by Jared Millet
Behind the display were shelves lined with curios just like in Lindsey’s grandmother’s house. Tiny porcelain cherubs lounged on sculpted clouds while petite, painted toddlers played endless games of hopscotch. How many people still collected such things, and what would happen to them when those who cherished them had all gone to dust?
She snapped out of her reverie at a reflection over her shoulder. He was a man with medium-brown skin, maybe thirty or forty years old. His nose was narrow, his face angular, and his smile sheepishly refused to break into a grin. She didn’t know him, but he was somehow familiar.
“Excuse me,” he said, “are you Miss Destrehan?”
“Yes?”
“I want to thank you for finding my son. I’m Tony Allen, Ray’s father.”
“Oh! Sure, no problem. I mean, I’m just glad he’s safe. How is he?”
“He’s doing fine. He keeps talking about the pretty lady he met in the storm.”
“Well, I’m glad I made an impression.” It suddenly clicked why Tony was there. “Wait, is Ray one of the kids in the day care? I must have seen him all summer and didn’t recognize him.”
“Do you work with the kids?”
“No, just the gallery. Why don’t you come in and have a look?”
They entered the theater just as the children and their teenage herders had gathered in the lobby for their parents to pick them up. Ray ran to his father carrying a work of art made from a paper plate and dry macaroni that looked oddly like a Picasso. Tony picked him up and the boy draped his arm over his father’s shoulder.
“Hey Ray, look who’s here.”
Lindsey waved.
“Remember me?”
Ray shook his head.
“Yes you do,” said Tony. “It’s the lady from the storm.”
“That not the piddy lady. The piddy lady’s in the pitcher.”
Tony shrugged. “Don’t mind him. I don’t know what goes on in his head.”
“You want to see some art, Ray?” Lindsey put on her best talking-to-kids smile and hoped she didn’t look like the Joker. Ray nodded.
The gallery was in the theater itself. The seats had long been removed and the paintings were laid out in a maze.
“This is nice,” said Tony as he set Ray down. “We’ve only been in town since Christmas. I didn’t even know this was here.”
“We’re getting ready for a show in September. Weather permitting, we’ll move the paintings out to City Park. Right now this is where we store them.”
“Daddy!” shouted Ray. He’d ignored the paintings to go running behind the stage curtain. “Come lookit! It’s Heaven Man.”
“Heaven Man?” asked Lindsey. “What’s that, some new super-hero?”
“I don’t know,” said Tony. “He’s really smart and all summer he’s been making stuff up. His teacher says he ought to go into acting.”
“Well, this is the place for it.”
“Daddy, lookit Heaven Man! He’s got a skull.”
“Ray?” said Lindsey. “What are you getting into, honey?”
She and Tony stepped around the curtain to find Ray beaming at a poster for a local production of Hamlet back in the Seventies. The posters were something of a joke, since the printer had inserted the wrong dialog for each scene. The one Ray had found was of Hamlet holding Yorick’s skull, but the caption read There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
“Heaven Man,” repeated Ray.
“Why are you calling him that?” asked Lindsey. Then it struck her. “Ray, can you read what it says?”
“More fings in heaven and earth.”
“Told you he was smart,” said Tony.
“You weren’t kidding.”
“I’s smart as a button,” Ray declared. “That’s what the piddy lady says.”
They dragged him down from the stage and back to the gallery floor. Something bothered Lindsey, and Tony must have felt it too from the glance he gave her.
“Son, does the pretty lady work in your day care?”
“Naw, she’s in the pitcher. She only comes out when it rains. That’s cuz she’s made of water.” Ray giggled and pointed at one of the paintings. “That one’s funny.”
It crossed Lindsey’s mind that imaginary friends were healthy at Ray’s age, but not if he used them as an excuse to run away from home. That assumed, of course, that it was an imaginary friend and not a real person.
“Tony,” she said, “I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I can figure who he’s talking about.”
“I’d be thankful for that. Come on, son, it’s time to go.”
~
It didn’t rain for weeks, not until Tropical Storm Drake came ashore between Fort Walton and Destin. Craft didn’t even close down, but the western heading of the storm’s path brought a deluge all the same.
Lindsey volunteered to cover at the daycare. Attendance was low. Only the children of people who had to work had turned up. Even so, it wasn’t easy to keep an eye on Ray, what with the constant distraction of other children needing help with art projects, getting in fights, or having to go potty. Ray didn’t beg for attention. Mostly he sat on a bench by the window and looked outside at the rain. Occasionally he waved. When Lindsey went to see who he was looking at, she saw nothing but shrubs and the building next door.
By the end of the day, as she tried to keep her charges from tearing the theater lobby apart, Lindsey had developed a new respect for people who worked with children. By the exit, a poster of Hamlet’s ghost leered with unmitigated menace.
Angels and ministers of grace defend us. Given the chaos around her, Lindsey found the caption completely appropriate.
Eventually Ray was the only child left and Mrs. Babineaux was ready to close. Lindsey worried. It wasn’t like Tony to be late, but in the backwash of a tropical cyclone there were plenty of good explanations. As if to punctuate her fears, a miniature whirlwind twirled like a ballerina down the street. The phone rang and Mrs. Babineaux answered.
“Hello? Oh, Mr. Allen. Yes, he’s still here. No, I’m afraid it’s against our policy to stay late. You’ll be charged a fee for every five minutes after four o’clock. I understand about your tire, sir, but we can’t bend the rules.”
Why don’t you take him home?
“Why don’t I take him home?” Lindsey said. “Give Tony my address and he can pick him up there.”
Mrs. Babineaux scowled. “I’m afraid that’s also against policy. Day care staff–”
“But I’m not staff, I’m just filling in. And besides, I’m a friend of the family.” That was a stretch, but she hoped not too much. She slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up Ray with her other arm. “It’ll be fine, just tell him to come by my house when he can.”
She buckled Ray into the back seat. Hopefully the cops would be too busy to pull her over. For that matter, there were more than a dozen reasons she might get in trouble for running off with another person’s child. She hadn’t even asked Tony’s permission. What had she been thinking?
It didn’t matter now. The day care was closed, the theater locked, and a toddler she barely knew was warming the seat of her car. All she could do was head home, order some pizza, wait for Tony, and hope he didn’t get angry.
The wind picked up just as she turned into her driveway. The carport was dark, so she bundled Ray out of her Beetle and told him not to run off while she fumbled for the house key.
Ray giggled. “Hey, piddy lady!” Lindsey smiled, turned the knob, and opened the door.
GET THAT TRASH OUT
The force of the command pushed her backward two steps. It was deep, angry, like a boom of thunder. The inside of the house was cold and black, but what really made her want to run was that there hadn’t been a voice at all, just words resounding in her head.
I SAID GET THAT TRASH OUT
Ray giggled and ran for the door. If he went inside he’d die, somehow Lindsey knew it. She dove after him and threw her arms
around his shoulders as they both fell to the floor. He cried in surprise and started to wail. Lindsey looked around for the intruder and hoped that they still had time to get away.
On the far side of the room, a porcelain vase rose from a table, angled itself as if someone were about to swing it, and flew straight at her through the air.
In the last possible instant, she twisted and sheltered Ray. The vase smashed against her head and light exploded in her eyes. Something heavier struck her back with the stealth of a baseball. A third object, sharper than the others, jabbed her in the shoulder and fell to the floor. A wind like the breath of a giant gathered around her to the sound of glass, pewter, and plaster cracking. All the while, a deep, dark voice hammered in her mind.
OUT OUT OUT
Lindsey ran out the door, Ray screaming in her arms. She tossed him into her car and didn’t bother with the seatbelt as she cranked the startled engine and floored it in reverse. The back of her head was warm and wet, and she felt like she was about to pass out. She slammed her brakes at the end of the drive and sat with her eyes on the house while her fingers scratched 9-1-1 on her cell.
~
The dumbest thing anyone did in scary movies was not to leave once they learned their house was haunted. Lindsey didn’t mention the ghost to Officer Rice, but stuck to her story about an intruder. The police didn’t keep her for questioning – there were too many “stupid people driving in the rain” calls that evening – but they did seal her house and return Ray to his father. Rice didn’t grill her for taking Ray from the day care; the disappointed look he gave her was enough. He asked her not to leave town until they’d had a chance to chat, and repeated his offer of the hotel with the police discount. This time she took him up on it.
She didn’t sleep. The hotel never lost power, so she flipped between weather reports while shivering under the covers. Her chill was only partly from the ice pack on her head.
The next day was as clear and blue as she could want. All of Lindsey’s possessions were locked in the house, so she bought a change of clothes at Wal-Mart and headed to the Art Center to hand in her resignation.
Mrs. Babineaux’s office looked more like a parlor for serving afternoon tea than conducting business. An antique roll-top hid the day care’s pesky paperwork, and a light green tablecloth draped the desk. There were even lace doilies.
Lindsey told the story of the attack as briefly and vaguely as she could. Mrs. Babineaux took it with a show of concern, but not surprise. Lindsey explained that she was too shaken by the incident, on top of the one before, and that she’d decided to sell the house and move back home.
“Was it the father?” Mrs. Babineaux asked. Lindsey couldn’t make sense of the question.
“The father. What, you mean Mr. Allen? Absolutely not. How could you think such a thing?”
“That’s not what I meant at all dear. I’m sorry you misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood what?”
The older woman sighed. “Never mind. Best to let old ghosts lie.”
Old ghosts. Maddy knew something, but Lindsey didn’t have the will to ferret it out. That could only dig her deeper into a mess she wanted out of, so she decided not to press.
“Well,” she said, “I guess I’ll be going. I need to see about a real estate agent.”
“You do that, dear. Let me know if you need any recommendations.”
She slipped out the door and headed to the lobby, thinking this was the last time she’d ever see the place. It was a shame; she’d been looking forward to the art show. She glanced at one of the Hamlet posters and wondered if she should steal one as a memento.
She froze at the image: a young woman in white with straight, yellow hair and an ethereal look as she lifted her eyes to the stage lights. The character had to be Ophelia, but she bore a striking resemblance to the woman Lindsey had seen in the rain. The caption on the poster read, That he is mad, ‘tis true: ‘tis true ‘tis pity.
“‘Tis pity,” Lindsey read aloud. “The pity lady. My god, the pity lady.” She turned and ran back to Mrs. Babineaux.
“Why, that was your aunt Savannah,” was her answer. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you about her?”
“My mother never told me anything.” She didn’t mean to sound as bitter as she felt, but there was no helping it.
“Well, your aunt was quite a bit older. She did that play when your mother was just a child. After that, she left town for a year or two, and it was quite the scandal when she came back.”
“How so?”
“You sure you want to hear this?”
Lindsey nodded.
“Now you got to understand, your family’s one of the oldest in Craft. Not rich, but respected. Her father, your grandfather, felt he had a certain reputation to live up to. I wouldn’t call your aunt a hippie, but she was certainly a free spirit and the gossip was that Mr. Destrehan didn’t like the company she was keeping.”
“You mean actors?”
Maddy smiled. “Just so.”
Come to think of it, her mother had never talked about her grandfather. In her grandmother’s house, there weren’t even any pictures of him. It hadn’t struck her as odd until now. She knew he’d died before she was born, but her mother never said how. Lindsey had never cared to ask. Mrs. Babineaux leaned forward as if someone might listen and went on.
“This was the summer of ’79. Your aunt came home from wherever she’d run off to and the next door neighbor heard a row. Miss Savannah was seen driving off in some beat-up old Pinto and Mr. Destrehan drove off himself right after.”
“What did he do?” She already had a guess.
“No one knew at first. They found your aunt washed up in a storm drain, but initially they thought she drowned during Frederic.”
“Who’s Frederic?”
Mrs. Babineaux paused. “Hurricane Frederic, dear. Then it came out from the coroner that she hadn’t drowned, she’d been strangled. And before the police could ask your granddaddy about it, he went and shot himself.”
Lindsey couldn’t believe it. Why hadn’t she ever heard any of this? Her mother must have seen the whole thing, at least the fight, even if she was just a kid.
“Where did he shoot himself?” she asked.
“In the head, dear.”
“No, I mean where was he?”
“Oh, he was in the living room.”
“Jesus. So you knew my house was haunted all this time?”
“Now don’t raise your voice. I didn’t know any such thing. I just put two and two together when you came in here. Your gran kept a lot of old memories in that house, and to tell the truth I’ve seen Savannah myself from time to time.”
“But you said you didn’t know the house was haunted.”
“Your aunt doesn’t haunt that house, dear. She died in the rain, and that’s where people see her.”
~
Leaving Craft wasn’t as easy as Lindsey hoped. Yes, she could have jumped in her car and hit the road, but there were bills to pay, utilities to shut off, and mail to forward, not to mention the tax issues of a two thousand square foot home that was no longer a primary residence. After all, what was the wrath of a murderous ghost compared to her credit rating?
Eventually Mrs. Babineaux talked her into staying in Craft until the art show on Labor Day. She offered her, free of charge, an apartment above the theater’s dressing room that had once belonged to the building supervisor. The floor was bare except for dust, there were no springs for the mattress on the old single bed, and the window A/C had died in its sleep. Still, the shower had hot water, the electric worked, and if she opened the windows, the breeze at night made it cool enough to sleep. The room even had a working mini-fridge with three forgotten cans of beer.
At first she avoided Mr. Allen whenever he came to get Ray, but eventually she gathered the courage to apologize. She didn’t lie about there being an intruder. Instead, she told him the truth. He took it better than she’d hoped. At least he didn’t c
all her crazy to her face.
“So this pity lady Ray’s been seeing?”
“I’ll show you.”
Lindsey took him to the poster of Ophelia. Tony jerked backward when he saw it, then he reached out and brushed the actress’s face with his fingers.
“I know her. I’ve seen her. I know I have. Does she still work here?”
“No, that’s what I’m telling you. That’s my Aunt Savannah. She died over thirty years ago.”
“And Ray’s been seeing this… ghost?”
Lindsey nodded.
“I’ve seen her too, but not in my house. That was something meaner.”
“This is crazy.” There it was. “No, I believe what you’re saying, but I can’t see why this is happening. Why should my boy be tied up in this? We’re not even from here.”
“What made you move here?”
“I don’t know. Had to move somewhere, and this place just felt right.”
“Do you mind if I ask about Ray’s mother?”
“At a rehab clinic in California, I think.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re making it. My daddy raised me by himself, so I’m doing the same for Ray.”
“Maybe if he’s looking for a mother figure, that’s why he’s drawn to her.” Lindsey shook her head. “I don’t know. Why should any of this ghost crap make sense?”
“I’m sure it makes sense to somebody,” Tony said. “But whoever that is ain’t me.”
~
The art show drew closer. Lindsey found an agent to take care of her house and hired a service to clean it and bring out her things. She didn’t tell them why she wouldn’t go in herself, or else she’d have to hire a priest. Would that even work?
Meanwhile, she checked the weather obsessively. In July, Tropical Storm Evelyn formed off the coast of Puerto Rico and made its way toward Miami, but it veered north in the Bahamas and bounced harmlessly into the Atlantic. As soon as it was gone, Fritz developed in the Gulf, but the winds blew it west before it gained any strength.
