The Clearing

by Tom Deady

  “I love you, Ash, thanks.” Hannah sniffed and rubbed her eyes, pulling away from her.

  “I love you, too, Hannah. But don’t get all weird on me, okay?” Ashley said in her old, wise-ass voice. The moment was over.

  Hannah laughed and cried a little more. “Sorry, you’re not my type.” She pulled out her iPhone and brought up the flashlight app. “Wanna see something gross?”

  “Holy crap. What the beep is that?” Ashley blurted.

  Hannah wanted to giggle at Ashley’s creativity in her near-swears, but it didn’t seem as funny out in the woods at night with a rotting human body part nearby. “It’s exactly what it looks like.” Hannah was a little surprised another animal hadn’t come and taken it for a prize.

  “Where did it come from?” Ashley grabbed a stick and poked at the sneaker.

  “Scout dragged it out of the trees up ahead a little.” Hannah pointed, but Ashley was too busy examining the thing.

  Ashley made a gagging noise.

  Hannah ignored it. “I was thinking,” she said in her best mysterious voice, “what if it’s a kid that got lost in the woods and was never found? Or...” She paused for drama. “Maybe a kid that was kidnapped, or murdered.”

  An owl hooted close by, followed by the whooshing of wings.

  “Come on, Hannah, stop screwing around. Is this a joke?” Ashley’s confidence had slipped—Hannah heard it in her tone.

  A pang of guilt for being so mysterious about the whole thing gave Hannah pause. “No, I swear, Scout found it this morning. I was going to tell Dad—”

  “Wait,” Ashley interrupted. “You didn’t tell your dad? You didn’t call the police?”

  Hannah flushed, and she was glad Ashley couldn’t see it. “Come on, Ash, it’s so boring around here—”

  “Oh, screw this, Hannah. You want to play Nancy Drew?”

  This time Hannah did giggle. “I was thinking more like the Winchester brothers, but Nancy Drew works, too. We can try to figure out who it is and what happened for the rest of the summer. If we don’t get anywhere, we tell Dad and call the police. The kid isn’t going to be any deader than he already is.”

  This time Ashley laughed. “You’re a weirdo, but I guess you’re right. Maybe we’ll be local heroes. Get our fifteen minutes of fame.”

  Hannah buzzed with nervous excitement. She had half expected Ashley to ridicule the whole idea and talk her into telling Dad right away. Now that she had a partner, she was psyched. “Okay, but you can’t tell anyone, promise? I think it’s probably against the law not to report it, but if we figure out who it is, we’ll be so famous they probably won’t care that we waited.”

  “Why would I tell anyone about something as demented as this?”

  Hannah laughed. The note of excitement in Ashley’s voice told her she was just teasing. Something rustled the bushes deeper into the woods. Hannah glanced at Ashley; she’d heard it too. A moment later, something scurried away.

  Am I really cut out for this sort of thing?

  “So, Nancy, where do we start looking for clues?” Ashley asked.

  Hannah didn’t have to think about her answer—she’d been planning all day. “Step one: the library.”

  Ashley groaned. “That’s like homework. Can’t we just, like, interview people? Maybe there are some cute boys that might know something about this?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I’m glad you mentioned interviews, partner. It just so happens that was step two. But the first interview is Mrs. Bayole.”

  Ashley groaned again. “Mama Bayole, you are insane. She might be the one who killed whoever’s foot this is! Nuh-uh, no way, not happening.”

  Hannah shrugged. “No worries, wimpy, I’ll talk to her. But that leaves you with library duties.”

  “It’s a deal.” She sighed. “But don’t get yourself turned into a zombie or something at her house, I don’t want to have to solve that mystery too. Not to mention the pain of having to break in a new best friend.”

  Hannah laughed and punched Ashley’s shoulder. “Fair enough, I’ll make a note in the case log not to get turned into a zombie. Now let’s get back before Dad figures out we snuck out and has a bird.”

  Ashley puttered around the house after Mr. Green dropped her off, unable to focus on anything. Both her parents were home, making it an excruciatingly uncomfortable place to be. She glanced at her phone. Good, the library will be open soon.

  Ashley winced when she heard her father raise his voice from the bedroom. They were both packing for their trip, and it wasn’t going well based on what Ashley had heard so far.

  She popped in her ear buds and turned up the volume on her phone, the hip-hop drowning out her parents’ misery. Ashley knew the trip wasn’t just a vacation, it was a last ditch save-the-marriage excursion. No kids allowed. That part Ashley was okay with—she’d get to spend more time with Hannah and not have to think about which parent she wanted to live with when they split up.

  “Mom? Dad? I’m going out,” she called as she passed by the bedroom.

  The door swung open and Ashley pulled out an ear bud.

  “Where are you off to?”

  Her mother’s voice trembled, and her eyes were swollen from crying.

  Ashley bit her lower lip, her eyes filling with tears. Anger and sadness fought for control.

  “I’m meeting some friends at the park. We’ll probably get lunch at May’s.”

  “Okay, sweetie, have fun.” Her mother closed the door.

  Ashley put her earbuds back in and cranked the volume, storming down the stairs and out the door, choking back an angry sob. Her anger ebbed as she walked and was replaced by a desperate sadness. She slowed her stride, trying to enjoy the waning summer. The thought of returning to school and not being in the same classes as Hannah only pulled her deeper into despair.

  The tree-lined streets offered plenty of shade, but the day was muggy and hot. Ashley slowed her pace again, not wanting to be covered in sweat when she got to the library. She turned onto Maple Street, one of the older neighborhoods in Hopeland. The houses were larger and well kept, set back on expansive emerald carpets. This was the land of gardeners and underground sprinkler systems to maintain appearance. Ashley wondered what went on behind the closed doors of these houses. Were there unhappy children whose parents fought? Did the money make it any better?

  A chocolate lab puppy, gangly and clumsy, ran toward her from one of the driveways. She smiled despite her glum mood, thinking of Scout when he’d been a puppy. A whistle sounded from the yard, beyond where Ashley could see, and the puppy turned with a sad glance at her, bouncing up the driveway.

  A couple of turns later and Ashley was approaching downtown Hopeland. The library was just ahead, and Ashley realized she was looking forward to the cool, dry comfort of the old building. Beats this three-H bullshit, she thought, remembering the weatherman’s almost deliriously gleeful forecast of “hazy, hot, and humid.”

  She climbed the steps and entered the library, idly wondering why the door was so big and heavy. It wasn’t a fortress, just a library. She made her way to the research room, imagining the stares of the few patrons that were there this early. She felt like an imposter.

  Fighting the urge to log into Instagram, she opened the website for the Hopeland Journal and began searching for an article about a missing girl. The website’s search function was dog slow and regardless of what keywords she entered, the answer was always the same:

  Zero results found. Try another search.

  She looked around for a librarian and spotted a thirty-something woman speaking to an older man who looked very confused. The woman’s expression was one of sheer annoyance. “So much for your friendly neighborhood librarian,” Ashley muttered.

  She tried The New Hampshire Union Leader, thinking there might be something there, an opinion piece or editorial about the missing girl. She came up empty again.

  Next, she tried Google, but no matter what she put in for search criteria, the resul
ts seemed unrelated to what she was looking for.

  “Shit,” she muttered, louder than intended.

  An elderly woman peeked around the corner, about to admonish Ashley, then her expression changed.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Ashley brightened. It was another librarian. One that doesn’t have resting bitch face.

  “Um, yes, that would be great,” she said with a smile.

  The woman placed the books she was holding on a nearby table and stood next to Ashley.

  “What is it that you’re looking for that evokes such harsh language?”

  Ashley felt the color rising in her cheeks but couldn’t hide a grin.

  “Sorry about that,” she said earnestly. “I just can’t seem to find anything in the newspapers, local or state-wide. There’s this story my cousin told me,” she went on, the white lie forming as she spoke, “about a girl that went missing around here a few years ago. I think it’s just one of those...”

  “Urban legends,” the older woman suggested.

  “Yes, exactly. Anyway, I was just curious...”

  “Here,” the woman said, shooing Ashley out of the chair. “You let Mrs. Cheevers show you how to do it.”

  Ashley stood and let the woman have her chair. She watched over her shoulder as the woman opened Google’s Advanced Search window and began filling in different fields. She hit enter and Ashley stared at the results.

  “Whoa,” Ashly said in amazement. “You’re pretty cool for—”

  “For an old lady?” Mrs. Cheevers said with a mischievous grin.

  Ashley smiled. “No, for a librarian.”

  They both laughed as Mrs. Cheevers scanned the results.

  “Well, it looks like your cousin wasn’t just spinning a yarn after all.”

  Ashley frowned, leaning in closer to see the computer screen. The article was from the Hopeland Journal, after all.

  “Why didn’t this show up when I searched the newspaper’s website?” Ashley was half-curious and half-annoyed.

  Mrs. Cheevers chuckled in that sort of chuckle that only old ladies seem to have mastered. “Their search engine is ca-ca. Always use Google, honey.”

  Ashley laughed out loud, then glanced around sheepishly, waiting to be shushed. Hey, I’m with the librarian. It’s okay.

  The back of Ashley’s neck went all tickly. Someone is watching me. She turned quickly and found herself staring into the face of the other librarian.

  The woman jerked back and turned, grabbing the books Mrs. Cheevers had set down on the table.

  “I’ll just finish shelving these for you, Mrs. Cheevers, unless you need my help with anything?”

  The woman’s voice was cheery and she wore a smile, but there was something not quite right about the smile. It stopped at her lips while her eyes remained cold and hard.

  Mrs. Cheevers turned, her eyes narrowed, deep wrinkles creasing her forehead.

  “Thanks, Kristi. I’m just helping this young lady with a school project. We won’t be long.”

  The other woman, Kristi, flashed another cold grin and stepped away.

  She was spying on us, Ashley thought, trying to see what we were looking up.

  Mrs. Cheevers had turned back to the monitor to finish reading the story. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused until the younger librarian walked away.

  “The girl’s name was Abigail Hart. She didn’t live in Hopeland. She was from Silverton but had just moved there a few months before she disappeared. According to the article, Abigail had run into some sort of trouble in Concord.”

  Ashley had heard of Silverton but it wasn’t exactly nearby. What was Abigail doing in Hopeland? She made sure the other librarian was still out of earshot. “What sort of trouble?”

  “She’d been suspended from school a couple of times. Once, they found drugs in her locker. Marijuana. She swore up and down it wasn’t hers. A few weeks later, she was involved in a fight in the cafeteria. Abigail said it was because of the marijuana. The girl she had the fight with was the one she said planted the drugs in her locker.”

  Ashley grunted noncommittally. Wouldn’t anyone caught with drugs say they were planted?

  “According to the Abigail’s parents, she had never been in trouble before. They threatened to sue the school. It looks like they reached a settlement: the Harts would take Abigail out of the school, and the two incidents would be expunged from her record so transfer would be easier.”

  Ashley stretched her back while she considered this. She twisted her head from side to side, then froze. The other librarian, Kristi, was glaring at her from across the room. She was talking on her cell phone, but her eyes were glued on Ashley.

  Who did she call?

  Ashley stared back, but the woman would not look away, and her twitching legs started to all-out tremble.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  The voice seemed miles away. Then Ashley was sitting in the chair with Mrs. Cheevers hovering over her. She stared up at the old woman.

  How did we switch places?

  She turned around, but Kristi was gone. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cheevers, I’m okay. Just got a little dizzy for a minute.” She hated the fear in her voice.

  “Are you ill? Shall I call someone?”

  The old woman’s eyes were wide with concern, all the color gone from her face.

  “No, really, I’m okay.” Ashley turned back to the monitor. “Was there anything else about Abigail Hart?”

  Mrs. Cheevers watched Ashley, searching her face for something.

  “There’s another story” —she gestured toward the computer screen— “about some rumors that there was a cult in Silverton, sacrificing animals. The reporter tried to tie that girl’s disappearance to the cult.” The old woman rolled her eyes. “It didn’t hold any water, just someone trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame by breathing life into the old Satanic Panic nonsense.”

  Ashley nodded. She’d not only heard of the Satanic Panic but had watched a bunch of the old movies that had started it. She stood, her legs still a little wobbly.

  “Thank you so much for the help, Mrs. Cheevers. I think I’d be still sitting here staring at ‘no results found’ if you hadn’t come along.”

  She smiled, genuinely appreciative of the help.

  Mrs. Cheevers gave her a long, appraising look.

  “You’re welcome...”

  Ashley blushed. “I’m so sorry. My name is Ashley. Ashley Wallace.” She reached out a hand and was surprised at the old woman’s strong grip when they shook.

  The old woman smiled, making her look much younger.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ashley Wallace, and a pleasure to help out.” Mrs. Cheevers’ face darkened. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.

  There was real alarm in the librarian’s voice.

  Ashley nodded. “I’m fine, really. I might be back to do more research in the next few days, I’d love to have you here to help.”

  Patches of color flared in the woman’s cheeks. “Why, thank you, Ashley. It would be my pleasure.”

  Ashley said her goodbyes and left, keeping an eye out for Kristi.

  Wait until I tell Hannah.

  Hannah walked slowly down the old dirt road to Mama Bayole’s place. The day was overcast but hot, the humidity oppressive. It wasn’t the weather that slowed her down, it was the destination.

  Dad had driven Ashley home and taken Hannah shopping for back-to-school clothes. The idea of summer ending, school starting, and winter following too soon after had her down. She’d listlessly picked out a few outfits and some school supplies, anxious to get started on the investigation. Now that it was time to talk to Mama Bayole, her enthusiasm had diminished. Disappeared.

  For as long as Hannah could remember, Mama Bayole had been at the heart of every scary campfire tale in Hopeland. She knew the stories were probably all made up, but there was that part of her that wondered. She shivered, wishing she had Scout with her, but M
ama Bayole had goats and chickens running loose and she didn’t want Scout to cause a scene.

  From a distance, Mama Bayole’s farm looked like something on a postcard. The sprawling house was the centerpiece, with an old New England barn in the background, framed by small fields of corn and tomatoes and other vegetables that Mama Bayole sold at the local Farmer’s Market. Hannah knew that because she often went to the market out of sheer boredom. Creepy stories aside, Hannah figured Mama Bayole was just a lonely old woman who liked to mind her own business. The only reason she wanted to talk to her was because of her proximity to the area where Scout found the sneaker. Well, that and the creepy stories she’d heard about the old woman.

  As she approached, the postcard picture changed into something else. Something that you might see on a “haunted places” website. Hannah marveled at how rundown the farm was. Her own house was no mansion, but this place didn’t even look livable. The front porch sagged under the weight of a few broken-down rocking chairs, half of the windows were boarded up and the house had faded to the point where it had no color at all. Tangled crabgrass clung to the sides, all but obscuring a small basement window. An old wreck of a car—just the shell, really—decorated the lawn, along with an ancient washing machine and refrigerator.

  Beyond the house, the fields looked overgrown and untended. The old red barn’s paint was faded, and it looked one or two New England winters away from collapse. There was no sign of any goats or chickens, no sign of life at all. She wiped the sweat off her brow and tried to push back the fear that gnawed at her gut. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, didn’t know how she knew it, but felt it as strong as any intuition she’d ever had. She turned to head home when she heard a sickly screech.

  Hannah looked up and saw the screen door was open. Mama Bayole stood on the stoop. The door slammed shut with another ugly squeal. Bayole pinned Hannah with an intense gaze. “You lost, little white girl?”