“No, not because of Tina.” Mack stayed quiet, massaging his face for several seconds before finally regarding her through watery eyes. “I’ve got to tell somebody,” he said, more to himself than her.
“Tell somebody what?” Diane asked. “What’s going on?”
Mack nodded. If he could tell anyone, it was Diane. .
“Give me a half-hour?” He stood and wobbled on his feet for a second before steadying.
Diane looked at her watch.
“I told Dale I’d meet him for lunch. I stopped by because Kate called me.”
“Diane.” He regarded her gravely. “I’m drowning here. I really need to get this off my chest, but I’ve got to get coffee in me first, and wash a layer of this grime off.” He waved at himself.
Diane nodded.
“Okay, I’ll call Dale, and make the coffee. You go have a shower,” she told him.
* * *
Still bearded, but smelling of ivory soap and wearing a white shirt opened at the collar, Mack felt better than he had in days.
He found Diane in the kitchen, and drank his first cup of coffee in silence.
He stood, poured a second cup, and walked to the hallway, returning a moment later with the small leather pouch. He dropped it on the table before her with a plunk.
She eyed it for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked finally.
He stared at the satchel as if it contained something truly disgusting.
After several seconds, he pulled at the twine wound through the top of the leather. His big hands shook as he opened it.
He dumped the contents of the bag onto the table.
She leaned closer, studying the six smooth white stones. A hole ran through the center of each stone.
She looked up. “What are they?”
Mack touched one, and then pulled his hand quickly away, shuddering.
“I haven’t got a clue.”
Diane sighed.
“Mack, speak sense, please. I stayed; I canceled my plans. Let’s not play games now.”
He didn’t look at her, but puzzled at the stones for another moment.
“Do you remember when I stopped by your office last week? I’d just come home from the cabin.”
Diane nodded.
“I told you I found the body of a man?”
“Yes, I remember.”
Mack pointed at the stones.
“That pouch was hanging around the guy’s neck, and I took it.”
She grimaced.
“Why on earth would you do a thing like that?”
He threw up his hands.
“Beats me. I saw the thing in the grave and cut it loose. Misty took off, and I forgot I was holding it in my hand. I went back to the cabin, drove into town to the police station, and forgot all about it.”
“And?”
He sighed, bent his head back to gaze at the ceiling.
“And now the dead man’s after me. He wants this bag of rocks, but I can’t give them back.”
Diane frowned and glanced toward the garbage can. Mack knew she was looking to see how many empty bottles were stacked inside.
“Diane, I haven’t told a soul about this. But you know me. Don’t you? I’m not a lying man. I’ve got a lot of faults, but I’ve never been a liar.”
Diane lifted her hands as Misty appeared and propped her head in Diane’s lap. She rubbed the dog’s ears.
“What do you mean, he’s after you?” She stared at the stones as she spoke.
“He appeared in the cabin the night I found his body. I woke up and found him standing upstairs. When I turned on the light, he was gone. Then he followed me in the woods. I got all turned around and he was there, watching me. He’s shown up every night, Diane. Eight nights in a row, this guy has made himself known. After the first night, I started drinking. I mean, I never stopped, but I started drinking more. It was the only way to keep him at bay.”
Diane leaned back and crossed her arms, glaring at Mack as if something had clicked into place.
“You’re telling me you have to get loaded every night, so this ghost doesn’t bother you,” she demanded.
He braced his hands on the table.
“Diane, it’s not like that. I’d love to never have a sip again, if this thing would go away. I’d make a deal with the devil to get rid of it. The drinking just… I pass out and I don’t have to see it, feel it.”
“Then how do you know it’s still there? If you’re spending every night in a drunken haze, what makes you think it’s not gone?”
“Because it’s getting worse. I still wake up to it, I just… I barely register it. But he’s standing over me, clawing at me, shrieking. Misty goes nuts. Every single night, Diane.”
Diane bit her lip. He could see her mind working behind her eyes, wanting to believe him.
“Have you tried to give it back?” She motioned at the satchel.
He nodded.
“I left it at the cabin, but when I got home, it was in my bag. I’ve thrown it out my front door. I’ve buried it the garden. I’ve driven out to the woods and chucked it in. Every night, it’s back on the hall table.”
“This all sounds very far-fetched, Mack,” Diane told him, eyeing the rocks wearily.
“You think I don’t know that?” he sputtered.
* * *
Two days later, Mack opened his door to find Diane standing on his porch. She wore a white scarf over her dark hair. Beyond her, a steady drizzle of rain cast the world in various shades of grey.
“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mack. Let me in.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer, hurrying across the threshold and wiping her muddy boots on the rug.
Misty jumped and licked at her, and Diane sank her hands into the dog’s red coat.
They stood for a moment surveying one another in the foyer.
He had shaved, put on a sweater she’d bought him for Christmas years earlier, and dotted cologne on his neck.
“You look better,” Diane said, handing him a jar with a ribbon on top.
“A present?” he asked.
She smiled.
“Raspberry jam. I jarred five quarts of it this summer. I know you always liked it.”
He held the jar and remembered a Christmas when they spent a week decorating jars of Diane’s raspberry preserves to give to family as gifts. They’d added maple syrup from the trees they’d tapped that spring, and fresh-baked cookies. It had been their first Christmas married. Diane was eight weeks pregnant. Four weeks later, they’d lost the baby.
“How did you sleep?” Diane asked, walking into the kitchen.
Mack followed her, gazing at the gold necklace around her slender pale neck. When she turned, he saw that a small gold heart lay at its center. She noticed him looking.
A flush lit her pale cheeks, and she touched the delicate charm.
“An early birthday present from Dale,” she murmured.
He nodded, wondering if a ring would soon follow, and wishing he could wind back the years and do it all differently.
“How did you sleep?” she asked a second time.
He frowned, remembered the dead man watching him from the rocking chair across the room, the steady creak-creak-creak and the hiss of Mine.
He shook his head and banished the image.
“Not great.”
“He’s still coming?”
Mack nodded.
“Every night.”
Diane squared her shoulders and drew a sheet of paper from her purse. She handed it to Mack.
He opened it and read: George Corey. Written beneath was the name Wilma Burns, followed by an address in Kalkaska.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“George Corey is the dead man you found in the woods,” Diane explained. “They haven’t made a formal identification, but they’re pretty sure. I called the sheriff in Kalkaska and bugged him until he gave me the name of one of Corey’s friends. Apparently, the man
didn’t have any family. Wilma Burns grew up near the Stoneroot Forest. She knew Corey, and she’ll talk to us.”
“How?” Mack sputtered, holding up the piece of paper.
“I picked up the phone, Mack. It wasn’t hard.”
Mack sighed. He hadn’t thought to call the Kalkaska police, to find out about the man who haunted him. In the few moments he’d sought a solution, his mind had wandered to priests and witch doctors.
“We have to leave now,” Diane continued. “We’re meeting Wilma in an hour.”
“An hour? What if you’d found me passed out again?”
Diane smiled.
“I have more faith in you than that.” She tugged on the sleeve of his sweater. “I remember this old thing. Still looks good on you.”
Mack brushed a hand down the sweater, almost got sucked into a memory of Diane wearing it with only a pair of panties, and clapped his hands together to wipe the thought before it took hold.
Diane started.
“Sorry. My brain was trying to take me on a ride. You said, we. Are you coming with me, Diane?”
She nodded.
“I told Dale I had errands to run.”
“You lied?” Mack could hardly believe it. Diane couldn’t lie to save her life.
“I felt justified. He’d never understand, and… you need help, Mack. I want to help you.”
Mack stepped toward her, ready to gather her in his arms. She gazed at him with clear, kind eyes, and he stopped. She was not his anymore. Another man went to bed with her every night.
Mack had his chance, and he blew it. He swallowed and sighed, looking away from her to break the spell.
“Thank you, Diane,” he told her, though he couldn’t imagine how anyone could help him get rid of a ghost.
* * *
Wilma led Mack and Diane into a sitting room stuffed with worn, cozy chairs.
Mack shrugged off his coat and took Diane’s, draping them over his arm.
“Hot cider? Or tea, perhaps?” the woman asked.
She looked to be approaching seventy, with white curls fluffed about her head. She wore a grayish-pink housecoat and thick wool socks.
Strewn about her sitting room floor, Mack saw dolls and doll clothes, including a tiny wooden bassinet.
“Those are my granddaughter Betsy’s things. She’ll be around,” Wilma told them. “Have a seat.”
Wilma returned with a tray, including a small teapot of cider and three cups on matching saucers. She poured them each a glass.
Mack took a sip. The cider was hot and spicy and warmed him instantly. He leaned back in the chair, at ease in the old woman’s home. She reminded him of his own grandmother on his mother’s side. Gran Mags, they called her, though her name was Magnolia.
“Such a pity to hear about George’s passing,” Wilma started. “You’re the young man who found him?” She regarded Mack with sharp blue eyes.
He nodded.
“A little over a week ago. He was buried in the woods in the Stoneroot Forest.”
“Sheriff Long’s rather tight-lipped about the whole ordeal. I wonder if you might tell me, young man. Did George die a natural death?”
Mack glanced at Diane, startled.
“Um… no. No, I don’t think so. The sheriff hasn’t told the community it was a murder?”
Wilma lifted an eyebrow and took a sip of her cider.
“An old woman’s questions are a bother to a man like that. But soon as I heard George had passed, I suspected malice was behind it.”
“Why is that?” Diane asked. “Did George have enemies?”
Wilma regarded her.
“Everyone has enemies, my dear, whether or not we know it.”
Diane frowned, but didn’t push.
“Was George a good man, Mrs. Burns? In reputation?” Mack asked.
Wilma nodded.
“Yes, a good man, but not a man to trifle with. George was part of the Corey Clan, a bloodline you’d find in history if you were interested in Scandinavia.”
“Known in history for what?” Diane asked.
Wilma flipped her hand back and forth.
“This and that. But if I had to give them a name, I’d call them healers. The more ignorant of our kind might have called them witches.”
“Witches?” Mack asked, too quickly to suppress his distrust in the word.
“And that right there.” She pointed at his face. “Is why I prefer the term healers.”
“Was he a medicine man, then?” Diane asked.
“You could call him that,” Wilma agreed. “He treated my ills more times than I can count. People visited him for all manner of ailments. Broken leg - see George; broken heart - see George. Course, he wasn’t an easy man to see, living in the Stoneroot Forest, but George knew when you were looking for him.”
“Where did he live?” Mack asked, confused. “I’ve been roaming that forest since I could walk. I’ve never heard of him.”
“You’re a hunter, young man. An outsider who visits the forest to pluck its bounty and take it home. George worked with the local folk, with his people.”
“But where was his cabin?”
Wilma shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Who does?” Diane asked.
“He had a daughter,” Wilma murmured, wistfully. “I remember seeing her a handful of times. She was a wild thing with wavy blonde hair that never got combed and dirty, bare feet. She and George would walk into town sometimes, both holding their walking sticks, grinning like they knew the secrets of the world.” Wilma chuckled.
“Where is she now?” Mack asked.
“She came around less as she grew. Young women do that, you know? Even when you have a daddy like George, you drift away.”
“Did she leave, or did something happen to her?” Mack asked, trying to reconcile his ghost with the man Wilma described.
Wilma shook her head.
“I asked George about it, and he said ‘she moved on.’ I never saw her again.”
Mack jumped at the shrill ring of a telephone from the other room.
“Excuse me.” Wilma stood and shuffled to the kitchen.
Mack looked at Diane, who stared back at him with an equal expression of puzzlement.
She started to open her mouth, but a little girl skipped into the room.
She stopped, looked back and forth between them, and then plopped on the floor, picking up one of her dolls. She had auburn hair that fell in curls over the collar of her pale blue sweater.
“You’re here about Uncle George?” she asked, not looking at either of them.
Diane glanced at Mack, and then scooted off the chair to sit next to the girl.
“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?” Diane asked, patting the hair of the doll in Betsy’s hand.
“This is Wilma. I named her after my grandma.” Betsy picked up a tiny ribbon and tied it in the doll’s hair.
“Wilma is a lovely name,” Diane told her. “Was George really your uncle?”
Betsy giggled and shook her head, curls bobbing.
“All the kids called him Uncle George. He gave us honey from his bees.”
“He kept bees?” Mack asked.
“Oh sure, bees and spiders and birds. He had all sort of creatures.”
“Have you been to his cabin?” Diane asked, making eye contact with Mack, who glanced toward the kitchen where he could still hear Wilma on the phone.
“Yes, but don’t tell Grandma.” Betsy lowered her voice. “Only the kids could go.”
Diane frowned.
“Why?”
Mack had an uneasy feeling.
“Because we’re pure of heart,” she said, as if the answer were obvious.
“What kinds of things did you do at George’s cabin?” Diane asked.
Betsy shrugged, set the doll in the bassinet, and pulled a small, silk-lined blanket up to her chin.
“Listened to stories, ate honey, picked flowers. Sometimes Uncle George showed
us the bones hanging in his shed. He put on the skin of animals who’d given themselves to him and spoke in their language.”
“He never hurt the kids, did he?” Mack asked, feeling duty-bound to put the question forth.
“Oh, no,” Betsey shook her head. “Uncle George did not believe in hurting others.”
“But you said he wore animal skins and had bones? He hunted, then?” Diane asked.
Betsey looked at her as if she’d asked a fool’s question.
“The animals came to him. They chose him to end their lives.”
Mack looked at the kitchen. He no longer heard Wilma talking. Their time with the girl would soon be up.
“Betsy, how can we find George’s cabin?” he asked.
“With the hag stones, silly. There’s no other way.”
“The what?” Diane asked, but Wilma cleared her voice from the doorway.
“What are you going on about, child?” Wilma asked, resting a hand on her hip and planting a stern eye on her granddaughter.
Betsy smiled.
“The hag stones, Grandma Wilma. I was just telling these people, it’s the only way to find Uncle George’s cabin.”
Wilma did not relax into her seat, but sat perched on the edge. Her face looked drawn, as if she’d received bad news during her telephone call.
“I’m sorry to run you out after you’ve driven all this way, but my sister’s had a fall, and it’s best if Betsy and I go around to help her.”
“We understand,” Diane said politely, as Mack helped her into her coat.
“Mrs. Burns?” Mack asked from the doorway. “Do you know what Betsy means by hag stones?”
Wilma knotted her hands together, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
She gestured at her neck.
“George carried a bag of stones around his neck. He called them hag stones. He showed them to me once. Each had a little hole right in the center. The kids said if you held the stone up to your eye, you could see his cabin. If you took it away, it disappeared. I once asked George what the stones were for, and he rattled on for a half-hour about their abilities. He claimed they offered protection, could heal or cast curses. Perhaps the most interesting of all, he said you could gaze through the hole in the stones and see the dead.”
Chapter 19
Dead Stream Curse: A Northern Michigan Asylum Novel Page 12
