had some time off this morning and came to pay my respects. Your grandmother was a fine woman."
Georgia admired the way he looked in his charcoal suit with a burgundy tie. It was a different shade of handsome from the tight tan uniform she had seen him in the day before. "It's very kind of you to take the time. I'm sure you must be very busy... protecting the town and all." That sounded dumb, she thought.
He released her hand. "Well, if I haven't said so already, I'm very sorry for your loss. I know this is very difficult for the both of you." He looked over at Marsha and squeezed her upper arm as he walked past them and sat down in a chair.
"What a nice guy," Georgia whispered as she saw Annie and FredBirmann at the door.
Marsha scowled and then forged a smile as they went to greet their grandmother's neighbors.
Annie hugged them both at the same time as Fred stood behind her, looking uncomfortable in his starched suit and slicked back hair.
"This is hard," Annie said as she released them to search for a tissue in her pillbox purse.
After a few more tearful exchanges, they took their seats, and Georgia turned to greet the next arrivals, members of the Calathia Ladies' Garden Club. They both wore black straw hats with silk roses trimming the brim.
"My condolences, sweetie," the taller one said as she squeezed Georgia with arms much too powerful for a woman who appeared to be at least sixty-five.
The other woman had lavender hair tucked up under her hat, spun up into a bun, looking much like a wig of cotton candy. "Virginia had the best garden in town. It's a real loss to all of us."
A few seconds later, Vivaldi played softly around them.
Georgia saw two last arrivals hurrying to make it in before the service started. A young woman in her twenties pushed a wheelchair with an older redheaded lady, barely out of her fifties, wearing a midnight blue sweat suit with a cast on her right leg.
"Sorry about my chariot here. Broke my leg out in Sedona. I'm so sorry about Virginia. She was one helluva gardener; I'll tell you that. She taught me a thing or two about getting rid of my aphids...and just between you and me..." she whispered to Georgia "...she was a much better president than that Millie woman we got now and..."
Georgia followed Marsha's eyes to the Pastor who was walking towards the podium at the front of the room.
Her daughter rolled her eyes and smiled her apologies. Then, she edged the wheelchair forward.
"I'll talk to you two later. Maybe you can come by sometime this week and I'll show you what Virginia helped me do out back. She sure was kind to..." Her voice faded away as the young woman pushed her charge toward the back of the rows of chairs.
Marsha gestured for Georgia to lean in closer. Then, she whispered, "I can see now why Grammie quit."
For once, she agreed with her sister.
As they took their seats in the full room, it seemed that everyone from Grammie's postman to the local grocery manager had heard the news and came to say their last farewell.
The service went as planned and Georgia read her eulogy, cursing herself for the tears that fell onto her notes as she spoke. Several people raised their hands when the Pastor asked if anyone else had any words to add. A couple of people stood from their seats and spoke of VirginiaBlake's generosity or her love of gardening. But, Georgia was stunned when the woman in the wheelchair wrenched herself free from her daughter's grasp and wheeled herself up to the front of the room.
"Well...I just want to say that I'm damn mad!" the red-haired woman shouted as she pounded a fist in the air.
Georgia's mouth gaped open as she heard gasps across the room.
"I loved this woman, but she shut me out and a lot of other people in her last days. First, she quit the garden club. Then, she wouldn't let nobody come to her house, and wouldn't go to anyone else's. And, if you knocked on her door...she wouldn't even answer."
There were murmurs and a few nods.
"If she knew her days were drawing to an end...why didn't she let us spend time with her?" She shook her fist at the open coffin. "She just shut herself up and wouldn't let anybody in." Then, she buried her head in her hands and the tears began to flow. "All of my petunias died this summer. I planted a whole bed out front by the drive. I didn't trust anyone's advice but hers...and they died...and she died...and it's just not fair!" Her sobs disintegrated into a caterwauling bawl.
Her daughter walked up to the front of the room and knelt beside the wheelchair. "Mom...it's okay...that's enough. Let's let someone else..."
The woman flung her arm away, rejecting the assistance and wheeled herself to the back of the room where she sat and sobbed as the Pastor assumed the podium and regained control.
"A lot of anger often goes with death. We wonder why our loved ones left us..."
\*\*\*\*\*
A half an hour later when the service was over, Georgia's eyes were red and swollen. The crowd abandoned their chairs and mulled around, waiting for the journey to the cemetery.
KarlBauer approached her. "It was a very beautiful service," he said as he looked down at the flashing red light on the pager on his hip. "Unfortunately, I can't make it to the cemetery---I've got to go. Deputy Ingram will be here in a few minutes to lead the procession."
Georgia wondered why the other deputy couldn't respond to the page. Maybe it was personal. Perhaps KarlBauer had a wife at home who couldn't wait any longer for him to bring home a quart of orange juice and a package of diapers. Out of habit, she resorted to using The Smile. "Thank you for coming, Deputy."
"Please", he said. "I'm not on duty. Call me Karl..." He took her hand and held her gaze just long enough to make her heart start to quiver.
"My condolences, again," he said as he backed away and almost fell backwards down the stone steps to the first landing.
She rubbed her stinging eyes as she watched him go. Her throat felt dry and scratchy, and she was relieved to see Marsha and Clarissa standing near a water cooler. She walked up to them and filled a paper cup.
"Well...that went mostly well," Georgia said.
"Except for the near riot to get the raging invalid off the stage," Marsha whispered.
Georgia's tongue spoke of its own accord. "I suppose you'll be relieved when Grammie's six feet under---"
"That was uncalled for."
"I'm sorry. I'm still a little shaken up."
"I know," Marsha said, sounding like she meant it.
Neither of them paid any attention to Clarissa who had sunk down to the floor. She held a paper cup in her hands, twisting and tearing the paper apart into tiny pieces, watching them fall like snow to the carpet.
"I didn't sleep good last night either. I had weird dreams."
"The old dream?"
She was surprised that Marsha remembered. She hadn't spoken of the nightmare for years. "No. Actually, the one I vaguely remember was about my ex."
"That's not surprising. Divorce can be pretty traumatic. It might take you years to get over it..."
She refrained from making any comment about Marsha's lack of expertise in psychology.
"I hear plenty of stories at the shop. You'd think a small town like this would have a lower divorce rate, but...everybody knows everybody...so it's easy to get to know your neighbor's wife a little too well or...even some annoying, but attractive man on the town's police force." Marsha nudged her elbow into Georgia's side and winked.
"Ow..." she said as she rubbed her hip. "That hurt."
A woman approached and interrupted them. Her face looked red and swollen and several hankies were balled up in her hand. "I'm sorry. I'm not going to be able to go to the cemetery. My Terrier is ill, and I have to give her medicine every other hour."
The mention of the dog made Georgia think of the cat at Grammie's house. After the woman left, she turned to Marsha. "That cat of Grammie's...Alphonso...I wonder if he's been getting into the house and..."
"You think he's the one who's been eating pie?"
Before Georgia could reply, Clarissa stood up and tugged on the hem of her dress. "Aunt Gorgie..."
"Shush!" Marsha scolded. "The adults are talking."
But, the little girl persisted. "AunnnttGorrggie..." she whined with more insistence.
"Yeah. He's a cat burglar. Get it?" Marsha said.
Georgia moaned.
Clarissa stomped her feet. "Mommm...AunnnttGorgggie... please."
Marsha glared and seemed about to get physical. Georgia held up her hand to allay Marsha's fury. Then, she bent down and patted Clarissa on the head. "What is it sugar? I'm sorry".
"His name is Max."
"Who?"
"I was over there when she found him. Grammie let me name him. I named him after a boy named Maximillian in a story I read..."
"Who are you talking about?" Marsha asked.
"The cat," Clarissa said. "The big one with the striped fur and the big orange eyes. He's my friend."
Georgia gave the girl her full attention. "Oh, the stray. His name is Max? How long ago did you find him?"
"Just before school started. Grammie found him by the river. We got him some food, and he decided to stay and live with her...at least sometimes."
"He certainly doesn't look like a starving stray. He must weigh a ton," Marsha said.
Georgia glared at her sister. "I thought you didn't know anything about him?"
Marsha didn't answer. She turned away and shook the hand of an elderly man as he passed by and gave his condolences.
"Well then, do you know who Alphonso is?" Georgia asked as she leaned down closer to her niece's apple-like cheeks.
Clarissa didn't answer. She pursed her lips together and returned to her mother's side, hanging on with her head hung low and stuck the tip of her thumb in her mouth.
Marsha said, "She gets like that sometimes. She's all for the attention one minute, then shy as she can be the next."
\*\*\*\*\*
Shortly after that, the cars in the parking lot began to line up behind the hearse. When they reached the Dalton County Cemetery, the sun blazed like a white-hot coal over their heads. It was a hot day with temperatures swelling to a high of nearly ninety, and it only took a couple of seconds after stepping out of her air-conditioned car for beads of sweat to appear on Georgia's forehead.
The kids followed her along with the crowd and the coffin to the back of the property in silence.
She liked the spot her grandmother had reserved next to Grandpa Blake's grave. It was sheltered by the burly arms of an aging ash tree where she was sure to get her fair share of visits from birds and squirrels.
The Pastor began with Psalm 23, the Lord's Prayer. She listened...and yet didn't. As she fought back the tears, she wondered if she should have skipped the burial. It was just too much.
"...though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me..."
Fear no evil. Fear no evil.
The words burned into her like a glowing hot brand. Had Grammie felt any fear on her last night on earth? Did someone frighten her? Push her heart over the edge? She took a tissue from her purse and dabbed the moisture from her cheeks as she looked down at the rose wreath on top of the coffin. It looked too beautiful to mark the cold dark place in the ground where Grammie would spend eternity.
When the pastor finished speaking, she stepped forward and placed a long-stemmed red rose on top of the casket.
Her eyes blurred as the crowd broke up, making it seem as if she was standing in a cloud of fog instead of out in the open on a bright sunny day.
As the garden club member with the straw hat and lavender hair embraced her, Georgia noticed a heavyset woman dressed in a dark eggplant-colored dress breaking away from the crowd and working her way towards the parking lot as if she had a fire to get to in a hurry. Georgia could only see her round-rimmed hat and the black netting that obscured the profile of her face. She hadn't noticed the woman at the service.
"Who is that?" she asked, pointing a finger.
The woman whispered into her ear. "That's Opal Peabody, the town psychic...and nutcase if you ask me."
"How did she know my grandmother?"
She shrugged. "Beats me. She's a kook...into all that morbid afterlife stuff. Maybe she just likes to attend funerals."
Opal was glad that she'd taken the time to attend Virginia's funeral and make her apologies to her face to face. If she hadn't done it, she was sure that Virginia would have haunted her in her dreams.
As she hurried to find her white Cadillac in the parking lot, she knew this might be the only opportunity she was going to get to go by Virginia's house and deal with the spirit without anyone else in harm's way. It was just a shame that she hadn't been able to convince Karl to go with her.
Once inside her car, she slammed the door shut and shoved the keys in the ignition in one smooth motion. The pewter cross dangling from her rearview mirror swung in a circular dance as she whipped into reverse and skidded out of the parking lot.
A few minutes later, she found herself on County Line Road, creeping towards the house, inch by inch.
The house looked even more different than it did on her last visit. Its appearance had grown ominous. The lawn was tall and scraggly with mounds of crabgrass waving their victorious seed heads in the breeze. Weeds dotted the gravel driveway, and there were dead flowers in the pots on the porch. The windows seemed darker with all of the draperies pulled shut, and large flakes of paint were peeling off the wood trim. It was as if the house was rapidly decaying in the absence of Virginia's care.
She wondered if Georgia or her sister had noticed the change in the house, even if they were unaware of its otherworldly occupant.
Her thoughts meandered as she paused at the end of the driveway. She had learned to size people up when she did tarot readings and had watched Georgia talk to people at the funeral and cemetery. Opal sensed fragility in her. She appeared to be stone on the outside, but her insides seemed hollow as if someone had done her wrong and scooped out her inner essence piece by piece.
If a trained psychic like herself was having trouble dealing with a supernatural aberration, she knew that Georgia wouldn't hold up long against it.
It took a lot of mental prodding to get her to roll her tires over the crunchy gravel and pull up next to the porch. She did it with one eye on the house at all times, expecting the spirit to appear in a window at any moment and incinerate her with a burst of flame.
When she stopped and turned off the ignition, she wondered at the heaviness of the silence surrounding the house. Outside, there were no birds chirping and no wind gusts to make the trees dance. It was as if nature itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
She took the bobby pins out that held the soft black hat and veil to her hair. Then, she took off her heels and traded them for a pair of sneakers before grabbing her bag and stepping out of the car.
As she willed herself to walk towards the house, she wondered who would take care of the house now that it lay empty.
But, was it empty? She stiffened as she doubted that the owner of the demonic glowing eyes that she had seen in the window before had given up their residence.
The fine prickles of hair on her arms stood up on the alert. Despite the stillness...she knew that she was not alone as she stepped onto the porch. She could feel his presence.
There was a moment's hesitation as she felt underneath the welcome mat for a key. But, all she found was a brown hairy spider that scampered away between her feet.
She looked under the chicken pot with no better luck, though she saw a groove in the wood where one had apparently been for many years.
Maybe this is a bad idea, she thought as she shielded her eyes from the blazing sun reflecting off the lawn. The house was giving her such a bad vibe that she considered hightailing it out of there.
Then, her conscience spoke up like a brash little angel whispering in her ear. When will you have another chance to find out what happened to Virginia? If the spirit is still here, how will you get rid of him if you don't know what you're dealing with? What if he kills someone else? It will be all your fault!
She pulled the pewter cross out of her bag and leaned it up against her chest, whispering a prayer before she put her hand on the doorknob and gave it a twist. To her surprise, it was unlocked.
\*\*\*\*\*
The house was as dark as night inside. With the heavy closed drapery, it was much too tomblike for her comfort. Her unease deepened, as she smelled a dank mustiness underlain with a low note of something sickly sweet.
She reached for the light switch on the wall in the foyer and flicked it up and down three times before a soft golden glow appeared in the fixture above her head.
As she clenched the cross more tightly to her, she realized that the presence of decay that she had felt outside was magnified in the house. It was unsettling, causing a sour feeling in the depths of her stomach. Someone...something...was definitely here with her, and she knew that she was entering the lair of some great phantasmal beast.
"I know you're in here," she whispered.
A whistling hiss sounded on the far side of the living room. She jumped and stumbled backwards, nearly knocking a lamp over on a small table.
"Buon giorno, Signora. Or, should I say buona sera?" a man's voice boomed out.
Her fingernails dug into the wood edge of the table. With the small light on above her, she was spotlighted in its glow like an actress on stage, but she could not see the source of the voice in the dark recesses of the parlor.
After a moment of fumbling, she found the switch on the lamp behind her and turned it on. The stained glass panes on its shade cast a faint red, blue, and yellow tinted light a few feet in front of her, but not enough to see clearly into the gloom.
The room looked empty at first. Everything seemed just as she remembered it before---the green velvet sofa and matching chairs, the wood coffee table, the large rectangular Oriental rug, and the heavy burgundy curtains.
Wait...was that a column of gray smoke developing in the center of the room?
Forgetting all of her practiced Bible verses, she screamed.
She prepared for the worst as she imagined a demon with blazing eyes and horns on top of his head. Or, would he appear as the handsome man with flaming coal-like eyes wearing the odd formal wear with a tall black hat?
But, the apparition didn't materialize.
Instead, the smoke began to form a thin horizontal ribbon. Then, it swirled around the room like a darting water snake. A few times, as she blinked, she thought she saw the form of a man standing before her instead of the agitated mist.
She forced herself to speak again, her voice cracking into high-pitched syllables. "Who are you? What do you want here?"
The deep voice spoke again from the haze that surrounded her. "Mi permetta di presentarmi...io sono AlphonsoGiovanni."
Her mouth hung agape. What did he say? Is he speaking in tongues?
"Forgive me," the voice from the smoke said again. "My name is AlponsoGiovanni."
"Sh...sh...show yourself," she said with a false boldness.
"I'll take whatever form I please, and I don't take orders from others." The smoke danced as it spoke. "This is my house now. I am the master here."
In her scrambled frightened mind, she tried to compose a lucid thought. She had to find out more about this boastful apparition then get the hell out of there. "I know you had something to do with Virginia's death."
The smoke dissipated and spread throughout the room like a fog, so she did not know where it would concentrate next.
"She was my companion. Why would I want to kill her?"
"Maybe you tired of her. Maybe she got in the way of something you wanted. What do you want with this world, Giovanni?"
A cloud formed over her head. It stank like wet earth and mold. She could feel herself enveloped in its wet mist. A growl emanated from it, "I want everything..."
She held the cross up above her head like a shield. "Our Father who art in Heaven..."
Angered, the smoke gathered itself and began to twist and turn as if it were becoming a rope. It darted downwards and began to wrap around her body.
"Stop!" she cried. "Listen to me..."
But, the spirit continued to coil around her, tightening as it went.
With her heart beating like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws, she tried to think fast. "Wait! You owe me..."
The spirit paused from his constrictor-like vise that had begun to squeeze her rib cage.
"You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me. I brought you through..."
The voice shouted loudly and painfully in her ears. "I came through of my own will."
"No. Without the séance with Virginia and my psychic energy, you wouldn't have made it." She hedged her bets. "If you'd been able, you would have come back here long ago."
"That may be true, but you are hardly in a position to bargain, Signora."
"Do you really believe that? I could bring reporters from all over the world here with cameras, and it would be a nonstop circus day and night. I could find a reason to have this house condemned and razed. I could even burn it down..."
The rope of smoke tightened again, and the voice hissed like a snake. "Not if I kill you first."
The spirit held her from her ankles to her shoulders, wrapped like a mummy in transparent gray mist. With the air squeezed from her lungs, she couldn't scream. Her head grew light, and the room swayed and darkened.
As her eyelids fluttered close, she heard a sound at the front door.
Her captor released his grip, and she collapsed onto the floor gasping for breath.
Georgia had a throbbing migraine. She excused herself from the remaining mourners at the cemetery and told Marsha that she didn't think she'd be able to lie down and soothe her aching head at her house with a dozen people coming over for sandwiches and tea after the service.
Her brother-in-law, Steven, offered to drive her over to Grammie's house, but she refused the offer.
Regretting the dismissal of a chauffeur...she had to drive to the house with her eyes half shut against the sun's glare, one hand on the steering wheel, and one on her throbbing temples.
When she reached her grandmother's house, she saw a white Cadillac in the driveway and parked behind it. As she walked by it, she wondered if one of Grammie's friends was making one last nostalgic trip by the house.
She glanced around the right side of the house towards the garage and gardens, but didn't see anyone. She knew the visitor couldn't be inside, because she was sure that she had locked the house.
As she put the key in the lock, she remembered that she also had to find her purse. It must still be sitting on the kitchen table...
She stepped in and noticed the glow of the light from the lamp on the small table in the foyer. Puzzled, she took off her sunglasses and looked around. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. When she saw the woman on the floor, she gasped.
She recognized her as the woman in the eggplant suit that she had seen leaving the funeral in a hurry. She was in some sort of distress, as she lay curled into a ball, wheezing and trying to draw in air.
She rushed to the woman's side. "Ma'am, are you having a heart attack? Should I call 911?"
The woman looked up into her eyes and held out a hand as she shook her head to explain that she would be all right in a moment.
Georgia helped her to a half-sitting position and waited for several minutes as the woman's breathing slowly regained a normal rhythm.
"We have to get out of here," the woman rasped as soon as she was able to speak.
"Excuse me? Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?"
The woman's eyes searched around the room. "Where is he?"
"Who?"
"The spirit. We need to get out of here. He'll be back. We're both in danger."
Georgia wondered if she was as crazy as the woman at the cemetery had insinuated. But, she was curious to hear the explanation for her intrusion.
"It's a long story. Can we go outside and talk about it?"
"No. My head is killing me, and I can't handle bright sunlight right now. I'm going to get some water, then you're going to sit right here and tell me who you are and what you're doing here."
The woman nodded as she guided her to the couch. Georgia poured two glasses of water from the kitchen faucet then found her purse on the kitchen table as she kept one eye on the reclining intruder. She swallowed a prescription pill that usually knocked out her headaches within an hour and topped it off with a 'yellow brick'. Her anxiety level was through the roof, she told herself. She needed it.
When she returned to the living room with the glass of water, the old lady's hand trembled so violently, she had to set it on the coffee table.
"We really should get out of here," the woman said as she continued to scan the room from the floor to the ceiling. "We're not alone."
"Drink some water...Ms. ...I'm sorry...it's Opal isn't it?"
"How did you---"
"I saw you at the funeral. Someone told me you're the resident psychic around here. Is that true?"
"Yes...I suppose so. I've been using my gift around here for quite some time. There's a lot of folks in this town that have need of it."
"And what gift is that?"
"I'm a bridge. I can make connections with those who have passed on and transmit back messages to loved ones."
"So...you're a Medium. I can't say I believe in all that."
Opal's wobbly hand lifted the glass to her lips, spilling a few drops onto her dress. "Your grandmother did."
"Really? She never mentioned you."
"That's not surprising. Most people are too embarrassed to tell anyone that they've sought out psychic assistance to contact a dead loved one. VirginiaBlake was no exception. My clients don't want to deal with the possible ridicule. They just want some relief from their emotional suffering---reassurance that there is an afterlife---and know that their loved one is there safe and waiting for them.
"My grandmother tried to contact..."
"Your grandfather, Henry."
Georgia thought for a moment. Grammie rarely even spoke of her Grandfather except around holidays when it seemed more difficult to hide her loneliness. But, she couldn't deny the possibility that she had reached out to a psychic to try to contact him. Why not? If you were old and lonely and not that many years from passing on yourself---why not take a chance and see if there was any truth to be found from the other side? She decided to play along for the moment. "So what happened? Did you actually contact my grandfather?"
Opal Peabody tensed. Her hand gripped the water glass so tightly that her knuckles turned white, and Georgia thought it might shatter.
"No. I didn't. We held a séance with nothing out of the ordinary at first. I called for him...but I couldn't find him. And then, something terrible happened."
Georgia sat on the edge of the coffee table as the woman braced herself on the arm of the couch as if she expected the roof to cave in or an earthquake to move the floor below them. "Go on..."
Opal leaned forward and whispered, "It's never happened in all of my days. I mean...I couldn't stop him. He was just so strong..." She took another sip of water with her trembling hand.
"Who?"
"The intruder. The spirit. He blasted through the portal... and manifested himself here. There was nothing I could do."
Then, her words began to pour out so fast that Georgia could barely keep up.
"I don't know who he is, but he's definitely someone from way back. Looking at his clothes...a gentleman of some sort... and he spoke another language...Italian...I think. But, ohhhh...he's got a dark soul. He attacked me. Tried to kill me! Thank God you came when you did."
Georgia tried to make sense of what she was saying. She seemed to passionately believe her story, but it was so nonsensical that she didn't know if she should press her for more details or just nod and give her The Smile. "Why did you come here today and how did you get in?"
"I came to confront him. I had to see what I was dealing with to see if I could send him back. I didn't mean to trespass. But, you certainly wouldn't have let me in after hearing this story, would you? The door was unlocked."
Georgia knew she was lying. Maybe, she had found her pie thief and squatter after all. This woman had come back to steal.
"This spirit is very dangerous. I'm going to have to find a way to get rid of him before he does more harm..."
"Really? And who is this spirit?"
"Alphonso. He said his name was AlphonsoGiovanni."
Georgia swallowed a gulp of water down the wrong pipe and began to cough. When she recovered, she said, "Alphonso? My grandmother said in a letter to take care of Alphonso. I have no idea what she meant."
"She meant to get rid of the spirit. Poor Virginia. What she must have gone through for two months with that monster! I think he held her captive here. She wouldn't even talk to me---I don't think he would let her."
Georgia wondered if Opal Peabody had put ideas into her grandmother's head about the house being haunted then bilked her for money to get rid of the ghost. Now, she was trying to do the same to her. "Peabody...I have an idea. Why don't you call him right now? Make him appear. When I see him, I'll believe you."
Opal took off her glasses and rubbed them on the hem of her dress. "I don't think that would be a good idea. We really should get out of here."
"Or...I could call the police and tell them I've caught a burglar in my house. It would make front-page news in the Dalton County Sentinel that a little old lady is responsible for the breakins around town.
Opal sat still and narrowed her eyes as if weighing her options. "Alright. I'll try...maybe I can make him mad enough to show himself. But, I'm warning you...our lives are in danger even as we speak."
Georgia leaned back in her chair with her arms folded and legs crossed as the woman called out the ghost's name. After several futile tries, she cursed at him and called him filthy names that Georgia hadn't heard since witnessing a trucker's strike. As they glanced around the room...there was nothing but silence. The grandfather clock continued to click out the seconds, and there was a soft whisper of wind picking up outside...but that was all.
"Apparently, your ghost isn't in the mood to show himself."
"He's here alright. He's probably watching us right now and waiting to strike." Opal pushed herself up from the couch and grabbed a hold of Georgia's arm. "Listen to me...I'm not fooling around here. We are not alone in this house. If you ignore my warning and stay here...I can't be responsible for what happens to you."
"Are you threatening me, Peabody? I suppose for a certain fee, you can rid the house of this spirit?"
"No. I'm just trying to make you understand the danger you are in. This spirit must be exorcised from this house...or no one is safe here."
"And what would you charge to perform this sort of service?"
"Oh, dear. Not a cent. You see...this is all my fault. But, I've been doing some research, and I may not be able to do this alone. I may have to call in some others."
And how much would they charge? Georgia wondered. She fine-tuned her theory about the woman's scheme. Opal Peabody had a ruse. She pretended to speak with dead loved ones then told her clients that an evil spirit had come through by mistake. Of course, it would take more money to perform rituals to rid the person of this new spiritual infestation. It was a great gimmick ---one that could be performed over and over---even in a small town---because nobody would talk about it. She had heard of similar scams happening in other cities around the country. Poor Grammie must have been afraid that some wicked old Italian ghost was haunting her home. Opal had been extorting her for money to perform rituals to get rid of him...and they never seemed to work. Now...she was trying to play the granddaughter as well.
"Get out, Peabody. I've heard enough."
Opal rose on unsteady legs and shook her fist. "You don't understand. You're in danger..."
"No. You're in danger if you don't leave at once, and I don't want to catch you in my house or anywhere around this property again." Georgia gestured toward the open door.
With a huff, Opal hobbled toward it. "You're going to be sorry." She wagged a finger. "Mark my words."
"Not as sorry as you're going to be if I call the police."
Opal paused a few inches away from Georgia's face. With the size of her eyes magnified under the round black rims of her glasses, Georgia thought they looked crazed and psychotic. The intense fury in those giant blue marbles was disturbing.
After fumbling in the pocket of her purple suit, Opal pulled out a business card. "When you realize that I've been telling the truth...call me. I just hope it won't be too late. Apparently, your grandmother didn't have the sense to do so earlier..." She thrust the card into Georgia's hand.
Georgia accepted the card, but she bit her tongue at the caustic words about her grandmother. As she opened the door further for Opal to pass through and saw her shaky gait, she asked, "Are you sure you're alright to drive?"
But, Opal ignored her and hobbled out. Georgia watched as she made her way to the Cadillac then maneuvered it around her rental car to get out of the driveway in a hurry. She sped away, leaving a puff of dust settling over the gravel like a volcanic plume of her rage.
She closed the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes and exhaling out some of her own anger. She now had the answer to the question of who had been in the house recently since her grandmother had died. The psychic had probably been looking for anything of value...or trying to figure out ways to play the family for more money. She looked down at the gray and white card in her hand with a silver moon and stars logo in the upper left corner, it read:
Opal Peabody
Psychic counsel \*\*\* Tarot \*\*\* Astrology \*\*\* Numerology
Ph. 809-496-2849
As she tossed it onto the table in the foyer, she massaged her temples with her other hand. Her head still throbbed, but she could feel the yellow brick starting to work its magic fingers, soothing away some of the stress.
Knowing that a short nap would probably make her feel human again, she decided to go upstairs and lie down in her old bedroom.
As she kicked off her heels and relaxed back amongst the ruffles and pillows on the twin bed, she thought about the psychic's accusations that she was in danger. It seemed like such a ridiculous idea. There was no ghost here. Well...she was fairly certain of that. She thought about the odd shadow that she had seen on the kitchen wall and the cat's reaction to it. Whatever that was...she hadn't felt anything threatening from it. If there was any truth to the possibility of spirits, perhaps it was just a lingering wisp of her grandmother's presence.
As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about the woman's distressed physical state when she found her in the house lying on the floor, panting and gasping for air. She felt certain now that Opal Peabody had a rehearsed heart attack routine that she used when it was convenient.
The spirit sat on the windowsill dangling one leg over the other, watching Georgia sleep. He leaned his head back against the pane as exhaustion made his limbs feel like steel logs. The encounter with the psychic woman had sapped his strength so much; he wondered if this afternoon's transformation into effluvial mist was his last. Because now, his human form felt like it had been dragged in the dust behind a horse and buggy for miles.
It seemed that the old biddy with spectacles as large as grapefruits would not leave him be. He was shocked that she had been brazen enough to dare to come to the house again. He thought that glaring at her through the windows on her last visit would have been enough to frighten her into a comatose thumb-sucking state.
But, she had come back, shivering like a wet lamb.
Luring her in with the open door had been a device to kill her in seclusion. And he would have...if Georgia hadn't arrived at that precise moment.
He cursed the psychic's luck. She was the only one who knew that he had been reborn, but her inane questions made it clear that she knew nothing about who he was or the nature of his past. He knew that he still had some measure of mystery on his side, even though he had told her his name.
There were times that this stramaledetto---damned bloody---need to ingest the souls of others to maintain himself strained his patience. But, was it his fault? Of course not. It must be the fault of the woman who had brought him here. Something she did must have caused him to return to life as a monster, needing to feed on others to sustain himself.
For that...and for her interference, she had to die. Next time, there would be no interruptions when he began to squeeze the life out of her...until nothing came out of her but a mouse's squeak...until nothing came out at all.
He saw Georgia's chest heave up and down. Watching her like an invisible voyeur made him pant with desire to be closer to her. If he felt better now, he might go over to her, press his lips against her cheek, touch her hair, inhale the sweetness of her scent...
If she woke up, he hoped that, even in his taxed state, he could fade away in an instant if she were to suddenly look in his direction.
Was she just here for Virginia's funeral or would she be staying longer? If she lived in another town, he wondered what tricks he could perform to make her stay.
Tricks? How could he do any sort of tricks for her if he wasn't prepared to introduce himself?
He no longer wanted to hide in the shadows. He wanted to make himself known...and make her stay.
But, how could he do that now that he had told the psychic his name? He certainly couldn't make his introduction as AlphonsoGiovanni.
He sat, tapping the whiskers on his chin...thinking.
After a few minutes, an idea came to him.
"Naturalmente!" he whispered out loud. He needed a new name. Something simple. Something not too archaic, but true to himself.
He walked over the bed and peered down. Her long black eyelashes smudged against the white pillowcase above her soft pink lips as she slept and dreamt. He thought she looked just as sweet and innocent as his Margaret had once been.
"Don't worry, my angel," he whispered above her. "I know the perfect way to launch our new acquaintance."
Opal broke every traffic law on the way back across town. Instead of heading home after the near-death encounter with the spirit and the humiliating scolding from Georgia, she headed north towards Hondelsburg. It was a thirty-minute drive to the county library, but she was sure that she could make it in twenty.
She kept repeating the name over and over again as she drove. AlphonsoGiovanni. AlphonsoGiovanni.
Now that she had a name, maybe she could find out who he was. That would be the first step in getting rid of the bastard. She could only hope that she could arm herself with enough information to get rid of him before he could harm Georgia.
That stupid stubborn granddaughter of Virginia's! Her bark was no match for this evil spirit. He would either kill her soon (if he hadn't already)...or he would frighten her into submission for a while like he must have done with Virginia.
She reached the library in record time, thankful that she didn't get stopped for speeding or kill any small animals along the way. But, she had to slow herself a couple of times on the sidewalk that led to the main doors as she found her feet going faster than her aching lungs could oblige. Her sore rib cage reminded her just how close she had come to death.
Once inside, she headed for the Reference Room upstairs. Her body made her stop again before she got very far. Out of deference to her traumatized body, she took the elevator.
When she reached the Reference Desk, she rested with her elbow on top of the table and wheezed for a few moments before she could get any words out.
"All you alright, Ma'am? Can I help you?" the librarian asked.
"Where can I find old title records, birth and death records, newspapers..."
"From what year?"
"Early 1900's? Or...maybe late 1800's?"
The librarian pointed her towards the microfiche readers. "Everything before 1964 is on the microfiche. Newer records are in the computer database."
After some coaching on how to work the machine and handle the plastic films, Opal sat down and began her search.
She looked through title records of the old Blake house, and found little more than she already knew. The land was purchased in 1882 by Georgia's great great grandfather, WilliamCrawford, and the house's construction was completed over a decade after that in 1893.
After an hour of going though records, she discerned that Crawford had married ClarabelleJohnson in 1874. They produced a daughter, Elizabeth, in 1878, then a second daughter, Margaret, in 1881.
Opal knew that was the famed Margaret of Calathia legend that had drowned herself in the river in the summer of 1900 after her forbidden lover ran off and left her, never to be heard from again. The family covered it up as an accident for many years, but the story of her suicide eventually leaked out and was whispered throughout churches and harvest festivals until it was commonplace knowledge.
Once, in the mid-1970's, on Halloween night, some naughty teenagers dressed up a female mannequin in a Victorian style dress and floated it down the river. The mockery even made national news, but the town Mayor put a halt to the publicity before Calathia could become any more famed for the suicide.
It was Elizabeth, Margaret's sister, who continued the family line. In 1902, she gave birth to CarolineWolden, who later became Virginia's mother. Virginia later married HenryBlake in 1942 before his Army service during the World War II conflict. Her daughter, Susan, had been the mother of Marsha and Georgia.
Though the husbands of all of these daughters were mentioned as property owners as the titles of the house changed hands through the years, there was no mention of an AlphonsoGiovanni. After further research, she decided that if a man by that name ever lived in Calathia, he had not been born there, had not owned property there, and had not died there.
Still, she was certain that he had some tie to the house. He seemed downright possessive of it.
By the look of his clothing, Opal knew that he had to have died somewhere around the turn of the 20th century, during the Victorian...or Edwardian age. His voice had a strong accent, and the surname, Giovanni, sounded Italian. Might someone like that have stood out in this small town that was just a flyspeck a hundred years ago? She supposed that immigrants passed through the Midwest quite frequently back then in search of land or work on the railroads. Many passed through Kansas on the way to the silver mines in the Rocky Mountains...or to the gold mines in California.
As Opal headed back in her car towards Calathia, she wondered if there was still anyone old enough around who could tell her stories about the old days...and any goings-on at the old Blake homestead. There was one man that came to mind. EdHanson was over a hundred years old. Word had it that he still ran the Calathia Inn with the help of a couple of his great grandchildren.
She decided to pay him a visit in the morning.
Something woke Georgia from her nap.
The loudness of it startled her, sounding like the sudden tolling of a bell on a ship in a fog-laden harbor. After the noise stopped, she realized that it had been her grandmother's volume-enhanced phone ringing in the bedroom down the hall.
She moaned as she opened her eyes and saw that she was in her old bed in the house where she had spent most of the earlier years of her life. It was a relief to see that she was in a safe familiar place...far away from the awful nightmare that had just played in her sleeping head.
She was sweaty and exhausted from the age-old dream. It had played through her mind like a reel-to-reel movie in agonizing slow motion. The nightmare seemed to be recorded in her brain, repeating itself on an endless loop.
And how many times had she had that awful nightmare lying in this very bed? Over the years, she had lost count of the nights of seeing the shadowy figure, the bright gorgeous flowers behind him, then the cold hands pushing her into a watery grave. The dream was more vivid and seemed more real in this house, even as it had when she was younger.
Her hands reached for her throat. It seemed warm and sore, as if the assailant's hands had just been around it while she slept.
As she stretched, her stomach felt woozy, an acid stew of the remnants of Marsha's breakfast many hours ago and the caustic pills. But, as she rubbed her temples again, she realized that the heaviness in her head had lifted. She still felt a bit groggy from the yellow brick's sedative effect, but it was a pleasant haze.
She glanced at the soft fiery light seeping through the curtains and was glad that she hadn't slept until nightfall. Waking up in the dark and not remembering where she was after having the awful dream might have given her a fright.
After getting up, she didn't bother checking the phone down the hall. There was no Caller ID. Whoever called would have to call back.
She went to the bathroom, smoothed her rumpled hair back, and splashed water on her face to counter the grogginess. As she returned to the hallway, she felt a rumbling in her stomach.
She walked down the stairs on her way to the kitchen to look for something to eat, but stopped on the third step as she heard a noise.
Maybe it wasn't the phone that had initially woken her up. It sounded like someone was in the house.
She heard a rustling sound, not unlike the sound she had heard in the spare bedroom during her first visit. With her heart racing, she listened and tried to figure out who or what she might be hearing.
The sound of footsteps pounded across the wood floor below. Then, she heard creaky hinges, the sound of sliding metal, and a crinkling of paper. Who was in the pantry?
For a moment, she froze. Should she tiptoe back upstairs, lock herself in a bedroom, and call for help? Or, should she go down there and confront the intruder? She couldn't think of anything to grab for a weapon. Scissors from Grammie's craft room? The spiked heel of her shoe? Where was a spare baseball bat when you needed one?
Wait---she knew who the intruder was---it was that Peabody woman. She had come back and was looking for something to steal now that she knew that she had no one else to swindle.
Her face reddened with anger. She forgot about a weapon and flew down the staircase.
"Freeze!" she yelled in her best imitation of television cop as she hopped around the pantry door.
The intruder whipped around with a guilty look across her face and dropped the bag of cookies on the floor.
"Marsha? You scared me to death! What are you..."
With a sheepish look, she spoke with her mouth full of crumbs. "I called a little while ago, and when you didn't answer, I came over to check on you. When I found you upstairs asleep, I decided not to bother you. Why are you looking at me like that?"
Georgia kept her arms folded. "You scared the hell out of me. You're lucky I don't pack a loaded gun."
"Come on...who else would you expect to be in here?"
"Funny you ask. Let me tell you who I found in the house when I got here."
"What?"
"There was a woman lying on the living room floor when I came over earlier. She seemed to be having some sort of panic attack. If she hadn't been a little old lady, I'd have called the police."
"Oh my God," Marsha said as she bent down and picked up the cookies then offered one to Georgia.
After a couple of bites, she continued. "It was Opal Peabody, the town psychic. She said that she came here to warn me about some sort of ghost living in this house."
"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard."
"I know. I don't buy it either. I think she scared Grammie with her hokey stories and tried to blackmail her---telling her to fork up some dough or this evil ghost would get her in the middle of the night."
Marsha sat on the chair next to the table. "Wow. That would explain some of grandmother's peculiar behavior. I've never met Opal, but I've heard of her. I never heard she was a scam artist, though."
Georgia went into the kitchen to get them something to drink and noticed the open drawers and cabinets in the kitchen.
"You haven't just been searching for a snack. You're looking for something, aren't you?"
Marsha turned away, looking out the window as a crow cawed and lit on a branch outside.
"Why won't you tell me?"
She folded her arms. "I have my reasons."
"It has something to do with that letter of Grammie's from the bank, doesn't it?"
"I don't want to talk about---"
Marsha's retort was aborted by the sound of the doorbell. Georgia stomped past her and saw the figure of a tall, lanky man standing on the other side of the stained glass in the door. She wondered who it could be. The figure was too thin and wiry to be Fred from next door.
When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Stevie standing there with a large brown grocery sack in his hand.
"Hey, Mom sent me out for food."
He handed a bag to her with deli sandwiches and bottles of lemonade.
"Thanks. I'm starving." As he stepped inside, she noticed that he had morphed back into his casual clothing, wearing a torn and faded black concert t-shirt and jeans. "The post-funeral party must be over."
Stevie nodded. "Yeah. Hey...looks like the lawn needs mowed." He rubbed his fingers together. "Sure could use some dough."
She grinned. "Another friendly neighborhood opportunist." But, Stevie she could indulge if he was willing to work for it.
"You're right. Twenty bucks for the front...and the spot by the back patio?"
"Cool. Where's the mower?"
"I don't know. The garage? Let's go look."
She dropped the sack of food on the table in front of Marsha without a word. Then, she and Stevie went out through the back door to the garage and searched with no luck.
"I wonder if Fred borrowed it." She glanced towards the Birman's. "I don't think they're home." Then, she caught a glimpse of the old shed. "Maybe it's in there," she said as she pointed.
Stevie followed her down the path. When they reached the shed, she saw that the deadbolt on it had been cut, and it was dangling off to the side. "Someone's been in here. I can't imagine..." As she lifted off the lock and opened the door, her words choked off.
Inside, instead of finding a mower, garden tools, or old farm implements, she saw what appeared to be a straw-filled scarecrow dressed in her grandfather's old overalls with a straw hat and his worn leather work-boots that he had worn for the last ten years of his life. A photograph of his face had been photocopied and enlarged, then attached. Her grandfather's eyes stared at back at her as she looked down at his mahogany pipe resting in the straw hand. The rest of the shed was a shrine. Photos were tacked up on the walls---some from when he was a young boy all the way to up to right before he died. There was a small wood table with dried cobs of corn and produce from his garden in canning jars. Next to these items, there were candles and matches.
"Man!" Stevie chuckled. "Great Grammie sure did go a little nuts, hunh?"
Georgia couldn't speak. All these years after Grandpa died, Grammie had kept this shed locked. Her little secret had been the fact that she never did let go of him. She must have come in here and had private conversations with this effigy. Maybe the candles were there, so she could see at night. Or maybe she had her own little séances in there to try to bring him back to life. Georgia understood now that it was possible that her grandmother had called Opal for help to contact him.
"Don't tell your mother. Please don't..."
"I'm not gonna say anything," Stevie said. "I don't want anyone thinking Great Grandma was crazy."
"Thanks, kid. She was just a lonely old woman. You can't blame her..."
Stevie took off his hat and smoothed back his hair as he tried to hide a strangely smug grin. She thought he looked secretly pleased about the odd discovery, but she couldn't guess why.
After discovering the lawn mower on the side of the house next to the pile of Rustenstuff, she watched Stevie mow for a few minutes from the porch swing as she took nibbles of her sandwich.
The neighbors stopped by on their way home. "You look awfully comfortable on that swing...almost like you still live here," Annie said as she walked across the field separating the two houses.
"I'm sure Marsha's already told you that Grammie left it to me in her will."
"Yep," Fred answered. "I sure hope you're not going to sell it. I never could have another neighbor better than your grandmother."
Georgia thought about asking them if they knew about the shed with the scarecrow, but decided not to...probably not ever. She was going to have to dismantle the shrine before anyone else found out.
"Glad to see you're putting that boy to work. Too bad he's not into gardening. Virginia let the gardens go this summer," Fred said.
"Yes...I suppose she did," Annie added. "But, then...she planted so much every year. It's a wonder she kept up what she did at her age."
Georgia winced as she thought of all of the abandoned tomatoes, peppers, pumpkins, and corn that were drying up and going to the raccoons, birds, and mice.
As Fred turned to watch Stevie work, Annie whispered to her as though Fred couldn't hear her (and maybe he couldn't with the sound of the lawn mower and his finicky hearing aid). "I told you...she just lost it this summer. She wouldn't come and visit. She wouldn't even take my baking! I brought her fresh cinnamon rolls one morning, and she slammed the door in my face! Poor Virginia! I kept trying. I was bringing her some eggs the morning I found her out by the river. I take pity on her soul now. But, if you'd have asked me a few weeks ago, I might have cursed her."
"Annie," Georgia whispered back. Do you know Opal Peabody?"
"Not personally. It's hard to believe she makes a living reading palms and crystal balls or whatever it is that she does. Most folks in this town are God-fearing churchgoers. Why do you ask?"
Georgia decided not to mention seeing her at the funeral or the encounter at the house. "I've just heard her name around town..."
Annie didn't seem to hear as she looked towards the parlor windows. "You really ought to get an electrician out here to look at the wiring. I know Virginia was having some trouble with it. I'd hate to see the house burn down because of it."
Georgia followed her pointed finger to the living room window behind her. Behind the closed drapes, a light flickered. It sputtered, went off then burned very bright as if there had been a power surge.
"I'd let Fred take a look at it for you, but he knows just enough to be a danger to himself."
"What's that?" Fred asked when he heard his name.
"Nothing, dear. Just telling her about your duck hunting plans this fall." She winked at Georgia. "We'd best be getting home. It's starting to get dark. The nights are coming earlier now. Are you staying here tonight?"
Georgia thought for a moment. She really didn't want to spend her last few nights in Jarrod's little boy bed amongst the chaos of the Hayden household. It might be nice to have the peace and quiet and make her own decent pot of coffee in the morning.
"Actually, I think I will. I'm going to run back over to Marsha's and get my things. It would be nice to hang out here for a couple of nights before I have to leave."
"We're right next door if you need anything. Have a good night..."
She watched them drive past the field to their house next door then she stayed on the porch until Stevie finished the yard. "How long do you think it will take to do the spot in the back?"
"Just a few minutes."
"I'm going to run over to your house before it gets dark and pick up my suitcase, so I can stay here tonight. Park the mower on the side when you're done, and I'll leave some money for you on the kitchen table. Just be sure you two lock the door when you leave."
He gave her a salute.
She popped back in the house and told her sister what she was doing. Marsha responded with a sullen, "Whatever---" .
As Georgia backed out of the driveway, she wondered why her sister and brother-in-law had so much trouble with Stevie. He seemed like a good kid who just hadn't found his purpose yet. But, who had at that age?
As she pulled the car onto the road, she looked back at the house and saw the lights still going on an off like a strobe. Whatever happened with the house, it was obvious that it was going to need a lot of work. If she kept it, she didn't know how much she could count on Stevie and his dad to help her out with maintenance on it when she would be so far away in New York.
The wheels in her mind kept turning as she drove across town. The house was a gem---a family heirloom. So many of the old homes all over America were falling apart when there wasn't enough interest in the younger generations to stay put and keep them going. The small towns were dying as the children grew up and moved away to bigger cities---like Topeka, and Kansas City, and New York.
She realized that she was as guilty as any of them.
By the time she had reached the Hayden house, an idea had begun to hatch in her brain. Now, she just had to find a way to give it wings.
A half hour later, when Georgia returned to her grandmother's house, there were no cars in the driveway. She wondered how she had missed passing Marsha and Stevie on the road.
The sky was a strange shade of violet with wisps of orange. As she lugged her suitcase up the porch steps, she realized that she felt a little uneasy about staying in the house overnight alone.
Once inside, she saw a pool of light at the top of the staircase and wondered what Marsha or Stevie had been doing up there before they left. Then, she tripped over a screwdriver and flashlight lying in the middle of the floor. She shook her head as she picked them up, wondering what it must be like for her sister to constantly clean up after so many kids.
With a sigh, she picked up her suitcase and walked back towards the stairs, anxious to get settled in for the night.
But, before she got very far, the doorbell rang. Startled, she dropped the suitcase and wondered if Marsha, Stevie, or the neighbors had come back for some reason.
She tried the porch light switch, but the front of the house remained bathed in darkness. Then, assuming that it really couldn't be anyone except Fred or Annie, she opened the door.
To her surprise, there was a man standing there with his hands in his pockets. Though the Tiffany lamp on the table behind her cast a soft rainbow glow towards the doorway, her own body blocked what little light there was, ensconcing his face in shadows. Though, she could see that he wore a white t-shirt and long trousers rolled up into cuffs and had a dark complexion.
"Good Evening, Ma'am. Sorry to bother you so late. I used to do some work around here for Virginia, and I just wanted to stop by and give you my condolences."
"That's very kind of you, Mister..."
He took off his cap with a grandiose swoop and bowed before her, then placed his other hand over his heart. "Moreno. My name is DanielMoreno."
Replacing the cap back on his head, he reached out his hand to shake hers, and she took it. His grip was solid, but his skin felt like ice, much cooler than the breeze wafting in. A strange tingling sensation transferred to her hand as he held it a couple seconds longer than propriety normally allowed. When he finally let go, he rocked back on his heels and tilted his head to his left as if pondering what he should say next. She caught a better glimpse of him as he moved out of her shadow. He had shoulder-length dark hair and a trim goatee. His eyes were a sparkling green, and he was a very handsome man...perhaps just a few years younger than herself. She detected a slight accent in his voice, a sharpness to some of his consonants that sounded like he might have a bit of Latin blood.
"What kind of work did you do for my grandmother?"
"Gardening, mainly. I specialize in roses, and I know you've got that old garden back there probably just turning to brambles. I spent a lot of time over here helping your grandmother with its upkeep, but she stopped having me over late this summer."
"Are you looking for a job, Moreno?"
He smiled, and she was sure that she saw his brilliant green eyes twinkle and flash just like the stars behind him. But, she wrote it off as a mirage---a fictional concoction of her tired, emotionally overwrought brain.
"There isn't much work for a gardener in a small town like this. People get old and don't have the money for help...or they just stop caring and let it all go to weeds. Nobody has a passion anymore. I may have to move on to a bigger city if I don't round up some more work soon."
As she stood in the doorway just a few feet from him, she could tell that he smelled sweet---like flowers---and a bit earthy like freshly turned soil or cut grass like he had just come from a job. She thought that it certainly wouldn't hurt to hire a professional to clean up the mess in the vegetable garden out back and maybe give the heirloom roses a good pruning. She didn't trust Stevie to do much more than create a massacre if he was given free reign with a pair of clippers or a power tool.
"I'm only here for a few days, but I'd sure like to have the gardens out back cleaned up before I leave. How much do you charge?"
"Tell you what...tomorrow...I'll do some work for you. Then, when you see what I've done...you tell me what it's worth. I did a lot of favors for your grandmother for free. She was a very sweet lady."
She smiled back at him, appreciating his work ethic and the compliment to her grandmother. "Alright. When can you come by?"
"Unfortunately, not until very late. I have an unusually busy schedule tomorrow."
"Okay. What time then?"
"Around six?"
"But, it will be getting dark by then."
He pointed towards his eyes. "Ahhh...but I have magic eyes ...and tools. You will see what a fantastic job I will do." His eyes crinkled up at the edges as he smiled.
She laughed at the thought of a gardener who worked by the light of the moon. As she glanced at the night sky behind him, she saw that there was only a sliver of moonlight this evening. It was going to be interesting to see if he could live up to his word and prowl the garden with cat's eyes. She hoped that he had insurance in case he lopped off a finger instead of a branch. "Alright, Moreno. I'm game, but how will I be able to see the results of your work if it's dark?"
"Come outside just before you go to sleep. You will have very sweet dreams after you see the beauty I work. Bring a flashlight if you wish..." Then, he put his fingers to his brow and tilted his hat to bid her goodnight.
She shut the door behind her and couldn't stifle the laughter in her throat. A moonlighting gardener. She hadn't heard of such a thing, even in New York. Maybe it would be a new trend. If global warming got out of hand, everyone might eventually garden at night with a flashlight, because it would just be too dang hot during the day to water your tomatoes and hoe the weeds around your corn.
She remembered that Grammie had once taught her and Marsha how to go outside late in the evening and pick up the marauding slugs as they came out from their daytime lairs. Night was also the best time to smell some of the sweet white flowers that only bloomed at night to attract pollinating moths. So, apparently, there were chores that could be done in the garden at night. But, she didn't envy anyone who had to clean up smashed fermented tomatoes and bloody strawberry pulp by the light of the stars.
Her drifting thoughts were interrupted by the sound of scratching on the back door. It startled her for a moment before she realized that it was the cat.
She let the beast in and fed him a bowl of tuna-scented crunchies before making herself a cup of warm tea and unpacking her suitcase.
Later, she said a little prayer to the Almighty and the universe before going to bed that night. Please don't let the dream come back. I'm too tired to be murdered again tonight.
The spirit kicked up his heels as he danced around the fountain in the rose garden.
Yes! I'll charm this woman like a turbaned Indian enchants a snake with his flute.
I am Daniel---Daniel the Gardener. And like a magical serpent, I have shed my old skin and begun anew. A new life. A new name. And now...a new lover. I'll sow the seeds of love in her heart and this time---I will not be rejected.
He circled the fountain again, alternating between his human form and a mass of ectoplasmic smoke. His excitement with each change of form caused sparks to flit about in the air like fireflies.
Margaret...Margaret...baldracca! You were a mere whore compared to the exquisite refinement of my new love. Though, she may be descended from your tyrant father's loins, she is a refined model of the clay that you came from.
After wallowing in his imagination for a few minutes, he settled back down and let his feet touch the soil. Sadly, he remembered that not a single one of his schemes in his former life had ever panned out.
But, this time was different.
He knew, because he saw it in her eyes. Unlike Margaret's initial aloofness and unspoken disdain for his low position, he detected a curious amusement in Georgia's first impression of him. She was weary and wound up as tight as a penned cavallo. But, she had looked him up and down and found something pleasing in his appearance.
He had his plan of seduction mapped out---uno, due, tre. Now, he just had to put it into action.
Such hypnotic fantasies. He knew that he had to put them aside for now. As he regained his human form, he paced among the rose brambles and tried to focus on the things he needed to do before tomorrow evening arrived.
An unexpected pain in his chest made him stop and rest for a moment. His labored breaths caused him to wince. Apparently, his celebratory flight had taken a lot of energy. Before he could plan tonight's tasks, he needed to replenish his life force. He did not know where he would go to find his victim or what ruse he would use to approach them...but it needed to be simple and quick.
Because, after that, he had to find a truck to steal.
He had only driven a motorcar once and it had been a perilous affair, shifting all the gears and trying to keep it on the road. He lamented the fact that he had never made Virginia teach him how to drive, and he hoped that modern vehicles had been constructed with more simplicity, because he needed something to haul away the garden debris tomorrow. He would roam the town tonight until he found the perfect opportunity.
For the first time, since his resurrection, he felt confident enough to venture away from the house. He set off on foot down County Line Road, keeping to the shadows in the tall brush and grasses along the ditch.
With his skin now plump and tawny, nearly indistinguishable from any other human's, he did not stay secluded for fear of anyone seeing him and thinking him a specter. He kept himself camouflaged under the cover of darkness, because he knew that he was a predator. Just like some wild beast from the jungle, he needed to maintain stealth and the power of surprise. Who knew when he might happen upon the perfect prey?
He hadn't chosen to come back like this---a parasite feeding on the emanations of others. And he wondered for a moment if his revival and unnatural hunger was some sort of test---one that he had surely already failed. Or, if it had just been sheer bad luck.
Luck, he smirked as he strolled towards town. He didn't believe in luck. Nothing had ever seemed to happen to him by chance. "Luck" required planning and fortitude, a sleight of hand, and sometimes an accomplice.
Tomorrow...he'd stir the ingredients of luck into his recipe for success.
She will not be able to resist me.
But, a dark cloud of doubt hovered over his braggadocio as he neared the neon sign of a gas station. But, if she turns out to be as foolish as Margaret...
The next day...the sun gleamed with ruby red and burnt orange autumn light as it streamed in Opal's eastern kitchen window. Its brilliance illuminated the colorful glass beads dangling from a wind chime just inside the frame, and the pretty sight seemed like an auspicious sign. It lifted her mood and gave her a morsel of optimism as she poured a steaming cup of rose hip and cinnamon tea. Then, she hurried to get dressed, knowing that the old Innkeeper had risen with the dawn and maybe even before the roosters began to boast of their conquests.
A few minutes later, she fled out the door, not bothering to bring a sweater into the chilly air.
Everyone in town knew that EdHanson had sat on the front porch of his Calathia Inn every day for the last seventy-three years. In that time, he had gone through only eight rocking chairs, because he refused to give each one up until his bottom end fell through the weave, and it was repaired at least twice.
She parked her car in the cracked concrete parking lot erupting with weeds in front of the hotel and waved as she approached. "Morning, Ed."
But, he didn't seem to hear as he sat in his chair and rocked, puffing on a corn cob pipe that was so old it looked like a chunk of petrified wood on a stick.
His face was tanned and wrinkled like an overripe potato dotted with moles and skin tags that looked like sprouting eyes. She saw him run shaky gnarled fingers through the dozen strands of white corn silk on top of his scalp and squint through his thick gold-wire glasses as she neared the porch.
"Sorry, Miss. We ain't got no rooms left. There's a football game over in Madison. Lots of folks here."
"Oh, Ed. It's me, Opal." It wasn't surprising that he forgot that he used to bowl on a team with her father quite some years back. "Opal Peabody. Zeke's daughter."
He squinted at her through the shimmering rays of sunshine. "I know you..." he said as he craned his head forward like a turtle stretching out of it shell.
"You're not so young no more. But, I'm older than you. I'm older than everybody. You know...I was born in 1904. TheodoreRoosevelt became President that year. Hadn't even started World War I. I'm probably older than that dirt you're standing on, young Missy."
Opal looked down at the dust covering her shoes in the bare patch of lawn and laughed. "Ed, you're a wise old owl. You've been around this town for a long time. Seen generations of folks born, and married off, and died. Yet, you're still here. I'm surprised you haven't rocked yourself clear through this porch a dozen times."
"Eh?" he said, cupping his ear to give the hearing aid more direction.
She moved closer and sat down on the step next to his chair, then raised her voice louder, so he could hear. "I'm trying to find out some information about the Blake house out on County Line Road. You remember any of the old stories about that place?"
He took another puff on his pipe then rubbed the gleaming white whiskers on the side of his cheek. "Blake, eh? I remember HenryBlake. He was a good fella. Always came and dropped off some of his harvest in the good years. Smoked a pipe or two with him."
"Yes...and you knew his wife, Virginia. She just passed away a few days ago."
"You don't say...they're all dropping like stinking flies in this town. Should be smoking pipes like me. They might live longer."
Opal chuckled. "Ed, do you remember anything about the family that used to live in the house before them?"
"Blake? Can't say that I do. It was a good farm. Right next to the river. Lots of flowers out at that place." Sometimes got some bouquets for the lobby in here."
"Do you know anything about when the house was built? The people that lived there?"
"Oh...it was built before I was born. Back in the 1890's I suppose. The Crawfords, I think. Then, there was that girl that drowned in the river. I wasn't even a puppy back then. Don't remember too much 'bout what folks said since then, but I know the whole town was talking about it." He yelled louder, not able to hear his own voice, "What Blake did you say died?"
Then, the screen door to the porch swung open. "Blake? Are you two talking about VirginiaBlake?"
Opal looked over her shoulder and saw WandaRothbert, Ed's granddaughter, walking onto the porch with a tray of glasses filled with orange juice and slices of moist rhubarb cake.
She set the tray down on the round wicker table next to them and put a hand on her hip. "I didn't go to her funeral. I didn't know her all that well."
"Morning, Wanda. I was paying Ed a visit to ask him if he remembered anything about the old Blake house and its past."
"You thinking of buying it?"
"No. I doubt it's even for sale. There are two granddaughters that I assume will be inheriting it."
Opal looked noticed Wanda's long wavy auburn hair that was graying at the temples. She wore a flowing ruffled skirt, and there was a silver anklet dangling from her bare ankle. There was something about her appearance that seemed to yearn for tie-dyed cotton, special recipe brownies, and an escape from the boredom of this small dying town. She leaned over toward her and whispered, "Wanda...do you believe in ghosts?"
"Ghosts? Did you say ghosts?" she laughed out loud. "If you're going to tell me that old house is haunted...I wouldn't doubt it for a minute."
Opal glanced over at Ed and saw that his chin had fallen into his chest. He was beginning to snore.
Wanda looked at her watch. "Time for Pa's morning nap. He gets up at dawn every morning and comes out here. I don't know how he does it. I guess he still doesn't want to miss saying goodbye to each and every guest."
"What do you know about the Blake house?"
"Well, for starters...it wouldn't surprise me if you've heard stories about Virginia getting dementia in the end. People say she all of a sudden quit the gardening club and stopped going to church. Supposedly, this was the first year out of the last twenty that she didn't go to the County Fair to sell her crafts. She wouldn't let anyone in her house the last couple months and wouldn't talk to anyone at the store if they said 'hello'."
"But, why would that make you think that the Blake house is haunted?"
Wanda giggled. "It's not that. I bet there's not a teenager in this town that hasn't snuck out to that river behind the house with a few bottles of beer to try to contact the ghost of MargaretCrawford. If there's such a thing as calling a ghost back from the dead, that girl's name has been called so many times over the years, I'd say she'd probably just decide to stay around to save them the trouble."
"Really? Now that you mention it, I remember hearing about that legend a long time ago, but I never realized it was still such an 'in' thing."
"It wasn't until Henry passed away. He used to run kids off his property all the time. There's also a neighbor that used to sit and watch with his shotgun, but I guess he's gotten old and doesn't care to sit up all night and run them off anymore."
Opal hadn't sensed a female spirit at the house. Despite the popularity of the legend, she figured that it was little more than a trumped-up legend. "Actually, the house is haunted...but not by Margaret. I was hoping your grandfather could tell me if anything else bad happened in that house around the same time that Margaret died...back in the Victorian age."
Wanda walked over to her grandfather and tucked a pillow under his chin. "Well...you won't get much from him. What's left of his memory comes and goes." She sat down on the porch step next to Opal. "Why do you want to know about the house's history?"
Opal took a deep breath then relayed the story of the séance and the intruding spirit. She hedged her bets that Wanda would take her seriously and held nothing back. "I'm afraid this spirit may have done something to Virginia...and I fear for the lives of anyone in that house. One of the granddaughters is staying there now. I don't know what might happen to her..."
"Wow. That's quite the story." Wanda sat still and stared at a squirrel burying a nut under a wiry young oak by the roadside. Then, she turned and looked into Opal's framed blue eyes as if she was waiting for a punch line to the incredulous story.
"Please, Wanda. Anything you might know would help..."
Wanda looked off again in the distance, as if studying the dew lingering on the wildflowers across the road. Then, she glanced at Ed and lowered her voice. "I don't know if Pa here can help you. But, I have something that might be of interest to you."
"Anything...anything at all." Opal nodded.
"Well...there's some history between the Crawfords and the Hansons. Supposedly, old Willian Crawford, the builder of the house, was friends with Ed's dad, Charles. Before William died, he gave some things to him for safekeeping. Apparently, he didn't want his family to inherit them...or even know they existed. There's a locked box of his hidden here in the hotel."
Opal's eyes grew wide. "You mean Ed held onto this secret box for all these years and never gave it back to the family?"
"My mother tried to give it back once a few years back. She took it to Virginia, but she said she didn't want it. She didn't even want to look in it. She said, 'a dead man's secrets ought to stay secret'."
"Hmmm...I guess if there were any skeletons in the family closet, she wanted to keep it that way. Do you know where the box is?"
"Yes, I think I do. But, it's locked, and we don't have the key. You can tell that someone's tried to pry it open a few times, probably some kids in the family that got a hold of it."
"It might make a difference to my problem. I hate to ask you...but can you find it?"
Wanda turned towards her and cupped a hand over her mouth. "If Ed finds out we did it, he'd be awful mad. He likes to think of himself as its guardian. He's got it hidden away somewhere now like a time capsule, but I think I know where."
Opal whispered back, "He wouldn't have to know if we're quick about it."
The Innkeeper's granddaughter raised up from her perch, then put a finger to her lips, motioning for Opal to keep quiet. "Alright...follow me," she whispered.
It felt strange waking in her old bed for the second time in recent history. For a brief moment, Georgia felt like she was a young girl again, and any moment, her grandmother might come in and tell her that it was time to get ready for school.
Then, she realized that she was almost forty, Grammie was dead, and she was here alone in the old Gingerbread house.
She took a long warm shower then slipped into a comfortable pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She decided to go barefoot and forego wearing any pointy-toed heels out of deference to her achy feet and a sudden remembrance of her Grandmother's rule about not damaging the wood floors.
She started the day thinking that there were so many things to do in the house itself, she was glad that the gardener, Daniel, was coming over that evening to work on the tangled garden mess.
As she reached the kitchen, she smelled something sour that made her nose crinkle. The putrid trail of scent led her to the refrigerator. Despite having cleaned it out, it still stank of molding food, and she knew that scrubbing it down with bleach would be her first horrible task
Before beginning the unpleasant chore, she cleaned out the old grounds in the coffee pot and made some fresh brew. Then, she found an old loaf of cinnamon raisin bread in the freezer for toast. Its seductive scent disguised the odor, but she still decided to open a few windows to the cool morning air before taking her breakfast in the living room.
As she sat on the sofa, surrounded by the velvet cushions and the room full of memories, she lamented the fact that she only had two days to get things done before she left. There was the kitchen to clean, laundry to wash, bills to sort through, and a dozen other tasks to do. She didn't know when she would be able to come back and felt torn, because she was needed in New York by the art gallery and her assistant. But, she also felt needed by this house.
An hour later, as she was up to her elbows in the muck of the refrigerator, she heard a knock at the door.
It was too early for her moonlighting gardener. Seeing the tall form through the stained glass, she assumed that it was Fred from next door.
She snapped off one yellow rubber glove and opened the door. To her surprise, Deputy KarlBauer stood before her.
"Afternoon, McKenna. Sorry to bother you. I didn't know you were staying here. I thought the house was empty. I just came by on my rounds, and when I saw the car out front, I stopped to make sure everything was okay."
"Thank you. Everything's fine. I'm just here for a couple days. I've got to go back to New York on Friday." Behind the cover of the door, she discreetly took off the other glove and tossed it onto the floor. "Actually, I'm glad you're here. I don't know when I'm going to be able to come back...or how long this house might stand empty. Fred and Annie next door are getting the mail in and my nephew can mow the lawn, but would you mind continuing to check on it now and then?"
"Consider it done," he said with a nod. Then, he paused and raised an eyebrow. "So...you might not be coming back?"
She was taken off guard by the hint of disappointment. "I...I don't know what my plans are yet. My grandmother left me this house in her will, and my sister wants to sell it, but I really can't bear to part with it. So, I don't know what I'm going to do." But, even as she spoke the words, she already knew that she couldn't abandon this place.
"I can understand that. It's a beautiful old house. It would be a shame to lose it."
"Yes. I know."
"Well...I want to warn you that there have been some burglaries around town. If you hear or see anything strange while you're here, please give me a call."
Georgia thought about mentioning the encounter with the old psychic woman, but was too distracted by the bulge of his Adam's apple as he spoke and the way his black leather holster hung snug about the tan fabric at his hips.
Her daze was interrupted as he handed her his business card. She took it and couldn't help but notice that it had his private cell phone number on it as well as the main number for the Sheriff's Office.
He tipped his hat to her. "You take care now..." Then, he turned and strode across the porch back to his black and white car.
She watched him go, conscious of her heart galloping. The odd feeling made her feel uncomfortably faint.
But, a new sensation emerged as she shut the door, bristling the hair on the back of her neck. It was an uncomfortable feeling that someone was standing right behind her. She whipped around, but no one was there. She was certain that she had the jitters, because of the palpable memory of her Grandmother. It felt so odd to be in this house alone. Despite this rationalization, she still couldn't shake the feeling of being watched as she moved back into the living room.
Then, she saw the orange eyes staring at her from the windowsill. The cat raised a paw and scratched on the glass with a pathetic howl.
When she opened the back door, he waltzed in without hesitation. She gave him his kibbles and watched him gobble them up as if he hadn't eaten in days.
After he finished, he lay down on the floor next to her with his paws stretched forward like the Egyptian Sphinx. The cat was much too regal looking for a truck driver's name. "Max...your name really doesn't suit you." Had Grammie named him and then let Clarissa have her own special pet moniker for him? "Is your name also Alphonso?"
He ignored her questions and began washing his face.
After his bath, the cat followed her around the house. Whenever she felt the searing sensation of eyes glaring at her back...he was there when she turned. She chided herself time and time again for her jumpiness.
But, at one point, she realized that she was disappointed to not have Grammie's ghost following her around the house. She found herself humming as she dusted, just like her grandmother used to do. Sometimes, she talked to her as she worked. "Now...Grammie...what would you like me to do with this vase? Does it go in the craft room or above the cupboards in the kitchen?" The cat stared at her and gave her a look of ennui as if she were boring him with her banter. But, she ignored his stares as she gained some insight, an inkling of what her grandmother must have felt after Grandpa passed away. The loneliness could drive a person crazy.
Later, she spent some time in the shed cleaning out the scarecrow image of her grandfather, the photos, candles, and other items from the shrine. It certainly wouldn't do to leave them there for Annie or Fred or someone else to find while she was gone.
As she dismantled the scarecrow and tossed the straw in the field, she kept a weary eye on the Birman's house, half expecting them to appear and ask what she was doing. She was tossing the last bits of the idol into the garden compost pile behind the garage when she heard the Hayden family's diesel truck pull up.
What did Marsha want now?
Opal wasn't able to contain her disappointment that morning as she pulled away from the old Calathia Inn. She and Wanda had searched through the entire building, checking every unoccupied room, but they were unable to find WilliamCrawford's box.
"He must have moved it," Wanda had whined. "I can't imagine what he did with it. I'm sorry I got your hopes up for nothing. I'll keep looking and let you know if I find it."
She left Wanda her business card and drove off with a tear smudging her glasses. The more she thought about it, the more she was certain that the box could hold some clue to solving her problem. Even if it seemed farfetched, her intuition told her that she needed to get her hands on it.
Still worried for GeorgiaMcKenna's safety, she decided to drive by the Blake house on her way home. She crawled up the road as quietly as she could with her knuckles like white marbles, and her nails making half moon creases into her palms over the top of the steering wheel.
She paused and then rolled to a stop when she saw a large red pickup truck parked behind Georgia's rental car in the driveway. So, Georgia was still there, and she had a visitor. That was good... it meant she wasn't alone with the spirit.
Turning her attention to the house itself, she thought that it looked different this time. There were no diabolical glowing eyes peering out at her. And, occupied by a living soul, with its curtains open wide and the dead geraniums removed from the porch, it had a less ominous appearance. Would she be foolish to wonder if the spirit had gone?
Yes, she told herself after a moment of holding her breath and waiting for something catastrophic to happen.
When the spirit didn't materialize, she wondered if she should straighten her shoulders and muster enough courage to knock on the door. It would be worth facing any barrage of insults and threats just to make sure the woman was okay.
But, before she could make up her mind, she saw Georgia---just behind the picket gate next to the garage---talking with a wiry young man and a munchkin-sized girl. She thought they looked familiar. Perhaps, she'd seen them at Virginia's funeral?
If they had noticed her watching them from her white Cadillac, whose presence was as conspicuous as a gigantic white hare on the black top road, they gave no sign of it. Opal figured they were too occupied with their conversation to feel her spying eyes.
As Georgia stood behind the gate, gesturing as she talked, she didn't look the least shell-shocked from any evil spirit. With her hair pulled back in a scarf and her arms full of straw, she simply looked like a busy countrywoman hard at work.
As Opal turned her car around, she felt the lingering pain from her bruised ribs. She made excuses to herself for her departure. It wouldn't be a good idea to stay and try to chat with Georgia right now. There was no point in stirring up more feelings of hostility in the house. That sort of unstable emotion in the atmosphere could incite more violence from the spirit.
On her way back home, she could only think of one more option that might help her quest to get rid of him. It was a long shot, but she could make the drive out to Coon City and pay a visit to her Aunt Grace to see if she had any advice.
When she got back home, she lay down on her bed. As she rested, her ribs ached worse than ever, still making breathing a chore. She wasn't a young filly any more and wasn't sure if she could withstand another attack of this sort from the spirit. If it hadn't been for Georgia's timely appearance during the attack, she might not be alive now.
She knew that she ought to go see a doctor, in case she had a cracked rib. But, how could she explain the trauma to her body? A doctor might call in the men in white coats to take her away if she told him the truth about what had happened to her.
That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? There were very few people that she could talk to about ghosts and spirits that wouldn't think she was crazy---nobody for certain that could help her put the genie back in the bottle.
She closed her eyes. There had to be a solution...if only she could stop thinking so much and use her intuition to figure it out.
A couple hours later, after she woke from a nap, she made herself some corn chowder. Then, after the butterflies dancing in her stomach prevented her from eating much of it, she gave up and pulled her tattered cloth suitcase out of her bedroom closet.
Aunt Grace didn't have a telephone, because she didn't believe in using any more mechanical devices than were absolutely necessary. For decades, she'd said that the energy 'interfered with her visions'. Opal suspected that she blamed electricity for damaging her eyes in the first place.
It was a four-hour drive to Coon City. The only proper thing to do was to show up on her Aunt's doorstep, plop her suitcase down, and say that she had come to stay for a day or two. Aunt Grace would moan and perhaps not let her in at first, but then, hopefully, she'd concede and seem at least a little happy for the company.
Surely, the spirit had not been quiet and invisible while Georgia was in the house. Why was Georgia still there? Why hadn't she run screaming out the door yet?
The more she thought about it, the more the answer seemed plain. He was biding his time. For some reason, the spirit wasn't threatened by Georgia. Either, he was simply waiting for her to leave, so he could enjoy his solitude...or there was some more devious reason why he was waiting to announce his presence.
She tossed clothes into her suitcase. Then, she grabbed her toothbrush and a few toiletries, shoved them inside, and rushed back out to her car.
I've got to go see Grace now. There's no time to lose.
Georgia held on to the last bundle of straw as she talked with Stevie and Clarissa.
"You know...I could clean up the gardens for you."
"Thanks, but there's a gardener coming over tonight to do some work."
"Some?" Stevie said as he followed her back to the vegetable garden and glanced around at the mess. "Looks like a tornado went through here. I'd be happy to give you some help."
"Sorry, kid. I'd rather have a professional do it, especially out in the rose garden. He'll know how to prune all those heirloom roses, so they'll survive the winter. It's too much for you to do anyway. This guy's probably got a lot of power tools."
"Yeah? Who's that?" Stevie asked.
"Daniel, your great grandma's gardener."
"I didn't know she had a gardener. I thought she did everything herself."
Georgia shrugged. "She probably didn't want to admit to anyone that she needed help. You know she was always very independent, even in her last days."
"Well...have you got any other projects for me in the house?"
"Boy, you are hard up for money aren't you?"
"Odd jobs beat slinging fries in town or shoveling chicken manure for Dad. My wardens are threatening me with both if I don't get a job soon."
Georgia looked past Stevie towards the truck, but she couldn't see the driveway beyond the garage. "Speaking of wardens, is your mom with you?"
"Nah. She's at the beauty shop. She told me to come over and see if you needed help with anything." Then, seemingly out of spite, he looked down at his little sister and ruffled her tawny hair with a rough flick of his hand. She flung him off with her tiny arm. "Clarissa insisted on tagging along. She wants to see the stupid cat."
"Stop it, butthead," she yelled. Then, she turned to Georgia. "Where's Max? Momma won't let me have him at our house, you know. She says we had a lot of farm cats when I was a baby, and they just kept multi...multiplying...so they had to get rid of them. Is Max going to multiply too?"
Georgia laughed so hard---her stomach got a cramp. "That's a good question. Maybe we can get him fixed, so he can come live with you. I don't know who's going to take care of him after I leave, unless Fred and Annie want him."
Clarissa frowned. "You're leaving?"
"Not until Friday," she said as she walked with them towards the house.
"Have you been feeding Max?" Clarissa asked.
"Of course. You shouldn't be worried about him starving. He's as fat as a bear. He must be eating mice when he's not getting his calories here."
They went in through the back door, and Clarissa ran over to Max who was lounging on the living room sofa, stretched long and wide across two of the cushions.
"I'm going to play with Max...and Alphie!" she shouted.
While Stevie opened the pantry to raid for a snack, Georgia watched her niece pet the cat and whisper into his ear. As she hugged him and kissed his head, the feral-looking cat seemed to tolerate the affection with a housecat's aplomb.
Georgia turned to Stevie. "Everything's so dusty in this house---I started washing all of the bedding. There's some sheets on top of the dryer in the basement. I'll give you a couple of bucks if you fold them."
He hesitated and frowned as if disdaining the idea of boring women's work then he pivoted around on one heel to face the basement. She saw earphones magically appear from under the collar of his shirt, and he was nodding to a beat by the time he reached the basement.
Georgia went sat down on the couch beside Clarissa and her furry captive.
"Did I hear you say you were going to play with Max and Alphie?"
"Yup," Clarissa nodded, beaming sunshine across her face.
"Who's Alphie?"
"He's my friend. Just like Max."
"Oh? Where does he live?"
Clarissa rolled her eyes. "Here, of course."
"I don't know anyone by that name."
"He's not friends with everyone. Just me. If you don't know him, maybe he just doesn't like you."
Georgia sat mute.
"Max doesn't like him. But, he's just silly. I think everyone would like Alphie if they knew him."
Clarissa was the right age to have an imaginary friend. But, she thought it was odd that Marsha or her grandmother had never mentioned it. Maybe they were keeping it quiet and hoping it was a passing phase.
"Is he ever called Alphonso?"
"No," Clarissa groaned. "I told you...his name is Alphie."
Georgia gave up on getting any more information out of her, and thought that maybe she should also give up on deciphering her grandmother's cryptic note about Alphonso. It didn't seem likely that she was ever going to understand it.
She busied herself with some more chores around the house...cleaning windows, dusting shelves, and sweeping the floors.
A little later, she saw Max saunter over to the back door with Clarissa close at his heels. They ran out the door together.
"Don't go too far..." Georgia yelled as the door slammed behind them, and she realized that she had inadvertently become the little girl's babysitter.
She peeked out the window between the lace curtains and saw Clarissa making a bouquet of dandelions as the cat lounged on the patio beside her.
As she turned away, she realized that she hadn't heard a peep from Stevie in a while. She wondered what was taking him so long to finish folding the sheets. It shouldn't have taken more than a few minutes, and it had been over half an hour since he went down there.
She cracked open the basement door and listened, but couldn't hear anything. There was only the dim yellow glow from the dangling light bulb to light her way as she crept down the steps. The old wood boards creaked with each footfall.
"Stevie?"
As she rounded the corner and came upon the washer and dryer, she saw the laundry basket containing sheets folded into haphazard crooked squares. The dryer door was open, and the remaining linens were still inside in a wrinkled heap.
"StevieHayden!" Georgia yelled as she realized that she must sound like the boy's mother.
Where was he?
She walked deeper into the basement and saw that the door to the third room was ajar. It was the one room in the basement that was occasionally used as a guest room (for any visitor that had overcome their primeval fear of spiders).
On tiptoe, she crept towards the door and peered around the edge. Her jaw dropped as she saw Stevie's head bobbing to the beat as he pulled down box after box from the closet and rifled through them.
She flung open the door. "What are you doing?"
It took him a second to look up and see her standing there. He jumped and pulled off the earphones, with a look of embarrassment. Then, he stuttered, "I...I just wanted to see if there were any old pictures of us kids in here..."
She winced as she glanced at the mess of photos piled on the bed. "Well...you might have asked. This is all your great grandpa's old stuff. All of the more recent family photos are in albums upstairs."
His face turned as red as he began stuffing photos back into a box "I'm sorry."
"Are you going to finish those sheets?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he said as he hurried out of the room and returned to his job.
There was something going on with that boy...and his mother. They sure had a keen interest in hanging out at this house and rifling through things all of a sudden. She knew that they had not been frequent guests when Grammie was alive.
Her heart softened for a moment when she wondered if there was trouble at home that Stevie was trying to escape from. He was a young man on the cusp of leaving home and finding his own way in the world...and living in the same house with her sister's sharp tongue couldn't be easy.
She let him be as she walked past him to the staircase, deciding not to give him any more lashes.
Back upstairs, she started to return to her chores, but paused when she heard girlish giggles. Clarissa's young voice was unmistakable, but did she also hear the deeper chuckle of a man's laughter?
She peered out and saw her niece sitting cross-legged on the patio, leaning back on her hands and looking up towards the massive gray bicep of the cottonwood tree next to the house.
"Whatcha doing, sweetie?" she asked as she stepped out.
"Playing with Alphie. He's doing tricks!"
Georgia followed the girl's eyes up again to the same spot, but saw nothing except a few leaves rustling in the wind. "You have quite the imagination."
Clarissa ignored her as she began clapping and giggling again. "Do it again!" she said as if she were the only attendant at some invisible circus.
She shook her head. The girl was so engaged with her imaginary friend that she couldn't help but look up again at the branches of the tree as she went back inside the house. The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes weighed heavy on her. Perhaps it was the tree itself with its widespread arms and contorted bark. It was probably as old as the Gingerbread house itself. Everything was old here. This property was probably haunted by the ghosts of old family members as well as the imaginary friends of a little girl's fertile imagination.
Inside, she looked up at the grandfather clock. The afternoon was ripening into early evening, and she hoped that Stevie and Clarissa would be gone before the Gardener arrived. She didn't want them getting underfoot...or to have Marsha come looking for them.
When Stevie came upstairs, she gave him the task of sweeping the front porch. He finished with lightning speed then came in and plopped down on the sofa next to Clarissa and Max. As she handed him a few dollars, she said, "It must be about dinner time. Maybe you and Clarissa should run home before your mom starts to worry."
Stevie poked Clarissa's arm. "She's probably right. We better get back before Ma has convulsions."
"Can I take Max with me?" Clarissa asked as she patted the cat's head, ignoring his flattened ears.
"Not this time. You're going to have to ask your mom permission. Maybe you can sweet-talk her into it."
Clarissa folded her arms and pouted as she jumped off the couch. Then, she stomped out the front door.
Stevie followed. "Maybe, I can come back tomorrow if you need something else done?"
Georgia waved and said, "Maybe."
As they left, she looked out the window at the darkening sky, then up at the clock again. The gardener was due to arrive soon. She wondered why she felt so nervous.
It was an hour later, as her fingers wrapped around a box of pasta from the pantry, that Georgia heard the intermittent chugging of a sputtering motor followed by the squeal of brakes.
She raced to the library window. The sky was an inky blue, but in the dim light she could make out the outline of a very old pickup in the driveway.
Surely, this rust bucket was---
But, her criticism disappeared the instant that she saw the gardener step out, take off his cap, and run his fingers through his silky dark shoulder-length hair as he looked up towards the twinkling sky.
Then, he took two steps towards the porch and stopped, bouncing his hands together. He turned in a circle on his heel and took a few more steps before pausing again.
She was amused. Was he performing some sort of prayer or pre-work ritual? Or...was he gun-shy and trying to compose himself before speaking to her? Either way, she enjoyed watching from her secluded post.
When he began to climb up the porch steps, she closed the curtain. Unable to restrain herself, she rushed to the door to meet him and had it open before he reached the doormat.
"McKenna...buona sera." He took off his cap again, and gave her a curt bow.
Georgia smiled as she stared. He wore clothing similar to the night before---a loose white t-shirt and baggy rolled up trousers. His unkempt hair cascaded down around his face like the locks of a merry ruffian in Robin Hood's crew, but his goatee was trimmed to perfection. Despite his quirky appearance, there was something very alluring about him. She imagined that he would look handsome if he wore a tuxedo or rags from a thrift store.
"You're here. I wasn't sure you were serious about working in the dark."
"Of course." He gestured toward the beat up truck. "My apologies. My other motorcar is...being repaired."
He pursed his full lips, uttering each syllable with distinction, and for a moment, she found herself distracted by the sight of him, standing in the golden glow of the porch light like some perfectly formed Roman sculpture with each curve of the muscles in his arms illuminated. But, she composed herself, remembering that he was here for a business task, and after that, she'd probably never set eyes on him again.
"Moreno...from the sound of that truck...I'm not sure you'll get very far with a load. Are you sure you can do this tonight?"
"Please...call me Daniel. It is no problem. I just have to give to give her a kick now and then and she obeys." He motioned toward the truck. "She'll be fine," he said with a wink.
"If you say so...I really appreciate you doing this on such short notice."
"It is my pleasure. I am doing it as a favor to your lovely grandmother."
Charming...so dreadfully charming. She found herself flushing and feeling lightheaded in his presence. It took a moment for her to compose herself and say something coherent.
"I've got the back patio light on for you, but it doesn't cast light as far as the gardens." She looked up at the sky. "There's not even much moonlight..."
He followed her gaze up to the cloud-filled sky and the small crescent moon dangling like a fish hook above them.
When he looked back at her, his eyes seemed to sparkle again from some light within...or was it just the silver moonlight reflecting off the stained glass on the door?
"Magic is best done under the cover of darkness," he said with a Cheshire grin.
She liked the confidence of this eccentric man. "Well...I'll leave you to it then. The gate by the garage is unlocked. I'll be inside if you need anything."
He bowed again and disappeared from the porch.
She went back inside and boiled some water for her pasta. After eating, she busied herself tidying up the dried bundles of roses and statice in the turret room where her grandmother kept her crafts.
But when she found herself back downstairs, she couldn't resist peeking out the window next to the dining table to see if she could see Daniel working.
Unfortunately, only the closest corner of the vegetable garden with its towers of tomato cages could be seen from the house. The rest of it...and the rose garden were too far down the path and partially obscured by the garage.
She shut off the kitchen light and the light over the dining table. Then, she stood on her tiptoes and peered out again.
After a few seconds, she heard the squeaky wheels on her grandmother's wheelbarrow. Then, she saw a scraggly plant that looked like a dead corn stalk and some thorny branches fly up into the air. They seemed to move of their own accord above the fence line, flailing about like skeletal limbs.
She couldn't imagine how he worked in the garden at night. The mere thought of squishing on slugs and getting tangled in spider webs was enough to make her shudder.
How did he manage in the dark? Did he have some sort of unique biology? She wondered if he was born with some genetic mutation that gave him eyes like a raccoon or a bat.
There were other odd things about him, too. In addition to his amazing eyes, he had awfully pale skin for a gardener, and his speech, obviously of foreign origin, was archaic and stilted, as if he sometimes stumbled to find the correct English word. Despite these quirks, he was undeniably attractive...in a rough sort of way. This evening, she had re-evaluated her belief that he was a few years younger. There was something about his voice and the twinkle in his eyes that told her that he was older...and perhaps a bit wiser than she'd surmised before.
There was one other thing that she gathered from their two brief meetings. As an art gallery owner, she'd learned to size up prospective clients in a heartbeat. She knew if they were serious buyers or just posers, basking in the feeling of the art world's mystique. She could tell that this man definitely did not come from money. But, there was a drive...an unspoken passion burning in him. Was it obsession...or did he need the money so badly that he took on work around the clock? And how many other clients in this conservative little town allowed him to keep such hours? She wondered if her grandmother had indulged this peculiarity. Maybe, that was how she kept his presence a secret, taking credit herself for the work that he did.
With her hand on the back door knob, she told herself that she shouldn't go out there and pester him. But, curiosity won. She had to know how he worked at night.
Scolding herself, she slipped out into the cool gunmetal darkness of the starry sky.
"Come on, Grace. It's me..."
Opal banged on the door again, then walked over to the window and peered inside. She could see the glow from a candle in the living room, but no movement inside. She rapped on the windowpane with a fist.
"Go away," a voice yelled. "I'm not buyin' anything."
"It's your niece...Opal. Please open the door."
She waited as she heard footsteps. A minute later, the tattered moth-eaten flour sack curtains parted, and she saw her aunt's face peering out.
Muttered curses filled the night air. Opal endured the barrage of four-letter words, wincing from each one as it stung her like a wasp.
A few moments later, the latch popped open.
"What do you want?" the old woman asked as she cracked the door.
"Grace...please...I need your help. It's an emergency."
"Who's dyin'? I probably don't care and can't help anyway..."
Opal put her hand on the frame next to the creaky wooden door, determined to keep her aunt from closing it. "Let me in...and I'll tell you. I've come a long way to see you."
"I didn't ask you to come."
"I've brought you some homemade biscuits and jam."
There was a pause...and then, "What kind of jam?"
"Blackberry---your favorite."
The door inched open.
Opal stepped inside, taking in the shifting shapes of the shadows cast by the lone beeswax candle in the dark room. She smiled to herself as she realized that the detour to the grocery store on the way out of Calathia had paid off.
She offered the biscuits and the jar of jam to the hunched woman who hesitated as if they might be poisoned.
"Why did you come so far to bother me...and bring a bribe?"
Opal sighed and covered her face with her hands. "I've done an awful thing, Grace. I need your help to undo it."
"No one ever knocks on my door without wanting something," Grace said as nibbled on a hunk of biscuit and smacked with pleasure.
Opal hadn't seen her aunt in a couple of years, but it was obvious that little had changed. She still wore the same threadbare dresses with a crocheted shawl over her shoulders. Her feet were bare, because she could no longer cut her thick and yellowed toenails with a knife, and it hurt to put on shoes. That was reason enough to declare that she never wanted to leave her house again. And, at ninety-six...she no longer drove a car. Neighbors brought her groceries, and she lived her life in blissful solitude.
Grace hobbled off to the kitchen and came back with a butter knife. Then, she eased herself into her rocking chair next to her knitting basket and sat the plate on her lap. She dug into the biscuits as voraciously as a wolf.
Opal sat down on a wooden stool next to her and began as simply as she could. "Grace...I held a séance for a dear old lady to bring back her husband, and there was a mistake. I brought back the wrong spirit. He's taken up residence in the house, and I'm afraid he's murdered once and might do it again."
Grace kept nibbling, unaware of her lips turning purple. "A mistake, eh? There's lots of remedies in the kitchen." She gestured toward the wall just beyond the kitchen table. It was lined from floor to ceiling with wood shelves that contained hundreds of small green and brown glass jars of every herb, spice, and botanical folk remedy imaginable.
"Your potions won't help me this time. I need spiritual assistance...not something in a bottle. Somebody might die if I don't figure this out. Virginia may have been killed because of my mistake."
Grace looked at her as if noticing her for the first time. Her eyes squinted into tiny cat-like slits as she seemed to be trying to squeeze enough light into her pupils. With a little sugar and flour in her belly, her words seemed more focused. "A spirit, eh? One of those mean nasty fellas? You didn't close the circle to protect yourself when you did your spell, did ya?"
Opal bowed her head as her guilt increased a thousand fold. She told Grace every detail she could remember in the hope of finding a solution. "I'm not even sure what I'm dealing with. He was dressed in a Victorian style suit with a tall hat. A young man ...thirties...forties, maybe. Probably from around 1900 or so. He said his name was AlphonsoGiovanni, but I have yet to find out who he is. He tried to kill me. Look..."
Opal unbuttoned her blouse and displayed the bruises around her ribs. The striped olive green and raisin purple blotches from the coils of the spirit were clearly visible, even in the dim candlelight. But, when the old woman continued to stare down towards her plate without acknowledging the damage to her bare torso, she remembered her aunt's failing eyesight.
"I'm sorry, Grace," she said as she fumbled with her buttons. "I forgot."
With her eyes still cast downward, the old woman's hand shot out and grabbed Opal's wrist. Her long nails, like an eagle's talons, dug trenches into her flesh. Opal winced from the pain and the frightening strength of her grip. She saw Grace's eyes close and a violent fluttering begin underneath the lids.
A second later, she released her hold and sunk back into the rocking chair like a deflated balloon.
"I could feel what happened to you. It was a black snake that attacked you. He was like a serpent from the devil's den coiled around you. You're lucky to have gotten away with your life."
"I know. This is very serious. Won't you help me? There's a woman in that house now...and I'm afraid that her life is in danger as well."
Grace opened her eyes, gobbled down the last bite of a biscuit, then licked her fingers. "It's a lot easier to bring a spirit into this world than it is to send him back."
"Come back with me to Calathia. Maybe if we do it together..."
Grace shook her head. "No...no...I can't do that. I'm not leaving here. They'll have to bring my coffin in through the door and bring me out in it. I don't like this world anymore. Don't want any part of it."
"Even to save a life?"
She looked towards Opal with the bottomless sea of her ancient blue eyes. "Are you sure the spirit is still there and this woman is in danger?"
"Yes. I drove four hours to see you, Grace. I don't know where else to turn."
"This doesn't sound like any common ornery spirit. But, I'm too old to deal with such tricksters. And...even if I could make the trip...I'm afraid I might not last to make it back. I'm not strong enough anymore."
"What can I do then?"
"I may be able to help you, but whatever we come up with...you're going to have to do it on your own."
Opal leaned over and grasped her aunt's frail hand. "I'm scared to death, but I owe it to Virginia and her granddaughter to undo what I've done."
"My ideas might scare you even more. Sometimes, big mistakes call for big solutions. Hopefully we can come up with something that will work."
Opal tensed. She had no idea what the old woman might tell her to do. If it was something strange or petrifying, she had no choice. Part of her wanted to do anything...anything...to banish the spirit, even if she had to swallow a jar of enchanted swamp muck or fight him with a red-hot sword. But, inside her core, she was still that little girl peeking in the carnival tent at the mysterious gypsy. She wanted to run far away and hide her head under the blankets, quivering and crying until the bad man went away.
"It's getting late, dear. Maybe you should go, and I'll tell you tomorrow. You won't sleep a wink if we start now."
"No...I won't sleep at all if you don't help me now. Besides, I have nowhere else to stay. You've got a house guest for the night."
Grace wrinkled her nose. "I'm not prepared for company. I probably haven't got an extra set of sheets that don't have moths in them."
"Don't worry about me. I can take the couch."
The frail woman sighed as if accepting the fact that a trap had been laid for her. "Well...in that case, I'll put on a pot of tea or maybe a bottle of brandy...whichever I touch first. It's going to be a long night..."
Georgia didn't need much light to find her way. She knew exactly how many steps there were to the vegetable garden. But, she hesitated before she stepped off the patio. Was it rude of her to intrude? If she silently watched him work from the path, would he think that she was spying and be offended?
Before continuing, she thought of a ruse that would give her an excuse for her appearance.
She counted the paces to the vegetable garden, taking care to make a little noise as she went, so it wouldn't seem like she was trying to sneak up on him.
When she reached the picket gate, she was startled to see that the entire plot had been cleared. Impossible! How could one man have done so much so fast? It had only been a little over than an hour since he'd arrived.
DanielMoreno was nowhere to be seen. She guessed that he was back at his truck as she continued towards the rose garden.
When she reached the black iron arbor, she paused. Her heart pounded as she saw a tall shadow circling the fountain. She watched as it paced around counter-clockwise. She hadn't expected to find him there so absorbed in what appeared to be another strange mental ritual.
He saw her and stopped, leaning against the rim of the lower tier. "Signora. You startled me! I was just pondering my next task. Have you seen the vegetable garden? I was about to start on the roses..."
"I...I just wondered if you could use something to drink."
"Lovely. A glass of Chianti...Absinthe...or another libation?"
She laughed. "I was thinking more along the line of a glass of water or a cup of tea."
He walked towards her then stood just a foot away. She smelled earth and sweat on him mixed with the scent of the decaying roses on the arbor above. The sweat on his pale skin glistened in contrast against the cavernous blackness of the circular garden behind him. His eyes were a brilliant verdant green even in the dim light. They mesmerized her.
A moth fluttered in front of her face. As she shooed it away and broke away from his gaze, she suddenly became aware of his closeness. They were alone in the garden in the dark. The lights next door at Annie's and Fred's were out, and she felt...well...not really uncomfortable...but a little strange as she realized how little she knew about this man. An exhilarating sensation of danger mixed with lust rippled through her.
"Really, McKenna. I am fine. You are much too early. I would prefer that you wait and see my finished work tomorrow morning."
"That Ms. or Ma'am business just makes me feel so old."
"Old?" he chuckled. "Do you see that rose bush just beyond the arbor?"
He made a grand gesture toward a sprawling tangle of thorns six feet tall to her left. In the daylight, she would have been able to see its leaves, reddened by frost and the few remaining drooping blossoms that were somewhere between the color of freshly churned butter and day old champagne.
"It is called Honeydew. It was bred over a century ago and won many awards in its day. If you could see it in the sunshine next to yourself, one would say that you are much younger and no less beautiful than it."
Georgia felt a flush of heat come to her cheeks.
"You are a bambina compared to the cottonwood trees down by the river. Some of them have been here, I'm sure, for two hundred years or more."
"How long have you been a gardener, Daniel?"
He smiled, a flash of white teeth a mile wide. "A very long time...since before I was born, I think."
She laughed.
"Now...you must go. I have much work to do. Please don't make me pick you up and carry you back inside." He winked again and held his arms out to show her that he was prepared to haul her off like another load of vegetation. "Ciao," he said as waved her off.
She rolled her eyes and did a fake curtsy before panning around to head back the way she came. As she followed the stones back to the house, she felt giddy. Was he flirting with her?
Back inside, she found it difficult to keep herself busy and away from the windows. She paced about, tidied up a few things, and watched the evening news before preparing for bed.
A few minutes later, she caught herself in the mirror in the middle of a ridiculous grin as she brushed her teeth. The gardener certainly was charming...and knowledgeable about the roses. No wonder her grandmother had hired him. But, why had he been absent for so long? Had her grandmother lapsed into dementia in the latter part of the summer and cancelled his service? She'd certainly sounded lucid during their weekly phone conversations, but what other reason could there be for the abandoned chaos?
A little voice in the back of her head told her that she would drive herself crazy if she kept dwelling on all the mysterious details surrounding her grandmother's death and last days. There were too many things that would probably remain unknown.
Before settling in to read a few more pages of the romance novel in bed, Georgia couldn't help creeping downstairs and taking one last look out the kitchen window to see if Daniel was still working. But, this time, she saw nothing but the oily blackness of the night sky...as there was no moon at all. Its sparse light had been muffled by a passing cloud.
She slid the window up and listened. But, there was only the symphony of crickets and the far off rush of water from the river that was swollen with rains in the west.
Hmmm...
She wondered if he was done already. Though, she hadn't heard the truck engine start up from the driveway.
Telling herself that she was behaving with the impatience of her six-year-old niece, she shut the window and made sure that the doors were locked for the night.
She was so anxious for dawn to arrive so she could check out the transformation in the garden---she imagined that she would lay awake for hours watching the numbers tick off on the clock beside her...minute by minute.
The spirit paced around the fountain again after Georgia went back into the house. After so much time, he could still imagine Margaret's loveliness standing next to it in one of her white cotton dresses with the lace around the collar and the embroidery at the hem.
On the day of her death, the roses had been blooming in their full candy-colored splendor...and the fluff from the cottonwoods drifted in the air. He remembered the surreal feeling of their last moments together...just him and her...like dolls dancing a slow minuet in a giant snow globe.
Such a dove... una bellezza. Another hundred years could pass, and he still would not let her go from his heart. He kept her there still as if her image were a photograph in a locket inside his chest.
But that locket had been blown open, hadn't it? He felt the flesh up under his shirt and the scar from his wound.
To this day, he was not completely sure what had happened in the last moments of his previous life. The blast had come from behind him, knocking him to the ground before he could turn and look at his killer. Margaret's lifeless body was slumped beside him, with her legs entwined with his and one eye open in an accusing glassy death stare. Seconds after that, his blood flowed out upon the cool green grass, staining it as red as the roses a few feet away.
He traced the cool rim of the fountain with his fingertips and knew that he must take leave of his memories and get back to work.
He was weary of the charade of playing gardener again. But, his ploy to introduce himself to Georgia seemed to be working. She had taken the bait like a scaly river pesce.
The fact that she was a beautiful woman made his task all that easier. But, there was something about her that made him cautious. Despite her friendliness, he sensed an invisible wall wrapped around her. Perhaps it came from a broken heart, or from being guarded and careful from living in a large city.
Countrywomen had a relaxed softness, a measure of comfort with their environment. He supposed the wide-open sky and the surety of the seasons made them more at ease. But the city women he'd known in his youth were more like battle-scarred Athenas as he had learned from a young age picking rags amongst the bins behind the tenements of the immigrant quarters. The poor in that Italian section of the city distrusted the surety of tomorrow and their next meal. There was a sharp edge to their voice and a searching in their eyes that naturally sized up each new encounter for its intention.
He'd learned his charms by trial and error in those days. A misstep might have gotten a chamber pot emptied over his head instead of a treat from the kitchen. As his verbal skill grew, so did his success. No one suspected the young boy with the cockscomb of dark hair and sparkling green eyes of thievery when his words basted them with icing sweeter than the baker's finest confection. No, Ma'am...I was just trying to catch a mouse in the alley. I didn't want it to get into your home and chew a hole in one of your lovely dresses.
Could he flatter Georgia as easily? He must be careful with this one.
He began to prune the roses with a pair of trimmers from the garage. There was still little more than the faintest glow from the slit of moon and the stars above to guide his cuts, but he was so accustomed to shaping the bones of these shrubs that he could do it by touch, singling out the dead wood and overgrown limbs one by one without even using his eyes.
It was ironic that he had volunteered to do this work, since he had been the one who had destroyed the gardens in a fit of rage after Virginia had disobeyed him.
The incessant telephone ringing that day! He'd become tired of the psychic woman's constant calling. He told Virginia to rip the phone cord from the wall. She refused, and he lost his temper. Stomping out to the gardens, he had pulled vines from the ground, trampled over tomatoes, and flattened her entire summer's worth of hard work. But, she'd been lucky that day---when he had turned his rage on the plants instead of her.
The spirit tried to stop his wandering mind and focus on the tasks ahead of him. There weren't many more hours before dawn, and he wanted the gardens to look perfect. He manicured the rose garden and mulched it with leaves until it looked tidy and ready for winter slumber.
When he was finished, he tossed the last clippings into the back of the truck. Then, with a shaky foot on the pedals and a bit of protest from the gears, he drove it back to the farm where he'd stolen it. Wouldn't Farmer Turner be amused to find it full of thorny branches and rotten tomatoes in the morning?
Then, he walked all the way back to the house and uncovered a stash of flowerpots and other décor behind the garage that he had pilfered earlier from around town.
He worked at a manic pace to complete his masterpiece, vignette by vignette. Hours passed, and a thin ribbon of lavender light cracked open the eastern sky as he tied a dried cornhusk bow around the last terra cotta urn.
A flash of movement caught his eye near the vegetable garden gate, and he saw the yellowing leaves of the grapevine on the fence rustling.
A second later, a tail whipped out between a picket and whiskers emerged.
"Hsss!" The cat arched its back into a perfect mockery of the fading crescent moon. It spat at him, baring its teeth.
He tossed a rock at it and watched as it galloped down the path with its tail fluffed out like a skunk.
He wasn't about to let that miserable creature destroy his handiwork or give away his belated presence. He considered chasing it and taking it out for good. But, as he saw the light growing brighter, he knew there wasn't time for such diversions.
A few minutes later, with the final touches in place, he stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and surveyed his handiwork. "Que avvenente giardino! Sono genio!"
It wouldn't be long before Georgia rose and came out to admire his artistry. Now...where could he hide and gauge her reaction?
He chose a tall juniper where he could view both the vegetable and the rose gardens. As he began to reduce himself to a ribbon of mist, he noticed something odd---a pain in his chest. He halted his transformation. Before he lifted up his shirt, he saw a red stain leaking through the cotton fabric. He told himself to be calm, "Non si ecciti, signore. Si calmi."
Perhaps the physical labor had sapped his energy. He had overdone it and not realized it until some damage was done.
He fingered the wetness of the wound, wincing from the pain.
So...he was human enough to bleed now...but also weak enough that his progress could be reversed? He consoled himself with the fact that he could revive himself daily if needed from the energy of others. If that was continually possible, wouldn't this second life be eternal?
As he transformed, he knew that some day soon, he would not have to stoop to tasks that sapped so much from his strength.
Grace made Opal recant her tale over and over again. They poured over every detail of the séance, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong before Grace would reveal her plan.
Before dawn, Grace stoked the fireplace with wood one last time to fight off the chill that had seeped in during the night.
As she leaned over the hearth and poked at the embers, she said, "I know that incantation sounds familiar, but I just can't place it. Tell me again."
Opal sighed. She was exhausted and wondered if her aunt was going to be able to help her after all. "Emtahd netseef tabbe..."
Grace gasped and turned rigid. She turned around and held out her hand. "Stop! Don't say it again...I finally remembered where I've heard it. Where did you learn it?"
"I...I...found it in an old book in my house. Some old rotting book in my basement. I don't even know where it came from...maybe from the previous owner."
"What kind of book?"
"A history book of some sort. Ancient mythology, I think. It was a conjuring spell. It just popped into my head when I was desperate. I even tried to reverse it, in case that would help, get rid of him but---"
"You're right about one thing. The phrase is old. Very old. But, it's not just any simple conjuring spell. It's ancient Sumerian sorcery used to bring dead warriors back to life in time of battle."
"That's crazy. How do you know that?"
"Oh dear...your mother mustn't have taught you a thing when you were young, because she knew that you didn't have 'the gift'. It doesn't occur in every generation."
Two blows in one. The circuitry in Opal's mind fired like a lightning storm. She didn't know which revelation to confront first, but her mouth decided on the most fantastical. "My mother? What do you mean...taught me? She was a bible-toting churchgoing---she beat my hind end raw when she found tarot cards in my room. Are you saying..."
Grace's bare feet found her path to the rocking chair. She lowered herself into it as the fire crackled and roared. "Your mother was afraid of her sight. When she and I were girls, she had an experience with the other side that scared her so badly...she never attempted contact again. From that day, she kept her bible with her wherever she went and refused to talk about it or allow her children to dabble in such an art. When you were born, she forbade me to talk to you about it."
Opal remained standing, her hands balled into fists. "She never told me."
"No...because she didn't want your curiosity to lead you into trouble. But...as luck would have it...you found that path on your own."
"I don't have it? I thought..."
"No, dear. You don't have the 'sight', but you have a powerful leaning towards it. Your mother knew about your dalliances with the spiritual world, and she should have warned you about the dangers. But, her paralyzing fear came out in wrath instead."
The news about her mother was hard to hear, but everything Grace said made sense as she thought about her childhood. She slumped down and leaned her head onto her hand as the memories came back. Then, she thought about more recent days---all of the séances where she had fleeting glimpses of the land of spirits along with occasional contact with the dead and the tarot card interpretations that seemed inspired by some paranormal intelligence.
Grace reached over and patted her hand. "Everyone has access to a sixth sense...an intuition, but not everyone has the ability to contact those who have passed on and live in another plane. You've got some of it. Just as you've inherited your mother's blue eyes, you've got a little in your blood...just not the whole parade. That's what makes it so much more dangerous. You have limited ability and no formal training."
Opal wrapped her arms around herself. All these years, all her passion for knowing the unknowable, there was a reason why it had been such a struggle. Now, she knew, and it saddened her. She felt even more helpless.
"There's no excuse for your mother not to have warned you and taught you proper safety. It's like those birds and bees talks that parents never want to give. Yet, if they don't explain things to their kids, they're just setting them up for the worst case scenario that can happen out of ignorance."
"I didn't know. I didn't mean to..."
Graced wagged her birdlike finger. "Ancient spells aren't to be trifled with. Back in those days, the dead mixed with the living much more freely than they do now. People understood how to control such things, because they believed in them and studied them."
Opal felt like a scolded child. Her bottom lip began to quiver.
But, Grace continued with a sharp tongue. "You use a light spell for conjuring dead husbands for a little chat. If you use more ancient powerful words that allow a malicious spirit to come back from the dead...you don't know what kind of person you have re-inflicted on the world. For all we know...this man was Jack the Ripper!"
Opal tried to compose herself through the streams of tears. Her voice warbled through the sobs. "So...just tell me what I need to do to send him back..."
"You don't understand yet, do you?"
"No...I guess I don't."
"That crusty old chant was used to bring the spirits of ancestral warriors back to life to fight against living enemies. Life. It makes them flesh and blood again. Your spirit is on his way to becoming a real living man if he isn't already."
"That's not possible. When he attacked me, he dissolved like smoke. There was nothing human about him."
"So you say now. Sometimes the process takes time. The Sumerian spirits only became true flesh after they've killed...and killed some more. Every death makes them a little stronger as they absorb the life force from the person's soul."
Opal gasped. "You mean..."
"I mean that even if he wasn't a killer in his past lifetime, he is now. It's the only thing that will make him fully human ...and I imagine that...to be human again is the one thing a spirit would want above all else."
"But, if he becomes human then we can kill him for real?"
Grace sighed and crossed her arms over her chest like a school marm about to dole out punishment. "Now that's a paradox. Would you commit murder then, yourself?"
This made Opal think. She couldn't be convicted of killing someone who was already dead, but if he became human again...what recourse was there?
"I have an idea, but it's a long shot. You'll have to do it yourself, and it may only make things worse."
"Great," she said as she wiped her face dry. "Sounds like a wonderful plan..."
Grace's tongue grew a point. "You came here for my help. It's your turn to listen. There are two things that must be done if you are going to get rid of this spirit. The first may be easier than the last, but I'm afraid that one alone won't be enough."
Opal leaned back and draped the afghan over her shivering body. Then, she closed her heavy eyelids and took in a deep breath. "Maybe we should get a little sleep first..."
"There's plenty of time to sleep later. I have to explain this to you." Grace walked past her and kicked her lightly on the shin. "Wake up, dear. I'll make us some porridge and cream for breakfast."
Opal groaned as she disappeared into the kitchen. Amongst the clinking of glass and dishes, she heard Grace muttering, sometimes at a whisper and other times clearly out loud with no attempt to hide her thoughts.
"I can't believe she used such a dangerous ancient spell! Let's just hope I'm at least partially wrong. I'd hate to think that she may have unleashed a serial killer on Calathia!"
Georgia woke from a fitful night of little sleep. The nightmare was incessant. Every time she was forced under the water...about to die...she startled awake. Then, as she drifted back to sleep the frightening scene with her attacker began again.
After stretching and yawning off the night's misery, she traipsed down the staircase. As she felt a chill and wrapped her robe tighter, she remembered the gardens.
With a skip, she went straight to the kitchen window, but as in the dark last night, she could see little more than the path.
She paused long enough to put on a pot of coffee then she looked out the front window to see if the Gardener's truck was still there. When she saw the empty driveway, she was even more anxious to get outside and see what he had accomplished.
With the coffee still dripping, she rammed a mug under the basket and filled it up. Then, still in her slippers and nightclothes, she went out the back door.
She was a few yards away from the vegetable garden when her feet stopped, and her jaw dropped halfway to the ground.
The vegetable garden had been stripped clean of every dead corn stalk, every toppled bean tower, every smashed tomato, and bit of debris that had been there the day before. Not a single dead rhubarb leaf or strawberry stain remained.
The fall decorations were even more astounding. An orange bittersweet vine draped over the gate, adding ambience as if it had been there for years. On either side of the picket fence, there were large rustic raffia bows. Stone urns graced the edge of each rectangular raised bed, filled with sprays of ornamental grass, Virginia Creeper, dark wine-colored berries, bright red and gold leaves, and perky rust-colored mums.
Her mug tilted and a drop of hot coffee spilled onto her foot. How had he done so much in the middle of the night? He wasn't a gardener...he was a magician!
Her heartbeat increased as she walked towards the rose garden. When she reached the arbor entwined with frost bitten roses, she was no less amazed. The fountain had been filled with dirt and planted with pansies. Tendrils of grapevine overflowed its basins and dripped down the sides with golden leaves and jeweled clusters of fruit. Every rose bush was trimmed into a precise compact shape. The perimeter of the circular beds in front of the roses had been filled with pockets of colorful pansies, bright mums, and frilly heads of ornamental kale.
She took a large gulp of coffee and burned the back of her throat. As she grimaced from the pain, a flash of metal caught her eye.
With their pruned down bones, she could see a tarnished copper nametag entwined around a lower cane on one of the rose bushes. It looked old, as if it had been hidden for decades by the overgrowth of the rose bush and weeds. She walked over and leaned down to read it. The engraving said, 'Elizabeth'. She saw another tag on the bush next to it with the name 'Margaret'. It surprised her that they had been buried all these years in the debris of leaves at the base of the plants. Her grandmother probably hadn't even known they were there.
Returning her admiring gaze to the immaculate beauty of the rose garden, there were no words to describe her amazement at the transformation. She wondered if the gardener had a secret crew with flashlights strapped to their heads working all night---an army of OompaLoompas or elves.
She rushed back to the house, sloshing coffee all the way.
At 7:30 a.m., it was too early to call Daniel.
Then, she realized that she couldn't call him anyway---she didn't have his phone number. She dialed information, but found no listing for a DanielMoreno in Calathia.
The morning passed in uncomfortable solitude. She tidied up more things around the house and packed a few small items to take back in her suitcase. Then, she took a stack of photographs and a few of the frames from the bedroom dresser. To those, she added a silver locket that she had given Grammy for her eightieth birthday and a bottle of lilac perfume that she hoped would remind her of her grandmother when she was a thousand miles away.
Around noon, Annie phoned. "Are you going to hide over there all day? We haven't seen very much of you. I've just made some vegetable soup and sandwiches. Why don't you come over and sit a spell?"
"Actually...I've got something to show you over here. I'll come for lunch, but I'm going to march you right back."
Georgia kept her secret during the meal. They chatted about people they'd seen at the funeral, the cooling weather and how many Walleye Fred had caught on his last fishing trip. She even pretended to be impressed when he trotted out his new goose-hunting rifle as Annie brought out a plate of molasses cookies.
Afterwards, she showed them the gardens, and they were both as shocked as she was.
"I sure never knew Virginia had a gardener," Annie said. "You should send him my way when you're done with him. If I asked him to fix a faucet, would I get a whole new bathroom instead?"
They laughed and talked for a few minutes then Georgia told them that she needed to finish packing.
"I guess we won't see you again before you leave?" Annie asked.
"Of course. I'll come by later tonight. I wouldn't leave town without that banana bread you promised!"
She hugged them and watched as the old couple, who'd been married for fifty-two years, trudged back across the field together. They looked so gray and frail---she imagined that a strong wind might float them up to the sky like feathers if they got caught in a storm.
For the rest of the afternoon, she tried not to think about the fact that tomorrow she would be back in the frantic city anthill, amongst the crowds, the noise...and the responsibilities of her struggling gallery.
Later, as the sky grew dim, the jarring sound of the ringing phone disrupted her meditation.
"Are you planning on leaving tomorrow morning without even saying goodbye?" Marsha's shrill voice asked.
"No...I..."
"The kids would like to see you again and dinner's almost on the table."
"Alright. I'll be over in a few minutes."
As she hung up, the doorbell chimed, startling her enough that she jumped backwards.
Through the mottled panes of colored glass on the door, she saw a tall lean male silhouette and knew that her gardener had finally returned.
Opal spent the day at Aunt Grace's, trying to convince her to come back to Calathia.
"I'm not leaving this house again until they take me out in a big box."
"But, how can I do this on my own? I'm too afraid. You've already told me that I don't have the abilities that I've always thought I had. I'm weak. I'm..."
"If you focus your mind and your energy, you'll see that things have a way of working themselves out."
Opal's eyes twitched from lack of sleep, and she knew there were dark circles under them that looked like she had been punched. "Both things you're telling me to do are impossible. And, even if I could do them, he'll kill me before I could finish."
"But, you've got to find his bones, dear. It may have been the Sumerian mumbo-jumbo that keeps this spirit going, but I'm guessing that he wouldn't be so tied to that house if he didn't die there. Maybe you can find a grave marker and..."
"Even if I could figure out where it is, do you really think my chubby old body could dig it up?"
Grace shrugged. "Perhaps you can find someone to help you."
Opal couldn't think of anyone that she could ask to help dig up the grave of some hundred-year old ghost. Karl had already heard enough of her insane story to be exasperated with her.
"You've got the words for the banishing ritual?"
"Yes," she said as she took the folded sheet of paper from her pocket and looked at it again. It was Grace's own hastily scribbled instructions for undoing the ancient chant and sending the spirit back from where he came. It involved blessing his bones, burying them on sacred ground in a churchyard, then confronting the spirit and circling him three times while saying the banishing spell. She couldn't imagine getting very far in that process before he doubled over in laughter and struck her dead.
Grace worked her crochet needles in and out of the yarn, feeling her way along each loop with her fingers. "If his essence is rematerializing into flesh and blood, he'll be as firmly rooted on this earth again as you or me. Each life he takes furthers his own. You should get back there soon...it may already be too late for this woman, Georgia."
"Oh..." Opal moaned. "I don't know if I can do this."
"Then, your spirit may eventually take every life in that town to maintain himself. You must undo this horrible wrong, Opal!"
"Grace...I'm going to beg you one more time. Please come with me..."
"I can't, child. This is your doing...and your undoing alone. I'm a very old woman. It's not likely that I'd even make the ride back to Calathia. My time on this earth is counted in days if not hours."
"But, what if I do as you say, and it all goes wrong?"
Grace held up her hand. "Enough! It's time for you to leave. You're wasting precious time here."
Opal's face sunk as Grace dropped the knitting and felt around on the floor for her suitcase. When she found it, she slammed it shut. Then, with all the strength in her hunched frame, she hauled it over to the door. As she pulled the door open, she pointed a bony bird claw finger and shouted, "Go!"
Opal grabbed her purse. As she saw the white hot look in her Aunt's filmy eyes, she didn't bother attempting another plea. "Fine. Goodbye, Grace. Say some prayers for me tonight and wish me luck...because I'm going to need it."
Grace remained in her stolid position until Opal made it to her car.
As she settled her body down into the driver's seat, the pewter cross dangling from her rearview mirror swung back and forth. "Yes, Lord..." she said out loud "...hypnotize me and make me your instrument of righteousness. I'd say I'm sorry for my dalliances with the dead, but you know as well as me...that I usually do a lot of good for sorrowful folk."
When she looked back, Grace's door was closed, announcing the complete and final end of her assistance. And, since she didn't own a phone, there would be no way to get in touch with her once she was back in the immortal trenches of Calathia. Aunt Grace's plan sounded like a death mission. She didn't know if she could go through with it.
If only Wanda could find that old box of Crawford's...
"Daniel!" Georgia gushed as she opened the door. "I can't believe what you did with the gardens!"
He grinned as he leaned against the doorframe with a blade of straw hanging between his lips as casually as a lit cigarette. "It is nothing," he shrugged.
She held the door open for him. "I just can't thank you enough for all of your work."
He removed his cap and bowed his head as he stepped into the foyer. As he swept past her, she noticed that his skin didn't seem as pale as it had the day before. In fact, it seemed to have a peachy glow. His hair was slicked back with gel, emphasizing his Roman nose and the chiseled lines of his cheekbones, his fingernails were clean and buffed to a shine, and there was a hint of cologne lingering about him, disguising some of the musty scent of soil that seemed to emanate from every pore on his body last night.
"I don't know how you accomplished what you did overnight. All those pots of flowers...and wreaths! I'm leaving town tomorrow, so I won't get to enjoy them for long. I guess I'll have to give them to Annie next door."
"Was it too much? I know you didn't ask for it. It's just that...I cannot bake a cake without putting on some icing."
"No. It's fine. I just wish Grammy were here to see it. She would have loved it. She loved the gardens so much... it's a fitting tribute to her."
He withdrew his glittering green eyes and focused them on the floor as if a moment of modesty left him without words.
"What you did in one night!"
His eyes fluttered as he returned her adoring gaze. "It's nothing, McKenna. I just do my job..."
"No...it's not nothing. You're far too talented to be wasting yourself in this dumpy little town. You should go to Kansas City...Topeka...or somewhere where you can really shine and be rewarded for it. You could do contracting...garden design..."
A sigh blew out of him as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Renoir did not paint for the people of Paris; he pleased himself just as Rodin did not mold clay into the simple imagination of his patrons. I am nothing in comparison with these geniuses, but I can no more transform flowers and earth into the vision of another than these men could do with their creations."
"Eloquently put. I think I get it. Do you know something about art as well as gardening?"
"Ahhh...yes. I have a passion for the fine arts."
"Really? I studied art in college. I own a contemporary gallery in New York."
"The modern artist---a mystery. It's a shame your gallery is not closer, so you could teach me more about it."
She laughed. "Modern art is one of those things that people either love completely or find baffling. I used to be quite confused by it in the beginning as well. When I began painting I..."
"You paint?" he interrupted. "Fantastico!"
"Well...I haven't for many years."
"But, you love it, no?"
She nodded sadly as she thought about the old tubes of paint stashed in a closet in her Soho apartment. There was still a wood easel somewhere in the basement in this house, probably rotten and covered with spider webs.
"Why did you stop?"
Her upper teeth dug into her lower lip. "I'm not sure. I guess it just fell by the wayside after I got married. There was so much going on with social functions and trips and---"
"You're married?" he asked as his head dipped into a shrug.
She looked down at her left hand and rubbed the spot where the ring used to be. "No...divorced."
His hand reached out and gently grasped her arm, giving it a light shake. She felt a strange tingle course up to her shoulder.
"You should paint again," he said as he looked into her eyes with a fiery excitement.
"Maybe someday..."
"No. You should do it right now." He squeezed her arm tighter. "This minute!"
"That's silly. I couldn't. I don't even have paints or a canvas."
"Hmmm..." he said as he withdrew his hand and stroked the fine hairs on his chin. "Then...you must do something else to rekindle your passion. Tell me about this art in your gallery."
"It's quite modern. A lot of sculpture and abstract whimsical things. I used to love the impressionists...that's what I studied most in college, but---"
He leaned against the edge of the small table in the foyer, rapt with thought. After a moment, he asked, "But...now you are tied to this business...and not your own passion?"
Georgia sighed. It was true. "I haven't painted for a very long time...and I guess my love for it has been given the backseat for so many years that I'd almost forgotten about it."
"Your grandmother's library. Aren't there some art books in there?"
She looked at him quizzically, "Yes...I think some of my old textbooks are in there."
"I'd love to learn more. Can you show me?"
A new smile crept across Georgia's face. Far from being the half-hearted 'Smile' that she gave to placate strangers, this was an expression of true joy, dusted off and pulled out of an old trunk of emotions. "It's been a long time since I looked at any of them."
"It would be a pleasure for me." With a flourish, he gestured for her to lead the way.
In the library, she found some of her old textbooks. She opened one then sat in the recliner with it on her lap as Daniel pulled up a wooden chair with a velvet cushion next to her. He turned it around backwards and straddled it, so close that their knees almost touched.
She flipped through the pages and told him which of the Monet's, Cezanne's, and Degas' she preferred over the others, talking about the importance of capturing the light on the canvas and how she loved art as a young girl."
"It's the same in the gardens," he said, "...capturing the light through the leaves...manipulation of color, texture, and form."
"Yes...nature has her own palette. She is the greatest artist of all."
He leaned in closer, his voice softening to a whisper as if asking her the most intimate thing imaginable. "Do you have any of your old paintings here?"
She thought for a moment. "There are dozens of them down in the basement somewhere."
"I'd love to see them."
Her face flushed. "I haven't shown them to anyone in almost twenty years."
"You should paint again. I can hear the sadness in your voice and feel it in your heart. To give it up for good would be a great tragedy."
"You're very persuasive," she said as she felt the heat of her reddening face. "I think I'd run out to an art store right now...if there was one in town."
They returned to the book and continued with their conversation, talking about each artist...what they liked and what they didn't in each piece.
"A me piace di piu questo quadro impressionista. Forgive me ...but I prefer this one."
His hand brushed against hers as he pointed to a painting of a young Victorian woman in a long cotton dress, sitting on a park lawn next to a flock of geese. When his skin touched hers, she felt a jolt as if a spark of electric voltage had passed into her. As she withdrew her hand from the book and looked into his eyes to see if he had noticed the static shock, a frisson rippled down her spine like a thousand tiny tickling fingers.
Daniel didn't seem to notice as he discussed the boldness of the color and the odd smile on the woman's face, "...much like Da Vinci's MonaLisa."
A half an hour passed...then another. She was so entranced in her conversation that she didn't hear the phone.
A few minutes later when it rang again, she bolted up, catching the book before it crashed to the floor. "I forgot that I was supposed to be over at my sister's for dinner. I'm sorry, but I've got to go."
"No problema. I've kept you for too long..."
"What do I owe you for all of your work?"
"Actually...instead of payment, I have another suggestion."
Georgia barely heard his words as she stared into his eyes, mesmerized by the changing kaleidoscope of colors.
"You see...I'm in a bit of a bind right now. I put my house up for sale this summer, because I had considered moving. But, now that the house is sold...I've changed my mind. I can't bear to leave Calathia. This is my home," he said as he swept his arm in a wide arc. "I don't think I could trade this fresh air and the sounds of the birds singing on a spring morning for the noise and bustle of a big city. You understand, don't you?"
She nodded. "I know exactly what you mean. Since I've come back here...it's hard to remember why I left New York."
"There aren't a lot of houses for rent around here. In a couple of weeks, I'll be forced to give up my home to the new owners, and I'll either need to purchase something else in a hurry or waste a lot of money on a hotel. I'd rather sleep out in a field under the stars than do either at the moment. And I would...but...the nights are getting a bit chilly. I was wondering..." He looked straight at her and caressed her with his luminescent eyes, "...if you needed a caretaker for this house while you are away."
Before she could reply, he raised a hand up.
"I'd keep up the grounds and gardens and work on some of the things in the house that need fixing. You can be sure that this place would stay safe with me on guard. I just need a place to lay my head at night when I'm not working...and it could be as temporary as you want."
Georgia felt lightheaded. She'd never been one to make rash decisions...but she had lost sleep worrying about the house standing empty and not knowing what to do with it. Maybe this was the answer...at least for now.
"Alright, Moreno. Daniel. If I can trust you to take as good of care of this house as you have the gardens, then you'd make an excellent caretaker. I've been worried that while I'm gone, the place might go to ruin or be burglarized...or I might come back to find a family of bats in the chimney and raccoons playing house in the kitchen. It'd give me peace of mind to know that someone was here to keep an eye on things, and I haven't really wanted to burden Annie and Fred next door with it."
He bowed. "I would be honored to keep it in magnificent order during your absence."
Her mind raced as she pondered this hasty decision. Of course, if this was in New York, she would have insisted upon a background check and references. But here...with someone that her grandmother knew and trusted to look after her gardens, she didn't feel that it was necessary.
"I'm leaving early in the morning, but I'll leave the key next door with Fred and Annie. I should be back for Christmas if not sooner. I still haven't decided what to do with this place."
"I will be a most excellent house guest."
He held out his hand. She took it, noticing his firm grip and the fact that though it felt cool upon her first touch, it grew almost unbearably hot before he let go. "Signora..." he said as held his cap in front of his chest. "I am most grateful."
"I'll call you after I get to New York."
She showed him to the door and watched as he walked down the length of the porch. In a blink, he disappeared. She leaned forward out the door and looked toward the driveway to see if he had made it to his truck. But, in the royal blue light of the night's arrival, she could see nothing but blinking stars and gravel in that direction. She wondered if he had walked or ridden a bicycle.
A moment later, after grabbing her purse and her leather jacket, she rushed out the door to see Fred and Annie before heading to her sister's.
Her feet seemed to hover over the ground as she flew over the field.
Opal was back in Calathia before the sun set that night. She'd heard about the murders in town on the radio.
Back in her house, she closed her blinds, double-checked the locks on her doors, and didn't dare turn the television on.
She knew the deaths were her fault.
Curling up into a ball on her bed, she fell asleep and dreamt of tumbleweeds blowing down Main Street. She envisioned bodies lying in the wheat fields, skeletal victims rotting in their beds, posed with a coffee cup in their bony fingers or a cigarette between what was left of their lips. As the townspeople were murdered one by one, the wind whistled through the treetops with no one left to hear its sad song.
Would he come for her last?
When she woke in the middle of the night, she thought she heard a knock at the door and huddled in her bed sheets. Was that the sound of footsteps?
After a few moments of silence, she dared to crack an eyelid and saw him standing there in her bedroom doorway. He towered against the frame. His handsome young face cocked to one side as his tall hat listed perilously above. She saw an expression of sheer joy come over him. Then, something changed in his green eyes. The color muddied, turning an earthy shade of brown. The flecks in his iris began to glow, and then pulse until they turned red. She felt the heat emanating from him. Tendrils of fiery energy curled out from his eyes and snaked across the room towards her.
Paralyzed with fear, she felt the warmth tugging at her chest. At first it was a gentle pull, but it grew stronger with each passing second. Her heart no longer beat of its own accord---it was a puppet on strings, and he was its master.
Still...he smiled.
Her heart slowed from the pressure within. In a couple more seconds, she knew that it would explode.
But, as the beating muscle began to tear apart, her eyes popped open, saving her from dying in the nightmare.
She was fully awake now and saw nothing but the long shadows on the walls of her bedroom and her empty doorway.
Tied to the property? She whimpered before a crazed cackle came out. Maybe the house was his home base, but she knew now that he was mobile, moving about town and stalking his victims like a wild animal. He fed off them, not like a vampire who hungered for something as visceral as blood, but consuming the invisible spark of energy that gave them life.
That was even more frightening than some storybook monster that you could fight with garlic and a big wooden stake.
She wondered where Georgia was tonight. Was she already dead? Her lifeless body back by the river, just like Virginia at the end?
She said a little prayer for the woman, then lay there with wide unblinking eyes, listening for the sound of death's footsteps at her door.
Annie kissed Georgia's cheeks again and again. "I wish you didn't have to leave us so soon."
"I know...it's hard to go."
Fred stepped out beside them. "Pity you can't stay and keep that house going."
"Speaking of that...I've hired a caretaker."
They raised their eyebrows in unison.
"Daniel...the gardener. He's going to stay there awhile. He'll do some work on it and keep the lawn up."
"Virginia never told us about any gardener fella. Maybe he was a secret boyfriend." Annie winked.
She smiled away the suggestion and held out the silver rose key chain. "He's going to stop by tomorrow to pick these up."
"Oh dear...we're leaving early to see Fred's brother up in Russert."
"I was hoping you could meet him. But...oh well. Maybe you could leave him a note on the porch with the key?"
Annie agreed.
Georgia left a few minutes later, burdened with foil-wrapped banana bread and homemade sweet pickles dyed in Annie's famous shade of Kelly green. She ran back across the field and tossed them onto the passenger seat of her rental car. A glance at her watch told her that Marsha was going to be spittin' nails by the time she got there.
She tore out of the driveway, swerving just in time to avoid landing in the ditch.
As she approached the intersection of Main and Countyline, the shops looked dark and quiet, and the sidewalks were empty. She floored the pedal to make it through before the light changed, but it turned red before she made it.
Red and blue lights flashed in her rearview mirror.
"Damn!" She pulled over to the curb adjacent to a barbershop. Her thoughts were a jumbled stew: another delay, a ticket, and a really pissed off sister. But, those concerns evaporated as she looked in the side mirror and saw KarlBauer striding up from behind her car.
"GeorgiaMcKenna!" he said when he reached the window. "I had no idea it was you flying through town like a bat on fire."
"Hi Karl. Sorry. I'm late getting to Marsha's. I was supposed to be there for dinner over an hour ago."
"I'm not sure if I should ticket you for going forty in a twenty or for running a red light...or both. You know we triple the fine for out-of-towners."
"Well...I might have been going a bit fast, but the light was orange, wasn't it?"
He took his notepad out of his pocket and clicked on his pen. Then, he looked up into her eyes and leaned a little closer toward her open window. "I suppose...I could let you off with a warning this time. That's a lot more than I'd do for anyone else going through here at the speed of light in a rental car."
"I'd really appreciate it. I promise I'll slow down."
He tipped his cowboy hat to her. "Alright, Ma'am. We'll let 'er go for your first offense."
"Thank you, " she said as she leaned out the window and watched him begin to walk back to his patrol car.
But, he stopped and came back.
"One more thing, McKenna. How about dinner tomorrow night?"
She pursed her lips and every muscle in her body tightened. "I'm sorry...I'm heading back to New York in the morning."
"Oh...that's right," he said as he slid his pen back into his pocket. He tipped his hat again and turned back around.
As he walked away, Georgia thought she heard him say, "What a shame..."
\*\*\*\*\*
Marsha wasn't spittin' nails when she arrived, she was spittin' red-hot railroad spikes. Georgia saw her sister in the doorway with her hands welded onto her hips like an angry army sergeant.
"I'm sorry...let me explain," Georgia yelled as she got out of the car.
"Explain what?" Marsha sneered. "How dinner is cold and how Clarissa went to bed in tears, because she thought she wasn't going to get to see her aunt Gorgie again for years?"
"I'm really sorry," Georgia said as she brushed by Marsha's stiff elbows and tried to make her excuses as she stepped inside.
"A caretaker? Why? You've got Fred and Annie, and we're not that far away."
She stepped into the kitchen and saw the table full of dirty dishes with the remains of a chicken casserole and rock-hard rolls. She explained further as she sat down and began to serve herself the remains of the cold meal.
Marsha narrowed her eyes into laser points. "You should just sell that house and be done with it and give me half...it's only fair."
"Here we go again...that's exactly why she didn't give it to you. She knew you'd sell it off in a heartbeat."
Marsha wrinkled her nose. "You can't hang on to it forever from so far away. It's as ancient as dirt. It's going to fall apart and go to the termites eventually no matter how many squatters you let stay there."
Georgia filled her mouth with a large bite of casserole.
"You'd better go see the kids. They're in their rooms. Hopefully, Clarissa hasn't cried herself to sleep."
Georgia rose from the table and walked to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Jarrod was fast asleep with a comic book across his chest. So, she went to Clarissa's room and knelt beside her. "Clarissa," she whispered. "It's Aunt Gorgie. I came to tell you goodbye."
The tiny eyelashes fluttered open. "Do you really have to go?"
Georgia ruffled her hair. "I'm afraid so. But, I'll come back to visit you as soon as I can."
"But...what will happen to Alpie? He'll be all alone."
She wondered how long it was normal for children to have imaginary friends. "Maybe you can find a new friend for him."
Clarissa looked at her Aunt as if she'd lost her mind. "That's silly. How could I do that? What about Max? Who's going to feed him?"
"Annie and Fred will. There's going to be a man living in the house while I'm gone. I'll tell him to keep an eye out for Alphonso too."
"Okay..." the little girl said with half open eyes as she leaned up and offered a hug. "I'll miss you..." she whispered.
"I'll miss you too, sweetie," Georgia said as she kissed her cheek then tiptoed back out of the room as the princess's eyes fluttered shut again.
She peered into Stevie's room and saw him sitting cross-legged on the bed with earphones, nodding his head to the beat. He pulled them off when he saw her then gave her a nod and the peace sign as his farewell.
When she returned to the kitchen, Marsha was clearing the dirty dishes from the table. As she took each plate back to the sink, she dumped the silverware into the dishwater with a loud clank then began vigorously scrubbing.
Georgia sat down and watched the beads of sweat drip down her water glass. "Even with all the bad blood between you two over the years, I find it hard to believe that Grammie wouldn't have left you something. Are you ever going to tell me what she said in your letter?"
Marsha pivoted around, keeping her hands behind her back at the edge of the sink. Her hair, a tangled web of disheveled blonde curls falling out of a bun, looked as wild as her eyes. There was nothing cheerful about her smile.
"What would be the point? Even if it's true that she begged for my forgiveness and expressed her love...she gave you the house. You were always the good granddaughter ...her favorite. Little Georgia could do no wrong since before our parents died and we moved in with her. You've always been the prima donna." She took a step forward---her hands still awkwardly hidden behind her back.
A chill rippled through Georgia. She leaned forward in her chair and pointed her feet towards the back door. This is it, she thought. She's lost it. She's got a knife, and she's going to try to kill me.
"I know she had to have left you something."
Marsha stopped just three feet away. "What she left me was a riddle...a wild goose chase that probably will amount to nothing but years of frustration. That was her last laugh...her last bitter revenge on her black sheep offspring."
"A riddle? I can't believe that she..." Georgia threw up her hands. "Why won't you tell me?"
"Because, you're smarter than I am. You're the college gal. You'd figure it out, find the treasure and cart if off to New York...and I'd be none the wiser. If there's any possibility that it exists, I'm going to find it on my own."
"It?"
"If and when I want you to know...I'll tell you. If I don't find it, then I expect a fair share of that property."
"I don't want to sell that house! I don't know what I'm going to do...but selling it is the furthest thing from my mind."
Marsha sank down in the chair across from her with a vacant stare. The gears in her head seemed to be grinding inside. Her hands were now in her lap, and Georgia saw that she held a wet dishrag instead of something more lethal. She worked it back and forth with her fingers, ignoring the wet stain on her apron. When, she spoke it was slow and careful, the malice oozing and bleeding from each word. "You might change your mind...all the way there back in New York. Who knows what could happen to that old fossil of a house while you're gone."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Marsha jumped up and walked back to the sink. "I'm just saying that you can't take care of it from so far away, and she's not going to get any better with age. You can slap a coat of paint on it and decorate it real pretty, but if the foundation's rotten...then what's the point of hanging on?"
"She? This isn't about the house, is it? You'd like to see that house razed to the ground as the last nail in Grammie's coffin."
As Marsha rinsed off a plate and moved it over to the dish drainer, it slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. She looked down at the fragments scattered around her feet and buried her face in her wet hands. Her sobs came in convulsions.
Georgia leapt up from her chair and tried to put an arm around her, but she flung it off.
"If it's money you need..." Georgia began.
As Marsha raised her head from her hands, mascara smudged down to her cheeks in jagged black streaks. Her eyes blazed with fire, and her voice was poisonous. "Don't you have a plane to catch early in the morning?"
Georgia stood still and stared as Steven came running in from the living room.
"What's going on?"
Marsha's eyes turned icy. "Georgia was just leaving."
Steven turned to her. "Is everything alright?"
"Just a little accident. I really do have to get going."
"Well, have a safe trip back. Good to see you again. Hopefully, next time it won't be under such sad circumstances."
Georgia nodded as he gave her a brief hug.
When they parted, Marsha turned around and stuck her hands back into the dishwater. Her hands flew back and forth with such rapid speed as she scrubbed a plate that Georgia thought it might catch fire.
"I guess I'll be going then," she said as she grabbed her jacket and her purse. She took one last glance in her sister's direction. Then, she gave a nod to Steven and walked to the door. He looked dumbstruck as she waved goodbye.
The next morning, the spirit watched Georgia leave through the window in the round turret room. "Bon giorno, signora."
After her car disappeared down the road, he paced up and down the hallway, flinging his arms in the air. Then, he soared down the stairs and howled as he reached the bottom. His tortured voice bounced off the walls and echoed back to him in reverberations.
It would be another eternity of loneliness without companionship.
He darted into Virginia's old bedroom, the very same room that had been WilliamCrawford's a hundred years back. His lip curled into a triumphant snarl as he remembered again that Crawford was dust in a grave.
On the dresser, he saw the sepia toned photo of his former beloved. Through the brown sepia tint, she stared back at him. Margaret. My beautiful ragazza. We could have been together in this house.
He would always hold on to that fantasy, though he knew that Crawford would never have allowed their marriage. She could have run away with him. But, they could have made a life together... if only she would have said, 'yes'.
He consoled himself with the fact that he no longer had to spend his nights in the shed that used to exist behind the barn. There, amongst the spiders, shivering in his cot he had choked down his feelings for Margaret with numerous bottles of cheap wine...night...after night.
Now...she was dust like her father.
Bring her back, a voice said in his head.
Margaret? He asked himself. It's not possible. I'm not a sorceress like the one who brought me here.
But...as his feet carried him down the hall...he knew what he was telling himself.
He went into the bedroom where Georgia had spent the previous night, unaware that he watched her as she slept. As he had hovered over her, mesmerized by the rise and fall of her breaths, her body thrashed about as she seemed to dream of some terrible event. Then, as he sat in a chair across the room melding into the dark shadows as if he were no more than another umbrage amongst the reflection of tree branches in the moonlight against the wall...she had screamed and bolted awake.
For a few moments, her eyes darted about the room. He had been still and surely quite invisible. But, had she sensed his presence?
After a few moments of examining the shadows, she lay back down and returned to the wicked arms of her dreams.
He pulled back the blankets from the bed and traced the empty indentation in the sheets with his hands. Then, he leaned down and smelled the pillow, drinking in the faint feminine scent of her hair.
Yes...she was certainly a descendent of his dear Margaret's lineage. He saw it in her eyes and smelled it in on her skin.
He lay down on the bed and wondered what he might do to bring her back to Calathia. He was lost in his thoughts, inventing and discarding schemes when he heard the jingling of keys.
He ran down to the end of the staircase and saw a figure through the stained glass. Before he could decide to disappear or stand his ground, the door opened, and he saw a young man standing there. It was Stevie Hayden, Virginia's great grandson.
The spirit made no move to hide himself.
Stevie stopped cold and stammered, "Who the hell are you?"
"Daniel...the gardener...and now the caretaker as well. What are you doing in my house?"
"This is my great grandmother's house."
"Not anymore," the spirit said as he watched panic overtake the boy with a shudder. "Georgia has entrusted its care to me."
Stevie glared at him. "She never mentioned hiring a caretaker."
The spirit shrugged. "It was...a late decision."
"Whatever," Stevie said. Then, he looked over the spirit's shoulder as if checking to make sure that there weren't a dozen more occupants to confront him. "There's something here that's mine, and I've got to find it."
"And what might that be?"
Stevie hesitated, then thrust his hands out in front of him as if grasping at something invisible from the air. "The Black Diamond. My great grandmother willed it to my mother. I know its here somewhere."
The spirit smirked, and his grin stretched across the room. A low guttural laugh...almost a growl...started softly then built to a crescendo. "Affascinante. How much is this Black Diamond worth to you?"
"Oh..." Stevie said as his face lit up with the twinkle of his imagination. "It's priceless. It's a family heirloom."
"I see...and if I help you find this...precious jewel?"
"I'd owe you, man. Big time!"
"Perhaps, we can work out a deal, then."
"Anything..."
The spirit smiled. "What I request may not be in your ability."
Stevie stiffened, prepared for the challenge. "Name it."
"Your Aunt Georgia has gone back to New York?"
"Yeah," he replied with a shrug. "So?"
"I want her to come back to Calathia."
Stevie paused. Then, he sighed. "How am I supposed to do something about that?"
"You're a smart lad...you can figure something out. That is ...if you want this Black Diamond as badly as you say you do."
The boy chewed on his bottom lip, then fidgeted with the key chain hooked onto his jeans. "Maybe you should show it to me first."
The spirit descended the last step and rounded the banister. Then he took a step closer. "Bring Georgia back, and I'll produce your Black Diamond."
Stevie retreated. His voice cracked into a shrill stutter, "I... I'll try..."
"Make it soon," the spirit said as he appeared next to the young man with one hand braced on the door.
The tremor in the Stevie's voice continued. "Al...alright. I'm outta...here. But, I'll be...back."
"Don't bother...until you've done what I have asked."
Stevie yanked the door open and barreled through it. The spirit watched as his truck disappeared in a cloud of dust. Despite the promise, he knew Stevie wouldn't be back, and probably would be of little help in procuring Georgia.
What a laugh...the boy looking for the Black Diamond! If he only he knew that it had been lost forever! He knew that Crawford had grown tired of the incessant inquiries about it and the thieves circling the property like hawks, so he had hidden it so well that it would never be found.
The spirit winced as he felt a weakness in his chest, an indescribable twinge of agony. He couldn't believe that the pain from his ancient wound still seemed to come and go with such unpredictable fury. He knew that he had to recharge again.
He thought of Stevie. Such youthful energy...such vigor. If the boy did come back, it would be so easy to make his death look like an accident...another drowning in the river...or perhaps an accident in the motorcar.
He grimaced as he felt the stabbing sharp pain multiply in his heart like the stings of a thousand angry wasps.
Tonight, perhaps when the moon appeared high in the sky, he would take a long walk and run across a farmer cleaning his tools in a barn. Or, he might stumble across some teenage lovers parked down at the south end of the river. Barring that...there was always the old couple next door. It was a nuisance to have them so near...and he needed to make his formal introduction.
Opal woke that morning laughing hysterically.
She imagined telling her dilemna to Sheriff Cardale. "You see, Sheriff...I made a mistake. I accidentally used the wrong spell...and brought back the wrong spirit. He's the man committing all these murders...and if you could just help me find his bones. Bones...you ask? Well, that's because he's not really alive. He died about a hundred years ago...and now he's back and killing people left and right." In her imaginary conversation, the Sheriff laughed so hard that he had a heart attack and had to be rushed to the hospital. Afterwards, she was run out of town by skeptics bearing torches.
She was so lost in her miserable thoughts that when the phone rang next to her, she jumped as if two metal skillets had suddenly clanged together beside her head.
She grasped the receiver with a sweaty palm.
"Opal...is that you?"
"Wanda?"
"Yes...I've got news for you."
Her heart thumped with excitement. "You found the box?"
"You're going to poop a brick when I tell you where I found it. It was right up front at the inn's reception desk!"
"You're kidding!"
"Nope," Wanda giggled like a teenager. "Crazy, hunh? Ed helped to build this place many years ago, including the reception area. We still used the original old push button cash register until just yesterday. Ed finally agreed to let me pull it out and replace it with a computer. I pulled the front panel off the desk this morning to see if there was another outlet on the floor. When I did, a piece of rotten wood broke, and I saw something shiny way in the back."
Opal gasped.
"There was a secret compartment under there...probably used to hide a cash box years ago. Well, the shiny thing turned out to be a brass lock on an old wooden box, and I really think this might be Crawford's."
"Have you opened it?"
"No. I've been waiting for Ed to go to sleep. He's snoring like a buzz saw in his bedroom right now. Want to come over? We could sneak into an empty room and do it together."
"I'll be there before you can blink twice."
Opal hung up then found a semi-clean dress on the floor and tossed it over her head. Her body shook so hard as she approached her car...that she had to stop for a moment and calm herself.
A few minutes later, she followed Wanda's instructions and parked the car on the south side of the inn to avoid going through the lobby. There, on the second floor, in front of Room 102, she saw Wanda leaning over the metal railing. Her grin was hideously mischievous.
"Geez...that took you five whole minutes. I thought you'd hop on a broom and fly!"
Opal walked up the staircase as fast as her plump legs would allow. On the top landing, she paused to catch her breath. "I'm a psychic, Wanda...not a card-carrying witch. So...where is it?"
"Inside," she said as she motioned towards the door behind her. "Are you ready?"
"More than you can imagine. Lives may literally depend on what we find in there. You've heard about all the murders in town?"
"Goodness...yes."
"I suspect this spirit may be behind them.
"Ooh," Wanda squealed. "Frightening! This is better than my daytime soap operas."
Opal followed her inside the room with a mood much more dour than her friend's giddiness.
After Wanda shut the door behind them and pulled the drapes, she pulled a red metal toolbox out from under one of the double beds. "I borrowed this from my brother. I told him I was going to rearrange some of the picture frames in the rooms. Aren't I sneaky?"
Opal began to twitch with anticipation. "Where's the box?"
"Right here..." Wanda said as she slid out a large black garbage sack.
Opal watched as she untied the knot and lifted out a heavy rectangular wood box. It was bolted shut on all sides with the brass lock dangling from the front.
"Do you think we can get it open without damaging it?"
"I don't know. But...if we break it...so what? Who will ever know?"
"I feel a little bad about this. It's like we're prying into a dead man's secrets."
"I thought you said this was a life or death matter."
"It is!"
"We're just going to take a look. Then, I'll put everything back together and put it back under the desk where I found it."
Opal ran her hands over the smooth wood. Then, she tried to lift it. "Whatever's in here... it's sure heavy. I wish I had the power to use my mind to find out what's in it without us opening it. There's hundred year-old secrets in here. It's like breaking into a tomb."
"Honey, if you had that kind of psychic ability, we wouldn't be here."
Opal laughed. "You're right."
After a moment of silence and a deep breath from both of them, they began.
Opal steadied the box while Wanda worked the lock with a screwdriver. After a few minutes of trying, she conceded that they might have to pry it open and risk damaging it.
Then, Opal peered at the backside. "Hinges..."
Wanda smiled and got out a tiny screwdriver.
It took a few minutes to undo all of the screws. When she finished, she lifted the back edge. "I think---"
They heard a cracking sound as Wanda forced the wood lid up too high and splintered it. "Oops..."
Both ladies stared wide-eyed at the contents. For a few moments, neither moved and neither spoke.
Opal felt her heart beating hard against her breast as a feather-light gasp escaped from her lips.
They were both so excited that they didn't hear the footsteps outside the door. When the sound of keys at the door shocked them back to reality, Wanda quickly shoved the box back under the bed.
As Georgia drove east towards Kansas City, her mind wandered from Marsha's tantrum...to her embarrassing run-in with Karl...to her hasty decision to allow Daniel to occupy the house. Then, she circled back to the most painful thought.
When she had dropped her luggage onto the porch and pulled the front door shut on her grandmother's house, her heart felt like heavy metal. In the driveway, she had taken one last look, drinking in the fading green trim, the Queen Anne turret, and the windows from the upstairs bedrooms that looked like a pair of soulfully sad eyes.
The week in Calathia had passed by so quickly, and it felt like she had left with unfinished business.
When she reached the airport, she returned the rental car and made it to her gate just as the attendant began closing the door to the tarmac.
When the plane leveled out above the clouds, exhaustion overcame her and her head nodded down onto her chest. She dozed for the first hour of the flight until a brief resurgence of the horrible dream caused her to wake up with a start. The flight attendant gave her a bemused look as she jumped awake, gasping for air. She hoped that she hadn't talked in her sleep.
When she arrived at La Guardia, it was a busy Friday evening. After picking up her bag, it took her far longer than it should have to snag a taxi.
The driver was a young Puerto Rican with blue-tipped hair and a pierced tongue. She held on as he darted in and out of traffic with the deftness of a barracuda. After fastening the seatbelt, she braced herself against the backseat and fished for her cell phone.
"Hey, Emily...I'm back. Just got on the Queens Expressway. How's it been going? Any sales?"
"No. It's been a pretty quiet week. I sold two oils from Blanca, but we barely cleared a few hundred."
"That's depressing. I'm going to have to pay you in Ramen noodles and foot massages if we don't make more money soon."
"Speaking of that. I've got some bad news..."
Georgia held her breath.
"I hate to tell you over the phone, but I'm going to have to give my notice. I've decided to go back and finish my graduate degree, and I got a job at the university gallery."
She sighed. Masquerade had been taking on water lately, and her best rat was abandoning ship. "I'm going to be sorry to lose you. But, thanks for at least giving me some notice."
When she hung up, she cursed under her breath and rested her eyes, only opening them every few blocks to take in the blur of red taillights and gauge their progress towards her Soho loft.
When they arrived, she padded an extra five dollars onto her tip; an appreciative gesture for getting her home safely and not talking her ear off on the way.
As she shut the cab door, she stopped and looked up at the iron-cast façade of the old warehouse building that had been refurbished into artist's lofts decades back, although there were few starving artists left in this area that was now the home of upscale shops and boutiques. It was a jolt to return after spending the previous nights in the comforts of Grammie's Gingerbread House.
She lugged her suitcase inside and rode the elevator up to the sixth floor. After throwing her load down, she changed into comfortable brown velour pants and matching slippers. Then, she went to the kitchen and popped the cork on a bottle of Chablis. She plopped down on the leather sofa and took tiny mouse sips from her glass as she checked her voicemail.
With nothing urgent to respond to, she fought off the urge to take a nap and phoned out for Chinese food. Then, she flipped on the switch to her computer. She typed the name, "AlphonsoGiovanni" into the search engine.
The results included sites listing GiovanniAlphonsoBorelli, a 17th century Italian scientist, a review of a DonGiovanni performance in Cincinnati two years back, and a historical note about a man named GiovanniSforza who was married to LucreziaBorgia.
After a fruitless half hour, she gave up the search when her dinner arrived.
Later, she snuggled into bed sometime after midnight with a full stomach and a second glass of wine lulling her into its drowsy spell. But, her mind wouldn't let go of the funeral, the house, and the strange enigmatic name of Alphonso.
As she listened to the traffic on the street below, revelers on their way home from trendy nightclubs in Tribeca whooped and hollered as they paused at the stoplight a block away. She put a pillow over her ears. Most nights were more tolerable, but on some weekends, she felt like she was on Bourbon Street during the heyday of Mardi Gras.
She imagined herself leaning out the window, over the fire escape, throwing the proverbial flowerpot down at the crazy kids in their convertibles and sports cars borrowed from daddy's garage. Then, she imagined the sirens...the police coming to take her away in her terry cloth robe and slippers.
Her mind hovered somewhere between consciousness and slumber as the image of a hoard of blue-clad NYPD turned into a single broad-chested blur with a tan uniform and sandy brown hair. Why am I thinking about him? KarlBauer is a thousand miles away, even if he did ask me to dinner. Besides, I'm definitely not looking, she thought as her eyelashes fluttered shut.
It was 4:12 a.m. when she awoke; her body covered with a slick sheen of sweat, and the sheets twisted in a hard knot between her knees. The streets were quiet, making her panicked rapid breaths seem all the more pronounced. She untangled the bedding and stared at the shadows on the ceiling as she remembered the nightmare.
Running. Running. The wicked man in the tall hat chasing her through the thick black mud. She couldn't see his face when she looked back. There was only the long silhouette, a writhing shadow moving over the earth as he stalked her like a crazed animal. She screamed, but the rain drowned out the screeching out of her soul. He came faster. The dark tails of his coat flapped behind him like wings. She tripped over a log and fell face down a few inches from the bank of the river; the rainwater coursed down over her as he leaned toward her mud-soaked face. She looked up, expecting to see the Devil himself. Instead, as the hat tumbled off with a gust of wind, wild long blonde hair tumbled down, framing her sister's oval face. Her eyes looked as deep and untamed as the raging dark blue river. Reflecting no light from the moon---they were empty like black holes about to kill her by swallowing her up inside. Before she could gurgle 'why?', the damp hands with long red-painted talons reached out and clamped around her neck.
The next thing she knew, she was awake and staring into the tiny beady eyes of a pigeon sitting on the window ledge.
She shook off the memory of the nightmare that still clung to her like the tickle of cobwebs on bare skin.
"You're a poor substitute for Napoleon the Rooster as far as wake up duties are concerned."
The bird seemed insulted as he flew off into the morning gloom.
The sky never brightened that day much beyond that early hazy gray of dawn. But, it was a warm morning as she stepped onto the sidewalk in a prim navy pinstriped pantsuit and sling-back lizard pumps. With the New York Times and the latest copy of The Artist slung under her arm, she walked the three blocks to the Java Dragon for coffee.
With a hot latte in her hand, she rushed the last two blocks to Masquerade to make it there before she was due to open.
It turned out to be a slow morning with most of the traffic wandering in being tourists and not serious buyers.
BarryNielsen phoned and threatened to pull his collection if nothing significant sold soon, and a sculptor stopped by to show off some of his work to some relatives who were visiting.
The afternoon whittled itself away as she caught up on paying bills and returning calls from artists. The last hour before closing, she found herself daydreaming---wishing for some escape from the humdrum that her life had become.
But, her mental vacation wasn't to some island like Bora Bora. Her feet longed to feel the dusty floors in her grandmother's house again. She imagined padding along the stepping-stones to the gardens. Then, in the vegetable garden, she squished her toes into the silky black earth. She yearned to feel the cool green summer grass and crunch the cake-like clods of earth in the field on the way back to the icy silk waters of the river. But, most of all...her feet wanted to remember the soft fleshiness of the rose petals on that day over thirty years ago that she and Marsha had plucked a couple hundred blossoms and strewn them about in the garden to make a fairy ballroom.
The ruminations put her in the throes of complex emotions. Would she feel like a failure for throwing in the towel and ending a decade and a half in this grand city? She played devil's advocate with herself. The gallery is hemorrhaging money...and with few friends, she rarely went out and enjoyed herself. What was there to miss?
It had been a giant leap to move to New York with her ex-husband as a young bride. It would be another giant leap to come full circle and let her wings take her back home. It's truly what Grammie wanted. Why else would she have left the house to me?
By the time she turned her key in the lock of the gallery that evening, her mind was already working on a plan to fulfill her grandmother's wishes.
When the spirit went to get the house key from Annie and Fred...he knocked and found no one at home. Then, he noticed the note with the attached key taped to a broom. It said that they wouldn't be back until later that evening and looked forward to meeting him.
Pity, he thought. He had been looking forward to meeting them as well, but for more selfish and less healthy reasons.
His fatigue sent him on a walk for an alternative energy source.
It didn't take long to stumble upon his victim---a white-bearded bum sleeping next to the railroad tracks using a pile of hay for a bed. When the unconscious hobo died, his body seemed to explode as the essence of its existence left the flesh.
So much blood.
It was everywhere. Splattered upon the hay, it glistened in the sunlight like the ruby red juice of cherries.
The old man's heart had burst like a balloon. He supposed that it had been weak from years of emotional misery and self-abuse.
The mess disturbed him, because he knew that the deaths around town were beginning to cause suspicion. More and more, he found windows shut and doors locked as the townspeople kept their guard up.
But, he told himself to forget about the corpse and the bloody viscera. Hidden amongst the tall prairie grasses in a field, it would all be made quick work of by the coyotes and vultures. Surely, they'd leave little behind save a few fragments of bone before there was a chance of discovery.
As he followed the train tracks back, he found himself skipping and humming another of his favorite tunes, one that he used to sing as a Bootblack, shining shoes for the privileged gents that he so despised.
Walking along, he noticed the fresh pink ruddiness and tanned hue on his forearms. After the fresh kill, his skin glowed like the ruddy soft skin of a newborn. He sang louder and took in deep breaths of the musty autumn air, smelling pungent wood burning in fireplaces and the sweetness of pumpkin pie from someone's oven floating on the wind.
It felt so good to be alive...
Sadly, he knew that his vigor wouldn't last. It seemed the longer he went without re-energizing, the quicker the color drained from his skin. It turned an ashen, sickly pale mushroom shade, and the stabbing pains returned to the wound in his chest.
At least, he had come to relish the challenge of his kills. He enjoyed the creativity of his murders, experimenting with different methods of approaching victims without causing premature alarm. Sometimes, he lay in wait and feigned an injury until they proffered an arm in assistance. Other times, he snuck up behind a farmer, waiting until he bent over a tractor engine. Then, he pounced like a wild animal, devouring his essence before his wide eyes had a chance to identify his executioner. Sometimes, he even found himself taking a perverse delight in the stir that the discovery of the bodies caused in the small town.
But, he had noticed a peculiar thing as he took more lives into his own---the ability to dissolve into a smoky effluvium seemed almost impossible lately. He lamented the loss of flight. But...but having his life back again...reborn with a second chance to follow his dreams...there was no comparison. So, he didn't complain or feel any loss. To regain his humanness was more than any dead wandering soul could ask for.
If only he could achieve the transfer of enough lives into his own and then be done with it. As time passed...it seemed that he needed more and more. Death after death! It was sometimes annoying to have to keep finding victims and even harder to remain discreet in such a small town.
Was there a certain number of murders that he had to achieve as a sacrifice to atone for his past sins? A magic number? Would he then be permanently healed once and for all?
He pondered the questions as he stomped through fields of dried prairie grasses and prickly weeds. He was so occupied with his thoughts that he didn't see the black and white patrol car crawling along and keeping pace with him on the other side of the tracks.
When he noticed it, he kept walking and didn't let on that he had seen it. Was it following him? Was there something about his appearance that looked suspicious? He was dressed in mundane modern clothing stolen from his victims---a pair of worn jeans, a tweed cap to shield his eyes from the sun, and a blue flannel shirt tucked inside a brown leather belt.
He glanced down and saw a few specks of blood on his collar and knew that it wouldn't be a good time to be detained by a Copper.
The deputy leaned out the car window with one hand on the steering wheel as he cruised along at the pace of a curious turtle.
The man looked familiar. The spirit had seen him come to the house several times in the past including the morning that Virginia's body was found. But, the last time at the door---talking to Georgia---he had detected a softer amorous tone in the man's voice that he didn't like.
"Ceffo!" he muttered under his breath. Why is he following me?
The spirit shoved his hands in his pockets and began to whistle and sing to himself, "Just out for an afternoon stroll, Policeman...nothing for you to be concerned about". Then, he turned his head and looked directly at the deputy, giving him a friendly nod.
The lawman slowed his car to a stop. He nodded back. Then, with a finger, he motioned for him to come over to the police car.
The spirit smiled and faced the deputy for a moment as if he might obey. But, then he swiveled around in the opposite direction and with all of the newfound strength coursing through his body...he sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him.
He ran through the grass and brush, hearing the screech of tires on pavement and glanced back to see the police car turning around and coming fast. There were no trees in this field---nowhere to hide.
He ran like a hunted deer and followed the train tracks back past the dead hobo until he saw a farmhouse up in the distance. Surrounding it, there were several acres of ploughed fields. Most of them lay fallow except for one that was polka-dotted with orange globes.
Darting across the pumpkin field, past a scarecrow with a plastic skull for a head and a tattered straw hat, he kept going until he reached the back door of the house.
There were windows open and voices inside. With his hand poised on the screen door's rusted metal handle, he paused and wondered if he was making a bad decision. With his nearly human body, could he be trapped or forced into taking hostages if the policeman cornered him? A surge of white-hot fear coursed through him as he wondered if his newfound humanness meant he was as vulnerable as a mortal. Would it be possible for him to die again?
The spirit shuddered. He couldn't worry about such things at the moment. There must be a way to escape from this situation.
Peering around the back corner of the house, he saw the patrol car stop out front. The deputy emerged and withdrew his gun from his holster in one swift motion.
The spirit steadied himself and tried to remain calm. I am AlphonsoGiovanni, he groused. This is my new life, and I will not let it end in the same manner as the first.
The spirit knew that he had only a couple of seconds to make his move, or it would be too late.
In a whim of brilliance, he sat down in a lawn chair, picked a stick up from the ground below, and pulled a knife out of his pocket.
The deputy rounded the corner of the house with his gun drawn.
The spirit looked up at him, forcing a dim-witted grin. "Howdy officer..."
The deputy lowered his gun. "I saw you in the field back there. Why did you run?"
The spirit jutted his lower lip out and looked back down as he began to whittle. "Just out for an afternoon jog, checking on the fields. What're you followin' me fer?"
"You don't live here," the deputy said with a cocked eyebrow. "This is BillDirkson's farm. What's your name?"
"Hunh?" the spirit said as he dropped the stick and the knife to his lap. "My name?" he asked as if offended.
A young woman poked her head out the back door, "What's going on?"
The deputy turned towards her.
In that instant, the spirit made his move. He rose from the chair, dropping his whittling and ran like a spit of hellfire across the field.
Just yards behind, the deputy sprinted after him.
The spirit passed the grinning skeletal scarecrow, and hopped over pumpkins as he fled. A mile in the distance, he saw the black claws of a grove of trees peeking over a short hill. If he could just get to the river...
"Stop!" the deputy yelled as he kept pace behind him.
But, the spirit kept going. A bullet whizzed past his right side, grazing his arm. The sound of the blast and the smart of the bee sting disrupted the rhythm of his gallop...and he tripped and fell.
"Porca l'oca!" he cried out with a mouth full of grass and soil.
As he scrambled to his feet, the deputy yelled again, "Stop!"
The spirit turned with his hands raised next to his head. He scowled at his captor, muttering more curses in Italian.
The two stood in a silent standoff.
"You have no right to follow me, Copper."
"Well, there you're wrong. I think you're a suspicious enough fellow to take in for questioning. The body of a boy was found near here just a couple of days ago. Murdered. And I haven't seen you around these parts before. I'm going to ask you one more time...what's your name?"
"You've got nothing on me."
"I don't need anything but my own suspicion. I'm the law here in Calathia."
The spirit spat onto the earth and glared at him, causing the deputy to shake his head and tighten his grip on the gun.
"I've handled enough drunken farm boys stoked up on moonshine to take you the hard way if need be."
If the spirit wasn't already bursting at the seams with the energy taken from the bum by the railroad tracks, he might have ended it right there and then by filling his cup with some of the deputy's raw energy. But, he didn't want to risk taking a bullet in the process, and he wasn't prepared to dispose of the rotting remains of this man's tall muscular body.
Instead, he looked deep inside himself and let his rage boil up into black bubbles of hatred. It simmered up through his body, turning his seething disgust for authority and lawmen into a viscous fluid that burst through the skin on his face like pustules of oozing tar. Some of the energy burst out through his eyes, causing lightning forked streaks of red blood to crack across the whites like streams of lava.
As the deputy saw his ghastly appearance, the gun in his hand began to vibrate. He blinked his eyes and rubbed them with his free hand as if trying to erase the horrible image before him. Then, his entire body began to shake, and the gun fell to the earth with a thud.
A laugh burst out of the spirit---a deep guttural cackle of pure wickedness.
The deputy stood mute.
Raising his arms high above his head, the spirit took a deep breath and leapt towards the sky. To his relief, he found himself once again dissolving into a mist of ectoplasm as he soared above the field. He floated until he came to the stand of deep-rooted cottonwoods on the bank of the river and disappeared into their branches.
He watched the deputy shake his head as if trying to understand the fantastical scene that had just unfolded before him. Then, he picked up the gun and began a frantic search for his missing captive. After a few fruitless minutes, he gave up and scrambled back towards the police car.
Still perched upon a thin limb, the spirit laughed again as the deputy sped off, passing by the inhabitants of the farmhouse who were standing outside in complete bewilderment about what had just transpired.
A moment later, the spirit heard a cracking sound and realized too late that his human form was rematerializing. The branch snapped, and he fell twenty feet to the ground, landing on the bank. Before he could right himself, he rolled down into the ice-cold river. He cursed out loud, "Porco mondo!" after swallowing some of the green sludgy water.
As he trudged out of the river, his chest heaved with labored breaths. Water dripped from his heavy clothes and mud oozed from the soles of his shoes. He paused amongst the tall cattail reeds. Looking down at his hands, he saw that the chilly water had turned them a grayish blue. They throbbed as he rubbed them together, and the blood began to course again through his warming veins.
Resting on the bank, he somehow knew this was the very last time he could make such a metamorphosis. Gravity had tossed him down to the earth as if he were as real and solid as a blacksmith's anvil.
In fact, he no longer felt himself to be a spirit. He was a man---reborn of human flesh and blood with all the accompanying emotions, pains, pleasures, and lusts of a mortal.
As he shivered and sloshed back towards the Blake home---his home---he felt baptized as a new creature. He was no longer AlphonsoGiovanni---the Italian misfit who begged and stole his way through life. He thought about his new name, DanielMoreno. Yes...it suited him. It was the name of a man who was going to achieve great things in his reincarnation.
From now on...he wouldn't even think of himself as some ghastly apparition somewhere in between death and this world. My name is Daniel...and I'm going to achieve everything that I ever desired in my second life...
He danced a jig as he whistled a new tune---one he made up himself---about a lovely maid named Margaret who liked to pick flowers in the rose garden. Though, as he sung the song... he found himself changing the name in every other verse to Georgia.
The previous day, Wanda had made an abrupt excuse to her brother about why they were in the motel room and being so secretive. Opal knew that he didn't buy their story about needing some private space for a personal matter. But, he didn't question them further as he went about his business of checking the heater to see if it was working properly. Then, as if on cue from a dictum out of Murphy's Law Book, Wanda was paged to go back to the front counter to help a disgruntled customer. She reluctantly told Opal that the box investigation would have to wait.
It was the next morning before she was able to call Opal to come back.
Now, they sat next to the bed, looking at the contents of the open box again with just as much surprise registering on Opal's wrinkled forehead and in Wanda's giggle.
They stared down at the gun.
"Wow! An old Smith & Wesson .38 with an ivory grip." Wanda picked it up and turned it around, marveling at the detail. "Look at the vine scroll engraving on this beauty!"
"Wanda!" Opal said as she watched her friend handle the weapon.
"Oh...don't worry. My father collected antique guns. I bet this was made in the late 1800's. It's pretty rare to find one in this condition nowadays with the real ivory intact."
"Put that thing down. What if it's loaded?"
Wanda flipped open the barrel. "It's not...but it was once. It's definitely been used. Looks like old Crawford didn't bother to clean it before hiding it away. Look...there's ammo." She picked up a bullet and twirled it in her fingers, admiring it like a rare pearl.
"I'm glad you like the gun, but it doesn't help me with my problem. Let's see what else we've got in here." She reached into the wood box and carefully lifted out the first of six leather-bound books. The cover was cracked and brittle, and the pages inside were yellowed with age.
"What's that?" Wanda asked.
"Looks like a ledger of some sort." Careful not to tear any of the fragile pages, Opal paged through the book. Instead of finding columns of numbers, she saw copious amounts of notes. Many of the entries were details about the weather and wheat crops, amounting to little more than an almanac of natural events.
But later in the ledger, she found pages and pages about WilliamCrawford's attempts to crossbreed hybrid tea roses with Old Garden roses. She read pieces to Wanda.
"It says, this rose was as fiery as a sunset, and this one was as delicate as a newborn baby's pink cheeks. Then, it talks about things like height, bloom size, number of petals, and the leaves. Some roses were spicy like cloves or ginger and others had a fruity citrus or apple scent. Ooh, here's one with a sultry damask-musk aroma. Here he says, 'It's a quest to achieve the most perfect, beautiful rose in the world that would be sought after by both ladies and kings."
Opal paused and chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"He named one perfect rose Obsession, but in later pages, there's Obession 2 and later, Obession 17."
She looked at the crisp penmanship on every page and thought to herself what a cold meticulous man Crawford must have been, wondering if he had cared more for his precious roses than his family and friends.
"Well...that's just plain boring. What else?" Wanda asked as she grabbed the next ledger and flipped through the pages with rapid speed.
"Careful! This might not mean anything to us, but it's valuable history."
"Doesn't matter. Whatever's in this box has got to go back where we found it. We can't let it out to the public. Ed would have a fit."
Opal groaned, hoping they'd find something of value that would change Wanda's mind. But, as they glanced through the next four journals, they found more of the same horticultural information and little else. It seemed that there wasn't anything that she could learn about her evil spirit from these ledgers.
"I guess we're out of luck," Wanda said. "There's nothing here but stuff about crops and dumb roses."
Opal picked up the last ledger. "Maybe not," she said as she read the title. This last one might be more valuable than any records that she could find in a library.
Wanda snatched the book. "1900: Journal and Diary of WilliamCrawford".
At the same time, both ladies nodded and said, "Jackpot!"
"Let me see it." Opal demanded with an outstretched hand.
With a frown, Wanda handed it over. "Ohhh...read it out loud. How exciting!"
"1900? Isn't that the year that MargaretCrawford drowned in the river behind the house?"
"Just read it...I'm going to pee my pants if you don't!"
Opal scanned through the first few pages of entries. Most were details about family life with his wife and two daughters, Elizabeth and Margaret.
Wanda moaned as Opal cherry-picked the excerpts to read aloud. But, eventually, Opal shrieked when she reached an entry with a familiar name.
"That's him!"
"Who?"
"The spirit!" Opal shouted. "Listen here, 'The day he almost killed me...he told me his name was AlphonsoGiovanni!'"
"What else does it say? Come on..."
Opal began to read with a rushed shaky voice. "Thursday, March 14th. It was late last autumn when I finally decided that I needed to hire some help for my farm. As luck would have it, a young man appeared at my door the very next day, looking for work. A charming fellow to be sure, he is very willing and eager. My wife, Susannah, seems quite smitten with him. I gave him the cottage out back behind the barn and agreed to put him up for the winter, figuring that he and the ladies would find enough chores for him around the house until my spring frenzy. It is good to have AlphonsoGiovanni around. His strong arms and enthusiasm for work will be an asset."
"So your ghost used to be a hired hand?"
"Yes...that explains his ties to the house."
"Read some more," Wanda said. "Maybe this'll get juicy."
Opal looked through the next few months, but the entries were sparse. Then, she found one of interest. "Saturday, June 17th: Alas...but I have lost my sorely needed help for the summer. I fired Alphonso this morning. I caught him in the parlor with Margaret, holding her hand and making unmentionable advances. The louse! I trusted him into my home...and this is how he repays me! Margaret is quite angry with me. She thinks that she had feelings for this scoundrel. I know not how long things transpired between them without my knowledge. But, I would rather toil alone than have my daughter's honor destroyed."
"Oooh..." Wanda said.
Opal's eyes scanned ahead to the next entry. She read it through in silence then read it out loud after Wanda poked her in the arm.
"Monday, June 22nd: I did a terrible thing yesterday. Because, I am too cowardly to turn myself in to the police and ruin my family's life any more than it already has been with the loss of dear Margaret...I will have to let this entry suffice as my confession to God. I can only pray that He can find it in his heart to forgive me. 'Thou shalt not kill' He commands, but what else could a father do when he finds a miscreant threatening the life of his precious daughter?"
Opal paused, waiting for Wanda's exclamation, but she was wide-eyed and silent.
"I came home early from church yesterday morning. Elizabeth had forgotten to bring her cake for the social after the service, so I volunteered to run home and get it. I also wanted to check on Margaret who had taken to her bed after falling ill a few days before. I knew that it was a sickness of the heart and not of the body. The girl was young...she would mourn a while then come out of it, hopefully to the appreciation of a more suitable suitor. I was barely up the drive when I saw Alphonso sneak around the carriage house to the backside of the house and into the gardens. He was dressed in formal matrimonial wear, with a tailcoat and a fine tall silk hat. My blood boiled at the sight! Seeing him in such attire, I could only assume that he was up to something devious. I was certain that he had come to carry my daughter off against my will and marry her without my consent."
Wanda clasped her hands together. "Wow!"
After another dramatic pause, Opal continued. "I went inside and grabbed my gun...hoping to scare him off with it. I searched the house for Margaret, but could not find her. A few minutes later, I found both of them in the rose garden. Surrounded by all the joyous beauty of the flowers, under a bright blue sky...they were pressed against each other in an undignified embrace against the edge of the fountain. Before I could cry out, I saw his hands circle around her neck then force her back into the water."
Opal stopped. "There's a smudge here like the paper got wet. I think he was crying as he wrote this."
Wanda nodded as a tear appeared in her own eye.
"I fired my gun only once. He dropped to the ground as Margaret's body slumped against fountain's rim. I ran to her so fast that I am sure my feet did not touch the ground. But, it was too late. Her face was blue, and her eyes were as cold and lifeless as the stone itself. I held her and wept for a very long time. When I finally dried my swollen eyes, the reality of the situation hit me like a cannonball. I had lost my daughter...and I had murdered a man. A small town such as ours would be quite unforgiving in such a scandalous matter. My farm would suffer, all of my toil in rose breeding would be lost, but more importantly...my wife, Susannah and daughter, Elizabeth would be unbearably wounded for as long as they should live."
"Terrible. How terrible..."
"Do you want me to continue?"
Wanda nodded.
"I vowed that I had lost enough in that afternoon and would not let this scoundrel take everything away from me. He had already done enough to hurt our family. It didn't take long to bury his body. The earth was still fresh where the workers had laid the stones at the base of the new fountain. I retrieved a shovel from the shed and wore my limbs to the bone, digging until I had prepared a deep enough grave. Then at last, I rolled his limp form over the edge. I spat upon him, cursing the day he came to my home. Fertilizer for the roses...that was all he was good for now.
"And poor Margaret?" Wanda sobbed.
Opal continued, grimacing as she read the words. "Margaret was a more difficult task. I held her again for quite some time, before I could bring myself to let her go and do what I had to do. The sun was high in the sky, mingling my sweat with the tears and mud that covered me. I knew that I was already missed at the church due to my lengthy absence. So, with all of the strength left in my limbs and desperation in my soul, I carried her body out to the river. After one last kiss on her apple cheek, I shut my eyes and rolled her down the bank. I knew that she would be found downstream in a matter of hours.
"Oh...how bloody awful!" Wanda bawled and dabbed at her streaked mascara with a tissue.
"Afterwards, I tore at my hair as I stumbled back through the field, caring not that I trampled the wheat as I went. I realized that little else mattered now that she was gone. I cursed my roses, blaming them for bringing the murderer to my home. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself back in the house searching for my tinderbox. The flint and steel were clumsy in my trembling hands, and the greenery was damp and lush that day. But, eventually, my roses---every last one of my prized creations---went up in flames.
Opal paused to catch her breath.
Wanda nodded. "Is that all?"
"No," Opal said, before she continued. "The Black Diamond...was hidden in that garden. But, I cared not about its value as I watched the leaves on the bushes crackle and the smoke rise. I could only hope that the last embers of my vanity burnt up with that jewel in penance. When I arrived back at the church, I told them of the fire and said that I had been late due to my task of putting it out. Most agreed that it must have been the work of my disgruntled former employee who had mysteriously disappeared from town days earlier. When Margaret's body was found that evening, it was assumed that she had fallen in to the river by accident. But, there were also rumors about the possibility of her having torched my roses. Others...in hushed voices behind closed doors hypothesized that she had thrown herself into the river. But, no one in polite society talks of suicide. So, I know that my reputation is safe and what's left of my family will go on. I can rebuild the garden again next year and start over, once my grief has lessened."
Wanda's face was now completely streaked in black makeup. "Stop. I can't..."
"You have to hear the end," Opal said. "I murdered my daughter's killer, but am I not guilty of a worse sin? My own pride and selfishness has made me cover up the deed instead of facing the situation and reaping the consequences. May God forgive me for all of my sins. I have done the unspeakable."
Opal closed the journal and dragged a fingered the inscription on its dusty cover.
"Family skeletons, indeed! If all this is true...Georgia's ancestor is a murderer. No wonder he kept this box hidden!"
"Yes...and now I know who my ghost is."
Wanda regained her composure and raised herself up from the floor. "Just wait until I tell the ladies in my quilting group! They'll hyperventilate."
"Remember...we can't tell anyone!"
"Well...why not? As long as it doesn't get back to Ed."
Opal looked at the gun next to Wanda's feet.
Wanda beat her to it, picking it up again and studying it with renewed reverence. "The diary and this gun would fetch a mighty nice price in the antique market."
"Forget about it," Opal said as she grabbed the ledgers and the journal and tossed them back into the box. "Dead men's secrets should remain secret. Why disgrace Virginia's family and ruin Margaret's old legend?"
"Because it's not true. Shouldn't the truth be known?"
"Not when it will do more harm than good."
"Then, what are we going to do?"
"We have to find Alphonso's bones and destroy them before he causes more harm in this life."
Wanda's raccoon eyes widened. "We? You want me to help you rob a grave? You've got to be kidding!"
"I can't do it alone. You've got to help me, Wanda. Who else will believe me?"
"I don't know...but you can count me out," she said as she laid the gun back in the wood box, shut it, then snatched it up under her arm. "I might have a National Enquirer mind, but when it comes to dealing with ghosts and that afterlife stuff, I'm the biggest chicken you'll ever find."
"Please, Wanda...I need you."
"Not a chance, honey. I think I've done my duty here. My next step is to put this box back where I found it. Then, I'm gonna make a nice stiff Margarita...and try to forget about it."
After they descended the staircase down to the parking lot, Wanda turned to go back to the inn's office.
"Please..." Opal moaned.
"No!" Wanda shouted over her shoulder. Then, she disappeared behind a hedge of junipers.
The tires on Opal's car screeched on the pavement as she backed out. She cursed as her back tire ran over the curb. "I guess I'm really on my own. Now, at least I know who he is and where he's buried. I can only hope that Aunt Grace's plan will work."
But, one eased dilemma just gave birth to another. How was she going to get over there and do the deed without the spirit making her his next victim?
Though the days of October were shorter and darker, Georgia felt as giddy as if it were spring.
Instead of it taking months for her to sell her gallery and get out of her apartment lease in New York, it had only taken a few weeks. Her head still spun with all of the crazy details that had fallen into place like the pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Masquerade was in a hot part of Soho. She had just mentioned the idea of selling her gallery to a friend, and a day later, an interested buyer wanted to turn the spot into a nightclub. It was a quick cash deal, and she had all of her belongings in boxes before she made the last difficult call to her artists to tell them that she was closing down.
During the frenzy, she was reluctant to call Marsha or Annie. A few days before the big move, she decided to keep it a secret and surprise everyone when she got there.
But, she had told Daniel, and he took the news with amazing stride. In fact, he seemed almost gleeful that she was returning, especially when she insisted that it was okay if he wanted to stay there for a few weeks until he found another place. He was such a nice man...and so delicious to look at. After all...she told herself...maybe she would enjoy his company while she settled in.
On the last night in her Soho apartment, she dreamt about her childhood in Calathia. She ran through rows of corn playing hide-and-seek with Marsha and built the world's largest Abominable Snow Man with Grandpa Blake---a seven-foot giant with real pieces of coal for eyes and a mouth made of stolen spools of red thread from Grammie's sewing desk. Then, she had lain next to the pile of Rustenstuff and sketched pictures from the visions of puffy clouds. When that was done...her dreaming mind strolled through the rose garden in a long flowing gown, picking petals from each bush...feeling their softness between her fingers and inhaling their intoxicating scent.
When she woke around dawn, she could still hear the music of her dreams; it was the old house's wood boards creaking beneath her, the wind whistling through the tall weeds in the field, and the cackle of Annie's chickens as they gossiped and pecked at bugs.
Her elation continued as she watched the movers load the last of their boxes into their truck. She ignored the honking horns and curses as it blocked traffic. Nothing could bring her down on this day.
"Goodbye," she said to the humming city as she got into the taxi. She took one last look at the rooftops towering over her then inhaled the exotic menagerie of scents floating in the air.
When the driver merged into traffic, she sighed and told herself to relax. She knew that she was doing the right thing. It's okay. I'm just following the yellow brick road...back home.
\*\*\*\*\*
Late that afternoon, as she drove west from the airport, she imagined how the house and grounds looked since it was closer to winter. The massive gnarled cottonwoods would be naked with their golden leaves in puddles around their ankles like discarded petticoats. And, the garden would have a spooky autumn charm---its colors faded as if the sky had rained down bleach. Any remaining roses probably looked wan as their heads dropped, and the lawn had become tan prickly straw.
She knew that the Gingerbread House would loom over all these changes with the steadfastness that had kept it standing so strong for over a century. She looked forward to holing up in it like a fortress as winter bore down. Old Man Winter would have a hard time damping her spirits as she sat wrapped in a warm flannel blanket next to the fireplace and perused garden catalogs with visions of spring flowers dancing in her head like sugar plums. Let him try...
Arrow-shaped flocks of geese above, swaying prairie grasses, rows of dried field corn, and crinkled brown sunflowers along the roadside seemed to nod and wink at her as she drove past them.
The spontaneity of it all felt delicious. It was the first time in years that she had such hope about her future. Sneaking into town in her compact rental car was not quite a fulfillment of her fantasy of cruising into town in a convertible with her scarf blowing back in the wind...but it would do.
Her giddiness grew as she made the turn down County Road, and her breath quickened as she approached the house with the moving van still a day behind her. It felt right, even divinely ordained. It was meant to be.
But, there was an autumn storm brewing. Suddenly, lightning ripped open the navy blue sky, illuminating the frame of the house. The momentary bluish light created long crooked shadows, causing it to look dark and fierce instead of charming. She wrote the change in her perception off to Marsha's harsh words about its decrepitude and reminded herself that this was still the house that had been in her family for generations and held honey-sweet memories.
"I'm home, Grammie---I've come back," she whispered. But, the only response was an icy gust of wind rustling through the ash tree. It peeled off the last yellow leaves and tossed them down like spiraling dying moths.
She suddenly felt guilty about sneaking back and decided that she'd better stop at Annie's first.
She parked in front of the Birman house and saw corn stalks tied to the porch posts and carved jack-o-lanterns atop hay bales. She hadn't realized that Halloween was only two days away.
As she ascended the porch steps, she saw a triangle of cobwebs across the upper left corner of the doorway. But, it wasn't a holiday ornament. She knew that Annie hated spiders and always made Fred get rid of any that she found in her house along with their webs. Come to think of it...the Birman house looked just as quiet as the one next door. She looked at her watch. It was late afternoon. She hoped everything was all right.
She rang the doorbell and waited. No one answered...so she punched it again.
Finally, she heard the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps on the other side of the door. A moment later, Annie peeked out.
"Georgia!" She gasped as she covered her face with her hands. "I didn't know you were coming back to visit!"
"I'm not."
Annie clasped her hands in front of her and looked puzzled.
"Oh...Annie. I'm back for good! I sold my business in New York."
Instead of squeezing her with a sugar and flour-laden hug, Annie wrung her hands together and deep lines crinkled across her forehead. She motioned for Georgia to come in then sat her down on the sofa.
"You've come back to a town full of misery, Georgia. Haven't you heard about the murders?"
"Murders! What are you talking about?"
"It's just made the national news. People are dropping like flies around here. They say there's some Ripper-like fellow on the loose. Just yesterday, another body was found out by the railroad tracks. His body was in such tatters, it looked like he was torn apart by a pack of wolves! Fred's been sleeping with his shotgun next to the bed. He's even talking about getting another dog, since Buster isn't much of a watchdog anymore. And, you bet we make sure the doors and windows are locked at night. You'd better do the same! You would've been better off staying in that big crazy city than coming here right now. Do you know they found two people dead just last weekend in the river not too far downstream from here? It's sickening, I tell you."
"That's just unbelievable. Who would do such a thing in Calathia?"
"The world just ain't what it used to be. You're not safe anywhere any more. The ladies at the church are expecting a swarm of locusts will be next. They say that if something like this can happen in our little town...then the end is surely near."
"The Sheriff doesn't have any idea who is responsible?"
"That old coot? What does he care? He's retiring at the end of the year. He'll probably move down to some resort in Florida and forget all about what's going on here. If the murders continue...I'm afraid a lot of people will pack up and move out of here as well. There's not a lot of work for the young ones anyway. This town's dying out...pardon my horrible pun."
"I'm sure they'll find the murderer. How long can you hide in a place like this? Everyone knows just about everyone here."
Annie twisted her swollen hands back and forth. "Well...enough of this miserable talk. Come on...what's the scoop? I'm an old lady. I don't have time for suspense."
"Well, you've got yourself a new neighbor. A new old neighbor, I should say."
Annie jumped off the sofa, "Oh honey! I'm so sorry about my worrywart welcome. I'm so glad you're back!" she said as she bent down and squeezed her. "I bet Marsha and the kids are so excited."
"Well...they don't exactly know yet."
"You haven't told them?"
"No. I've hardly spoken to Marsha since I was out here for Grammie's funeral. I'll go over there...probably tomorrow...and break the news. Right now I just want to unpack and---"
"Maybe, you should wait. I don't want you going over to the house just yet."
"Why?"
"Wait until Fred gets back from the store. He can go in with you."
"I don't see why. "
Annie lowered her voice to a whisper. "There's something weird about that caretaker fella you hired over there. I don't like him. I sure wish you had run it by me and Fred before making a decision like that. We could have taken care of the place for you just fine."
"I know Annie...it's just...I didn't know how long I'd be gone...or if I'd ever be back. I thought I was doing the right thing by not burdening you and Fred with it. I can't believe you don't like Daniel. He's so charming."
Annie lowered her voice to a whisper. "You know...he rarely comes out during the day. You'd think we'd see more of him...living just next door. Fred's seen him walking down the street late at night. Something's just not right about him..."
"Well, I don't suppose he has much work in the winter, and I know he's a bit of a night owl. You know how he cleaned up Grammie's gardens just by the light of the moon."
"Hmmph," Annie said. "That's a bit strange...don't you think? What did he say when you told him that you were coming back. Did you tell him that he'll have to find another place?"
"I told him that I don't mind if he wants to stay here a while."
"I don't like the idea of you staying there with that fella. It's just not proper."
Georgia laughed. "Oh, Annie..." She gave her another hug. "You're so old-fashioned. You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. Besides...I like this guy. I don't know why you don't too. He's terribly handsome, isn't he?"
"If you like that sort of type," Annie said as she folded her arms.
Georgia rose and slung her purse over her shoulder.
"I can't wait for Fred to get back. I want to get some things unpacked and get settled in before it gets too late."
"Can't I talk you into some nice hot cocoa first?" Annie pleaded.
"Sounds tempting...but I really should get unloaded. I'll give you a call later..."
"Alright...but we're going to check on you if we don't hear from you. I don't want to find out something's wrong by hearing police sirens out front and finding yellow tape around the house."
Georgia gave her another hug then drove back to the Blake house. Daniel's truck wasn't in the driveway, and there were no lights on. I guess Annie was wrong...Daniel must go out in the daytime.
As she tiptoed across the porch, careful of the nearly invisible icy patches, a horrible image of the house going up in bright crackling flames screeched through her mind. She imagined Marsha standing in front of the smoking embers saying to a fireman, "...of course the wiring had been faulty for years..."
She rang the doorbell, just in case Daniel was home. When he didn't answer, she rang it again...then she knocked. There was no reply, so she found her key.
As she stepped into the abyss of darkness inside, she wondered what she was going to tell him. A voice inside of her scolded. Did you not tell him because you didn't want him to have the chance to find another place and leave? Maybe you're afraid to be here alone?
Before she had a chance to flip the light switch, she heard the sound of a cough in the parlor.
Opal walked a line between indecision and insanity.
Every week, for the last few weeks, there had been another murder in the Calathia area. Karl had been impossible to get a hold of since he was working eighteen-hour days assisting with the investigations. There had been talk in the news about an FBI agent coming to out to help. She wished that she could phone the Sheriff and tell him what she knew, but she knew it would be useless to try.
Wanda still wouldn't talk to her. She seemed to believe that they had opened Pandora's box when they pried into WilliamCrawford's secret belongings.
Her dark hair fell to her shoulders and she ran a brush through it, smoothing down the waves of gray at her temples. When she finished, she rubbed her eyes and squinted in the mirror at the deepening crow's feet around them. She had aged in the last couple of months---she could feel it in her bones, in her creaking knees, and in the weariness of her soul.
If things turned physical during her attempt at banishing the spirit, she didn't know how she could handle combat with a supernatural opponent with the agility of a stallion.
After drawing a bath, she placed a ring of ivory candles around the tub. Their golden light symbolized the goodness of the sun, and she hoped they would charge her with positive energy and a more optimistic attitude.
She took off her dress and relaxed down into the tub, the warmth caressing her like the softness of a mother's womb. Then, she reached behind her and removed the cork from a bottle, emptying a handful of shell pink rose-scented bath crystals into the water around her.
As she tried to meditate to calm her fears, she felt herself growing drowsy. She closed her eyes and drank in the sweet perfume rising around her in mists. The day's worries seemed to leech out from her skin, bleeding into the water like sewage from a toxic factory escaping into the sea.
Tired...so tired.
As sleep overcame her, she sunk down lower in the water until it covered her body up to her chin and the lobes of her ears.
\*\*\*\*\*
At first, the sweetness of the bath caused her to dream of beautiful things. She found herself in a field of wildflowers and prairie grasses.
But then, the image changed.
She was in a garden filled with tropical foliage and roses of every color imaginable.
She followed the stepping-stones...lured along by the perfume of roses and some unknown force drawing her forward. Dark sooty clouds began to roll across the sky, marring it with the threat of rain. She heard the growl of thunder and saw the sky unzipping behind her, becoming as black as a raven's wing.
She began to run now...faster...towards the scent.
Ahead, she saw the tall pointed spire of an arbor a few yards just around a curve. It was covered with velvety red roses as wide as the breadth of her hands. She walked underneath it, picked a bloom and held it close to her nose, drinking in its clove-like scent. But, she suddenly gasped in pain and dropped it.
Her hands were covered in blood. On the ground, the rose withered at her feet---its petals turning black before her eyes. As it shriveled, she saw that the damned thing was covered in thorns, razor-sharp like the claws of some wild animal.
She winced and clasped her hands tight to stop the blood flow. Then, she looked ahead into the circular garden. A strange ethereal glow penetrated the darkness. It seemed to emanate from the fountain in the center.
A man's wicked laugh startled her, and she fell backwards.
She gasped as an image emerged from the shadows. The top hat appeared first then his chisel-jawed face with glittering green eyes that eclipsed the fountain's glow with their radiance.
"Opal..." he hissed.
Then, in a blink, she found herself next to the fountain. The water in each tier churned and mist billowed up, surrounding her with a swirling fog.
He was in front of her now...just inches away. She could almost taste the fetid scent of his body, still rotting a century after death claimed his flesh.
Despite the stench, beauty triumphed in his physique. How could such an attractive man be so completely evil? She reminded herself that he was not a man---he was something else.
As he stepped closer, she tried to turn and run. But, her feet wouldn't move. She looked down and saw that roots from the roses had curled up out of the earth and wound around her ankles.
"Don't be afraid, Signora," he whispered. "Your death will be so easy... "
Her brain told her to use all of her strength and run...now!
But, she couldn't.
The sky brightened to orange and crimson as if it was on fire, and the wind howled around her in a piercing wail that made her cover her ears.
He reached out to her with black fingernails crusted with dirt. Unable to move, she leaned back against the rim of the fountain.
With horror, she watched as his face changed to something that could only be from hell. The sparkling green eyes became a hollow darkness filled with flickering flames. His long hair turned into writhing serpents that curled around his shoulders and up onto his hat, flicking their red tongues in and out.
His hand rested on her chest just over her heart, and she felt an excruciating tug.
But then, he released his hand as if changing his mind. As he lowered it to his side, she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe...just maybe...he just meant to scare her and not kill her?
Her second of optimism vanished as he laughed above the screaming wind.
Then, his hands shot out and plunged her backwards into the fountain.
Her body sunk down deeper and deeper into the water...
His hands were so strong. It was useless to struggle against their power, because she was a brittle leaf in comparison.
As water poured into her nostrils and bubbles escaped upward in the water...she let out one last inaudible scream.
Then, all was black.
\*\*\*\*\*
Opal woke up and jumped out of tub, splashing water onto the tile floor.
She rested on the edge. Then, realizing that the position was similar to her seat on the fountain rim in the dream, she jumped to her feet and turned back to look at the water, half-expecting hands to come out and pull her in.
After she calmed down, she draped herself in a snowy white robe. Then, she spoke out loud in anger. "Grace...I can't do this by myself! He's too strong. He's got the energy of dozens of souls by now."
She had a horrible premonition that she was going to die when she met the spirit again...
Georgia stepped into the shadows of the foyer and fumbled for the light switch. The fixture above her sputtered on, but instead of its normal cheerful glow, it emitted a feeble light, hardly bright enough to see more than a few feet around her.
There were rumbles of thunder outside as she felt for the chain on the lamp across the hall. The Tiffany lamp illuminated the space around her in a lacy network of color, but the rest of the house remained bathed in eerie shadows.
She paused. Something was strangely heavy about the air in the house. The grandfather clock ticked a steady beat as if to tell her that the house's heart was still going strong. But, she noticed a musty smell. Perhaps the house had always been a bit earthy and scented with the dust of age. But, it was as if the volume had been turned up ...and now it reeked with a dankness like decaying compost.
It's just the smell of autumn.
She heard the sound of a cough again. "Daniel? Is that you? Oh...you scared me! What are you doing there in the dark?"
"Georgia?" a throaty voice asked from the darkness. "I knew you'd come back to me."
At first, she couldn't see far into the parlor, but as she squinted and her eyes adjusted, she saw his reclining form on the sofa, bare-chested with an afghan blanket draped over the lower half of his body. "Are you ill?"
"Si. I fell into the river. It was quite cold and---" he paused to sneeze.
"You poor thing." She dropped her purse then turned on a lamp beside the sofa. "You're flushed---you look as red as a strawberry!" She knelt beside him and placed a hand on his forehead, but yanked it back as if she had touched hot coals. "Well, there's no doubt you have a fever.
As he grabbed her hand and pulled it to his side, a shudder overcame him.
"You've got the chills too. I hope you don't have the flu. Can I get you anything?"
He clasped her hand tighter, "I'm so glad you're back...stay with me."
Georgia felt herself locked in the depths of his green eyes. "Daniel..." she said as she leaned back and studied his face in the angular shadows cast by the light on the other side of the room, "There's something different about you."
"Oh?"
"Yes. What is it? You seem...more...more...I don't know...just different."
"I am not as handsome when I am sick?"
She laughed. "Your wit certainly is in good form even if you're a bit under the weather." She rose up. "I'm going to make you some honey-thyme tea, Grammie's special recipe for colds."
As she walked into the kitchen, she felt a quiver slide down her torso and settle in her stomach. She had expected Daniel to be at the house when she arrived, but she hadn't anticipated this half-naked man lying on the couch in misery.
There was something endearing about his woeful state. She remembered how ornery her ex-husband used to get when he was sick, cursing and barking orders as if he could bully his virus around and show it that he was still boss just like he did with her. It was nice to be around a man that could let down his machismo enough to let his human frailty show through.
She put a pot of water on the stove to boil then went to the pantry. Before she left it had been full of dried beans, pasta, grains, and a plethora of canned goods. But now, the shelves lay nearly bare.
She peaked around the corner of the dining room. "Daniel... haven't you been to the store since I left?"
"Sorry...I've been busy..." his hoarse voice faded to a whisper as the teapot's whistle called her back to the kitchen.
As she poured the hot water into a mug, something out of place caught her eye from the library. She rounded the corner and peered in. There were books everywhere, all over the floor and the chair, and tossed askew on the shelves. It looked like someone had ransacked the room. Then, she noticed an empty glass on the arm of the chair. It was the same clear ribbed design as the one she had seen in the same spot after her grandmother's death. She picked it up and sniffed. Gin...again. She had accused her dead grandmother of taking up the bottle again, but apparently Daniel had been spending time in the house with her before she died.
"You've been doing a little reading?" she asked as she brought him the tea. "The library looks like a cage of lions was let loose in it."
"Yes...yes. Mi scusa for the mess. I did not expect you back and...sometimes when I read I rush from one subject to another without bothering to put things away. It's quite a bad habit of mine.
Georgia leaned back, bracing her wrists on the coffee table. "Daniel...did you come in and visit with grandmother when she was here?"
"Oh...si...si. She enjoyed the company. Many times after much work in the garden, she would reward me with a drink and we would talk about things in the library."
"Hmmm..." Georgia said. Then suddenly, "I know what it is that looks different about you. You don't look as pale anymore. Maybe it's just the fever. Your skin is so flushed."
"When I'm over this terrible illness, you'll see that the rest has truly made me a new man. There are many things changed about me."
"What on earth were you doing out by the river anyway? I'm sure those banks are covered with thin ice right now. They're a death trap!"
He paused before answering as if trying to find the proper words. "I was trying to find Max. That cuss just didn't want to come in out of the cold."
"I think that's how my grandmother died..." she scolded, "...trying to find that cat." Then, her face softened. "You've been looking after him?"
"Of course. He comes in from time to time for a bite...probably when the mice are scarce or running too fast for him."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that he's alive and well. My niece, Clarissa, wants him for a pet. Where is he now?"
"I don't know. I didn't see him today. I suppose he'll fancy coming back to a warm cozy home soon."
"It's a good thing you're not out working in this weather. You're going to have to see a doctor if you don't get better soon."
"Oh...I couldn't see a doctor."
"Why not?"
"I'm certain that I'll heal just fine on my own...now that you're here. I just need a little looking after, then I'll be fit as a fiddle."
But, his confidence seemed to evaporate as she watched his forehead crease in the middle. A look of sadness overwhelmed his sparkling green eyes.
"Now that you are back...do you mean to evict me?"
"Well...you certainly aren't well enough to go anywhere right now. This house is big enough for the two of us. You can stay until you feel better and find something else."
"Grazie, Signora. I don't know what I would do without your kindness."
He reached for her hand and kissed it. His lips were as hot as a firebrand. She winced and felt a bolt of exhilaration at the same time.
The last time someone had kissed her hand, it had been a car dealer in a polyester suit trying to sweet talk her down on the price of an oil painting. But...this kiss was much different. Perhaps just an affectation of old European ways, it still made her feel warm inside.
When he released her hand, she grabbed his and gave it a quick squeeze. "Get some rest. I'm going to go bring in some of my things."
He lifted himself up from the sofa. "I must help..."
"Don't be silly. You're too sick. You shouldn't be out in the---" Before she finished, she saw that the blanket had fallen away from his bare chest revealing a strange round pink scar just below his left pectoral muscle and a deep gouge on his left arm with a fresh scab.
"Is that a gunshot wound?" she asked as she peered closer at his chest.
He snatched the blanket back and covered himself. "It is nothing."
"Nothing? For God's sake...it looks like a bullet went straight through your heart! Don't tell me...you used to be in some sort of a gang when you were a kid."
"No, it's nothing like that."
"Surgery?"
"A mean vengeful man tried to kill me, but he was not successful. As you can see...I am quite alive."
"You're toying with me...
"Perhaps...a little," he said before a coughing spell overtook him and forced him to lie back down.
Well, however it happened...it's a miracle that you're alive."
"It is indeed, mi dolce amica."
Later that evening, Georgia made the dreaded call.
"You're what? You're in Calathia?" Marsha screamed.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before I made the move. I wanted it to be a surprise." And I didn't want to hear your bitching beforehand.
"Funny...how I'm the last one to know. I'm sure you won't last long...Miss Uppity Town. You've been living in New York for so long; you'll tire of this boring country life before you know it. I hope you didn't give up your lease."
"Actually...I did. So, I'm here to stay. I'm going to keep Daniel on to do a little work around the house for me this winter and fix it up. Who knows? Maybe we'll renovate the place and make a little B & B out of it."
"This is awfully sudden. I think Grammie's death is still too fresh to do anything so dramatic. Maybe you should just think about selling it and get your own---"
"I'm going to hang up on you if you say that one more time. So...how are the kids?"
"Not in trouble at the moment. Jarrod's in the garage scrounging up some bolts for his Frankenstein costume, and I'm working on Clarissa's princess dress. And Stevie...who knows where that delinquent is."
"How are things at the beauty parlor?"
"Fine. Another perm...another cut. What's to tell?"
Georgia knew she was lying. Had she been fired? Walked out? It wouldn't be the first time that her temper got her in a hot spot.
Marsha deftly changed the subject. "Hey...Clarissa's been nagging me about that mangy old cat. Is he still around?"
"I haven't seen him yet. But, Daniel's been taking care of him. The poor man is as sick as a dog."
Marsha paused as she mumbled something with a hand over the phone.
Clarissa came on the line. "Aunt Gorgie! Mama says you moved back?"
"That's right, sweetie. We'll get to see each other all the time."
"Yea! Will you come to the Halloween carnival? It's on Saturday."
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it."
Marsha's acerbic tongue returned. "I'm sure you've heard about the murders?"
Georgia sighed. "Yeah. Hard to believe."
"There was a body found in the dumpster behind County General! Can you imagine someone dumping a corpse there? It was some rancher who ran a herd of cattle up north. Police say he must have been ambushed coming out of the store at night. A clerk went out to dump some stale doughnuts the next morning and found the body. They say there was blood everywhere, and his ribs were sticking out like someone had filleted him like a fish!"
Georgia didn't hear her last words as a movement outside the back window caught her eye. "Hey...sorry, sis. But, I gotta go."
She hung up as she watched Daniel standing in the falling slush staring towards the gardens.
At the back door, she yelled into the howling wind, "What are you doing? Get in here before you catch pneumonia!"
He obeyed, marching towards her with his head hung low. Then, he stepped inside and stood on the doormat. He had put on a long-sleeved flannel shirt before going out, but it and his jeans were heavy and wet, and his long dark hair dripped, forming puddles on the wood floor.
"I'm sorry for sounding rude, but with your cold...what were you thinking? It's freezing out there."
He stood there trembling in silence, only forced to move by an involuntary cough. Then, he straightened and seemed to find a wisp of dignity.
"Geez...take off that shirt. You're soaked to the bones."
With a glare, he took it off...and she found herself staring at his naked chest again, at the mysterious scar, and the watery abyss of his green eyes. She rushed to find a blanket from the parlor to cover him.
As she wrapped it around him, she was surprised at her tenderness towards this man that she barely knew.
"Signora..." he whispered as she stood a few inches in front of him.
She pulled away as she felt as strange electricity in the air from the nearness of his body. "Come sit at the table. I'll make you some hot chocolate."
A few minutes later, they sat over steaming mugs. Seeing him wounded and yet prideful, she felt like she was witnessing a new side of him.
"What is it about you, Daniel? There's something too quiet about you, like you have secrets or some dark past that you're hiding from. You haven't always been a gardener, have you?"
He took a sip and locked into her eyes. "And you have not always been this tight-lipped oyster. There's a soft pearl under that mortar, eh? What has changed about you since you were a little girl, and called this house your home?"
"I asked you first." She laughed, a little annoyed. "What's wrong with you men? Always turning things around and---"
"Shhh..." he said as he leaned across the table and placed a finger to her lips.
She froze as he traced her mouth with his fingertip.
"Your husband was a fool to give up such a beautiful woman. And now...you are wounded...but like Venus...a goddess who does not know her power."
He leaned in closer until their eyes were almost close enough for their lashes to touch. He parted his lips, and she felt a burning heat emanating from deep within him. Was it the rain that amplified his musky, earthy scent? She found herself drowning in his fragrance of damp wood, fresh-turned earth, and verdant grasses all mingled with the sweetness of rose petals as he paused so close.
"Daniel..." she said in a breathless whisper, not sure what to do about the fluttering inside her. "Daniel...I..."
Unexpectedly, he pulled back and reclined in his chair. But, as he took another sip of the warm chocolate, he didn't take his eyes off of her.
For a moment, she couldn't speak. Her head felt light and dizzy. She felt as if he had just assaulted her in some way. But, it was an emotional attack, and one that was far from unpleasant. How long had it been, since she felt such passion in her numb heart? She hadn't even known that part of her was still alive. Until now, she had admired Daniel's good looks like she appreciated a beautiful painting or sculpture, but never thought of him any less superficially.
He drained the last of his mug. Then, he rose up, coiling the blanket tighter around him. "Thank you, mio dolce donna. But, now I will do some reading and turn in early to rest." He swept a hand in a wide arc in front of him. "The house is yours for the evening. Buona notte."
She stuttered a 'goodnight' in response and watched as he dripped his way towards the staircase.
\*\*\*\*\*
Later that night, Georgia's mind spun like a top. Calathia. She was back in Calathia. There was anxiety about her relationship with Marsha and how she'd adjust back into the small town life. Then, of course, there was the interesting moment earlier with Daniel.
Had he been about to kiss her? What would she have done? There was still a light-as-air sensation in her heart every time she thought about him. She couldn't stop thinking about the fact that this amazing man was sleeping just a few feet down the hall from her as she slipped into her nightgown. It was comforting to have him in the house as she thought of all the talk of a serial killer on the loose.
With her maelstrom of anxiety, she didn't hesitate to take one of the Yellow Bricks after she brushed her teeth. Then, she checked all of the doors to make sure they were locked before going to bed.
It didn't take long for the pill to do its duty. Within minutes of tucking herself into her twin-sized bed, she found herself swimming in the nebulous waters of sleep. As she descended deeper into slumber, the awful dream returned.
This time, it was different.
It was a blindingly bright day as she strolled down the path towards the gardens with surreal puffs from the cottonwoods floating in the air like lazy snowflakes.
She knew that she was still ill and should be in bed as she stepped through the black iron gated arbor covered with blood-red roses, but the garden seemed to beckon her today.
She strolled along in a white gown with a laced bodice and tilted her parasol behind her, allowing the sun's golden rays to warm her face. The sultry heat magnified the scent of the flowers, and she breathed in the heavy perfume of the roses, the candy sweet petunias, and the intoxicating clove-like dianthus.
Her eyes delighted in the colorful eclectic displays of coleus, cockscombs, and elephant's ears. And, she admired the freshly planted checkerboard of begonias and geraniums placed in a circle around the new fountain. Oh...dear Alphonso...your whimsy leans towards the absurd.
She couldn't fathom how her heart would mend if he didn't come back to see her. What did old fathers know of young love? Had the man who had begotten her forgotten what it was like to be in love? She didn't know if she could ever forgive him for firing Alphonso. Her bitterness oozed green and caustic like a poisonous absinthe through her veins.
She paused on the edge of the fountain as a ray of sunshine, like a beam from Heaven, filtered through the burgundy leaves of the cannas, illuminating them like ruby flames. The crickets played a soft lullaby, pulsing with a rhythm that would have made her dance if she was not sick, and her heart wasn't so full of sorrow.
She was thinking of gaining some relief from the heat in the dappled shade deeper in the rose garden when a noise from behind startled her. She turned and saw a most curious sight. A man stood under the arbor, dressed in a long tailcoat with matching trousers, a cravat, and a dapper top hat. He looked incredibly handsome. "Alphonso!"
He didn't speak. He came to her and began to kiss her hand with soft kisses like dove's wings whispering over her skin. She allowed him to continue, causing a shudder to come over her as his lips floated up her arm until they rested on her neck.
"Mi amore, dear Margaret" he whispered as his lips burned into her flesh. "Come away with me! We can be wed tonight and never have to be apart again."
Her body rippled with pleasure as he pressed against her and she felt herself trapped between the stone edge and his encompassing arms. So...it was a groomsman's attire that he wore. The pain in her heart felt like a sharp stone from the field had lodged inside, causing it to skip beats and throb with an excruciating sensation as she took each breath.
His lips found her ear, pulsing warmth inside with each word, "Answer me, my love. We must go now before your family returns."
She paused and inhaled deeply. "I want to be with you so much." She cried into the stubble on his cheek. "But, as cruel as my father has been, I can't leave him and my mother and sister."
He stayed his pose for several minutes as their hearts beat against each other, and the heat caused their sweat to run together in single streams. Then, he slowly rose and pulled himself away.
"So...I can't have you..." he said as he shook his head and water filled his eyes "...and I could never bear to release you to another man's arms."
The next seconds ticked off like hours as he stood apart from her and lowered his head to his chest. His body seemed to swallow the sunlight around him as if he was made of shadow.
She could see the pointed tips of the cannas amongst the roses behind him. It seemed to be a magic trick of the light as they took on an unnatural red color, bleeding up through the pale roses on either side. As the sun illuminated them, they glowed like the flames of hell.
A wicked laugh escaped from his lips. He raised his head up and she gasped as his face changed from tenderness to something dark and unrecognizable. No longer the man she loved, he became a grimacing ugly creature with a furrowed brow and a ferocity in his green eyes like that of a wolf.
She froze against the edge of the fountain. "Alphonso?" she whimpered.
But, he said nothing more.
There was no time to react as his hands shot out and forced her head down into the water of the fountain. She struggled, clawing into the fountain edge and kicking her feet to no avail. Though her lungs ached for air, she feared that her heart might give way first. In her panic, it beat so hard that it seemed likely to burst from her chest.
With the full weight of his body pinning her and her face smashed down sideways under the few inches of warm water, she found herself beginning to lose strength. Too weak to struggle any longer, she said goodbye to all that she had known and loved in this world and felt herself sink to the stone below as the water flooded into her mouth and nose. Tiny bubbles of oxygen---the last essence of her being---escaped from her screams and drifted upwards towards Heaven's rays.
\*\*\*\*\*
Georgia awoke as she died in the dream. Realizing that she was alive, and it was just another version of her perennial nightmare, she hit the pillow between her arms with a fist. She struggled several times to find a comfortable position and tried to go back to sleep, but found herself staring at the lacy pattern on the ceiling coming from the moonlight streaming through the curtains.
After a few more minutes, she gave up and got out of bed. The house was dark, but she saw a faint light down the hall coming from Daniel's room and found herself tiptoeing towards it. The door was ajar, so she peaked in.
The white porcelain lamp was on next to Marsha's old twin bed. The quilt lay askew, and there was a book face down near the foot, but she did not see him.
"Daniel?" she whispered. "Are you still up?"
There was no answer, so she pushed open the door. The book he'd been reading was from an early survey course in her undergraduate studies in Fine Art.
She pursed her mouth as she noticed the blue ruffled curtains swaying in the breeze. The window was wide open and letting in a damp chill.
She pushed it shut, then walked back down the hall and stood at the top of the staircase, listening to the grandfather clock in the parlor below ticking a steady beat.
Where was he?
With her head still fuzzy from the medication, she went back to her bed, concerned that he'd taken a walk in the freezing weather.
She fell asleep, worrying about him out on the town with a murderer on the loose.
Opal didn't wanted to work a tarot card table at the carnival, but since she'd cancelled so many appointments with clients over the last few months, she really needed the money.
As she set up her props, the night air was crisp with a sprinkle of stars across the jet-black sky. And, the moon was appropriately fat with iridescent orange and violet scars dotting its face. Throngs of monsters, fairies, and superheroes raced past her to crowd around the games and try their luck at prizes.
She settled in and waited for a brave soul to let her read their cards. The first customers were giggling teenage girls who laughed at everything she said as if she were some ridiculous fraud just there for their amusement. They were followed by a couple of young adults who took her more seriously and were thankful enough to leave her a nice tip.
It was an hour into the evening when she found herself face to face with GeorgiaMcKenna. At first, neither of them seemed to recognize the other. Opal's hair was twisted into silvery black braids and glitter dotted her cheeks. Georgia's short hair was dolled up in a romantic up-do with a dried ivory rose above her ear, and she wore a dress with an old-fashioned peasant-style bodice and hoop skirt.
Opal was so terrified...for a moment she didn't speak. "What are you doing here? I heard you went back to New York."
Georgia folded her arms. "Not that it's any of your business...but I moved back here to my grandmother's house."
Opal clutched her cross necklace. "Dear Lord. You can't stay there. Thank God you're still alive!"
Georgia rolled her eyes and said, "Spare me..." as her cohort tugged at her dress.
"Aunt Gorgie! Aren't you going to have your fortune told?"
Opal fidgeted with her rings as Georgia looked down at her black tarot cards, embossed with gold moons & stars, laid out in a fan shape.
"I don't think..."
Just then, Jarrod came by. "Hey sis, want to ride the carousel?"
Clarissa nodded with a smile. "Come on, Aunt Gorgie...let's go!"
Before Georgia could reply, a voice taunted from behind. "Awww...you're not chickening out on getting a reading are you?"
Georgia and Opal gasped "Karl!" He was dressed in civilian attire---a leather jacket with tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a hat.
He turned towards Opal and smiled then put a hand on Georgia's shoulder. "Are you going to get your fortune read by this charming lady?"
Georgia scowled. "Her? Not likely. She's crazy."
"Crazy as a loon," he said as he winked in Opal's direction. "I've tried to run her out of town many times, but she just keeps flying back on her broom. She tells a good story, though." He slapped a handful of tickets down on the table. "Come on...let her do her thing."
Opal registered the lingering eye contact between Karl and Georgia.
"Fine. Let's get it over with."
She shuffled the cards and laid them out again in a fan shape. "Choose three," she said, challenging Georgia's skeptical eyes.
Georgia tapped the cards with a fingernail.
Opal turned the first card over---a family gazing at a rainbow filled with golden cups in the sky. "The Ten of Cups. Your recent past---a happy time as you returned to your Grandmother's house. Coming to live in her house brought you closer to her, even though she's passed on. You've found harmony and look forward to the future."
Karl shrugged. "Doesn't sound very spooky."
Georgia laughed. "Better than the gloom and doom I was expecting."
Opal turned over the center card. "The Devil."
"Here it comes..." Georgia said as she saw the horned red beast with a man and a woman chained to his throne.
"This is your present," Opal continued. "It doesn't literally represent the Devil. It means that you are bound by a negative force that seeks to control you. Has anything strange happened in the house? Has an unusual man come into your life? What has he told you about himself? Do you really know him?"
Georgia rolled her eyes and nudged Karl. "Maybe, she's talking about you. What do I really know about you, Deputy KarlBauer?"
"I'm easy to know...tall, dark, mysterious...and full of devilish tendencies like drinking a beer now and then and giving out speeding tickets."
Opal glared at both them. "I'm not talking about Karl." She reached for the last card. "And now...for your future."
Georgia thrust out her hand and stopped her. "Let me guess...this card is Death, and my life is in grave danger if I don't pay for your dramatic exorcism service to get rid of some ghost haunting my house."
Karl frowned. "Georgia? What's with you?"
She didn't reply as she crossed her arms tighter over her chest.
Opal met her stone cold gaze and waited until Georgia took her hand away. Then, she turned over the card.
They all looked down at the picture of a large heart pierced by swords.
"The Three of Swords," Opal whispered. "It would be better if you had drawn the Death card. Death simply means change...or the end of something, allowing a new phase to begin. This card is far more negative. It's pain...sorrow...disappointment. Your darkest hour will soon be upon you. You must listen to me, Georgia! You need to get out of that house. The spirit that lives there is a demon in sheep's clothing. He's a trickster, capable of anything. Your life means nothing to him. He will use you to get what he wants."
"What spirit? Even if I believed in ghosts, I haven't seen any evidence of---"
She stopped as an arm slipped around her waist from behind.
Opal strained to see who it was, but the man turned away from them, pulling down the brim down on his tall hat. His hand kept a possessive lock on Georgia as he seemed to be interested in a pack of hollering boys playing a game of tag in the grass just beyond the booths.
Georgia turned to Karl with an apologetic look. "This is Daniel. He's a friend... helping me out around the house."
Karl held out his hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," the man whispered in a raspy voice.
With his face still hidden in shadows, Opal could see little but the strangely familiar tall hat.
"What's your name again?" Karl asked.
"Daniel. DanielMoreno," he replied without turning to face them.
Their exchange was interrupted as Opal screamed and held on to the back of her chair, feeling like she was about to faint. With her other hand, she pointed a hooked finger. "How dare you come here!"
The spirit calmly folded his arms and stepped away from them. "This woman is obviously troubled."
"Demon!" Opal screamed again.
Karl shrugged. "Opal...calm down. There are children here."
"Never mind, Karl," Georgia said as she gave her companion a nudge. "We're leaving. I think I hear some caramel apples calling my name."
"Bravo," Daniel whispered. "I'm not much for crazy Fortune Tellers."
Opal slumped back in her chair, her head swaying as if she might lose consciousness. Karl ran around the table to her rescue.
She refused his offer to drive her home. But, as soon as she felt well enough, she made hasty excuses to the carnival coordinator, packed her bag, and left.
Shivering with fear as she drove home, she found it difficult to keep her hands steady on the wheel.
She thought about the murders---of course he was behind them. And, he was brazen enough now to appear in public.
What had he done to Georgia? Opal could tell that he'd mesmerized her. The way she looked at him---it was sickening. It was like he had a spell over her. She could imagine him swinging a gold watch in front of her eyes, hypnotizing her. But, perhaps he didn't need such props. He probably had enough power in his ethereal eyes to make puppets of women before he lured them to their death.
They had walked away arm in arm...like lovers. The dress she wore seemed like out of character as if he had chosen it for her...to christen her as his supernatural bride.
The spirit had convinced her of his humanness, and now Georgia seemed to be smitten with him.
That must have been what happened to Virginia. For a while, that sweet old lady believed that he was a transformed version of her dead husband. But, when she found out his true nature...it was too late.
Opal wondered if he would come after her now. Every shadow between the bushes by her front door of her house seemed capable of hiding a lurking predator. The branches seemed like claws ready to grab her as she shuffled up the sidewalk. When a dog barked down the street, she hurried even faster to get her key into the lock.
Could the spirit still dissolve himself into writhing fumes of dark smoke? She locked the door behind her, hoping that it was enough to keep him out. What sort of protection did she have if it didn't?
She tossed her bag by the door and rushed to the bedroom to find her bible. The heavy leather book in her hands felt protective, though she didn't think it would do much good unless he was a solid being, and she could aim it directly at his head.
As she removed her glasses and undid her braids, she thought of the one slim advantage she had---she knew a lot more about him than he knew about her. In fact, she was the only person who knew who he really was.
She was leafing through the pages, looking for some words of comfort when an epiphany struck.
The spirit was at the carnival. That meant he wasn't at the house. Neither was Georgia.
Now was her chance to go there safely and look for his bones.
"Oh, God," she said as she looked for a shovel in her garage. "Here we go..."
As they walked amongst the little ghouls and goblins, Georgia laughed and asked, "What's that woman got against you? She seems to think you're evil. What did you do? Kill her lawn? Accidentally dig up her tulip bulbs?"
"Nothing of the sort. She's delusional. I don't even know her."
"When I was out here for my grandmother's funeral, I found her in the house. She tried to warn me that my life was in danger from a ghost. Isn't that the silliest thing you've ever heard?"
"In my day...they would have run her out of town in the paddy wagon or put her in a sanatorium with the other crazies."
"Your day? You talk like an old man. You must be younger than I am. What are you...thirty-five? Thirty-six?"
"A hundred and thirty eight."
Georgia laughed as she smelled the delicious caramel at the booth a few feet ahead. "Well...if that's true...you're preserved rather nicely. I could use some of your youth potion."
"And I would gladly give it to you if I could be sure that we would always be such great friends. I really enjoy your company, Georgia..." he said, drawing out her name in a long whisper.
They paused at the end of the line then he reached out and brushed a dark curl from her eyes. "If you only knew, mio amore ...how much you remind me of someone I knew long ago."
For a moment, the world scented with candy, adorned with capes, cloaks, and screaming children retreated from her mind. She felt dizzy and closed her eyes. Daniel's face swirled before her...his top hat...his silk cravat...and coattails. The image was unpleasantly familiar. Was she experiencing a sort of paramnesia, a false déjà vu conjured by her imagination?
It was something foggy and veiled, but palpable. A dream. Yes...a dream. Had her vivid imagination imposed his image on the man in her nightmare?
She opened her eyes and steadied herself as she looked into his eyes, shimmering like molten-colored moonlight on a verdant sea. They pierced into her as he took her hand and led her forward with the line. Trapped by his gaze and the vice--like grip of his hand, she felt the ferocity of his adoration, and it paralyzed her.
He breathed warmth into her ear; an unexpected perfume of roses tickled her nose as he pressed close to her side. "You have been so gracious, allowing me into your home. I'm planning a surprise for you."
Her heart danced as if filled with fireflies. This hot-blooded Italian charmer...who could imagine him a ghost?
Opal didn't waste any time. As soon as she reached County Line Road, she barreled through the ditch and parked in a tall stand of weeds and prairie grass, far enough from the road to keep it hidden. Then, feeling like a military operative on a covert mission, she tucked her jeans into her boots, slung her duffel bag over her shoulder, and hiked up the road.
As she approached the house, she saw no cars in the driveway, and no lights on. Though, she was sure that the spirit, who now apparently called himself, Daniel, was still at the carnival with Georgia, the house seemed just as frightening on this chilly Halloween night.
She had just a rough idea of where she was going. After crunching up the gravel drive towards the picket fence on the side of the garage, she felt for the latch on the gate and let herself through.
On the path, she could see the back lawn, the empty field, and the scraggly line of giant Cottonwoods bordering the river. In the moonlight, they looked like monsters---their bare limbs jutting upwards like claws trying to snatch the stars from the sky.
She shivered, hoping there were no teenagers under them at this moment trying to conjure the ghost of MargaretCrawford. She'd heard enough tales that sounded believable to know they couldn't all be made up.
One of her clients said that he had seen her himself. He told her a chilling story about being out there one night with some high school buddies. They had used a Ouija board and called her name. Nothing happened, and they were about to give up when the light from the full moon seemed to dim. Then, they saw her rising from the river with her long hair covered in slime, cascading in twisted strings down to her waist and her cotton dress dripping with brackish water. Her skin was a putrid shade of ashen gray and bloated, and her eyes glowed a yellowish-green as if they had swallowed up moon's light. She had opened the black cave of her mouth as if trying to speak to them...but when she got within a few feet of them, they lost their nerve and bolted.
Opal didn't know if the story was true, but she certainly didn't want to run into anything so gruesome herself. She was already on edge. Fear prickled her skin, and her ears were perked for any sound of someone...or some thing...approaching. But, she had work to do and knew that her time was limited.
She trekked down the right towards the gardens. After she passed the vegetable garden, she glimpsed the wrought iron arbor ahead. And through it, she saw a glimpse of the stone fountain. It looked just as it had in her nightmare.
But, this time, it didn't glow an ethereal green---the moon cast an eerie orange-ish light about it. There was a pool of water in the lower tier, shimmering like molten-hot silver. It might as well have been blood marking the spot. She knew from Crawford's journal that MargaretCrawford had been drowned there. And her killer---the spirit himself---was buried below its base.
The arbor had a prickly bare rose vine twined around it. Weary of any thorns that might reach out and grab her, she ducked as she ran through. Then, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. After propping her flashlight up on an empty flowerpot, she got out her shovel.
With the first thrust, the tip of the blade seemed to hit solid rock. After several more frustrating tries, she paused and leaned against the handle. It was only the end of October---the ground shouldn't be frozen for a few more weeks.
Determined, she redoubled her efforts and threw all of her might into each stab at the hard earth. After a few minutes, sweat mingled with the carnival glitter on her cheeks. But, she didn't give up. She was determined to dig down to the spirit's bones if she had to spend all night out there and do it with a spoon.
But, two hours later, she only had a hole about a foot deep when she heard a car and saw the faint glow of headlights from other side of the garage.
She dropped the shovel from her bruised hands, clicked the flashlight off, and sat crouched in the darkness.
There were voices---a man and a woman.
Could she risk staying and keep working with just the moonlight? It didn't take more than a second to realize how foolhardy that idea was. She remembered how the spirit had nearly squeezed the life out of her. If he found her here again, she would surely die on the spot---just like Margaret and Virginia.
She packed the shovel in her bag. Then, she ran through the thorny rose brambles and worked her way east around the far side of the property until she got back to the road.
When she felt that she was a safe distance away from the house, she stopped and looked back. She whispered to the memory of old WilliamCrawford. "You told me in your journal how you killed AlphonsoGiovanni. Now...tell me how I can kill him again."
"Thank you," the spirit said as he opened the car door for Georgia.
"For what?" She stepped out, careful to keep from catching the heavy folds of her dress.
"For allowing me to escort you to the carnival. You have no idea how much it meant to me to get out and mingle with the townspeople tonight."
She inhaled a deep draught of the night air, still remembering the scent of caramel apples and pumpkin spice.
The stars twinkled above as they walked towards the porch. The front light was out, but the darkness didn't bother her. On this enchanted night, she felt drunk with happiness. It was an unreal, but warm feeling to be back in her hometown with such a wonderful man at her side.
When they neared the door, he paused. "Dance with me..."
"Here? In the dark? With no music?"
His lips grazed the lobe of her ear. "Do you know how many years it's been since I last danced?"
"Last week? I imagine you've got a dozen girlfriends around town."
He took her hand, holding it up to his chest and circled her waist with the other. "No, mio caramella. It's been a miserable century since I held a woman like this."
She laughed and let him begin to sway her body back and forth. With his eyes twinkling in the faint light of the moon, feeling the warmth of his body pressed so close to hers and the intoxicating sweetness of his breath against her cheek...she felt like a cobra being charmed from the emotional safety of its basket.
"If only we had an organ or a piano...and someone to play it. But no matter...we can dance to the beat of my heart. It has quite a rhythm these days."
"You're such a romantic. I never know when to take you seriously. I've never met anyone like you."
"And I've never met anyone like you."
Georgia's emotions vacillated between exhilaration and a strange sadness. It was wonderful to have this attention, but there were still bleeding wounds inside. It hadn't been that long since she'd been knocked out in a 1-2-3 punch from the divorce. As Daniel invaded the sanctity of her barriers, her inner bruises winced.
Even without the light to see him clearly, her mind drank in every detail of him as they danced in the shadows on the porch...his sparkling green eyes, his locks of sexy dark hair, and his strong lithe body with its tight muscles that seemed made from stone from his labors in the gardens.
They danced in silence. Then, he began to hum softly in her ear, creating his own music for their bodies to follow. The sweetness of it almost made her cry. No one had ever given her this kind of intense attention...not in her entire life.
For a moment...with him in his antique groom's suit and her in the fanciful white gown...it seemed as if they might be dancing at their wedding. His rough cheek melded into hers, and she felt a strange warmth coming not only from his skin...but a pulsing heat from his heart.
She didn't want this evening to end. If only she could spend the rest of her life dancing here in the darkness and forgetting everything else in the world.
He paused for a moment and looked into her eyes, holding her stare until she blinked. At that moment, she thought she saw a spark---a bright pulse of light coming from their green centers. It certainly must have been her imagination.
The spirit released Georgia from his arms and spun her away from him, pausing when she was at arm's length. Then, he pulled her back, pivoting her body around until she stopped millimeters from his face...their cheeks so close that the fine invisible hairs on their skin touched and tickled every pore of his reborn skin.
Enjoying the slow art of seduction gave him the willpower to take his time with her. "It's late...I must let you get to bed," he whispered as he reluctantly loosened his grip around her waist.
"Hmmm..." she moaned. "Yes...late."
His lips paused near her ear. Then, they traveled around to her cheek. "You know I can't sleep without my evening walk. I'll see you later?"
She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Goodnight, Daniel."
He hugged her, pressing their bodies close together. Then, he kissed her softly on the cheek, letting his lips linger a couple of seconds afterwards. Their web of intertwined fingers from the dance seemed to break apart strand by strand as he let her unlock the door.
"Buona notte."
Though, he had been a bit bold this evening...he knew that any doubts in her mind would be written off to the sorcery of this magical evening.
He stepped down out of the house's shadows and into the moonlight, took a deep breath, and smiled. He didn't need to kill tonight. He felt well...in fact...he felt better than he ever had. Maybe being so close to Georgia and gaining her affection was doing him more good than he knew. But, even with her nearness, he doubted that he could go very long without weakening again. What was it going to take...20...30...500 lives before he was a whole man again?
He sighed as something drew his attention back towards the gardens. Was it a sound? A scent?
Once again, he found himself drawn to the fountain. He walked around it until he came to a spot where the soil felt unusually soft under his feet. He bent down and examined the area, noticing a circle of loose dirt.
Someone had been there...digging. But who and why?
It was too big of a hole to be a nut-burying squirrel or a mouse-chasing fox. Had it been the Fortune Teller? Or, had it been one of Georgia's snooping relatives?
He found his anger receding as his mind drifted back to the way Georgia's body had felt against his as they danced on the porch.
He knew that he had her. He had begun to worm his way into her heart.
But...there were those women, like Margaret, that seemed to swoon in his arms...only to rebel at the last, most important moment. It troubled him that Margaret's blood flowed through Georgia's veins. It would be a sad day if she turned on him.
No, he told himself. It will never happen, because she will not have any reason to.
He hopped off the rim and reached into his pocket, unfurling a wad of bills from his money clip---a collection stolen from his victims.
It was time to start gathering the things for Georgia's surprise.
Because he had told her that he had sold his unreliable truck and planned to buy another in spring, he set off on foot.
He whistled to himself as he walked towards town, knowing that tomorrow would be the beginning of the chain of events that would lead to Georgia becoming his bride...or her death and the death of everyone and everything that she loved.
Later that week, Opal invited Karl to go out to dinner. Her mind was too frazzled to cook, so she suggested that they drive over to Hondelsburg to the local steakhouse.
Leaving her favorite purple and black dresses and crystals in the closet, she dressed in a conservative navy blue suit and her best pearls. She was quiet on the way to the restaurant, rehearsing her speech in her mind over and over.
Once their meals were served, she started with niceties about the weather, current events, and happenings around town. She waited until after they had finished their steaks and were digging into dessert before she began.
"Karl, you know my line of work?"
"Of course, Ma. You're my tarot-reading, witchy mother who loves to do séances with the dead. Just like every other sixty-something small town lady around here, right?"
"There's no need to be catty," she said as she reached across the table and pulled a fuzz ball off of his gray & maroon striped sweater. "How far back did you have to reach into the closet for that sweater, anyway? It looks like a relic from twenty years ago."
"Chastising my wardrobe won't help your cause. Why don't you go ahead with your spiel?"
She pouted then began. "Well...as I was saying. Whether you believe it or not...I do contact the spirits of the dead." She had to make him believe. "It's a great comfort to folks who have lost a loved one to hear a message from them again."
"And when you contact one of these spirits...how do you know it's the right person you're talking to?"
"It usually just feels right. That's how I know I've dialed the right number. The setting and the living person across from me are usually enough to draw the right soul forth. But, as I told you before...a few months ago, something terrible happened."
"Let me guess...this time...you called up Elvis. He's not dead. He's been living somewhere in the Bahamas growing sugarcane and mangoes. Now, he's here haunting someone in Calathia..."
Opal reached across the table and punched him in the arm. "Will you be serious? Georgia's life is in danger."
"Georgia? I don't want you pestering her any more. She's a nice lady and..."
"A nice lady who might die soon if you don't help me."
"All right. You've got my attention. But you'd better get it out while my mouth is full of pie. I'm less likely to make wisecracks that way."
Opal gave her most sincere rendition yet of the night in July when she did the séance for VirginiaBlake. "This spirit's force was so strong. I did everything I could think of to push him back with my mind and chants...but he barreled through like some unstoppable monster."
"And where is he now?"
"He's still in the house...with Georgia."
"Then, why isn't she afraid...if this ghost is haunting her?"
"She doesn't realize what he is. He looks as real as you or me and becomes more human every day."
"I thought ghosts were some sort of ethereal things that could hardly be seen."
"He started out that way, but as he fed off of Virginia's energy and the energy of the others he's killed...he began to regain his mortal flesh."
"Really? Does this ghoul have a name?"
"AlphonsoGiovanni." She relayed the rest of the tale...leaving nothing out. She told him how he attacked her, about the century-old box at the Calathia Inn, and the story about how WilliamCrawford shot Alphonso after he drowned Margaret in the fountain.
"The MargaretCrawford?"
"Yes...the one from the legend."
"I thought she drowned herself...committed suicide."
"It was a lie. Her family covered up the entire double murder to avoid further scandal."
"So, this is the family Georgia is descended from. I didn't realize she had such a lurid past."
"I'm sure he's the one behind all the murders around town."
"Now, that's an interesting theory. I can't imagine going to the Sheriff with it."
"I've already tried. That old sack of potatoes wouldn't listen to me. What does he care? He's retiring. Solving the murders will fall into the next Sheriff's lap. Which might be yours, if you're elected."
"Fine," he said with an indulging grin. "How do I find this Alphonso fellow and check him out for myself?"
"You've already met him."
He laid down his fork and stared at her as if paying attention for the very first time.
"At the carnival. He introduced himself as DanielMoreno. He was the dead groom on Georgia's arm."
Karl gasped as the color drained from his cheeks.
"Karl...please...will you help me now?"
"What do you want me to do?"
Georgia paced from room to room, wondering how to work the paintings and sculptures from her contemporary art collection into the antique décor of her grandmother's house.
Daniel seemed to slither around behind her that day like a snake on an invisible leash. Each time she went into a different room, he shadowed her and lingered nearby. Despite liking his company, she found herself growing irritated.
She confronted him in the parlor as the late afternoon light grew dim and caused long shadows to stretch across the room like thin bony fragments of their original shape. "Are you bored or something? You've been following me around all day like a lost puppy. Haven't you got friends about town or something to do?"
He turned and looked at her with an imploring expression. His eyes, at first, were kiwi green, but her words seemed to bruise them and turn them purple.
"I'll leave you be. Arrivederci."
She watched him stomp out the front door with no coat on. It was snowing outside. If he was headed for a walk, it was sure to be a miserably cold outing. She thought about running after him, but decided that he was a grown man and shouldn't be scolded again like a child.
She couldn't figure him out. There were times when he seemed flirtatious, but she could never tell if he was toying with her. Sometimes he came up behind her in the kitchen and peered over her shoulder to see what she was cooking. Others, he stoked the fire and implored her to come sit next to him on the hearth, but then he merely sat and stared into her eyes or talked about some lighthearted subject like the weather.
On occasion, he kissed her tenderly on the cheek or forehead. But, he always stopped just short of taking it any further.
She found herself fantasizing about him. And there were nights that she dreamed he had been in her room during the night, watching her sleep and ravaging her in some ethereal way.
It seemed like he was waiting for something. She knew that he was keeping something from her, even if it was just himself, because he wasn't quite ready for her to get too close.
Sometimes, he was gone for long periods of time with no explanation. But, she didn't question him. She figured that whatever he did with his free time was his business, and she wasn't going to play the nosy landlord.
As much as she enjoyed his company, she was also disappointed that she hadn't run into KarlBauer since the carnival. She figured that he was busy working on the murder cases, but she sometimes caught herself speeding on purpose through downtown...hoping to get pulled over.
But, it was Daniel that seemed to occupy her attention more and more as time went on. She enjoyed his little gifts and surprises that he seemed to conjure from the air. He often did things like fill up the house with dried bouquets of flowers and garlands of berries from the garden. One afternoon, he showed her plans that he had drawn up for the springtime garden. She gushed at the details of new flower borders, an herb addition to the vegetable garden, and a raised bed of perennials for the front yard.
She was upstairs in the turret room when he came home that night. She heard the door and went downstairs to apologize, but he did not look angry or weary as she expected. There was a wide smile below his ruddy cheeks, and he was wearing a tan sheepskin coat that she'd never seen before. Before she could think of a polite way to ask him where he'd gotten it, he had fluffed the snow off his shoulders and produced a wooden box with a red silk bow tied around its middle from its pocket.
"I have a gift for you," he said as he held it out to her.
"Daniel..." she complained as she descended the staircase. "You've been way too generous already. It's really not---
He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh...just take it."
Feeling guilty from running him out of the house earlier, she indulged him and untied the bow. "Oil paints? Acrylics? Watercolors?"
"There's more," he said as he pointed across the parlor.
She gave him a curious look and walked across the room. In front of the sofa, there were two-dozen canvasses. Some were as small as a notebook, and others were as large as the kitchen table. "I don't know what to say..."
"Say nothing. It's time for you to paint again and find the bliss that it used to give you."
She felt giddy...light headed. It had been so many years, since she even contemplated the idea of painting again. Her ex-husband had dissuaded her from wasting her time on something so trivial that was unlikely to ever bring them more wealth. She thrust her arms around his neck. "Thank you...a million thank you's!"
"Prego..." he whispered.
She kissed his cold cheeks and noticed the musty earthy scent about him. It smelled like dead autumn leaves after a rain which was not unpleasant, but underneath that was a subtle rottenness that reminded her of the day that the garbage workers in New York had gone on strike, and the whole city had been permeated with stench. He must have been out walking for hours, sweating and---
She pulled away from him, but he grabbed her back. His eyes. What was it about his eyes? They seemed to glow with some brilliant strobe light within. Like a computer monitor, flickering at a speed nearly imperceptible. But, something was there. Definitely there. Something strange.
Her doubts vanished as his lips found hers. Whatever she had smelled, whatever she had seen...was gone. It was replaced by the sweetness of roses on his tongue and the warmth of his skin that was now flushed with passion.
When the kiss was over, he held her to him, and she felt his heart beating against hers. For a couple of minutes, they said nothing. They didn't have to.
The spell remained when they finally separated, and she felt dizzy as he lifted up her chin and dazzled her again with his eyes.
"Tonight, you paint."
She remembered nodding after that, but if she had replied, it surely had been something unintelligible.
"I have to go out again for awhile, but I expect you to be busy here."
She told him that she would as she hugged the box of paints to her. But, when he left, she found herself floating on air, unable to concentrate enough to figure out a way to begin. Instead, she ran out to the store to buy some things to make him a special late dinner.
He came home late, ate the meal with gusto then insisted that she go upstairs to play with her new gifts. It was around midnight when she took the paints and canvasses up to her grandmother's old craft area in the turret room and began to set up a studio.
In the days following, she opened tube after tube of glorious color...sometimes using a brush and other times finding it irresistible to stick her fingers into them like cake frosting, tracing through and blending colors into amorphous beautiful shapes.
She played with the browns, painting flowing shapes of mud and chocolate. Then, she mixed in swirls of red...inspired by memories of summer roses. Tendrils of vibrant green snaked through the forms, connecting them and giving them life.
Daniel left her alone with her re-found obsession. Hours passed, even entire days without her knowing it. She only became aware of the late hour each day when long shadows streaked across the floor.
She hired an electrician to come to the house and work on the old faulty wiring and install better lighting in the room, so she could work better in the dark days of winter ahead.
Then, she painted...and painted...and painted.
Gradually, her play with colors and shapes became imaginary scenes of barns, country scenes, and migrating geese.
Then, she took her easel outside, longing to recreate the autumn sky from the grays and blues in her palette and the river's green waves punctured by smoky tree limbs and patches of ice.
The days passed, and there were many times that she heard the phone rang or the doorbell, and willed the visitor away as she prepared the last brushstroke on a windmill or a field of flowers.
Daniel indulged her without question, encouraging and praising her every step of the way.
Annie stopped by one afternoon, scolding her with a wagging finger and tongue. "What have you been up to? We never see you."
"I've started painting again."
"Really? Well...let's see some of those masterpieces."
"No...I'm so rusty. They're not---"
Daniel overheard them and walked into the foyer. "Show, her Georgia. They're fantastico!"
She led Annie upstairs. "They're really just practice. I wouldn't have sold anything so amateurish in my own gallery."
Annie picked up a canvass with a painting of a cornfield with a flock of crows resting on a scarecrow.
"Nonsense! Daniel's right. These are...what did he say? Fantastico! You should exhibit some of these in the county fair. I'd bet they'd fetch a fine penny and sell better than my best pies."
Georgia felt a little better after Annie's comments, but Daniel and Annie were biased. Of course they would praise anything she did.
On the rare instance that Marsha came over, she hid them behind the closed door, knowing that they would only encourage discouraging comments.
Daniel remained her biggest fan. One day, she asked him, "What am I going to do with all of these? Calathia isn't exactly a hotbed for art connoisseurs."
"Don't worry, mia carmella. I have an idea..."
In the restaurant, Karl had told Opal about what he had seen when he chased the spirit. He made her swear not to tell anyone else and agreed to help her in any way that he could, as long as it didn't jeopardize his candidacy for Sheriff.
Unfortunately, that ruled out just about everything that she could think of.
Barring the idea of barging into the house, guns drawn, with some sort of fake search warrant, there didn't seem to be any way to provide Georgia with a reason why they needed to dig under the fountain.
There had been no other time, since the night of the Halloween Carnival that she could be sure the house was empty. She had pondered setting up camp in the field across the road with a pair of binoculars, but that was ridiculous. She wasn't a trained military commando. If she did something so foolish, she'd likely just come home empty-handed and covered with ticks. Or worse, the spirit would spot her, and she'd be the next bloody victim found...after the vultures were done with her carcass.
She had begun to pray at night, hoping that God was truly a merciful being and would have pity on her plight. Just like in wartime, it seemed that every night, the evening news upped the tally of casualties. Soon, it seemed that no one would be left in Calathia. The spirit's hunger for life was endless. No one was safe. Vagrants, especially near railroad tracks, were always at risk. But, now mothers and fathers kept their children close and even locked their pets inside at night, fearing that the serial killer might turn on them.
She tried to approach Sheriff Cardale once more about what she knew, but the old curmudgeon's ears were as locked as an alligator's jaws when she mentioned any supernatural reference. She couldn't blame him, really. If she were him, she'd have run herself out of the Sheriff's office just as fast.
But, something had to be done.
What if the spirit continued to devour the life force of people until he had depleted the entire planet to feed his needs. If God did exist, would he allow it?
She sat on her living room floor cross-legged and slimmer than she had been in the past thirty years due to her consistent worry and lack of appetite. If I created this disaster by myself...I must be able to undo it.
She got up and paced, wringing her hands.
After awhile, a new thought came to her. Every practical thing that she had imagined, including Aunt Grace's advice, seemed impossible to perform without getting herself killed. What if she thought about the improbable instead?
What could be the most ridiculous and dangerous thing that she could do to get rid of the spirit?
It came to her as swiftly and as dramatically as a lightning bolt from the Almighty himself.
"I have to be brave. I have to go to the Otherworld again for assistance!"
What did she have to lose? She realized that in the worst case scenario, she might bring back something far worse. But, if she did nothing, the world was doomed anyway.
"Yes...it might work." But, what if it didn't?
It has to...
On Thanksgiving Day, the spirit feigned an upset stomach, whining almost to the point that Georgia wanted to stay home and take care of him. But, he wouldn't hear of it. "You have to go...it's a family holiday. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
When she left, he got up off the sofa and marveled at his acting ability. In reality, he felt finer than he ever had. There didn't seem to be anything about him that could not pass for a living mortal. Just like a real human, he sometimes bled when he shaved with a razor. There was no more than a trace of a scar where the gunshot wound had once been. And, it smarted when he hit his thumb with a hammer or whacked his elbow while going through a doorway.
Last week, he even got another bit of the sniffles. Georgia nearly yanked him by the ear to see the doctor. He refused...but figured that next time, he might just try his luck with a modern physician. Though, he did have some lingering fear that he might examine his blood under a microscope and find something abnormal...or look into his eyes and see some terrible vision inside that testified to his murderous ways.
His killings had slowed down, at least in frequency if not numbers. He found that a multiple murder of two or three in one day seemed to fill his needs for a longer period of time. The coolness of the air this month also seemed to halt some of his desire. He wondered if, in some ways, he was still a corpse, and the coldness helped to preserve him.
The last victim had been three days ago at Lake McCarthy, six miles to the east of Calathia. It was a popular fishing spot for the locals and a stopping spot for cross-country travelers due to its large RV park. He surprised a group of college boys. As they sat around a campfire, drinking beer and smashing bottles in the flames, he found it easy to pick them off when they stumbled off into the weeds to relieve themselves. He came up behind them, as stealthy as a wolf, and took them before they could scream.
It was all going too easily. He thanked his patience and determination for the way things seemed to be falling into place.
Curiously, he had not seen the annoying psychic woman since the carnival. She'd certainly been surprised to see him walking among the other mortals. He laughed out loud. Maybe now...she realized that he was invincible and wisely kept her distance.
He sighed as he took a walk out to the river, sat on a stump, and found a stick to whittle.
Everything was ready for his announcement to Georgia.
Patience...he told himself. Non si preoccupi. She will be unable to refuse.
"Aunt Gorgie!" Clarissa screamed. "I haven't seen you in years!"
Georgia laughed as she gave her niece a squeeze. "It's only been a couple of weeks, sweetie."
"Are you going to eat turkey with us? Jarrod says it's just a big stinky dead bird."
"He's just trying to gross you out. That's what brothers do."
Marsha herded them in through the door, scolding them for letting the cold air in.
Georgia couldn't hold her tongue. "I see you've still got the Pilgrim Dress."
"Thanksgiving tradition. It's getting a little tight, though."
As she looked at the black polyester dress, Georgia refrained from commenting. Its low-cut square bodice barely contained Marsha's bosom. Cinched at the waist with a square bronze belt buckle, it was so tight at the seams that she wondered if she would be able to get out of it without tearing it after a Thanksgiving meal.
"Speaking of holiday fashion, you're not looking as prim as you used to. Are you letting your hair grow?"
Georgia fingered her shoulder-length dark locks. "I haven't even thought about getting a haircut since I moved back. I guess I've just been so busy that I've just been throwing it up in a ponytail."
"Busy?" Marsha asked as she stretched her seams to the point of groaning as she bent over to check the turkey in the oven. "With what? That house can't be that much work in the winter."
"I've been doing a little painting."
"Really? That's great." She stood up and wagged the turkey baster at her. "I've always loved your art. It was a shame when that bastard ex-husband of yours made you give it up."
Georgia couldn't believe it. What was she being buttered up for?
"I was hoping Daniel would join us tonight."
"Your gardener friend? Is he still staying in the house?"
"At least for the winter...until he can find work and a new place in the spring."
"You'd think he'd be busy now...raking leaves, tuning up the snow plow..."
"Oh...he stays busy. He's gone a lot, but I'm not always sure what he's up to. I don't pry."
"You're a little sweet on him, aren't you?"
Georgia let a little nervous laugh escape. "What makes you say that?"
"Remember when we were little girls, and we shared secrets about boys we had crushes on?"
"Yeah...so?"
"You've got that cross-eyed mushy look about you. I thought you had a thing for KarlBauer. But, I guess---"
Georgia felt relieved when Steven walked in with a bag from the grocery store. "Hey," he said as he gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'm here to save the day. Marsha forgot to defrost the dinner rolls."
Marsha stuck her tongue out before shooing him out of the kitchen.
After dinner was over, Stevie disappeared and cranked up the stereo in his bedroom, the kids went outside to play, and Steven retired to the living room to watch football.
Georgia helped Marsha load the dishwasher, noticing that her friendliness had vanished. After they washed and dried the rest by hand, Marsha poured them each another glass of wine. Then, she asked Georgia to sit down at the table.
"What's up? You look serious."
Marsha reached into the cupboard above the refrigerator and pulled a piece of paper out of a candy jar. Then, she sat down next to her.
"Read this."
Georgia's eyes widened when she saw the handwriting. "This is Grammie's letter to you? You're going to let me read it?"
She nodded.
As she began reading, Stevie walked into the kitchen. Marsha grabbed the letter out of Georgia's hands and thrust it under the table onto her lap.
"Whatcha hiding, Ma?" he asked as he dove for the last piece of pumpkin pie.
"Nothing."
He served himself the last piece then licked the knife clean. "You told her didn't you?"
"Told her what?"
"You told her about the diamond. I'd bet my ass on it."
"Watch your language."
"Diamond?" Georgia said with raised eyebrows.
Marsha folded her arms. The paper fell to the floor, and she leaned down to snatch it up before Stevie could reach it. Then, she handed it back to Georgia.
Georgia read the letter as Stevie smirked and ate his pie. "Whoa," she said when she reached the part about the Black Diamond. "Do you think this is true?"
"I have no idea."
"It's real," Stevie said with a mouthful of whipped cream.
Don't you remember the old legend about the old dude who built Great Grammie's house?"
Georgia shook her head.
"He found this diamond hidden in a shipment of rose stock from Europe. It was so valuable that he hid it until he could figure out what to do with it. But, he died before he revealed its location to anyone."
Georgia turned to Stevie, "I suppose that's why I found you snooping around in some boxes in the basement?"
He nodded, gulping down the last piece of crust.
She looked at Marsha. "Why didn't you tell me about this earlier? I could've helped you look."
Marsha shrugged. "How would I know that you wouldn't keep it for yourself and sell it off to some jeweler in New York?"
"Give me a little more credit, will you? If Grammie left it to you in the will, I'd respect her wishes."
"I think she knew where it was, but she got her last laugh by not telling me."
"That does stink."
"She had no right to---"
Georgia sighed. "Are you kidding? She tried so many times to make amends with you, and you didn't give her an inch in return. I'm not going to say that you deserved it, but you didn't not deserve it either."
"Alright. So the jig is up. Will you help us look for it now?" Marsha asked.
"Of course. How exciting!"
"It's worth millions...I'll bet," Stevie said with a wild look in his eyes.
"Wouldn't that be something!"
"Don't tell your roommate, Daniel. Don't even tell Fred and Annie. We can't trust anybody outside the family with this secret. It's too valuable."
"Not Daniel? How am I going to keep it from him when I'm rummaging all over the house?"
"Better safe than sorry. How do you know you can trust this guy? How well do you know him?"
Georgia sighed. "I don't much about his past. He doesn't seem to want to talk about it."
"I won't tell you to kick him out. But, I'd sleep with only one eye shut if I was in the house with that dude."
"Stevie! Why would you---"
"He's trouble, Georgia. Trust me. The sooner you're rid of him the better."
Figuring that it was all nonsense, Georgia quickly forgot about searching for the mysterious Black Diamond. Surrounded by dusty racks of dried rose bouquets hung upside down and tied with raffia, she continued with her art. Each day, her imagination seemed to grab a hold of her paintbrush and possess it.
Today, she worked on a painting of her grandmother plucking a bouquet of violets. An ethereal glow emanated from her body which could be interpreted as sunshine or an angelic halo.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts about how to proceed that she didn't notice Daniel in the doorway until he coughed. When she looked up, he was holding a silver tray with steam rising above it. "I've brought you some dinner, my dear Michelangelette."
"Thank you. I really don't need to be served all the time, though. I'm perfectly capable of making my own meals."
"Signora, you must be joking! You've been in here for nine hours straight. If I didn't bring you food and water, you might truly be a starving artist."
"Have I really been in here that long?" she asked as she glanced out the window and realized that the sun had long since set and, it was moonbeams lighting up her canvas from the window. As he entered the room, she turned the easel away from him, not yet ready to reveal it.
"I fear that if I didn't check on you now and then...I might come in and find a skeleton gripping a paintbrush between its bony fingers."
She realized that he was right as he raised the silver lid on a steaming bowl of fettuccine covered in a creamy sauce. The delicious scent caused stabbing pains of hunger. Her mouth watered as he set the tray down and lifted a small box up from it just in time to keep it from being soiled by the sloshing milk foam from the cup of cappuccino.
"Another gift? I don't know if you're spoiling me out of kindness...or bribing me to keep you on as a gardening butler!"
"Go ahead...open it," he said as a curious smile spread across his face.
She groaned, wanting to reach for the pasta instead, but then took it from his outstretched hand.
After taking the lid off, she found an envelope nestled inside. Her bemused look evoked no clue from him as she slid her thumbnail under the flap and pulled out a folded card. She turned it over to the front and saw a photo of one of her favorite paintings. It was Marsha's barn with giant bales of hay posed out front like massive cinnamon rolls against a fiery sky and a diminutive fairy peering out from behind the wheel of a tractor. "How did you do this? I didn't know you knew how to use my camera."
"I have more skills than you know," he said as he winked. "Isn't modern technology wonderful? I persuaded an old fellow at the print shop to create a free sample invitation.
"Invitation?"
"Look inside."
She opened the flap and read the inscription. Then, she laid it down on her lap and looked up at him.
"It's time for you to show your talent to the world."
"But, Daniel...I just paint for the joy of it. Who would want---"
"You insult me! I consider myself to be a connoisseur of beauty, and your paintings are exquisitely beautiful. You've been painting like a madwoman for weeks. Every day, the delivery truck comes with new canvasses for you. How many paintings do you have now? Fifty? Sixty? A hundred? It's time for you to have your own show! As you've told me...so many years, you sat on the sidelines promoting the works of other artists."
"I don't know. I'm not ready---"
"Schiocchezza! Nonsense! Give me a list of your contacts in New York, and I'll make it happen for you."
"New York? No one's going to come all the way out here."
"Maybe they'll find it...how do you say...kitschy...so out of the ordinary that it will have an extraordinary appeal. It will be your coming out party."
Georgia picked up the card again. New Year's Eve?"
"I want the party to be memorable...the start of a new year and our...your new life here."
She put a hand on her chest and leaned back in her chair. "I don't know what to say. You've caught me off guard."
"Just say yes and leave it to me. I'll send out invitations..."
"I'm starving right now. I can't even think straight. Let me eat and think about it."
"All right, but I'll be back," he said with a bow as he backed out the door.
After eating, Georgia gave her address and phone book to him. But, when he reached for it, she held onto it for a second before letting go. "What are you going to say?"
"I'll tell them that you are the greatest artist since Picasso."
"Don't say that! They'll hang up on you before you can say another word."
"They will believe me."
"Really, Daniel. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. You're dangerously optimistic. I don't want to be the laughing stock---"
Before she could finish, he stepped closer to her. So close, that she could feel his warm breath on her neck. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "What have you got to lose mia amore? Your life is here now...not there. If someone doesn't come...it is their loss...not yours."
"You really believe in me that much?"
"There is no question. But, I ask you...do you believe in me? Do you trust that I can make this happen for you?"
He paused, with his lips just an inch away from hers. His fingertips traced down the side of her cheek. Then, he gave her the lightest kiss on her mouth. It was so soft...so delicate and unexpected...that she was sure she had imagined it when she opened her eyes.
Whispering in her ear, he gave her a squeeze as he pressed into her. "Why do you have so little faith in yourself, when I have known you for such a short time and know that you are so special?" He brushed the bangs back from her face. "Think about it some more if you must, but...I won't take no for an answer." Then, he grabbed her hands and held them up between them. "We shall have a party like this town has never seen."
She inhaled a deep draught of air filled with turpentine, paint, and dried flowers. After a flashed smile, he vanished down the hallway.
\*\*\*\*\*
That night, the unnatural palpitations in her heart and the stew of emotions prevented her from sleeping.
Daniel was gorgeous and charming. He understood her art...and was interested in it. And he even wanted to be her agent! She couldn't have dreamt up a more perfect person.
All of these happy-scared feelings about the upcoming party and Daniel made her feel lightheaded as she lay down in bed.
She took a yellow brick to help her fall asleep and had The Dream once more. But, this time...she didn't die. Her pursuer chased her through the rose garden, and she giggled and laughed until she fell in the mud in her white cotton dress. Covered in brown wet splatters, she didn't care as he fell on top of her and began kissing down the sides of her neck and onto her breasts.
"Alphonso...don't stop".
"You're going to what?"
Opal raised her voice. "I said...I'm going to perform another séance".
Karl pulled her into his office. "Shhh! Not so loud," Once they were inside, he shut the door. "What on earth for?"
"Aunt Grace told me that my mother was able to talk with spirits. But, apparently she gave it up after having a bad experience. I'm going to talk to her and---"
"Grandma? She's been dead for---"
"Precisely. And, isn't it silly that I've never had the courage to try to reach her?"
Karl shook his head and looked at her like she'd lost the last screw holding her fragile brain together.
"I know you think I'm crazy. But, somehow I know she can help me figure a way out of this mess. She's on the other side now---she's got inside knowledge of how this whole paranormal thing works."
"Ma...that's the most absurd thing I've heard---"
"Don't start. You of all people should want to help me. Don't you want these murders to stop?"
"Of course."
She felt pity for him when she saw the desperation in his blue eyes. Were they beginning to water? Her poor son was caught between his desperation to solve the murders and her demented ramblings.
"You told me you saw him disappear right before your eyes. So, you don't doubt anymore."
"I know. But, the more I think about it...maybe it was just the glare of the sunlight---my eyes playing tricks on me. Maybe, he dove under the water and swam away.
"Come on...you said very plainly that you saw him vanish into a plume of smoke and disappear into the trees."
He looked down at his dusty calfskin boots.
"I know you really don't doubt what you saw that day. And, I know that you can't explain any of this to anyone else, because they'll think you're nuts. Of course, you'd rather be the hero and find some mortal serial killer holed up in a storm cellar. But, that's never going to happen. Our murderer isn't human. Forget your glory and help me to get rid of him before someone else dies."
"But, why do you need me to help you?"
Now, Opal's looked down at her shoes. "Because..."
"Mom," he said as he reached out and crooked his arm around her neck in a semi-hug. "You're afraid, aren't you?"
Her head bobbed up and down, and her eyes began to leak. He couldn't possibly know just how frightened she was. When she thought of facing the spirit again, her blood curdled into nasty black clots that paralyzed her. Though, the bruises on her ribs had healed, her memory of how close to death she had come was still fresh.
He squeezed her, and they stood there silently for a few moments, commiserating in their frustration.
When she felt she could talk without her voice warbling, she said, "You've got to come with me. We'll try Aunt Grace's way first. You're strong. You can help me dig and find his bones. If that doesn't work, we'll wait for dark. Then, we'll do a séance. If I can contact my mother...maybe she can help us."
Karl closed his eyes as he pulled away, rolling his neck around and massaging it with his hand. "Saying it's a long shot is an understatement."
"What have you got to lose? From what I hear, your guys don't have any leads on these murders. Even if the FBI is coming, it's not like they can hold AlphonsoGiovanni in a jail cell any more than you can."
"But, how are we supposed to do all of this excavation and psychic conjuring without being seen? Georgia nearly blew a gasket when she saw you at the carnival. She's not going to let you anywhere near that place."
"We'll wait for the right opportunity...when we know she's out of the house."
A knock startled them as another deputy stuck his head in. "Karl, we need you."
He waved him off. "Be right there." Then, he turned back to her. "If we're going to do this, it needs to be soon. I'm already working six days a week on this case. If the Feds come in and things get even crazier, it may be seven. So, when?"
"I don't know. Georgia is one encounter short of taking out a restraining order on me. Maybe, we'll get lucky and she'll leave town again soon. Or, we can think of a ruse to get her out of there for awhile."
"Alright, we'll figure something out. "I've got to go."
She grabbed his sleeve as he turned. "Don't let your rational side think too much and chicken out on me."
"You'd just better be right. My reputation...my entire career is at stake."
"I know. Just think of all the lives you may save."
He nodded and bowed out the door.
She sat down and rested in his chair. Her legs felt too heavy and tired to haul herself through the main room and pretend not to see the stares from the staff as she exited the building.
She wondered what the spirit was up to. Was he somewhere in town stalking his next victim? At the house filling Georgia full of lies? Or squeezing the life out of her?
Hold on, Georgia. I haven't given up yet...
As the days passed, Georgia's anxiety about the upcoming New Year's Eve party increased. She painted to keep her mind occupied. But, her creative frenzy was also an act of desperation. She hoped that the sheer quantity of paintings would produce enough gems in the rough to display to so many critical people.
Daniel refused to tell her anything more about his planning progress, saying that everything was under control as he left the house for long periods of time to work on his preparations.
When he was home, his unfailing attention to her every need was both a bane and a blessing. There were times that she simply preferred to be alone with her thoughts and imagination. Sometimes, she caught him paused in the doorway, staring at her as she worked. Each time, she scolded him...and he sulked away, begging apologies in his charming accent.
She had to admit...recently there was an indescribable unease with the situation. Something was not right about this man. He was too perfect...too insistent on indulging her. But, for now...she brushed off her doubts. The attention was a gift that she had never had from her ex-husband, who professed to love her, but controlled her and then tossed her away like a dirty rag.
One afternoon, Daniel brought her lunch as usual, but this time he lingered. He set down the tray and looked over her shoulder as she worked on some delicate brush strokes---black silhouettes of geese upon a fluorescent sunset.
"Daniel! You know I'm not done..." She felt his hands on her shoulders. He began to massage them, kneading away the stiffness with his fingertips.
"Mmmm..." she said. "Alright...don't stop. That feels really good."
She laid down her paintbrush and closed her eyes as he continued, giving in to the ripples of sensation.
"You are working much too hard. Perhaps, you should take a break."
As his hands worked further down her back, she leaned forward. She couldn't think of a rebuttal as his fingers dug in to her flesh, working it in circular motions.
Then, he massaged his way back up her spine, giving attention again to her shoulder blades, rolling them loose with the palms of his hands. She relaxed as his fingers found her neck, swirling up into the back of her scalp. He loosened her ponytail and let her hair fall down to her shoulders. Then, he worked on the whole of her head and temples.
A warmth like a sultry summer breeze brushed against the nape of her neck as he brushed her hair to the side. She smelled the sweet musky scent of his breath as his lips touched her skin.
She froze. She should tell him to stop, shouldn't she?
Was he wearing cologne that smelled so sweet? Something about his scent conjured the remembrance of her grandmother's roses again---the damp earth in the garden after a spring rain.
Suddenly, she was no longer sitting in the dusty turret room on a chilly winter's day; she was in the garden, feeling the warm sunshine as she inhaled the perfume of the flowers around her and felt a butterfly's kiss as it landed on her neck.
When she snapped out of the daydream and realized what was happening...she still didn't resist. She was too lost in the moment, reminded of someone...somewhere...long ago. It had been so long since anyone had touched her in this way. She felt dizzy as he continued to kiss along the nape of her neck.
The jarring sound of the doorbell halted the romantic encounter.
Georgia jumped to her feet. "I..." Her mouth hung open as she turned to look at him.
His skin was flushed pink. Was he blushing? As embarrassed as she was? But, there was a look in his eyes as if he did not regret his transgressions. It was a feral stare, despite the warmth of his smile. He looked as if he might devour her if she lingered a moment longer.
She excused herself in mumbled syllables.
As she descended the staircase, she wondered what might have happened if they hadn't been interrupted.
The doorbell rang again and again, interrupting her thoughts. "Alright...alright!" she yelled as she reached the door.
She was prepared to scold a boy scout selling chocolates or an impatient paperboy, but when she yanked the door open---
"Afternoon, Georgia," KarlBauer said as he tipped the brim of his hat.
"Deputy..." she nodded as she smoothed back her rumpled hair.
"Your sister asked me to come by. She said that she hasn't seen you for a while, and you haven't been answering your door or the phone."
"I'm sorry. I have been quite the recluse lately. I've been holing up in my studio and painting like a madwoman. I've let Daniel deal with any visitors and---"
"Daniel?" He asked as he glanced up towards the staircase behind her. "He's still living here?"
She twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. "Yes. Everything's just fine, Deputy. There's nothing to worry---"
"Really? You look a little shaken."
"I'm fine. You just startled me while I was painting."
He tipped his hat again and turned to go, then wheeled back around. "You know...they found another body just outside of town last night. A farmer's wife. Someone messed her up pretty good. I'd be sure your doors are locked day and night."
"I'll do that. Thanks for stopping by."
She watched him go, admiring his tall strong stride as his boots clicked across the wood porch, and he made his way to his patrol car.
As she clicked the door shut behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes.
Daniel called down from upstairs. "Who was at the door?"
"Deputy Bauer."
"What did he want?" he asked as he came to the railing.
"Nothing. Just checking up on me. Marsha put him up to it. I guess I've been a little too much of a hermit lately. It's all your fault, you know."
He smiled, and she thought he looked like a cat, declaring innocence with a canary feather hanging out of his mouth.
"Blame me, if you must...but your lunch is getting cold, mia cara amica."
The rest of the afternoon, Daniel left her to her painting. There were awkward moments when they passed each other in the hall, and later when they said good night and went to their separate rooms.
It seemed to her that he was biding his time again...waiting for the next perfect opportunity to make another move. She found herself avoiding him at times, unless they needed to discuss details about the party.
Her unease increased as the days passed. She told herself that it had nothing to do with Opal Peabody's accusations, writing most of it off to her anxiety about the upcoming party and her confused feelings for Daniel. If she encouraged any more flirtations, she knew that she would be opening a door that she might not be ready to step through. But, if she rejected him...he was certain to move out...and perhaps be gone from her life forever. She wasn't ready to take a stand either way.
He was so handsome, so kind, and indulgent...but there was still something about him that seemed strange. She couldn't put it into words. All she could come up with was the old cliché...wondering if he was too good to be true.
The spirit stood naked in front of the mirror, staring at the perfection of his skin and the sinews of his muscles. There were no more creases near his eyes from the sun's harsh glare and no freckles, moles, or protruding veins. He ran his hand down his chest and felt nothing but hard smooth skin, finding no evidence that a bullet had ever pierced him. Was it possible that he was better now than he had ever been in his former life?
He smiled and winked at himself. "Come un dio. I am like a god."
Then, he caught a flash of light in the mirror and realized that it had come from his own eyes. Stepping closer, he examined his green irises. Something about them was still not quite right. The gold flecks were luminescent. One moment, they seemed backlit from some spark of fire within him, then the next, they looked like metal shavings or shiny fish scales.
No matter. Perhaps their appearance would simply make him more alluring...more mesmerizing.
As he admired his body, Georgia painted in the room down the hall.
He couldn't wait to make love to her. Despite his lust, he tried to restrain himself until they were married. On that special night, he would let Margaret's photo on the nightstand watch as he took another woman into his bed...when it could have been her.
Though, he had such wonderful plans for Georgia and becoming the master of WilliamCrawford's house, his eyes had already begun to wander. During his forays into town and the countryside, he had run into several women that he found quite attractive. There was a pretty blonde waitress at the Hard Winter Bar & Grill and a sultry dark-haired woman who liked to hang her laundry outside while wearing an obscenely short frock. Once he and Georgia were married, he knew that she would be so busy with her painting that he would be free to roam and do what he pleased...with whomever he pleased. He could retain his superficial role as a gardener, searching out women in need of his landscaping expertise...and other services that he'd be happy to provide. Of course, he might have to kill a few of his customers to maintain his gusto.
Then again...maybe not.
As he put his trousers back on, he thought about the upcoming party. There would be so many people at the house. It would be practically pulsing with life like some great beast filled with lightning. If things did not go his way that evening, there would be a feast of souls to feed his needs...maybe once and for all.
He was so perfect now...so complete...that maybe...just maybe...one last bacchanalia of death would be all he would ever need again.
Opal overheard gossip about Georgia's New Year's Eve party from two women in the checkout line at County General.
"Yes...GeorgiaMcKenna," the younger woman with a baby boy in her arms said. "Since her grandmother died...I guess she's turned that house into an art studio."
The older woman with her hair in pin curls nodded. "I hear there's two hundred people invited, but very few from Calathia."
"I suppose she's too good for us country folk now," the mother said as she penned in her check."
"That's ridiculous," the Cashier piped in. "Why would she have moved back here then? I think she's just trying to make some money on her art. It's not like any of us have a few hundred or thousand dollars to blow on a painting. Heck, we're doing good when we break even after getting the crops in and paying our bills. I don't work here on weekends because I want to."
Opal tuned out the rest of the conversation as she thought what a perfect night it would be to slip onto the Blake property unnoticed amongst all of those people. Of course, she had no idea how she would excavate the frozen ground beneath the fountain, even with Karl's help. But, an opportunity like this wasn't likely to happen again.
She rushed home with her groceries, threw them on the floor then ran to the phone.
"Have you heard about the party?"
"Yes..." Karl said with the slowness of cold molasses. "I ran into Georgia at the post office the other day, and she invited me."
"I'm going to need your help there."
"She invited you too? I thought she didn't want you anywhere near that place."
Opal was silent.
"Momma...that's not the right time. I don't want you showing up there, crashing the party and causing problems."
"You can't stop me from going."
"I won't have to. I'm sure she'll round up a posse of guests to show you out the door, the moment you're spotted."
"Please...if you're going...let me be your date. I could wear a disguise."
He covered the phone with his hand, muffling his laughter. When, he came back on his voice was as stern as his starched uniform.
"Not a chance...and you'd better not make an appearance. I'll be there to keep my eye on things and make sure nothing gets out of control."
"Karl...I'm going. I've driven by that house every day for the last two weeks, and she's always there. When else am I going to get an opportunity to get over there and do what I need to do? If you don't help me, you're either going to end up arresting me and throwing your own mother in jail...or I'm going to wind up dead...because he's going to kill me."
"But, poor Georgia. It's her special day and---"
"What about all those poor dead people? How many this month? Five? Six? I hear he's been going farther out from town. Wasn't a body found out near Hondelsburg just yesterday?"
"There's an FBI agent running a profile. "
"That's a waste of time. If you won't help me, I may give up on the digging. But, I'll need your energy for the séance. Can't you at least promise that you'll slip out of the party for that?"
"Ma...I don't know. This is so weird. What if somebody sees us?"
Opal cut him off, bidding him a hasty goodbye. Karl was useless, even after she thought she had him convinced of the danger. He must have decided that his precious bid for Sheriff was too important to risk being seen with her, doing something strange or illegal on the property.
There was so much to do before the party. She sat down at her kitchen table and began a list of things she would need from the hardware store---a better shovel, flashlights, some heavy rope, and maybe a blowtorch to soften the ground.
It sounded like an awful lot of stuff to haul onto the property without being seen. But, with the party going on inside the house and the frigid weather outside, she was sure that she would be far away enough from the festivities that no one would even know she was there.
She laid her head down on the table, fuming as she thought about Karl again. He had to be convinced to roll up his sleeves and help her. She'd threaten him if she had to!
After a few more minutes of pouting, she peered out the curtains of her front window. There was a faint white disc against the slate blue sky. She got up and looked at the calendar on the wall. The full moon this month was on December 26th. So, it would be waning on the 31st. At least, if the spirit gained any sort of energy from it, it wouldn't be completely full on that night, like it had on Halloween when he had been cocksure enough to escort Georgia to the carnival.
But, a new fear flashed into her mind.
What was the spirit up to? Did he have some involvement with this party? Two hundred people? Could that be possible? Good Lord! He'd have to storm into a church to find that many people in one place.
Suddenly, she felt nauseous. Her heart began to flutter, and sweat turned her hands clammy. She realized that if she went to that party, she might be walking into a slaughterhouse.
When Georgia awoke on the morning of December 31st, anxious and excited, her feet seemed to float like a feather several inches over the wood floor.
Later, as she swallowed the last dregs of her morning coffee, the grandfather clock in the parlor ticked the time away, counting its way down to the seven o'clock evening hour when the guests would start to arrive. With the house so quiet, she figured that Daniel had gone to the store to purchase the last of the food and drink.
She heard a soft rasping sound at the back door and rose to discover Max begging to be let in. He swirled around her legs and began howling the moment she opened the door.
"There you are...you naughty runaway. I haven't seen you for days! Clarissa's been worried sick about you. She's still trying to talk her mommy into adopting you."
Max replied with a long earsplitting howl as he lured her towards the kitchen. His caterwauling added to her tension, so she fed him as quickly as she could. As she watched him gobble down his food as if he hadn't eaten since their last meeting, she realized that he had been pretty scarce since the week she moved in back in October. Every couple of weeks, he popped up when she was alone...but she never seemed to see him when Daniel was around. Some cats just don't like men.
True to her supposition, an hour later when Daniel came in the door juggling heavy paper bags, the cat ran to the back door.
She let him out then ran to help Daniel with the bags. "I thought you hired a caterer to take care of all this."
"I did. I just bought a little more wine and other libations to make sure we had enough."
Georgia helped set the bags down on the dining table, then retreated to the parlor and collapsed on the sofa with her head in her hands. The mere thought of so many people showing up just a few hours from now made her dizzy.
"Marsha called earlier to inform me that she has a 'prior engagement' and won't be making it."
"So?" Daniel said. "Do you care?"
"No. I guess not. I just think she still can't resist any opportunity to slam me."
"Perhaps she doesn't think she'll feel comfortable around your city friends."
"Maybe. Fred and Annie are coming though...and I doubt they'll have much in common with anyone."
As he unpacked bottle after bottle from the bags, Georgia let out a dramatic sigh. "I'm so worried..."
"About what?" Daniel asked from the kitchen. "It's going to go just fine."
A moment later he appeared with a half glass of blood red Chianti. "Here..." he said as he handed it to her. "Drink this...then go somewhere. Take your easel and go paint. It will calm you down."
"I can't."
"You must. Go out and have fun for the day. I'll take care of everything. Just come back around six o'clock ...in time to get ready for the party."
"It's too cold to paint outside."
"Nonsense! It's supposed to be around 50 degrees today. It's not supposed to snow until this evening. Go for a drive...have lunch somewhere."
"I can't. I'm too nervous," she whined as she took a sip from her glass. "You don't understand...the guests you've invited are gallery owners, art critics, professors... collectors. I can't believe that so many of them agreed to fly all the way out here just for me."
"Ahh...we shall have a banquet of intellect and sparkling life tonight. I'm already drunk with excitement!"
"But...aren't you the least bit nervous?"
"Why? They'll talk. Drink. And enjoy your fantastico paintings. What more is there? Oh...yes...of course there is a surprise that I haven't yet revealed to you."
"No Daniel. No more surprises."
"But you'll be delighted with this one. Drink. Drink...and go."
She protested again...but he was relentless. After she finished her wine, he prepared a slice of buttered toast and set her towards the door with her paints and a blank canvass under her arm.
As she stopped in the doorway, hoping he might change his mind and let her stay, a euphoric smile bloomed across his face. "Now... where should I display this charming painting of the sunset above the river? Next to the fireplace?"
Late that afternoon, when Georgia returned, she barely recognized the house.
The Gingerbread House was lit up like a fairy tale castle. White icicle lights dripped from the eaves and garlands of evergreens intertwined starry lights draped the porch rail.
A rolling line of heavy clouds obscured the last remnants of the sun as she parked her grandmother's old Lincoln in the garage. She glanced down at her watch. It was a quarter after five, still plenty of time to dress and do her makeup and hair before the guests started arriving.
She reached down on the floorboard and picked up the newly completed painting of the geese over at the pond at K.RileyPark. Instead of her normal whimsical style, this painting had a dark theme. The flying geese had dark marble eyes, filled with a carnivorous lust as they searched the ground for prey. A small mouse with unusually large ears cowered next to a pond awaiting his doom.
She didn't know what possessed her to create it. Maybe, it was her fear of the party. She was deathly afraid of the reaction of her friends who were about to assume the role of critics. Perhaps, she felt like that cringing doomed mouse.
This painting would never hang from a wall for critique. She planned to hide it in a closet in the turret room as soon as she got inside.
With it tucked under her arm, she took the stone path around to the back door. Maybe she could sneak in, check out the party décor, and escape if it all looked too intimidating?
Through the windows, she could see that the house was ablaze as if every light in every room had been turned on...and then some.
She tiptoed inside and gasped. The chandelier above the dining table sparkled as if every crystal had been hand polished. A festive silver garland draped from it reflecting the light and twinkling like a thousand stars.
As she gazed around the parlor, it seemed that winter had been banished. The house was transformed into a blazing light-filled Victorian garden. There were stone urns on pedestals with bright green ferns and pots of jasmine adorning the room. The fireplace roared with glowing orange and crimson flames, and there was a pile of wood lined against the wall, enough to keep it going all night.
Her eyes turned upward towards a massive white banner tied to the far corners of the parlor. She paused and read the quote printed across it in formal script:
I was walking alone in my garden, there was a great stillness among the branches and flowers & more than common sweetness in the air; I heard a low & pleasant sound & I know not whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf of a flower move & a procession of creatures the size and colour of green & gray grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a rose leaf...It was a fairy funeral." --- WilliamBlake
She remembered the quote. It was from a book in Grammie's library. It was one of her favorites---in fact---the very one that had inspired her to draw fairies when she was a child.
She clasped her hands to her chest. How was it that Daniel---a mere stranger just a few months ago---understood her passion more deeply than the man she had once been married to?
Was this what it meant when people talked of meeting their soul mate? Was it someone who knew you deeply like no one else...and seemed to live only to help you find happiness?
She looked around the room and realized that she had only begun to notice the changes around the house. Her paintings lined the walls. Every one was perfectly hung at eye level with an arms breadth between, placed as if she had done it herself at her old gallery. There were river scenes, barns, tractors, haystacks, farms, and sunsets...all with her impish additions of supernatural creatures peering out from the most unexpected places.
She turned her attention towards the kitchen. Grape vines with shining white Christmas lights adorned the cabinets. Decorative cast-iron tables and benches provided added seating. Their tabletops glistened with an opalescent glitter as if Tinkerbell had just flown over them.
The counter was now a bar with ice-filled urns covered in ivy. They held bottles of champagne, white and blush wines. There were dozens of red wine bottles next to them, sitting patiently at room temperature for the guests to arrive.
On the adjacent counter, a confetti of rose petals lay amongst silver trays of hors d'oeuvres with sliced cheeses and meats, cucumber & cress sandwiches, sweet biscuits, and strawberries embellished by delicate sugar frosted violet petals.
The Victorian garden décor and magical lighting set the stage exquisitely for highlighting her art. She couldn't string together a coherent thought as she returned to the parlor.
She sat down on the sofa. After resting her head in her palm for a moment, she looked up and noticed the changes to the foyer. Where there had once been the table with the Tiffany lamp, she saw a tall stone fountain with a cherub pouring a delicate pink punch from a pitcher into its basin. Crystal cups hung from pegs around its circumference, ready to hand off to the first arrivals. Beyond it, in front of the door...there was a seven-foot wrought iron arbor adorned with scrollwork and ivy. A real vine of blood red roses twined up it. She smelled a hint of their perfume wafting in the air. Roses...real roses...in December!
Just then, she spied Daniel at the coat closet just around the corner and rushed over to him. At first, her mouth gaped open, wordless. Then, she gushed, "How? Where...did you get all of these things?"
He paused and grinned. "Georgia...mi amore. You are back." He held his arms far and wide. "Do you like it? Your party will be a smashing success and talked about for years to come, don't you think?"
"How on earth---"
"There's more upstairs. Why don't you go up and get yourself ready. I've laid a dress out on your bed."
"A dress? I already had an outfit planned."
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Just go look---"
She obeyed.
When she got to her room, she saw the dress. It was a slim-fitting black lace and satin concoction with the bodice dipping into a heart-shaped 'V' just below the cleavage line. There was a slit up the left leg just past the knee, and the backside had a crevice dipping down to her lower back. It looked like a modern twist on a vintage design.
Daring...but beautiful.
She shrugged after looking at it in the mirror. A little over the top compared to the simple chemise that she had chosen earlier...but then...so was this party if the guest list and décor were any indication.
She tried it on and found that it was a perfect fit.
After a few moments of admiring herself in the mirror, she went to the bathroom, freshened her makeup, and swooped her hair up into an updo with rhinestone clips. But, as she began to apply a cherry red lipstick, she found her hands shaking.
She scurried to the bedroom and found the Yellow Brick pills in her purse. Just one...to calm my nerves. Hmmm...better not drink too much then.
"Zip me?" she asked as she descended the bottom step into the parlor.
Daniel's cheeks flushed.
"Well?" she asked. "What do you think?"
"Mi fa venire l'acquolina in bocca. You look so beautiful! You will be the most striking bellaza at the party."
"I'll be a potted plant compared to all this," she said as she gestured at the décor.
"No. Your beauty and your art will be all they will see."
He refused to let her assist as he fussed with the last minute details, propping her on the sofa with a glass of wine. Some of her stress seemed to evaporate by the time she took the third sip.
To her surprise, the first guest to arrive wasn't Annie or one of the locals from town. It was MadisonDenford, an art critic who lived in Manhattan. She walked in the door and shrieked as she took off her coat.
"Oh...isn't this wonderful?" she exclaimed as she covered her apple cheeks with her hands and handed her coat to Daniel. "To think...I had to come all the way to Kansas for a little spring glory in winter. Georgia...you've outdone yourself!"
"Well..." Georgia started. But before she had a chance to give Daniel the credit, the woman ran off to inspect the parlor and the kitchen.
She started to follow, but was interrupted by the doorbell.
This time, it was WoodyGordon and his fiancée, Lisa. He owned a string of restaurants in Soho, and was a ravenous collector. She winced at the thought of him agreeing to spend his New Year's Eve in Calathia perusing her work. But, he seemed thrilled to be here as he kissed her hand and thanked her for the invitation.
From that moment on, a nonstop slew of guests poured in. Daniel took their coats and played the charming host, making sure that each person knew where to find the food and drinks.
When Georgia's wine glass was empty, someone handed her a glass of punch from the fountain before she could refuse. A few minutes later, she felt herself feeling a little lightheaded, but she was too busy to think much of it.
She spotted Eddie Stiles, the man who bought her gallery, standing under the rose arbor. He swooped into the room with his arms up in the air as he looked around then he sashayed over to her and planted a fat kiss on each cheek. "You look fabulous! And...I'm amazed!" he said as he gestured at her paintings. "Is it the country air that's turned you into such a creative machine? You could have had your own show at your own gallery if you'd churned these out back there."
"Thanks. I can't believe you came all this way..."
The eccentric entrepreneur turned to Daniel and laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. "This man isn't one to be trifled with. "I believe he said that he'd kill me slowly in a dungeon underneath a grain silo if I didn't make it...or something to that effect."
Georgia winced. "I hope he wasn't quite that brutal."
"Don't worry, dear. Judging by the turnout so far and the buzz I've heard about this party, I think you've done well to have such a strong arm on your side."
She smiled weakly into her crystal cup as she took another sip. "I hope you're right."
Opal parked behind a dozen other cars lined up on the side of the road. The number of guests gave her comfort. But, she feared for their safety. The need for expediency prompted her to overcome inertia.
She got out, ignoring her tears as they mingled with snowflakes that were just starting to fall from the fungal grayness of the sky. Her breaths came out in white clouds as she went to the trunk and pulled out the long canvas duffel bag filled with her tools. It was cold---much too cold for the kind of work ahead of her.
Foreboding and fear filled her thoughts as she made her way towards the house. The ground is probably frozen now and impossible to dig. What the hell am I doing? What if Georgia sees me and kicks me out? I'll probably die here tonight, but it's fitting if I do. This is all my fault! I just hope I'm the only one he takes his wrath out on if I fail.
The party seemed to be going at full throttle. A throng of people lingered on the porch, and a jumble of voices and music poured out from inside. Luckily, no one seemed to pay any attention to her as she waddled up the driveway lugging the heavy bag beside her.
She didn't want to go in the front door and risk being seen by Georgia, so she followed the drive to a picket fence gate next to the garage and traipsed through the dusting of snow until she spotted the back door.
After shoving her bag into a shadowy corner of the patio, she took a deep breath and said a short prayer before slipping into the house.
She couldn't believe how many people were inside. Standing room only was an understatement---every square foot of the main floor seemed to contain a body. The heat from all of those beating hearts and the roaring fire was stifling, but a welcome change from the frigid air outside.
She wiped her wet boots the best she could on the mat and paused for a moment to take in the atmosphere. The air was abuzz with voices and kinetic energy as the guests conversed, ate and drank, and gestured towards the paintings lining the walls.
At first, no one seemed to notice her. Then, a woman in a fur lined blazer with a silk scarf tied impossibly tight around her neck looked her way and scowled at her dirty boots. Opal removed them and made her way through the crowd in her stockings, doing her best to avoid the pain of a spiked heel on her toes.
Her eyes searched through the throng for familiar faces as she shoved her way among them. There were a few of Calathia's residents here along with a lot of artsy folks from out of town.
She made her way past the table where her nightmare first began, then saw Georgia in the kitchen surrounded by a hoard. Despite the occasional flush of redness on her cheeks, Opal saw her smile and thought she could make out her lighthearted laugh from across the room. She seemed to be having the time of her life. She hoped that this evening wouldn't be the last Georgia would ever enjoy.
She bore no ill will towards the woman. Who could blame her for tossing an intruder out of her home? And who could blame her for not having the intuition that the man she welcomed into her home was an evil spirit from a hundred years back? She could only blame herself for anything that happened to all of these people tonight.
As Georgia tossed her head back in laughter again, her eyes swung around the room towards Opal's location. She ducked behind the tall fronds of a potted banana tree. Hunched over, she remained there...peering through the immense tropical leaves until Georgia returned her attention to her guests.
Then, she stood up and straightened out her aching back. Where was the spirit?
When she spotted him across the room, she had to blink and rub her eyes. Was that really him? She stared at the fellow by the front windows wearing a mocha-colored tweed suit with a jaunty cap. He looked completely mortal. His skin was flush with color and looked as dewy as an infant's. And, there was a fresh growth of dark hair along his jaw---the beginnings of a stylish beard that eclipsed his former goatee. If she hadn't known who...what...he was, she would think that he made a handsome picture instead of a wolf in gentleman's clothing.
He seemed to be flirting with a young woman as he gestured towards Georgia's paintings like he was boasting of them, almost as if they were his own. Opal thought his ease with so many mortals in such close quarters revealed a confidence that had grown exponentially since the Halloween carnival.
Oh, Lord...what was this devil up to?
A sickening feeling overcame her. It was the sensation of a thousand worms writhing up her backside. The fine gray hairs on the back of her neck turned into sewing needles, and her heart raced so fast, she put her hand over it.
She remembered Aunt Grace's words, "You will have unleashed a serial killer on Calathia, and he may eventually take every life in that town to maintain himself". At that moment, she knew for sure that this party was not all of Georgia's doing. Grace's premonition had already begun to come to fruition. Where else could the spirit find so many people together? There must be a least a hundred people between the two floors and those milling about out front. Did he mean to kill them all?
If that was his plan...she had little time to waste. She imagined a pile of bodies already stacked up in the basement.
At that moment, as if he sensed her presence, he swiveled around and looked directly at her. For less than a second, a scowl interrupted his high-spirited discourse. Like a blast of lightning, his green eyes sparked...blinding her for a moment as if she had been caught in a camera's flash. No one else in the room seemed to notice the brief brilliance except her.
She left her leafy camouflage and mingled into the crowd to hide from his gaze.
Things were even more complicated now that he had seen her. Would he come after her? She felt somewhat safe as long as she was surrounded by people, but she imagined that she would be in grave danger if she ventured into an empty room or went back outside alone.
Where was Karl? He had to be here somewhere. Without him, the whole evening might be wasted...and downright dangerous.
Georgia laughed as a gallery owner from Manhattan asked her where she got all of the fairy and elf models to pose for her paintings. "I keep them locked up in the shed out back. I just feed them a little cream and sugar now and then to keep them willing subjects." Then, she explained about her childhood daydreaming out by the pile of Rustenstuff where she conjured up many of the creatures on her sketchpad.
"You don't really believe in all that stuff, do you?" asked MaryFendali, a passionate collector from upstate.
She grinned and thought for a moment. "When I was a kid, my grandfather Blake grew corn in the field behind the house. My sister and I used to chase each other through the tall stalks, and there were times that I got lost out there. With the wind blowing through the tassels and whipping the leaves around, it was easy to imagine supernatural beings living in the corn and watching you."
"Yes...but children have---"
"As adults, our lives are so busy...we miss so much. Walk around the Wall Street area late at night. Look up at some of the gargoyles and other figures on the buildings and tell me you don't think you're being watched."
The woman smirked instead of throwing out a comeback.
Georgia flinched as an arm encircled her waist. She turned and found Daniel nuzzled against her. "How long have you been behind me?"
"I ducked behind the corn rows of people. My supernatural eyes have been watching you."
She laughed so hard that it turned into a snort. "Mary...have you met Daniel?"
"Briefly...at the door."
He stepped out from behind her and took Mary's bejeweled hand. "Bon giorno, Signora," he said as he planted his lips on it with the aplomb of a European count.
"You're such a flirt!" Georgia said.
He released the woman's hand, leaned over, and then planted a soft wet kiss on the nape of her neck. "Maybe...but, I only have eyes for you."
She giggled as the tickling sensation, the wine, and the adrenaline from the party made her head feel like it was floating. Heaven...she must be in Heaven. This was the most wonderful night of her life.
She leaned into him and said, "Thank you for talking me into this. I never thought this party would be such a success. So many people showed up...I can't believe it. I've already sold several pieces."
He wrapped his arms around her again and pressed against her with his lean, strong body. "You're worth it, mio caro."
She felt the warmth of his lips pressed against her ear and smelled the nostalgic scent of damp earth and roses. For some reason, this time...it reminded her of her grandmother. She leaned her head on his shoulder.
He whispered in her ear, "Don't forget...I still have a surprise for you."
She raised her chin and looked up into his eyes, curious, and hoping for some clue. But, none was there as he returned his attention to the conversation of the guests around them.
For a second, she thought that she had seen a brilliant flash of light, a glittering golden supernova bursting from the pupils of his eyes...but she wrote it off as the sparks from her inebriated giddy mind.
Opal spotted Karl near the fireplace. Leaning back against the thick wood mantle, he looked as content as any other partygoer with a beer in his hand and a wide grin as he talked with a man in a sleek pewter gray suit. In contrast, her son had on another one of his dated fuzzy sweaters and a brown leather jacket with a pair of jeans and boots.
At least he's wearing digging clothes.
She adjusted the brim of her black felt hat over her eyes to disguise her identity, then made her way across the room.
"Evening, gentlemen."
"Mother..." Karl said. "I thought I told you---"
"Please excuse us for a moment," she said as she pulled on the sleeve of his jacket and looked up apologetically at the man across from him.
"What are you doing?"
She pulled him into a corner of the room and handed him a small white confection from a silver platter as if that was her sole purpose in taking him away from his conversation. "Have you seen him?"
"Yes. He opened the door for me and gave me a strange look as he let me in. But, it was more like a what are you doing here...stay away from my woman sort of look rather than an evil I want to kill you look."
"Isn't it obvious that he's the walking dead?"
"No...he looks as real as you or me. I'm starting to wonder if I was hallucinating that day I chased him and...maybe you're wrong about---"
"Damnit, Karl! We've been through all this. Whether you believe he's real or not, he's the bastard that's been killing all these folks around here. If I thought you could hold him, I'd tell you to haul him off right now. Unfortunately, it's not that simple."
He lifted up his sweater and showed her the gun in his holster. "Ghost or not, if I had proof that he was the murderer...I would arrest him."
"That gun's not going to do you a lick of good. He's already dead! Come on...it's getting late. We should get to work."
"What?"
She tugged on him again. "Follow me...I'm going to need your brawn."
He stood his ground. "I'm not going to---"
"Come with me now, or I'm going to make a scene. I swear to God I'll end this party right this minute."
"You're bluffing, Ma. Please just leave before Georgia---"
She put a hand up to her forehead and fanned her face with the other. "I'm starting to feel a little weak. I think I'm going to faint. Maybe, I'll scream as I fall."
He grabbed her by the elbow. "Don't. Please don't."
"Come with me, then. Let me just show you what I've been talking about."
He sighed, set his beer down, and grabbed another handful of confections. Then, he followed her as she tiptoed through the throng towards the back door.
Back at the doormat, she pulled on her boots and motioned for him to follow her outside.
Powdery snowflakes fell on their heads and shoulders as they stood on the patio. She pulled a pair of heavy suede gloves from her coat pocket.
"Haven't you got any gloves?"
"No."
She shook her head as she unzipped her duffle bag, pulled out a flashlight, and turned it on. Then, she closed the bag and handed it to him as she stepped onto the path. "This way."
He grunted as he slung the strap over his shoulder. "What's in this? Rocks?"
She didn't answer. Her mind was too absorbed with her mission. With a begrudging slowness, he followed her around the curve and down the path as it snaked further away from the house.
When they rounded the second bend, she saw the wrought-iron arbor entwined with dormant rose vines. She stopped underneath it and panned her flashlight ahead. The stone fountain was covered in snow, looking like a giant tiered wedding cake dusted in powdered sugar. "This is it," she said, shuddering as she remembered again that it was the very one she'd drowned in during her nightmare in the bathtub.
"Now what?" he asked as they reached the fountain, and he dropped the bag.
"Now...we dig."
"You've got to be kidding. The ground is frozen. It would take forever."
His mouth hung open as she rolled her eyes up at the glow of the silver moon through the clouds. She leaned down and unzipped the bag, pulling out a heavy metal canister.
"What's that?" he asked as he brushed flakes of snow from his head and shivered.
"A blow torch," she said as she laid it at his feet and reached back in the bag for the shovel.
"This is insane."
"The bones of that devil are underneath. I have to destroy them to get rid of him."
"You really don't expect me to---"
"For God's sake, Karl. I'll do it myself if I have to!" When he stood there without moving, she dropped the flashlight to the ground and thrust the shovel at the hard white ground near the base of the fountain. The blade went down an inch into the snow, then struck frozen earth as hard as steel. She cried out in despair.
"Give me that," he said, yanking the handle out of her hands. He plunged the shovel towards the cold earth, biting into it a few inches further. "I sure the hell hope you know what you're doing. This isn't going to be easy."
Opal held her hands up in front of her face and breathed warm air onto them as she wrung her cold fingers together. "Hurry, Karl. I don't know how much time we have. He's going to try to kill everyone here tonight. I'm sure of it."
Georgia steadied herself against the edge of the kitchen counter. For a moment, it felt like the room had begun to spin like a carousel.
She wasn't sure how many drinks she had had since the evening started. Each time she set her empty glass down, an invisible hand seemed to appear out of nowhere with another drink. She had sipped and laughed and mingled...having such a grand time that it never occurred to her that she had drank too much.
The last few hours had been spent flitting about from guest to guest, though there was no need to work the room. They came to her, showering her with compliments. But now, she'd had her fill. All the drinks and the Yellow Brick had made her dizzy and tired.
"I just love the way you use those feathery brush strokes to impart a surreal feeling to your work."
She looked up at the man with an extraordinarily white veneered grin and tried to remember his name. Then, she nodded, gave him The Smile. "Excuse me..."
There was only one bathroom in the house. It was upstairs, and seemed miles away as she clutched her stomach and tried to make her way through the crowd.
When she reached it, there was a line of people stretching down the hallway. She mumbled apologies and said she wasn't feeling too well then barged her way to the front.
Inside, she locked the door behind her and leaned over the sink, feeling miserably sick.
She wondered where Daniel was. She hadn't seen him in a while. He's probably making the rounds, using his charm to make sales for me.
After a couple minutes hunched over the sink, she decided that she wasn't going to throw up and glanced up at the clock on the wall. It was almost midnight. How had so much time passed without her realizing it?
After resting for another moment and hearing someone pounding on the door, she splashed cold water on her face. Then, she rummaged through the medicine cabinet until she found some antacids. She wished Daniel had thought to provide some coffee. All these inebriated guests were going to have to fumble their way back into town and find their rooms at the Calathia Inn or wherever they had booked their stay for the night.
A few moments later, she made her way back down the hall towards the staircase.
"Ten minutes to midnight," someone yelled like the town crier.
The volume of the voices in the room gradually lowered. Someone cranked up the television volume, so they could hear the countdown in Times Square.
Then, she heard the sound of a spoon clanking on glass. "Attenzione! Attenzione!"
"Daniel...what are you doing?" she whispered she reached his side and saw that he was hiding something behind his back under his jacket.
After a few moments, the room became silent and all eyes turned toward them.
"Shhh..." he said with a wink.
There was an excruciating pause as murmurs of speculation circled the room.
Then, he reached behind his back and procured a bouquet of flowers. "A gift for our lovely hostess and artista."
Dominated by sanguine red blooms, it was a strange mixture of red carnations and roses, calla lilies, dill, spider flowers, witch hazel, and crimson poppies, wrapped in black tulle.
There was something both Victorian and Gothic about the bouquet that struck her as odd. She wondered if there were any meanings behind his unusual choices, having once heard that there were standard meanings given to each flower type and color. Red roses, of course, meant 'I love you', witch hazel symbolized spells, and dill hinted at lust.
Her stomach gurgled and she felt the room sway back and forth like a boat on choppy seas. As she tried to regain her composure, she guessed that the bouquet must be the surprise he had mentioned earlier. But now, she worried that he was about to embarrass her by thanking all of the guests for traveling so far and then announcing that she was truly the greatest artist since Picasso.
Aware of the dozens of pair of eyes upon her, she put aside her misgivings and took the flowers from his outstretched hand.
To her surprise...he knelt down in front of her and took her other hand in his.
"Georgia...my dear bellezza, it has been a very short time since we were first acquainted...yet...I feel in my heart that we have known each other for years upon years. Together, I know that we would could so happy."
She gasped as he procured a ring from his pocket. The large round smoky gemstone sparkled on top of the gold band. The style was simple but exquisite, clearly of an antique vintage.
From several feet away, she heard her nephew, StevieHayden, shout, "The Black Diamond!" Then, she saw him elbow his way closer. But, no one seemed to notice as they remained fixed on the action at center stage.
"Georgia..." Daniel said as his face beamed with radiance and he held out the ring, "I would be honored if you would be my wife."
She felt the air rush out of her lungs as the crowd waited for her reaction. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she clasped the bouquet to her breast with one hand and covered her cheek with the other. "Daniel...I...don't know what to say. This is so unexpected."
He took the hand from her chest and slid the ring onto her finger. "Say...yes. Say that you have been as happy as I have these last few months. Is it not love that has inspired your creativity in all of these paintings?"
She fumbled for the right words as she took her hand back and looked down at the ring. She was in the spotlight and realized that there was nothing she could say that would be appropriate at this moment. So, the words just tumbled out. "Daniel...I'm sorry. But, I'm really not ready for this. It hasn't been that long since my divorce...I just don't think..."
His buoyant expression faded. She hated to see him look so dejected and wished that she could get him somewhere alone and tell him how much she cared about him and adored him...but that she just wasn't ready for such a commitment.
His next words were charred with blackness. "Are you telling me no? After all I've done for you?" He cocked his head sideways, and she watched in horror as the beautiful green hue of his eyes changed to pitch black. Then, they collapsed into a chasm of darkness that seemed to swallow all of the brilliant light in the room.
"Daniel?" she whispered. "Please...I..."
"I was hoping that the apple fell further from the tree, but it seems that you have no more appreciation for true love than someone I once knew long ago."
The crowd sucked in its breath, enraptured with the drama enfolding before them.
FredBirman stepped up from behind them and grabbed Daniel's arm, "Now see here..."
Daniel flung his arm back and knocked him to the floor.
"Fred!" Georgia and Annie yelled in unison.
As she took a step towards Fred's crumpled form, Georgia felt an unnatural spasm in her heart. Then, her left arm went numb. Oh God...am I having a heart attack? She hunched over, frozen with pain.
Daniel stormed out of the room, shoving people aside as she fell to her knees.
"Help me..." she pleaded to anyone within earshot.
But, they all stood still and stared as if wondering if this was all just part of the evening's entertainment. Were they supposed to clap and then get another drink before the next act?
A second later, a hand reached up under her arm and lifted her up to her feet.
"Are you alright?" Stevie asked.
"Yes." But, she yelped as she felt the pain again and bent over. When it ceased and she looked up, Annie was by her side. "Are you okay, dear?"
"Yes," Georgia said again as she saw a couple of partygoers helping Fred to his feet. "But what about---"
"Fred? He says he's fine. Just a tumble. But you...you look like someone's ripped your insides out. You just had
quite an emotional toll. Are you sure you're okay? Should we call an ambulance?"
Her knees felt weak as she braced herself against a plaster pillar with a potted fern next to the sofa. What had just happened to her? The numbness in her arm was gone, but she felt different inside, like she had been burned from within. Heat radiated throughout her chest. It was an awful feeling...as close to death as she ever wanted to feel. Even so, she didn't want to go to the hospital.
"I'll be fine. I've just had a bit too much to drink and Daniel's proposal was quite the surprise."
Annie shrugged then offered to go to kitchen and get her a glass of water.
As she waited for her return, a slew of people came up to express their concern. She assured them that everything was okay.
Her pity for Daniel began to turn to anger. How could he put her on the spot like this in front of so many of her friends? She felt humiliated.
Despite her frazzled mind, she knew that she didn't want to let him sulk by himself for the rest of the party, and she couldn't allow this scene to be the denouement. Now that she was beginning to feel a little better, she had to bring him back...and restore a sense of liveliness to the atmosphere.
But, her thoughts were interrupted as a slow chanting began in the room.
"10...9...8...7..."
She tried to make her way through the crowd, squeezing through dozens of torsos and limbs.
"Happy New Year!" The room seemed to shake with every syllable.
Caught amongst the paper horns, kissing, and clinking glasses, she stopped as she felt a strange electricity reverberate throughout the air, making her skin tingle. She didn't know if it was from the excitement around her, the adrenaline flowing through her, or some other unknown cause. But, the guests didn't seem to notice anything peculiar as the revelry continued.
She found a free spot on the sofa and collapsed. When she regained some strength, she intended to search inside and out until she found Daniel. This was such a rotten way to end the evening.
AlphonsoGiovanni leaned against the back of the garage, enraged by Georgia's rebuff. The fury inside was so strong...he felt like he might literally combust from within. His appearance, irrefutably human just minutes before was now altered by an ectoplasmic lava flushing through his veins that illuminated his skin and turned it an eery red as he paced under the eaves.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. This was supposed to be the most joyful night of his second life. Why did everyone impede his dreams? He thought that he had set up the most perfect proposal, so that it would be impossible for her to refuse him.
And yet...she had.
He hated her now. He hated this house...the gardens...the land...and everyone on it. Now, there was no chance that any of it would truly be his...and he knew that he had earned it. All the time he had spent pruning, weeding, digging, caring for Crawford's damned roses...and for what? Not even Crawford's descendent wanted anything to do with him, even after he doted upon her and helped to launch her new career.
He thought about all of the people in the house---people that he had brought to this place---the art critics, gallery owners, connoisseurs. They were probably laughing at him now, thinking what a poor idiot he was to think that someone as beautiful and talented as Georgia would have him for a husband.
A curse upon them all! He spat on the ground, and the frosty earth sizzled.
Snowflakes stung his skin like shards of glass as he pondered his next move. He was ready to march back inside the house and devour them, feeding on their energy...one by one. He imagined the horror and revulsion in their eyes as body after body dropped to the floor. The thought of such immense power thrilled him. He had felt so emasculated in his previous life---so subservient to those with wealth. But now, no amount of money would give him more satisfaction than absorbing the essence of so many souls in one night.
Perhaps, he should start with Georgia. No...that wouldn't do. He must first go in and sweep the rooms...bringing down the hammer of death in rapid succession. Then, with the vigor of their energy coursing through him...he could take his time and enjoy the fear pulsing through her as he pursued her...just as he had done with her grandmother, Virginia.
His thoughts were interrupted as he saw a figure emerge from the darkness behind the house and walk down the path towards him. Was it Georgia? Did she think to find him out there...cowering from embarrassment...too afraid to show his face again at the party? Perhaps, she was trying to find him to chastise him for ruining the glory of her evening.
He decided to stay in the shadows and let her pass by without seeing him. He'd let her search for him and freeze for a while before he went to her. Then, he would show her! Zoccola! The women of this family were all unappreciative bitches.
Opal and Karl made slow but steady progress on the hole at the base of the fountain. But, they still had far to go. She imagined that the stone slab at its base went down at least two feet, and if there was a grave under there, it was probably at least another foot down.
She paused from her work of aiming the blowtorch at the hard ground and scooping away the soil as Karl dug. "It's midnight. I have to go---"
He leaned on the shovel. Sweat and dirt dripped down his face, and he wiped it away with his sleeve.
"It's the witching hour. If there's any chance of contacting my mother for help, I have to do it now."
"Where are you going?" he asked, breathless.
She looked north towards the black brambles of thorns behind them. "I'm going to the river...where Virginia died. Maybe, I could make contact with her too. She might be able to tell me something that could help."
"Whatever, Ma." He sighed. "I'm literally in this so deep now...it doesn't matter what you do."
"Just keep digging."
He saluted her with a crazed grin then went back to his backbreaking work.
She grabbed a small tote out of the duffel bag and headed out of the rose garden towards the field.
When she reached the edge of the field, she could see the black silhouettes of the massive cottonwoods near the river---an army of titans reaching as high as the moon. She traipsed towards them, disturbing the virgin snow.
A few minutes later, she reached the riverbank and found an old tree stump for a seat. Then, she sat and listened to the water. It gurgled and sputtered under the ice, and she heard an animal scuttling about on the other side of the bank. There was the very faint sound of music coming from the house, half a football field away, but other than that...she could only hear her own breath which impressed upon her the fact that she was out there all alone. Would anyone hear her scream if she found herself in trouble?
Though it was still snowing, the clouds parted enough for her to see the moon through the claw-like branches of the treetops. It looked like a fat crescent, a big yellow eye winking down from above.
She opened her bag and took out a flashlight. As she turned it on, a noise startled her from above. She swung the beam in a wide arc, catching the silhouette of a large bird settling on the branches of a tree. Her heart slowed as she saw that it was only an owl with its eyes glowing in the reflection.
Alright...time to get this show on the road.
Since God hadn't answered her prayers and helped her, now she was going to call for supernatural assistance. She realized that it might end up being the dumbest thing she could do, but at this point she felt that she was out of options.
Of course, she hadn't told Karl about her doubts, but she had little faith in Aunt Grace's instructions about destroying the spirit's bones. By now, they had probably turned to muck or dust anyway. Her determination to excavate them was just an attempt to cover all bases out of desperation.
She began to shiver as the wind picked up and moist air from the river rattled her bones. With stiff fingers, she pulled her cross out of the bag and rested it on her lap.
Filling her lungs with deep draughts of the icy air, she tried to focus on her purpose. After a few moments of meditation she began.
She followed her normal routine, just as she did with her clients, but this time there was a passion and despondency in her voice as she chanted. She called both the spirit of her mother and the spirit of Virginia for guidance, hoping that at least one of them would answer her call.
Closing her eyes tight, she chanted their names with every safe invocation she knew...growing louder and louder with each verse.
After a couple of minutes, she opened her eyes and panned the flashlight around the riverbank seeing wild grasses, cattails, and the icy river...but nothing out of the ordinary. It was quiet---very quiet now. She couldn't even hear sounds from the party. The world seemed to share in her anticipation, holding its breath...
After another minute of silence, she felt despair. Was she just wasting her time? Would she have better luck if she waited until a night with a full moon? She knew that she didn't have time for that. Too many people were dying.
But then...something happened.
The wind began to howl through the massive arms of the cottonwoods. She heard the owl flap its great wings and take off into the sky as a dark nebulous fog emerged from the river like a cloud seeping up from the bowels of the earth.
She froze to the stump as she gripped the cross tighter.
Something stirred inside the river.
She heard the sound of ice cracking, a trickle of water, then the sound of footsteps padding up the muddy bank. She trembled and squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if she was really ready to face her mother or Virginia. She had disappointed both while they were alive. Would they be helpful now or wrathful?
The smell hit her next. There was nothing subtle about the foul odor. It stank of stagnant water and rotten vegetation, underlain with a sickening sweetness. As putrid as a pile of manure...covered with honey. She gagged.
The sound of sloshing footsteps stopped a few feet in front of her.
Before she braved opening her eyes to see the apparition that answered her call, she reminded himself that she had to put her fears aside and remember her purpose. No matter how hideous her mother or Virginia looked, she had to speak with them. She had to know if they could help call AlphonsoGiovanni back to the land of the dead.
She sucked in her breath...and opened her eyes.
As she clenched the cross with a rock-hard fist and squeezed the flashlight with the other, she saw not one...but two apparitions before her.
They stood inside the beam of her flashlight with tendrils of dark fog swirling around them. She blinked and opened her eyes wider, not believing what she saw at first. But, the pain in her wrists as her fingernails dug into the flesh reinforced the fact that the two figures were real and not part of some nightmare after falling asleep on the riverbank.
The girl on the left had long dark hair that reached down to her waist. Strands of slimy water plants hung down over her chest like living dripping scarves. Her white cotton gown was a second skin made of wet cloth clinging to her dead flesh. There were purplish black marks about her throat and her skin was mottled with a network of red veins that covered her bloated pale form.
Opal had trouble tearing herself away from the girl's eyes. They were black holes---empty lifeless sockets except for the small round circle of light reflecting from her flashlight.
She forced herself to look away towards the other apparition.
He was a tall, robust-looking man with hair as white as the snow. His sideburns swooped down to a beard-covered chin framing a scowl. He looked angry, like a man who had been wakened from a deep slumber on a false pretense, and his eyes had the same hollow darkness. But, unlike the girl, his suit was dry and covered in caked mud. She imagined that it came from filth seeping into the old man's grave, not from the bottom of the river where the girl had drowned.
But, she hadn't drowned there...had she?
She had been drowned in the fountain...by AlphonsoGiovanni.
Opal had read the journal. There was no doubt in her mind that standing before her were the ghosts of WilliamCrawford and his daughter, Margaret.
The stench in the air emanated more from the direction of his body than the girl's. It was the foulness of decay mixed with that horrible sweetness...as if the perfume of the roses he bred had permeated his body and remained with him even in death.
As the two souls stared, they seemed to be waiting for some response from her. The man frightened her the most. The scowl between his jowls looked like a precursor to violence. It took every molecule of courage left in her shuddering frame to remember what her desperate mission was that night.
The two took a step closer to her. She cringed as she imagined them dragging her body down to the river and pulling her under. Virginia's body had been found near the river. What if the ghosts had pulled her in and drowned her?
She could feel the prickles of hair still standing up on her arms and the back of her neck as she pondered the idea of negotiation. Maybe these two could help her more than her mother or Virginia could have. All she wanted to do was get her business done with them and get the hell away from this unpredictable situation.
She spoke to them, telling them what had happened---how she had accidentally summoned the spirit of AlphonsoGiovanni and now couldn't get rid of him.
They seemed to listen to her. But, their transparent rotting bodies were like filmy images of their former selves---simple memories of the people that they had once been. Had she seen them stiffen when she mentioned the spirit's name? Their mouths hung open like empty caves, once full of words and wisdom that seemed to no longer be there.
Then, Margaret made the chilling gesture of raising a finger and pointing it directly at her. She saw the tip of a bone sticking from the nail bed shining white in the moonlight. The gesture seemed accusatory. Was she angry that she had been summoned? It was all Opal could do to keep from screaming and running away as fast as she could.
Water dribbled down the young woman's chin, and Opal heard warbled words...or was it her imagination coupled with the sound of the blowing wind?
Her jaw remained open as William spoke in a deep growl. His words came out in a gurgle, and she couldn't make any sense of them. He repeated the same unintelligible thing as he grabbed Margaret's hand---a gesture that seemed protective and comforting.
Margaret's finger now seemed to point over Opal's shoulder. She ventured a quick glance behind, but saw only a wall of darkness in the shadows behind the triangle of light from her flashlight.
When she turned back to face them, they hadn't moved. Sadness seemed to ooze from them, weighing them down more than their lifeless bodies. And, the snowy river behind them sparkled as the beam from her flashlight shone through their bodies.
The specters stood still as if waiting for a response from her.
She pleaded with them, asking once again how to get rid of Alphonso and send him back to eternal rest. But, instead of answering, their forms begun to quiver...oscillating from side to side like a bad picture on a television, and they began to fade from view.
"No...come back! Please..." she pleaded. But, a moment later, they were gone. All she could see in the spot where they had stood was the mist, slowly retreating back to the river.
She slumped over, feeling the agony of failure.
A second later, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped off the stump and screamed. Then, she tried to run, but her left ankle pitched down the slope, nearly causing her to roll down it.
"Ma...it's okay. It's just me."
She turned and threw her arms around Karl.
"You won't believe what just happened."
"I'm sure I won't," he said.
"The fountain. Are you still digging?"
"No. I found something."
When Georgia didn't see Daniel out back on the patio, she looked towards the path to the gardens. Of course, that's where he is. She knew that he often went out there to think and be alone.
In her heels, inebriated and filled with adrenaline, she wobbled along the stone steps. With no coat on, her arms began to shiver. But, she was too absorbed in thought to notice.
When she reached the arbor, she stopped as she heard a voice behind her.
"Is this how it ends?"
She turned around as Daniel stepped out from the shadows onto the path. "I thought things might be different this time," he sighed. "All I wanted was another chance...to be with a woman I loved...to fit in...and finally be the rightful owner of this house as I should have been so many years ago."
"Daniel," she said as she turned and walked towards him. "What are you talking about?"
"My name isn't Daniel. It's Alphonso...AlphonsoGiovanni."
"Alphonso..." she repeated as her foggy mind snapped to attention at the sound of the name. "My grandmother..."
"Virginia," He laughed. "I might have been happy here with her. We were at first. Then...she began to doubt me and things turned sour. It was a shame that I had to end it the way that I did."
Georgia hugged her arms to stave off the cold. Her grandmother's last words in the letter echoed in her mind. Take care of Alphonso.
"What do you mean, 'end it'?"
"She thought I was your grandfather for a while...her dead Henry come back to life. Isn't that charming? But one day, she tried to stab me with a knife...and I chased her out here and then---" He bowed before her as if the rest was unspeakable.
She remembered her grandmother's words from the letter again, the knife in the sink, the empty glass of gin in the library. He wasn't lying. He was...
The trees and bushes around her started to spin. Then, the whole world turned upside down. The clouds and stars seemed to swirl down to her feet, and the earth rose up above her head. Somehow, she kept her balance, but her voice quavered as she tried to understand what he was saying. "My Grammie...you killed her?" A tear rolled down her cheek and froze near her chin.
He came closer, and she edged backwards through the arbor into the rose garden. She could hear the guests' laughter far off in the direction of the house...too loud and too far off to hear her scream.
"I fooled you as well, didn't I?" he asked as backed her further into the garden until she stumbled over a shovel lying on the ground and came to a stop, balancing on the rim of the fountain.
"You see...I died here at this house in 1900. MargaretCrawford was to be my bride that day, but she refused my proposal...just like you. I drowned her because I just couldn't bear the thought of losing her and releasing her to anyone else."
Georgia leaned away from him as the cold clouds of air from his mouth spewed forth a putrid scent of decay and foulness that was even more potent than his horrible words.
"And poor Virginia...so lonely for her Henry...she had that meddlesome psychic try to bring him back. But, when I heard her voice calling out in the darkness...I came...I pushed myself back into this world...born again like a new baby."
"Daniel...really...you've had too much to drink. This is nonsense! Let's go back to the party and---"
"No. You've embarrassed me. You turned me down as if I've been nothing more than your gardener and servant for these last few months. I thought there was something special between us."
He reached out and caressed her cheek like he had done so many times before. But, this time, it was a sinister touch...a threat of what was to come.
"You look so much like her...my dear Margaret. Her blood is in your veins." He scowled. "Blood that thinks it's too good for a lowly gardener...and I'm even more loathsome than that. I picked rags and ate from garbage bins in my youth. Then, I made my way out west and found that I had a knack for charming my way into better situations. I never thought I was a murderer before I drowned her. But then, when I came back...it was instinct...like a lion knows to kill its prey for food. I had no choice."
She still didn't believe him. This wasn't her Daniel. He must have taken some sort of drug tonight during the party. This was Hyde...some drugged out fantasy coming from a dose of cocaine or heroin.
"Daniel...please...let's just go inside and talk about all this. It's freezing out here."
He reached out and grabbed her hand. Then, he pulled the ring off her finger and flung it into the darkness behind them. "You didn't want that anyway. I stole it from a dead woman's hand."
"That's crazy. You've had too much to drink..."
"I only wanted you to love me...to stay with me and be with me forever in this house. And when I had this second chance at life...I only killed because I had to."
He stepped closer, pinning her against the edge of the fountain. "Do you love me?" he asked as he peered into her eyes and held both of her hands against the cold stone.
She saw his eyes flicker from the raging fire within. At first they were black holes, hollow depressions in the faint shadows of moonlight, then they sparkled like green glitter and lit up into fireworks of gold, orange, and brilliant crimson. She wondered if someone had drugged one of her drinks. Daniel's harsh nonsensical words and now...his strange changing eyes were all too overwhelming to have any part in reality. How should she answer him?
"Tell me you do, and we can leave this party right now and run off together to get married."
She still stood silent...too afraid to speak...to say the wrong thing.
"Your hesitation is your answer." His hands shot upwards and wrapped around her neck. They squeezed like a python's coils as his fingers buried into her flesh, clamping down on her windpipe and preventing her from uttering even a whisper of despair.
As she struggled, she lost traction in the snow, and she tumbled backwards, her head cracking through the thin layer of ice in the lower tier of the fountain. Then, he forced her down under eight inches of icy water.
She fought back, knowing that she had only seconds left to live if she didn't find a way to get away. Her hands clawed at his clothing...the skin on his arms...and reached for those horrible mesmerizing eyes.
Her fingers found one, gouging him just enough to make him relax his grip a little. She thrust her head out of the water and gasped for air. Then, the shock of the frigid water brought her vocal chords to life, and a loud bloodcurdling scream burst from her mouth.
But, he grabbed her hair from behind, spun her around, and forced her face back under the water. She fought him, trying to find footing again in the slippery mud with her twisted broken heels...but he was too strong.
All those years of nightmares came true as she found herself submerged under the water...about to drown.
Though, it was winter, and her assailant wasn't highlighted in silhouette with the fiery red cannas behind the fountain, she remembered the suit and tall hat he wore at Halloween. It was the groomsman's attire that he had worn when he drowned her in her dreams. His name wasn't Daniel. It was AlphonsoGiovanni. He was her ancestor's gardener and she was---
Her dying thoughts were cut off as she heard a shout from above the water. The pressure holding her down lessened. She took the opportunity to rise up and heaved in gulps of the beautiful icy air. As something distracted him, she inched herself away from him and almost stumbled into a deep hole. He held onto her hair, but she wrenched herself away and let him have a fistful of it as her body shook with convulsions.
"Alphonso!" a gruff voice boomed from the shadows.
A tall figure emerged from the rose brambles at the back of the garden. He had cottony wisps of white hair and sideburns that ended in a pointy beard at his chin. There was a young girl behind him with long stringy hair and a listless stance. Something looked wrong about them...very wrong. Their eyes were hollow black sockets and their skin was mottled and marred by strips of decayed flesh.
The man pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at the spirit. Its silver barrel reflected the moonlight, highlighting a glimpse of the ivory grip between his fingers. "You goddamn bastard!" he gurgled.
"Crawford!" the spirit replied. "It's been such a long time. I was sure I'd see you in hell."
She heard a gunshot and saw the spirit fall backwards with a thump onto the ground. For a moment, his body lay still with his glowing eyes wide open to the heavens above. Then, the light went out in them and his body began to dissolve into a curl of black smoke. It spread out over the ground...then seemed to vanish down into the earth.
Her body was cold, and she was so tired and confused---she couldn't move or scream now if she wanted to.
She saw the old man with his hand still stretched out. There was no gun in it, but a curl of smoke rose up from his fingertip. Then, his body and the girl's began to dissolve. They turned into a white mist that spread out over the top of the garden, then rose up and disappeared into the clouds.
Cold. So cold.
Frost had begun to turn her wet hair into icicles, and her body shook violently. Since she couldn't will her frozen limbs to move, she just wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep. She collapsed onto the ground, curling into a ball and closed her eyes as her sobs alternated between each shiver.
But, a moment later...she felt strong arms around her torso, rolling her onto her back. Then, she felt pressure on her chest, pumping and pushing, followed by warm tender lips that covered her mouth and breathed in more air. She choked and spat out the remaining cold water from her lungs.
When her eyes opened...she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen and knew it was KarlBauer.
"Georgia? Are you alright?"
She gave a weak nod with her chin then wrapped her arms around his warm neck as he picked her up off the ground.
"It's alright. It's all over now. Let's get you back to the house before you freeze to death."
As he carried her towards the house, she heard footsteps behind them and craned over his shoulder to see who it was.
She was surprised to see a woman---the same crazy psychic woman from the carnival who had invaded her house---following quietly behind them. Something white gleamed in her hands, and she held onto it with clenched fists.
It took a moment for Georgia to realize that the pointy things sticking out through her fingers...were bones.
Opal stowed the bones that Karl had found under the fountain next to the patio before opening the back door for them.
The guests inside parted to make way as Karl carried Georgia in and laid her on the sofa. He told the nearest person to call 911 and get an ambulance there quickly. Then, he wrapped his jacket around her.
"I almost lost you," he said as he pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over her for more warmth. Then, he kneeled beside her, stroked her forehead, and held her shivering hands.
Opal stood next to them, fielding off questions from the partygoers, telling them that Georgia had just had an accident outside in the snow.
By the time the paramedics arrived, Georgia was sitting upright, saying that she felt better and refused to go to the hospital. The guests came by one by one to express their concern and thank her for the party as they left.
When the house was empty, except for the three of them, Karl turned to her and said, "Ma...I'll go make us some coffee."
"Ma?" Georgia asked. "Your---"
"Yes. He's my son. I took back my maiden name after I was divorced years ago."
Georgia began to stammer out apologies about the way she had treated her.
Opal patted her hand. "Never mind that now. I'm sure I seemed like a crazy rambling loon. I'm so sorry I brought this all upon us." Then, she explained everything from the beginning, holding out no details.
"I was just trying to help your grandmother. She just missed your grandfather so desperately---she wanted me to help her talk to him one more time. When I did the séance, I accidentally used some very ancient...and very bad words in the process. When his monster broke through, he was unstoppable."
"Daniel?"
"Alphonso," Opal corrected. "I know how hard all this is to process. There are many things in this world that can't always be seen or heard, but they're here...just as sure as the air, or atoms, or electricity."
Georgia told her about all her years of terrible nightmares that she now knew were some strange link to the history of the house and almost foretold her death. She laughed at the fact that she had painted dozens of paintings with unreal creatures like fairies and elves...but hadn't realized that a true unworldly being was right under her roof. "He seemed so charming...so perfect...what woman could have resisted him?"
Opal squeezed her hand. "You can relax in this house now. He's gone."
"But...you said that your Aunt Grace said the bones had to be---"
"Maybe her method would have worked. But, thanks to your great great grandfather Crawford's spirit, AlphonsoGiovanni is dead once again.
Georgia shook her head as she took the warm cup of coffee from Karl. "But, if he wasn't real...how could he die?"
"I guess it took another spirit of his ilk to do it. I don't know if a real gun would have done the trick. Maybe, he just had to believe that he died again...and that's all that it took to get rid of him.
"I hope you're right, Opal. It will be a long time before I stop worrying that he'll come back."
May
KarlBauer leaned across the quilt laid out next to the fountain in the rose garden.
"Does a day ever pass when you don't think about New Year's Eve?" he asked as he strummed his fingers down Georgia's back.
"No...and it probably never will. But, I try to focus on the positive things. Like the fact that I sold eighteen paintings that night...and now I have a contract with a gallery in Soho."
"That's my gal," he said. "But...throwing a shindig like that and almost getting drowned by a ghost---I'd say that's a pretty hard way to get some publicity, so you could get your art in a gallery."
"Oh...shutup!" Georgia said as she punched him in the arm. "Are you going to eat any more of that potato salad?"
He added a large scoop to his plate then took a sip of iced tea. "I'm sure it helps your peace of mind to know that Alphonso's bones are gone from the property."
"Yes. We couldn't take any chances. Thankfully, they've been cremated and scattered to the four winds."
He gestured towards the fountain. "You're not afraid of keeping this here after almost dying in it and knowing about the grave that used to be underneath?"
"No. The Kansas History Society has contacted me about adding this house to their register of Victorian homes, and it's an historical piece of the property. Besides...I don't have that nightmare any more. Now, that that evil man is gone from my life...I only dream of flowers and butterflies," she laughed as a Painted Lady flitted over their heads.
"And me...I hope."
She smiled and gave him a quick smooch on the lips. "Of course." Then, she popped a grape in her mouth and rested her head on her hand. "After all this time...you've never told me. What made you believe your mother that night at the party when she convinced you to start digging under the fountain?"
"I once saw Alphonso wandering out by the railroad tracks by the Dirkson's farm...not too far from where that homeless man was found murdered. All these years with my mother talking about ghosts and spirits and talking to dead people...I never believed a word. But, after I saw that guy disappear into a cloud of smoke before my very eyes...I thought I was losing my mind and that I might be losing my sanity. As much as I doubted her crazy story, I couldn't get that sight out of my head. If things hadn't turned out as they did...I might have turned in my badge for awhile and taken a very long break."
"That would have been a shame, given that you've been elected as the new Sheriff of Calathia."
They looked up and watched the clouds for a few moments, enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze coming off the river. But, a moment later, she jumped up and began walking away.
"Hey...where are you going? You can't leave a handsome guy all alone on a picnic blanket."
She turned around and gave him a quizzical half-smile. "You know..." Then, she kept going towards the rose bushes at the far end of the garden. She looked closer at one particular rose bush that was nearly engulfed by the others around it. On this shrub, the blooms were very dark red...so dark that they looked like black velvet. Though, it was early afternoon, there were dewdrops still glistening on the petals. She leaned down and inhaled the exotic musk and clove-like perfume of the closest bloom then she stooped down towards the base of the bush.
"I'm getting awful lonely over here..."
She ignored him as she felt her way through the thorns down to the ground and fumbled in the dead leaves and debris underneath until she found what she was looking for.
As she ran back to the blanket, she held up a perfect full bloom for him to see.
"Nice rose. What's the big---"
She tossed an old copper tag covered in the tarnish of bluish-green verdigris onto the blanket.
"What's this?" he asked as he picked it up.
"Read it."
Karl squinted to read the words in the bright sunlight. He scratched some of the coating off with his nail. Then, his jaw dropped. "This is it? The infamous Black Diamond?"
Georgia beamed. "It's a black rose...quite the novelty a hundred years ago." She twirled the flower in her fingers. "See how these dew drops glisten in the light?"
"Like diamonds."
Georgia nodded. "WilliamCrawford probably guarded this bush with a shotgun day and night. When word leaked out about his mysterious Black Diamond, he let everyone think it was a jewel instead of a rose just to keep them off guard.
"How are your sister and nephew going to feel about inheriting a silly rose bush?"
"Well, I'm not too worried about Stevie. Now that he's enlisted in the Navy, he'll be busy for a few years. The service should help to pacify his wanderlust and thirst for buried treasure." She laughed. "Although...before he left for boot camp, he did mention something about moving to Australia when he gets out and digging for Opals in CooberPedy."
"And your sister?"
"Hmmm...after she gets over her tantrum that our grandmother left her a 'stinkin' rose bush', I'll bet she'll come to her senses. I'm guessing that this heirloom rose is a lost variety. She can have it bred out by a professional multiplier, sell rootstock from it for years and get royalties for every plant it produces. If she plays her cards right...she could parlay this out into quite a fortune."
"That sounds a little mean of your grandmother to keep this secret all these years and make it such a riddle."
"I guess that was her way of getting her last word in at the end. Maybe, she hoped that Marsha would eventually spend more time over here with the kids and eventually figure it out. I have a hunch that she'll develop an interest in the joy of gardening very soon."
"When are you going to tell her?"
They paused as they heard the sound of a truck pull up in the driveway.
"I guess...right now. She's here with Clarissa to pick up Max."
"That mangy thing?"
"Yes. I've kept him inside, so he couldn't run away again.
Karl sprung up from the blanket. "I'll tell her you're out here, then leave you two alone." He blew her a kiss as he walked towards the driveway.
When Marsha walked into the garden, Georgia had the rose and tag hidden behind her back.
"What's going on? Karl said you wanted to see me out here."
"Have a seat."
"I can't stay. We've just come to pick up---"
Georgia revealed her surprise and told how the rose could be worth a fortune.
Marsha stood silently clenching her fists. Then, she sunk down to her knees. "You've got to be kidding me." Her eyes flooded with tears.
Georgia knelt down and put her arms around her.
"I could be angry at her...but I realize there's no point now. You've no idea what perfect timing this is!"
"Why?" Georgia asked as she brushed the tears away from her sister's eyes.
"I was fired from my job at the beauty parlor last week. I haven't had the courage to tell Steven yet. I've just been so miserable about it. You can bet your ass I'm going to turn this rose into something wonderful for all of us."
The two sisters hugged and cried together on the quilt until Karl came back out to check on them. Things were different between them from that day forward. She felt like she had lost an enemy and gained a new friend.
One day, the following week, Georgia had Opal over for tea. As she poured hot water from a teapot into Opal's cup, she said, "This is fresh peppermint from the garden. I just picked it. By the way, did I ever tell you that I called this place 'The Gingerbread House' since I was a little girl?"
Opal didn't answer right away. She seemed lost in thought as she tried to pick up the teacup and sloshed hot water out. "I'm sorry, dear. My hands are shaking...just sitting back at this table."
"It's alright. I understand. I still look over my shoulder sometimes...or imagine that I hear his voice. But actually, the only strange thing I've noticed in this house since January is a smell like perfume that seems to appear every once in a while. What do you think that is?"
"Do you feel any malevolence around it?"
"No...but it's very unnerving. It definitely feels like some sort of presence...now that I'm more attuned to that sort of thing."
"Before New Year's...I might have guessed that MargaretCrawford's spirit still roamed this house. But, I'm sure that her soul is at peace now that Alphonso has gone to hell for good."
Georgia rubbed her arms, feeling a slight prickle at the thought that the house might still be haunted by some otherworldly being. "Then, who do you think it is?"
Opal looked up through her black-rimmed glasses and patted Georgia's hand. "I think you know who it is."
Georgia's eyes widened.
"I think there's still a part of your grandmother around here, lingering around to keep an eye over you."
"Grammie?" Georgia said as she clasped her hands in front of her face. "I still miss her so much. You think it's her? I wish I could talk to her again. Do you think you could---"
"Oh no! Georgia...don't even think about it! There's no more séances in my future. You just never know who might break through from the other side."
About the author:
MichelleDePaepe has written numerous short stories. This is her first published novel. She has been fascinated by paranormal and 'things that go bump in the night' from a very young age. Look for more titles coming soon!

