White Smoke

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  “Over here,” Yusef says in a low voice, standing by a wall of old black-and-white framed photos, similar to the ones in the hallway. Except these aren’t just of people; they’re of homes, buildings, and skylines. Pop-Pop must have taken all these when he was younger. Yusef points to a photo, a wide shot of a quaint street with beautiful antique mansion-style houses on either side.

  “This is Maple Street. Your Maple Street.”

  I do a legit double take.

  “What? No way,” I laugh, leaning in to spot our house, third one on the right. “Whoa!”

  Yusef taps the photo. “The houses on your block were owned by the Peoples family. Joe Peoples and Carmen Peoples. The Peoples had five children: Junior, Red, Norma, Ketch, Jon Jon. Mr. Peoples was a carpenter who loved to play the numbers. Until one day, he actually won the freaking lottery, which like never happens to anyone around here. With all that money, he bought each of his children a home on Maple Street and bought Mrs. Peoples her own bakery across the street from the library. Folks called it the Suga Shop.”

  He takes a deep breath, pointing to another picture. A young Black woman, petite, with long thick black hair, stands in front of the shop in a ruffled apron, hands on her hips and a wide proud smile.

  Ms. Suga . . .

  “No,” I gasp, recoiling.

  Yusef nods. “She was known for making some of the best pies in the state.”

  “Wh-what happened to them?”

  He takes a deep breath. “They say that Mr. Peoples died in some type of strange car accident. With him gone, all these white developers were lining up, trying to buy the houses from Ms. Suga, but she refused. One by one, three of the Peoples children ended up dying in some strange accident. Soon after . . . all these rumors started that the family actually got their money from selling drugs and the youngest son, Jon Jon, was going around, sneaking into people’s houses and touching little kids. Folks stopped going to the bakery. The Wood gave Ms. Suga the cold shoulder. Then, after Devil’s Night, after they found Seth Reed . . . some folks from the Wood . . . they cornered Jon Jon and set his house on fire. Ms. Suga, living next door, ran inside to save him. They never came out. Burned alive in the house . . . right next to yours.”

  My knees give in and I fall back on Pop-Pop’s bed before shooting back up quick, dusting my jeans.

  “Shit,” I mumble. “The boarded-up house!”

  Yusef struggles to continue the story. “But . . . it turned out all them kids were lying. Said some Russo mobsters paid them to make it all up. Jon Jon never touched any of them kids. But it was too late. Damage was already done.”

  “That’s insane! They didn’t just . . . wait, did you say ‘Russo’?”

  “Yeah. They used to run this city.”

  Still do, I think. Damn, this is a real-life nightmare.

  “So, no one went to the police and told them that the kids were lying?”

  He shook his head. “If anyone did . . . everyone in the Wood would’ve been up at Big Ville. So . . . there’s a silent pact around here. Folks taking what they know to their graves. Only reason I know . . . well, ’cause . . . Pop-Pop.”

  I blink, realization sinking in. “No. Dude . . . he didn’t.”

  Yusef rushes to explain. “He thought he was doing the right thing, you know? Thought he was protecting kids!”

  The information eating me alive, I choke back a sob. That poor family. Yusef crosses the room.

  “Anyway, after the house burnt up, they boarded it up, making it look like the others, so no one would ever know.”

  My jaw hangs open. “Oh God,” I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut, thinking of what Erika said. How bodies were still in homes, left to rot forever.

  “Folks been trying to ease the pain of their guilt for what they did ever since . . . in any way they can.”

  Drugs. That’s what he means. It’s why it hit this area so hard. And even after all that, most of the folks from the Wood still found themselves in Big Ville.

  Speechless, I try to collect my thoughts. Because there has to be some reasonable explanation how Piper would know all this. “Someone at school must have told Piper about Ms. Suga.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “But . . . it’s said that Ms. Suga has haunted all the homes on Maple Street ever since. That she was so angry about losing her family that she turned into the Hag. And if you talk bad about Ms. Suga or her children, she’ll haunt you in your dreams. No one even walks down that street, there’s been so many bodies found over the years. Folks are shook. Cali, if Ms. Suga is really haunting your house, you gotta be careful. She’s out for blood.”

  “‘And if you will indeed obey my commandments that I command you today, to love the Lord your God, and to serve him with all your heart and with all your soul, he will give the rain for your land in its season, the early rain and the later rain, that you may gather in your grain and your wine and your oil. And he will give grass in your fields for your livestock, and you shall eat and be full.’ —Deuteronomy, chapter 11, verse 13-15. You see, it says right here how the Lord plans to make good on his promises of miracles. He put angels in the form of mayors, governors alike, to protect you from sin, so that you may live a life of prosperity.”

  We walk out into the living room and I’m in a haze. The idea I’m living in a house with so much tragic history, right next to one with dead bodies still inside, makes me want to vomit. A part of me wants to go running into Mom’s arms. This should be enough of a reason to move. But I made a promise to Yusef not to tell anyone. Telling would only throw more people in prison. And I still haven’t fessed up about Erika.

  “You will always harvest what you plant in the Lord’s will. As you sow, so shall you reap. Those who do not follow the Lord’s will, will reap what they sow. That’s why if you call now, I will send you these anointed HOLY SEEDS. . . .”

  Pop-Pop is on a cordless phone, his voice light and chipper in a way I’ve never heard before.

  “Ahh yes, this here is Mr. Brown, senior. Calling to put in this week’s order.”

  We stand behind him, listening to him order five packets of Scott Clark’s miracle seeds as the infomercial plays on.

  “Why’d you let him waste his Social Security money on them stupid seeds?” I ask in a whisper.

  Yusef shrugs, taking two sodas out of the fridge. “He’s old. We let him do what he wants. Besides, he’s been at it for years.”

  “Can’t believe all these years and no one has gotten their seeds to grow. This man is running the biggest scam in Cedarville and the FBI hasn’t scooped him up.”

  He sips, staring at Pop-Pop. “He thinks his seeds don’t grow for him because of what he’s done. So . . . he’s spent his whole life trying to help other people grow their seeds, get their miracle.”

  I shake my head. “Scott Clark is setting people up to fail and have them pay for their own failure. But how does he expect anyone to reap if they can’t sow those bogus seeds? It’s total bullshit.”

  Yusef sighs. “Truth is, the ground is spoiled here, always has been.” He looks at me. “And you can’t grow where you’re not wanted.”

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Something hard hits the floor above me.

  But that’s impossible, because nothing is above me. Nothing but the roof.

  Thump thump ba-thump.

  There it goes again. Like a large sack of rice landed on the ceiling.

  Or a body . . .

  I stare up, willing my eyes to see through the plaster, and realize I’ve been trying to move my arms this entire time and can’t.

  Move, I order all my limbs, but they are defiant. It’s like my body is asleep but my mind is fully awake. Something is pressing me into the mattress, making it harder and harder to shake free.

  From the corner of my eye I can see a faint glow of orange coming from my window. The glow becomes brighter, blossoming, setting the dark room aglow.

  That’s when I see her. Standing in t
he corner, dressed in her apron, her hair in pin curls, hands dusted with baking flour, arm burnt to a crisp, drool dripping off her lip.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My lungs are cement bricks. Smoke drifts through the open window.

  Thump. Thump.

  She stands hunched over, a feral look in her eyes. The orange light grows brighter, revealing her face. And it isn’t drool dripping down her lip. It’s blood. It spills onto the floor by her bare feet. My stomach reels, gag reflexes pulling at the muscles in my neck, but I still can’t move. She throws a limp arm across her chest, hitting the blackened arm, and peels her dead skin back like a banana, exposing bloody muscle.

  The Hag! She’s here! And she wants my skin.

  As if reading my thoughts, she straightens, and I can hear every bone in her spine click into place.

  “Fire!” Alec screams, footsteps racing down the stairs. “Everyone out!”

  Wait. That’s his real voice. This isn’t a dream!

  “Marigold, hurry,” Mom calls as footsteps echo through the hall.

  They’re leaving me. They don’t know I can’t move! I can’t move, I can’t move. I’m . . . frozen. Stuck. Trapped.

  Thump thump. The room glows brighter.

  The stench of the Hag mixed with thick smoke makes my eyes water and I’m afraid I’ll choke on my own vomit before she kills me. She takes one step, her foot covered in black soot.

  “Help,” I scream, but it comes out as a strangled gargle.

  Another step. It’s hard for her to walk, but she’s determined to have me.

  I bite my tongue, holding my breath until I’m blue. She takes another step. The fire next door is jumping to our house, peppering the roof. The smoke is suffocating.

  Heart thrashing, I focus on moving one limb, straining, contracting every organ inward. If I can just break free then I can . . .

  Thump thump. THUMP!

  A painful exhale shoots out of my mouth. I cough and hack up air. The pressure easing, my limbs now free, I flop out of bed, falling flat on my face.

  Run! You have to run!

  But as soon as I look up . . . she’s gone. The room dark and freezing.

  Thump thump.

  Gasping, I stumble to my feet, legs like jelly, and pull myself to the window. The house next door is still boarded up tight . . . and not on fire. The giant tree that separates our properties looms above us; a loose branch tangled in vines dangles like a carrot, dancing on our roof. The wind must have knocked it free.

  “Shit,” I grumble.

  Buddy treks downstairs into the kitchen with me. I refill the teakettle and click on the burner. No sense in trying to sleep after all that. Caffeine isn’t the best cure for panicked nerves, but I never want to close my eyes again. If that was real, I could have died in the fire. I have to find some way to control this sleep paralysis.

  I set the instant coffee, sugar, almond cream, and my favorite coffee mug out on the counter. With another few minutes to kill before the water boils, I stroll around the perimeter of the first floor, taking it in as if for the first time, massaging my temples, trying to rub the images of Ms. Suga’s face out of my mind. The dream was so vivid. It felt like I was swimming through mud, sticks and branches caught in my throat. I could’ve died. . . .

  Stop it, Mari! She’s not real. This is all stress!

  At the front door, I quickly peek through the curtains. Sweets smiles at me from her new home on the porch. And in the distance, the dark truck is parked in the same spot again. Too far away and deep in the shadows to peep a license plate. I move into the sitting room, hoping for a better angle but . . . why should I pretend not to see this jerk? Whoever it is should know that this weird-ass snooping isn’t cool. Plus, after that horrible nightmare, I’ve had enough of the creepy bullshit.

  I yank open the front door and burst into the street at full speed. The truck flips on its brights, blinding me, then makes a shrieking U-turn, speeding away. Too fast for me to sprint after in my flip-flops.

  “Fuck!” I scream, at the corner, heart pounding and winded. Missed him again. Yusef said no one comes to our block but this asshole has no problem with it.

  A shadow catches my left eye. Someone just slipped out of sight, behind the secret garden. Or I think it was someone. The bushes are blocking my view. Could’ve been just a random shadow. Or maybe . . .

  “Hello?” I call out in a panic. Bugs shriek in the night air. A breeze ruffles the tops of the trees, leaves shower down on me. I flinch as one touches my shoulder and run back to the house.

  Buddy whines from the porch, unaccustomed to being outside without a leash. I grab his collar and pull him into the house, closing the door.

  Inside is silent. It takes a moment to process that I’m standing in darkness. The lights, they were on when I left. If someone turned them off, wouldn’t they wonder why I’m running through the streets in the middle of the night?

  Slowly, I wade through the hall and flick a switch. The teapot is off. It never whistled, never even boiled. The instant coffee, cream, and sugar I had taken out are all gone.

  And my mug is now sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor.

  Eighteen

  OKAY. SO MAYBE I’m in the middle of some super-cheesy horror movie. I’ve watched enough of them with Sammy to know the drill. We have all the basic elements: family moves to a new town and into an eerie house with a dark past.

  But something doesn’t feel right; it’s like the formula is . . . off. By now, we should’ve seen a levitating chair or at least heard some giggling dead kid in the walls. For the most part, nothing outrageous has happened.

  Well, except that whole basement door incident. And the wrinkled hand reaching into the shower. And the lights going out. And my mug . . .

  I can’t believe I’m about to do this.

  Thumbs tapping away, I start my research. It’s not that I don’t believe in ghosts; I’m sure they exist. But I’m not jumping up to tell other people that. Especially when those people already think I’m crazy, seeing bedbugs everywhere I go. This will only make it worse.

  Outside, the rain is pouring. I’ve checked several times to see if we’re in the middle of a hurricane, the way the wind is slapping the trees around.

  “Hey, Sammy,” I shout toward the door. “Can you take out the flashlights? Just in case.”

  Mom and Alec are on a double dinner date with Mr. Sterling and his wife, at Alec’s suggestion, leaving me home to babysit again. Piper hasn’t emerged from her room all night and Sammy has discovered some new series on Netflix, refusing to leave the sofa.

  But in my room, wrapped in my weighted blanket, I’m googling “how to know if your house is haunted.” If you had told me three months ago I would be moving to the Midwest, researching hauntings on a dark and stormy night . . . I would’ve asked for whatever bud you’re smoking, ’cause I want to be that baked too. But here we are!

  First article: “6 Telltale Signs Your House Might Be Haunted.”

  1. UNEXPLAINED NOISES OR SMELLS

  Welp. We definitely have that. That funky stench is not just coming from the basement. We’ve experienced it on the second floor too. I keep reading.

  2. MOVEMENT OF INANIMATE OBJECTS

  Doors opening and slamming on their own, the cabinets in the kitchen . . .

  I take a steady breath and scratch the inside of my arm. Okay, two out of six.

  3. EXTREME COLD OR HOT SPOTS

  Hm. Well, nothing too extreme. But then again . . . I’m always cold in here, so how would I even know the difference? Can’t count.

  4. STRANGE ANIMAL BEHAVIOR

  I glance up at Buddy’s spot on the bed, now empty as he cuddles with Sammy. Buddy has been acting weird since we’ve moved in here. The barking, whining, staring at nothingness . . .

  Three out of six. Not the worst.

  “Mari! Mari!” Sammy yells from downstairs.

  He probably can’t find the flashlights.

  “Yeah, o
ne second,” I say, and keep scrolling.

  5. FEELINGS OF BEING WATCHED, TOUCHED, OR EVEN PHYSICAL ASSAULT

  Yes, no, and . . . no. Other than my pride, no physical harm. And even I can admit my paranoia can be a little . . . intense.

  6. ELECTRICAL PROBLEMS

  My blood turns into snow, thinking of the night I hung out with Yusef and Erika at the beach. The way all the lights clicked off. I brushed it off as faulty electrical work. Still could be.

  At that very moment, the lights flicker, static hissing.

  Okay. Soooo . . . maybe our house is haunted.

  With a deep breath, I open a new search tab: “What to do if your house is haunted?” Scanning an article, I zero in on a line midway through . . .

  If not done properly, burning sage can aggravate spirits. You may even see more activity. Proceed with caution.

  Crap.

  “Mari! Mari, come here! Quick!” Sammy yells.

  What is he up to now? And damn, why is it so cold in here? Is the boiler broke?

  “Mari, are you coming? Hurry up!”

  “Coming, I’m coming!” I grumble, locking the screen.

  The rain roars outside, clapping against the windows. Sammy has every light on in the house, something he does when he’s scared but doesn’t want to admit it. I chuckle and head down the hall.

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  But the first floor is empty. The TV is on, episode five still playing, and Sammy . . . nowhere to be seen. No sign of Buddy either. They couldn’t have gone upstairs without me noticing. Those stairs would let us know ants were climbing up them. He definitely called me from down here . . . although he did sound far away. Farther than usual. I turn off the TV and take in the room.

  “Sam?”

  Silence. The kind of silence that feels heavy and loaded. On the sofa, a bowl of popcorn is tipped over, kernels spilled onto the rug, the throw blanket still warm. An icy sensation crawls up the back of my neck as rolling thunder makes the glass cabinets shake.

  Something is wrong.

  “Sam,” I call, louder this time, patting my pockets for the phone that’s still upstairs on the charger. Maybe he took Buddy for a walk? Which makes no sense, but nothing has been making sense lately. Lightning flashes, the back windows like a wall of black mirrors reflecting the stillness of the house: a silver teapot on the gas stove, pans hanging from the ceiling rack, a metal basket of Red Delicious apples on the table bathed in warm light. Pulse throbbing, I approach my reflection in the deck door, cupping my eyes to peer out into the darkness. Trees violently whip in the wind, a hectic dance. Inside, the house is calm, picturesque. Then something clicks behind me.