Haunted

14

I was done with photos, putting gear away, when I heard a shriek that had an animal quality. Not human-or so I believed. I figured a hawk had snatched something warm and furry that, in its death throes, was alerting its kindred to hide. Rabbits can rival operatic sopranos in volume. I had heard them often enough with Jake, who liked hunting in the Everglades.

I looked up, thinking I might find the hawk. No… only vultures adrift on a molten sunset. The lighting feathered trees with lace while the sky descended, joining clouds with mist and smoke from distant fires. Daytime vanished in a gray haze. My eyes were still in photographer mode. Had I looked an instant later, I would have missed the abrupt transition from daylight to dusk. I also wouldn’t have seen dust from a vehicle that was leaving or approaching the house. Driving fast, too, on the gravel road.

That gave me a start because I was standing between two fresh dig sites where signs warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited.

I grabbed my bag, bundled the tripod under my arm, and ducked beneath the rope in a hurry. When I’d put some distance between myself and an arrest citation, I stopped to reorganize. As I did, it dawned on me to hide the camera’s memory card. If police had arrived, I didn’t want to provide them with easy proof I had been trespassing. I also didn’t want to lose the hour’s work I’d just finished. Work I had enjoyed, true, but still intense and draining because of the subject matter.

I had been photographing mass graves.

I ejected the memory card with care. It contained more than two hundred images of the dig site we’d seen earlier, plus another site that Dr. Babbs had claimed he was too busy to visit. By carefully placing the tripod inside the excavations, I’d been able to shoot close-ups without risk of damaging artifacts that lay exposed or just beneath the surface.

I felt good about that. Further penance was the opportunity to whisper a prayer for those whose lives had ended here in violence. No fewer than ten human skulls lay exposed, maybe more. Most had been shattered and burned, so it was difficult to be sure. Three had been pierced by bullet holes.

According to Capt. Summerlin’s journal, five men had been guilty of attacking the Brazilian’s wife. But twice that number of bodies had been tumbled into these holes. Members of the Cow Cavalry would not have treated their own with such disrespect, so I knew these were the remains of their enemy.

The bones told a story: what had started as a quest for revenge had turned into a bloodbath. The question nagging at me was answered when I understood that. Yes, the shallow graves were haphazard and chaotic. Yes, they contained the remains of Union soldiers. But, in fact, these were not Civil War graves. What the archaeologist was actually excavating was a crime scene-victims whom killers had tried to cover in haste.

I had dozens of photos of other artifacts that, to me, proved the theory was valid: two rusty cannon with four-inch bores, two bayonets with Union markings, a gold pocket watch with a Masonic emblem on it. Soldiers would have taken these valuable spoils of war. Only murderers would have buried them.

A second prayer was offered on behalf of Capt. Ben Summerlin, a solid man who had given in to his darkest instincts-if I was right. And feared I was. Once again, understanding such brutality failed me. What had driven my great-uncle to cross the line?

The Gerillas has been loosed & hells flames is ready. His words, written a century and a half earlier, hinted at an explanation. Guerrilla warfare was unconventional. Jungle tactics had no rules or moral boundaries. Survival demanded that the beast within a man be unleashed. Once victory was secured, the beast could be returned to its cage. But only then.

The beast within. Better than any other, the term fit. It could be blamed for every savagery and sin I could think of-a disturbing concept to linger on, so I shoved it aside.

It was a little after seven. I ejected the memory card, which I slipped into a change pocket. I was going through the camera bag, looking for a card to substitute, when I heard a second shriek-but this was no rabbit. It was a response to terror. And unmistakably female.

Instantly, my brain associated the sound with dust rising from the gravel road. What if Birdy, in her BMW, had returned and surprised the occupants of another car? Theo and Lucia, possibly. That’s what I feared.

I dropped the tripod but hung on to the camera bag and ran toward the trees, the old house hidden just beyond. A sustained scream caused me to slow, but only long enough to dial 911.

The dispatcher who answered was dubious. After I had repeated my name, repeated the address, and twice explained why I was breathing so heavily, she said, “This is the third call we’ve gotten, ma’am, and the officers didn’t find anything earlier. Are you sure it’s not just kids having fun?”

I asked, “Are you talking about the old Cadence house?”

“This time of year, we get two or three calls a night. High school kids like to go there and scare each other. Did you actually see something?”

I was on a weedy footpath that led through the trees. “I told you, a woman was screaming. I’m not making this up.”

“Are you in the house?”

“No, but-”

“Do you see anyone inside?”

“I’m not close enough. Look, the woman I heard wasn’t having fun.”

“Then how do you know she’s inside? Unless this is an emergency, ma’am, Saturday nights we’re spread pretty thin. Where are you exactly?”

I was exiting the path from the southwest, the house’s tin roof and cupola silver in sunset’s last light. There were no cars outside the gate except for my SUV. No one on the balcony either. The front door was still chained, no sign of light or movement inside. I said, “I wasn’t imagining things. Someone is inside that house and she’s in trouble.”

“Do you still hear her?”

“Well… no.”

“Let’s give it a few seconds. I’m not doubting your word, ma’am. You said your name is Hannah Smith?”

I continued toward my car and opened the door, phone to my ear. While I waited, I hid the memory card in the glove box. Soon she asked, “Still nothing? Then it was probably kids in a passing car. That’s usually what it turns out to be. Are you in any personal danger, Miz Smith?”

I said, “Could you please send a deputy just to check it out? I’ll stick around. And you have my number.”

“As soon as one’s available, I’ll get a car there,” the dispatcher assured me.

Of course the moment I hung up, I heard another scream from somewhere beyond the balcony. I looked at the phone, then shoved it in my pocket and ran toward the house. The screaming did not stop until I had managed to open the padlock.

It seemed to take forever, the way my hands refused to cooperate.

IN THE PARLOR, with its chandelier, the fire was out, but the room was still smoky when I entered. Not thick, but enough to swirl aside when I crossed to the stairs and called, “Who’s up there?”

No response.

I shifted the bag on my shoulder and tried again. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll help. Say something.”

This time I heard a click and muffled thump as if someone had closed a door.

I fanned the air to get a clean breath, unsure what to do. A woman didn’t make the sounds I had heard unless she was at her wits’ end. I couldn’t go off and leave her. But I also didn’t want to climb those stairs.

It wasn’t dark, but windows were dimming, so I opened the bag and chose my little flashlight, not the pistol. Smoke tunneled the beam when I switched it on. In a way, what I saw was comforting. Someone had been very busy here during the last hour. The broken banister had been moved and the stairs were draped with toilet paper. White streamers hung from the landing and chandelier. Oh… and a crushed Budweiser can was balanced between the horns of a hat rack. Several scorpions smashed flat on the floor, too.

Theo and Lucia hadn’t done this. The dispatcher had been right about teenagers. They had broken in and had fun decorating as if for a prom. I hadn’t heard their vehicles coming or going, had seen just the dusty signature of a car that hadn’t stopped… or had stopped just long enough to gather a few artistic vandals.

At least one young woman, though, had been left behind.

I tilted my head toward the upstairs. “I know you’re up there. I already called the police, so you might as well come down and explain.”

Mentioning police did it. A door banged open amid wild laughter. Footsteps galloped overhead while a girl’s voice warned, “Krissie, we’re gonna leave your ass.” Then another bang and tinkling glass at the back of the house.

High school girls. No need to fear them nor them to fear me. I didn’t want them to break their necks escaping, so I hurried through the sitting room to the kitchen and looked out. The secret access to the upstairs was an aluminum ladder that hadn’t been there yesterday. I got a glimpse as the trespassers scuttled down: two skinny teens, one in coveralls, the other dressed bizarrely in an evening gown that had been shortened with scissors. Beneath it, black leggings with zebra stripes and cowboy boots.

Neither wore a red blouse, unlike the woman I had photographed earlier. But that was okay. I smiled at the girl’s costume until she turned and yelled, “Krissie-you asked for it, you bitch.”

From above, a pitiful wail responded, a wail that soon turned shrill and familiar. Whatever friendliness I might have felt toward the two girls vanished when they abandoned their friend by jogging toward the river.

At least I had a name to work with when I found the girl they had left behind.

I circled back and inhaled a gulp of air at the door, which was open. Then went up the stairs, calling, “Kris… Krissie? There’s no need to be afraid.” Several times I repeated soothing variations while I panned the flashlight across the landing. Soon, I heard a cooing, whimpering noise that seemed to come from the music room, where one French door hung loose on its hinges.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said, then followed the flashlight inside, where the piano had also been adorned with white streamers and beer cans. Something else I recognized: seeds from a mimosa pod littered the floor. They were flat and shiny, as brown as miniature cow chips. Some had been powdered and heated in a pan. The pan showed scorch marks from a flame.

Smoking drugs, I thought. The same smoke from the fireplace… That’s why I feel so odd.

The mix of giddiness and despondence I’d experienced earlier was curling its way into my brain. Not strong, but noticeable. Thankfully, my awareness produced a counter-emotion: anger. How reckless, I thought, and how cruel, to poison unsuspecting people by filling this house with their smoke. It made me more determined to help the girl.

I did a slow search of the music room. On the far wall was a poster that had been left behind. The lettering was big and easy to read despite its toilet paper adornments:

MEET CHUMAN

Love Child of Woman & Ape

(As seen on National Geographic)

It was an oversized photo-not a drawing-of a man who was as hairy as a werewolf. He had a flat simian face and wore a restraining collar as if he were a Rottweiler. Snarling, too, canines bared, and a metallic glint in his eyes-compliments of Photoshop and a promoter’s imagination.

The poster struck me as repugnant. Then I remembered that Tyrone, a real person who lived alone in a trailer, had probably posed for the photo. That made me feel even worse. Because of an affliction, the man had no other way to make a living, yet tonight teenagers had mocked him, had added obscene graffiti, then toilet paper streamers-more Halloween decorations to set the mood. A lewd drawing, too: a snake with fangs and a smile protruded from Tyrone’s mouth like an extended tongue.

I wondered if the girl they’d left behind had also found the image disturbing. She wasn’t in the music room-I even looked under the piano. Her crying had stopped and started again. Now it seemed to float down the hall from the other side of the house.

Strange. Usually my ears are as sharp as my eyesight and it’s exceptional, if Loretta’s doctor is to be believed. Was I hallucinating? No… my mind was struggling with the smoke but okay. Her crying was real. Somewhere in this house a frightened girl was hiding or… or she was being held against her will.

That gave me a jolt. The possibility was real, not paranoia. And the most likely suspect was Theo.

I stopped, opened the camera bag. The pistol was right there, if needed, but not ready. I shucked a round into the chamber, used the de-cocker as a safety precaution, then returned the weapon to my bag, the bag over my left shoulder.

Exiting into the hall, I called the girl’s name a few times and swept the area with the flashlight. Her weeping was continuous but impossible to pinpoint. An empty house echoes. But in the Cadence house, with its tin roof and domed cupola, Krissie’s sobs followed the rafters like a conduit and vibrated off the walls. Finding her was like searching for speakers in a theater. I paused at every room and closet. I also kept an eye on the spiral staircase.

Finally I narrowed it down to the cupola because its door was ajar. The door was a half-sized access that opened into a room that was circular and barely big enough to fit four people. The previous evening, Birdy and I had explored it. Inside, wooden rungs scaled the wall to where a school bell had once hung. A peaked roof and grates protected the interior from rain but not wind, which spiraled downward into the house. As I approached, a steady breeze streamed through the doorway, cool on my face. The air was cleaner here. It made sense that a girl who was hallucinating might take refuge in a spot where she could breathe.

Yes… the girl was inside. Her weeping ceased when the flashlight pierced the entrance. I switched off the light and said, “Krissie, no one is going to hurt you. Can I come in?”

“No! Who are you?”

She was panicky. I feared she’d climb the cupola’s ladder and try to escape by crawling onto the roof, so I took my time. “My name’s Hannah. I don’t know about you, but this smoke is making me sick. Can we go outside to talk?”

“Stay away. Where did Gail and Frieda go? They promised not to leave me.”

Girls-I don’t care the age-are not easily fooled, so I told her the truth. “You’d be smart to never trust that pair again. They ran off.” Quietly, I moved toward the door.

“Ran where? I don’t believe you. The other party?”

“The river. Or someplace close. Is that where they parked their car?”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“You heard what that girl called you, Krissie. We both heard the word she used.”

The girl sobbed when I said that. “Gail promised I’d have fun. They never invited me to their parties before. That’s all I wanted-to be with them and have fun. Why would they be so mean?”

“Because that’s the way some girls are,” I said and couldn’t but help sharing her hurt. Without seeing Krissie, I knew what she would look like: gawky or chubby and too plain-faced to be anything but the easy target of jokes and mindless cruelty.

And I was right. Before I ducked through the door, I flicked on the flashlight and took a look. She was a scrawny little thing with mousy hair and earrings she had probably spent an hour fussing with in front of a mirror. Wearing her best clothes, too, pleated skirt and a blouse that was lavender, not lipstick red-and too flat-chested to have been the woman in the photo.

I switched off the light and entered, saying, “No one’s going to hurt you now,” then knelt beside the girl. “Tell me what happened. Or… it’s probably better if we go outside first. This smoke will only make you sicker if we stay.” I reached to touch her shoulder but withdrew my hand when she lurched away.

“Don’t touch me. I can only close my eyes if I’m alone. And that’s what I want-just me, alone.” The girl’s muddled reasoning, as much as her hysteria, gave me a chill. Alcohol-the smell wasn’t strong, but she been drinking, too.

“I think we should get you home. Do you have a cell phone? How about we call your parents.”

That was the wrong thing to say. She shoved me and scrambled to her feet. “Don’t you dare tell my mom. Where did Gail and Frieda go? Gail wouldn’t leave me. You’re lying about that.” She braced herself against the wall and began to slide away as if balanced on a ledge.

It was darker in here. I was a looming gray shadow to the girl. She was a shadowy stick figure. Soon she would feel the ladder rungs against her back and might climb to the roof. So I retreated to the door and ducked outside, hoping she would calm down. Gave it a few seconds, then said, “Kris, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I can stand here while we talk. Or I’ll sit outside on the porch and wait until you feel better. But I can’t leave you, sweetie. Not until I know you’re safe.”

There was silence, then a shuddering sob. “You mean it?”

“Whatever you tell me to do, yes.”

“My mom can’t know. I think something bad happened inside my head. The things… what I see inside my head… they keep coming back. Snakes… Gail wouldn’t stop talking about snakes. Scorpions, too. And another party-she said we’d have so much fun.”

I didn’t want the girl to focus on snakes and scorpions. “There’s nothing wrong with your mind, sweetie. It’s the smoke, some kind of drug they tricked you with. Once we get outside, you’ll feel better. Krissie? I promise you’ll be okay if you trust me.”

I put the camera bag on the floor and continued to talk to her. It took another minute of soothing and cajoling, but the girl finally crawled out and joined me in the hall. Stood there, undecided, looking up, as if trying to determine if I was real or imaginary, a safe companion or a threat. She hadn’t actually seen me. It was darker inside the cupola, but dark out here, too. So I attempted to put her at ease, saying, “My hair’s probably a mess, so don’t be shocked when I turn on this flashlight.”

I pointed the light at the floor… then toward the ceiling to illuminate the hall. I was half a foot taller than Krissie. She was reluctant to make eye contact but finally did. She looked up, a girl whose face was as plain as my own. Puffy lips, eyes glassy, she stared at me for a moment with interest. Then her expression changed and she began to back toward the stairs, frightened by what she saw.

It wasn’t easy to force a smile but I did. “What’s wrong? My earrings aren’t nearly as nice as yours. Is that it?”

Krissie appeared to be having trouble breathing. “You’re her,” she whispered. “You tricked me.”

I wondered if the light had sparked another hallucination, but also feared she would fall down the stairs if I switched the light off. She had yet to look behind her and the steps were only a few yards away. “Sweetie, you’re going to be just fine once we get outside.” I held my hand out as an invitation to stop.

“No-Gail told me the stories. You’re her, that woman.” Then she hollered, “I saw you! Stay away from me. You’re dead… You’re a witch.”

Did she mean Lucia? I wondered. Krissie was only a few steps from the stairwell. If she didn’t fall, she would soon run-her wild eyes guaranteed it. So I shined the light on the landing and made sure she saw the steps by asking, “What woman? Is that her on the stairs?”

Thank god, she turned. But it cost me the little bit of trust I had earned. “You lied to me again. You… You’re evil.” Then Krissie reached for the missing banister and nearly fell anyway, but recovered, while I stood frozen holding the light so she could see.

“You don’t have to run,” I said gently. “Just get downstairs in one piece, that’s all I ask.”

The girl realized she’d scared me and hesitated. “If you’re not her, why is your shirt soaked with blood?”

Blood? I looked down at my copper red blouse and finally understood. She was definitely hallucinating. Krissie had convinced herself I was the ghost of Irene Cadence. Terrifying for her, but a possible opening if I used it right. “The woman you saw wasn’t me,” I said. “I have a picture of her, though. If you wait for me outside, I’ll let you see it. Truth is, I’d like your opinion.” I reached for the camera bag. “Do you remember meeting a woman named Lucia?”

“I don’t believe you. Your hair… you’ve got black hair, too. And you’re beautiful just like Gail said.”

I had to smile at that. “When I was your age-this is true, I swear-I thought I was the ugliest, clumsiest person on earth. Maybe you can relate.” I left the bag where it was and stood. “How about we go outside? I’ve got a cooler in the car with drinks. Just you and me, we’ll talk about how awful high school can be.”

Krissie jerked away when I offered her my hand. “You’re lying. Stop pretending you’re nice.”

“It’s true I have to pretend sometimes. But, Kris-I’m not the one who ran off and left you.” Once again, I extended my hand.

The girl couldn’t let herself believe the truth. She shook her head, threw her scrawny shoulders back. “Go to hell!” she hollered, “I’m going to the party and find Gail,” then ran down the stairs and out the door.

I followed, but first had to retrieve the camera bag. By the time I got outside, she was almost to the trees, where there were car lights and the rumble of motorcycles, too. To me, though, it looked like Krissie was angling toward the old railroad bridge when she disappeared.

That’s the second thing I told the 911 dispatcher after I had explained the bare basics.

“She might be headed to the RV park,” I said, “looking for her so-called friends.”