Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  Roo did a thumbs-down. “Two no votes for The Tavern. It won’t get dark for a while—why don’t we just go to the Falls?”

  Looks passed from one to another, followed by nods all around.

  “Have you seen the bayou yet, Miranda?” Gage asked, while she fumbled for an excuse.

  “Not exactly. I mean, sort of, from a distance. But really, I don’t think I can—”

  “Then this’ll be a first for you!” Ashley was delighted. “We’ll be right on the bayou.”

  Parker nodded, deadpan. “Alligators and water moccasins, up close and personal.”

  “Oh, Parker, for heaven’s sake. Don’t listen to him, Miranda. I’ve never seen any nasty things around there.”

  “Except for Roo,” Parker added. “She can be pretty nasty.”

  Roo pointedly ignored him. The boys grinned, and Ashley chattered on.

  “It’s pretty at the Falls, but it has atmosphere, too—kind of spooky. Anyway, the perfect place to plan your Ghost Walk.”

  “It’s not my Ghost Walk,” Miranda said again, frustrated. “And I hadn’t planned on going—”

  “We’ll pick you up at your grandpa’s in a couple hours.”

  "Y’all are serious.” As the reality of their project seemed to hit him at last, Parker burst out laughing. “A Ghost Walk in St. Yvette? There’s not even twelve hundred people in this stupid town, and most of them are boring as hell. How much—what did you call it . . . dark history?—can there be?”

  “Oh, stop whining.” Losing patience, Ashley glared at him. “There’s bound to be lots of old secrets buried around here.”

  Secrets, Miranda thought wryly. And what was it Mom had told her that day? All small towns have secrets . . . that’s part of their charm . . .

  She realized Gage was looking at her. She deliberately turned away.

  Yes, you’re so right, Ashley. There must be lots of old secrets buried around here.

  Especially the ones in my own family.

  3

  "WHAT’S GOING ON, MOM?”

  Miranda stopped in the doorway and glared at her mother, who was standing in the middle of the room, rummaging frantically through her purse. The upstairs garage apartment was small and stuffy—way too cramped for the two twin beds and antique sofa, the table and chairs, and the oversize armoire that had been brought over from the main house.

  Oh, God, how depressing.

  Her eyes made a quick sweep of the room, taking in the corner kitchen space with its tiny stove, microwave, mini-refrigerator, and narrow pantry; the old-fashioned lace curtains at the windows; the framed sepia-toned photographs on the pale pink walls. A vase of red carnations sat on the lemon-oiled coffee table, and though Aunt Teeta had done her best to make the place homey and comfortable, even those loving touches couldn’t disguise the faint odor of age and mildew, or the relentless heat.

  “Hi, honey, how was school?” Still digging in her purse, Mom didn’t bother to look up. “Can you believe I have a job interview in about five minutes, and I can’t find the keys to Teeta’s car?”

  “Mom—”

  “I know, I know—the heat’s terrible. Of all the days for the air conditioner to go out, but I think she’s already called someone to fix it, and I’ve got this little fan running, so—”

  “How could you, Mom?”

  Loose change and crumpled tissues spilled from the purse onto the floor. Miranda’s mother gave a cry of frustration and bent to retrieve them.

  “How could I what, honey? Let the air conditioner break? Since when have I known the first thing about air conditioners? Okay, be honest—do you think this blouse is okay? Professional enough? I had to borrow it from Teeta, so it’s a little big and— Oh, I almost forgot. She picked up a few things for you on her lunch hour today . . . wasn’t that nice? Some shorts and T-shirts she thought you’d like—”

  “How could you not have told me?”

  “About the clothes? Because she wanted it to be a surprise!”

  “I’m not talking about Aunt Teeta! I’m talking about how you lied to me!”

  “Lied?” Mom was all attention now. Straightening, she fixed Miranda with a puzzled frown. “When? About what?”

  “You know what. Grandpa.”

  The change was immediate on her mother’s face. A pretty face, Miranda had always thought—and still so incredibly young-looking, despite the lines of both laughter and pain around those wide, violet eyes; in spite of the gray highlights accenting that dark, shoulder-length hair. But as Miranda continued to stare, her mother’s lips tightened, and those beautiful eyes sparked with anger.

  “What about your grandpa?” Mom’s voice had gone cold, yet Miranda pushed on.

  “Everyone in school knows about him! Everyone in town knows about him! Everyone but me! How could you? How could you have kept—”

  “Miranda, calm down. I just . . .” Taking a deep breath, Mom glanced at the clock beside the kitchen sink. “Look, I don’t have time to talk about this right now. Your aunt Teeta went to a lot of trouble to get me this job interview, and I have to go.”

  “This is important!”

  “Well, at the moment, this is more important. We need money so we can pay our own way. Get our own place.”

  “How can a stupid job interview—or a new house—be more important than my grandfather being a mental case ?”

  Miranda was shouting now, but her mother’s tone was emotionless. “I’m sorry you had to hear those rumors. And I’m sure you . . . probably have questions—”

  “Gosh, Mom, do you think?”

  “But I can’t go into it now. There’s a lot to be said, and we’ll need time. Maybe when I get back—”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be here. I have a big school project. I have to meet some kids to study.”

  “Tomorrow, then. Another day won’t make any difference. ”

  “Of course not. I mean, what’s one more day compared to seventeen years?”

  She watched her mother’s lips open, then close again. Watched as her mother walked toward her and reached out, even though Miranda immediately jerked away.

  “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—” Mom began, but Miranda cut her off.

  “How else was I going to find out?”

  There was a long pause. Then Mom said firmly, “I don’t want you discussing this with anyone. No matter what people ask you, no matter what people say. This is a private family matter, and it’s no one else’s business. Understand?”

  Miranda didn’t answer. The lump in her throat was like dry cotton, and she closed her eyes against a furious sting of tears. Even when the screen door banged shut, she refused to turn around—not till Mom had driven completely away.

  I’ll never trust her again. Never, as long as I live.

  She latched the screen door, then sank slowly onto the couch. She could hear the soft whir of the fan, but not a single breeze stirred the air around her. She felt trapped, her heart broken. When something wet trickled down her cheek, she couldn’t be sure if it was sweat or tears or both.

  There’s no way I can stay here. I’ll die if I have to stay here.

  Here, with all the lies and shame and questions and secrets surrounding her. Here, with everyone pointing and whispering and gossiping behind her back. Bad enough to be the new kid in town, the hurricane refugee, the outsider—but the granddaughter of the town crazy, too?

  I’m more than a freak. I’m a total alien.

  Back home, before the hurricane, she’d had so many friends—Marge and Joanie, especially. The three of them had been invincible and totally inseparable. They’d been popular and smart—all of them honor roll students. They’d joined the same clubs, volunteered on the same committees, won awards for the yearbook and school paper, even triple-dated whenever they could. They’d studied together, shopped together, spent hours on the beach, talking and wishing and planning their futures.

  And now it’s like they never existed. Like it was all just a
dream . . .

  Of the three of them, Joanie’s house had been the only one left standing after the hurricane. There were some shingles gone, and some windows blown out, but the floodwaters had risen only over the front porch and into one small section of their living room. Nobody had expected the storm to be so fierce, so destructive, so deadly. People had done the usual sandbagging, the usual boarding up of windows and doors, the usual hoarding of groceries and water. They’d felt confident to stay at home and ride out this hurricane as they had so many others in the past.

  Only this hurricane was different.

  And by the time people realized just how different, it was already too late.

  The beaches, of course, were the first to go. Houses and businesses, docks and boats, hotels full of tourists—everything tossed like confetti, everything split like kindling. Huddled with her mother under a mattress, Miranda felt their whole house fall to pieces around her.

  Later, she wondered how they’d managed to survive at all.

  Many hadn’t.

  Friends... neighbors... loved ones...pets—in the aftermath of the storm, as the death toll rose, the shock and grief became unbearable. Without homes or utilities, without the most basic of necessities, thousands of people turned helplessly to overcramped shelters, and their once-beautiful community became a wasteland.

  Miranda still couldn’t remember everything that happened after the storm. Only that Joanie’s father had rescued them, coming in his boat and hauling them out of the rubble. For a week Miranda and her mother and Marge’s family stayed together at Joanie’s house, discussing their options and what to do. While the grown-ups decided their fate, Miranda and her two best friends clung to one another and cried.

  God, how she missed them.

  Joanie was still in Florida. Miranda had called her that very first day in St. Yvette, and both of them had cried all over again. Marge’s family was staying with friends in Wisconsin, Joanie told her, and gave Miranda the address and phone number.

  “Mom says I can’t run up Aunt Teeta’s long-distance bill.” Miranda had forced back a fresh wave of tears. “And you know I don’t have my cell phone or computer anymore. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to call.”

  Joanie’s voice was heavy and sad. “So many people have moved away already. So many of our friends. We’re not going to graduate together, but, Miranda, you’ve got to keep in touch. We all do. Promise me. Promise me we’ll always stay close.”

  “I promise.” Yet even as she said it, Miranda knew in her heart that things would never be the same.

  That she and Marge and Joanie would never be the same. I wonder what you two are doing right now? Thinking of me? Missing me as much as I miss you?

  It hurt too much, remembering. Every time she did, her heart felt broken all over again. Nobody understands how unhappy I am . . . how alone. Nobody cares. She hated feeling sorry for herself, but she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

  Worse, though, was the shame. This shabby apartment over a garage, this nothing little town. Handouts and charity and having to ask for every single thing. And now this . . .

  My grandfather. The lunatic.

  No . . . as much as she loved and missed her best friends, she doubted she’d be calling them again anytime soon. Not till I have something to be happy about, not till my life gets better. Which means never. Pushing those thoughts firmly from her mind, Miranda got up from the couch. She’d taken only a couple steps when suddenly she stopped, frowning, sniffing the air.

  Smoke?

  That faraway hint of smoke again . . . the same thing she’d smelled that day as she and Mom drove into town. Just like before, no more than a thought—here and then gone again. Puzzled, she crossed the room and peered out the open window above her bed.

  No smoke there . . .

  The garage stood quite a distance behind Hayes House— the main house where her grandfather and Aunt Teeta lived. Miranda could see only part of it across the sprawling expanse of lawn and the moss-covered oak trees that shadowed the grass. Of course, she had no idea what the inside of that house might look like—she’d been forbidden even to step through the door. But outside there were gnarled old trees all around, and wrought-iron benches for sitting, and a shady veranda with tall, brick columns. There were azaleas in front, and an herb garden in back, and at night the perfume from all those lovely plants soaked the hot, humid air, floating all the way up to her bed, almost sickeningly sweet. Behind the house, the yard stretched for nearly half an acre, before finally sloping down to a tall stone wall and the park that lay beyond.

  Miranda had heard all about Rebel Park. It was the sacred resting place of southern soldiers—not only from the Civil War, but from every war since—and St. Yvette’s consummate pride and joy. A tasteful blend of memorial and family recreation, open seven days a week but securely gated at night, a place where people could make use of the walking path, as well as pay their respects.

  From here, Miranda’s view consisted of lush grass; a large, tranquil pond; the oversize statue of a Confederate drummer boy; and towering magnolia trees. She was glad the actual graveyard was on the opposite end of the park. She couldn’t imagine looking out her window and seeing it there, so close, every single day.

  From somewhere in the distance, faint voices rose and shouted, many voices together, yet too muffled to understand. She thought she heard a car backfire—once...twice...five times. She decided it might be kids setting off firecrackers instead.

  She felt uneasy all of a sudden. Nervous to be here alone, though she wasn’t sure why. She’d never been afraid to stay alone before, but she couldn’t stop thinking about that mysterious odor of smoke. Heavy yet faint; disturbingly real, yet with no more substance than a dream.

  “I’m being ridiculous.” It made her angry to feel so unsettled. Angry and vulnerable and fiercely defensive. “I must have imagined it.”

  A cold breath touched the back of her neck.

  “No,” a voice whispered. “No . . . you’re wrong.”

  4

  "WHO’S THERE?” Panicked, Miranda whirled around. “Mom, is that you?”

  From where she stood, she could see the entire room, even the tiny bathroom through its open doorway. She could see her lone reflection in the full-length antique mirror near the corner. She could see that the whole apartment was empty.

  And yet . . . something was here.

  Slowly . . . steadily . . . the temperature seemed to be dropping. The air hung heavy and still. She wanted to scream, to run, but her own voice was paralyzed, and her feet stayed rooted to the floor.

  “No . . . you’re wrong . . .”

  It spoke again, that voice. Coming from a place she couldn’t find, from a person she couldn’t see. Awhisper she heard perfectly, though the room was deathly silent.

  A distinctly male voice. The voice of a stranger. A voice so hollow, so hopeless, it sent chills down to the very pit of her soul.

  Miranda choked out a cry. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath; she had no idea how long she’d been standing here, transfixed by the empty apartment around her.

  But now she could feel the sticky heat, hear the whir of the fan and the buzz of a housefly at the window screen.

  Had she slipped into a daydream? How much time had passed? She remembered now: she was supposed to go with her study group; they were stopping by to pick her up. Had she missed them? Had they come and gone without her even hearing? Maybe they’d assumed she wasn’t home. Or maybe . . .

  A prank?

  Her cheeks burned at the thought of it. Maybe they’d played a trick on her—hey, let’s scare the new girl with her Ghost Walk idea! Maybe they were down there even now, with their tape recorder and spooky voices, waiting for her to come out so they could all have their big laugh. Or maybe they’d run off already— this’ll freak her out, make her really think she’s crazy!

  Miranda flung open the door. She couldn’t see a car outside, but that didn’t mean
the group wasn’t hiding somewhere. And though she wasn’t exactly sure whether she was trying to get away from the source of the voice, or get to the source of the voice, she stumbled out onto the landing and down the steps at breakneck speed.

  Too late, she saw the figure at the bottom of the stairs—the figure starting up as she was running down. Caught by the momentum, she didn’t even have time to shout a warning before the two of them collided full force.

  “Whoa! You trying to kill me or just yourself ?”

  Miranda reeled from the blow. As a pair of arms steadied her, she staggered back and gazed up at the young man blocking her way.

  He was easily six feet tall—long and lean in his muddy workboots, worn T-shirt, and jeans low on his hips. The curved hollows of his cheeks were accentuated by strong, high cheekbones, and she could see taut ridges of sinewy muscle along the length of both arms. His skin looked naturally tan. He had thick waves of jet-black hair tousled almost to his shoulders, and his sensuous lips were pressed hard into a frown.

  He reminded her of some wild gypsy.

  Once her initial shock had passed, Miranda was furiously annoyed. “What’s wrong with you? It’s not like you didn’t see me coming. Why didn’t you get out of my way?”

  “And let you fall?” His eyes reflected mock horror. They were the blackest eyes she’d ever seen. “But I’m so much more comfortable to land on than the driveway, yeah?”

  The driveway, like so many back roads around town, was a narrow, rutted path of crushed oyster shells. Miranda’s anger turned down a notch.

  “You could’ve warned me,” she muttered. Her heart had stopped pounding, though she still felt seriously shaken. “How long have you been out here?”

  He wasn’t frowning at her now. His face was calm and expressionless, which was almost more unnerving. “I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Was someone just out here with you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? You weren’t talking to anyone a minute ago?”