by Erica Waters
“Good morning,” I say.
Miss Patty opens the door all the way but doesn’t invite me in. “Come to apologize?” she says in her creaky voice.
“For what?” I ask, even though I’m breaking about thirty Southern ideals by speaking to her that way, even if she is a bitter old hag.
Miss Patty raises her eyebrows and I gather up all my anger and stuff it into some dark pocket of my heart. I don’t have time for it today. “Of course, Miss Patty. I apologize for being rude to you at Jim’s funeral. It was an emotional day.”
“Well, all right then. I wouldn’t be a Christian woman if I didn’t forgive even the worst of sinners.”
I somehow manage not to roll my eyes as she steps back to let me in.
She shuffles to the kitchen and turns on the light. “Well, what is it? You’re interrupting my praise time.”
I pull the picture from my pocket and hand it to her. “I was wondering if you could please tell me about this picture. It’s my daddy’s family.”
Miss Patty puts on a pair of ancient reading glasses and peers at the picture for about a hundred years. “What about it?”
“Is there someone missing from it? There, beside my aunt?”
“Well, I don’t see anyone—oh! Oh, oh, I had forgotten about the other little girl.”
A bolt of lightning runs through me. “What girl?”
“The other sister, the one who died so young. She broke her mama’s heart, wrecked that whole family. A wicked child.”
A shiver starts working its way up my spine with tiny, chilly fingers. “What was her name?”
“I’m an old woman now. I forget so many things. But she was a terror—always into trouble, always driving her poor parents mad. No discipline could stop her. That’s how she died—up to some mischief or another, and it ended badly for her. When you invite the devil into your home, you shouldn’t be surprised when—”
I try to bite down my impatience, but I can’t help but interrupt. “You can’t remember her name at all?”
Miss Patty goes back to staring at the picture. “Brenda? Belinda? Who can say?”
“Was it—was it Brandy?” I hold my breath.
Miss Patty snaps her wrinkled fingers. “Brandy! Yes. What a child, named after the devil’s drink, no wonder, no wonder. A trashy name.”
“Thank you,” I say, before she can launch into another one of her evil speeches. I pull the picture from her hand. “Have a nice day,” I add, rushing for the front door.
Miss Patty is still muttering about the rudeness of wicked children when I close the door, collect my fiddle from the porch, and bolt back into the trees. She might have been able to tell me more, but I don’t want to hear her warped version of my family’s history.
Brandy was Daddy and Aunt Ena’s sister. A sister who died young, a sister whose name they never spoke. She’s the source of all their guilt and their pain. She’s the secret our family’s been sinking into for thirty years or more.
She’s the next ghost I need to raise.
When I’m out of hearing range of Miss Patty’s, about halfway back to Aunt Ena’s, I stop and lean against a pine tree. The ghosts whisper and stir around me, drawn by the presence of the fiddle. Is Brandy here, too, waiting for someone to help her? Waiting to tell someone what happened to her all those years ago?
I’m about to unclasp Daddy’s fiddle case when a twig snaps under someone’s boot. I swing around, my heart in my throat.
“What the hell, Cedar?” I say, automatically hiding the fiddle behind my back.
“I could say the same to you.” There’s no flirtation in his voice, no laugh on his lips. “You took off—with everything going on, you took off. And here you are out here with that fiddle again.”
“How did you even find me?”
“I’ve been hunting since I was five. It wasn’t any harder to track you than a deer.” When I don’t say anything, he comes closer. “What are you doing, Shady?”
“I went to see this old neighbor of ours, to ask her about the picture. And I was right—there was someone else in it. Her name was Brandy. She was Daddy’s sister. And she died when she was a kid.”
“Okay . . . That’s really sad, but—”
“I just have this feeling, like Brandy’s the answer to everything—to Jim and Jesse and Frank, to Daddy and this fiddle.”
Cedar’s eyebrows knit. “That doesn’t make sense. What could a girl who died decades ago have to do with Frank killing Jim?”
I shake my head. “Maybe nothing, but she’s still important. There’s something here.” I feel it, a bone-deep knowing, a recognition. “I have to know what happened to her.”
“So you came out here to raise her ghost? What about the shadow man?” Cedar’s voice is strained and taut as a bowstring.
“You don’t have to help me. You can go home.” I turn away from his anger, looking out into the trees, which are just beginning to glow golden with the early morning light.
Cedar closes the distance between us in a few steps. He wraps his arms around me from behind and nuzzles his unshaven face against my neck. He sighs into my hair. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? I can’t ever just go home again.”
The part of me that has fallen for this rodeo boy melts a little. But there’s another part of me, too, a part that is eaten up with grief and fear and darkness. That part of me has to fight the urge to run off into the trees by myself, to open the case and play the fiddle and raise Brandy alone. I want to. I want to so badly. But that’s not what Daddy would want for me—to carry this burden all by myself. And I wouldn’t have survived the shadow man last time if it weren’t for my friends. If Cedar hadn’t been there to call for help. If Sarah hadn’t found a way to step inside the shadow man’s darkness and break me free.
So even though it about tears me in two, I take Cedar’s hand and lead him back toward Aunt Ena’s, ignoring the lure of the fiddle in its case. “Let’s call Sarah and Orlando,” I say.
“They’re already at the house. I called them as soon as I knew you were gone. I knew you’d want Sarah there since last time she . . .” Cedar trails off, embarrassed.
I guess it wasn’t enough to call him my boyfriend and leave it at that. He needs to know that Sarah and I are done, that I’m not settling for him. Even a rodeo boy’s ego has its limits.
I stop him before we reach the front porch. “Listen, just in case I wasn’t clear before, about me and you. I made my choice. You’re the right person for me. If you still want to be with me after all this is done, you’re the one I want. The one I want to be with. My mind’s made up and I won’t change it again.”
Cedar meets my eyes. “You’re sure?” When I nod, he breaks into a toothy smile that makes the fiddle in my grip and the secret in my pocket feel just a little bit lighter. He catches my cheek in one gentle hand, running a callused thumb over my bottom lip. “I swear to God, Shady Grove, if that devil comes sneaking ’round here again, I’ll knock him back to hell myself.” And then he kisses me good and thoroughly, just in case I don’t believe him.
When I finally open the front door, there’s a huge clatter coming from the kitchen. There’s no sign of Mama, Honey, or Aunt Ena, but our entire band is sitting at the table, eating cereal. Orlando is doing one of Aunt Ena’s crossword puzzles, tapping a mechanical pencil against his chin.
“Well, help yourselves,” I say.
Rose mumbles something unintelligible around a mouthful of Raisin Bran, but I suspect it’s as crass and rude as usual. She’s sitting next to Sarah, who shrugs at me with a half smile.
“Where’s Mama and Honey?” I ask.
“Your mom said to tell you she’ll be back to pick you up this afternoon,” Kenneth says.
That little bit of happiness I just found with Cedar on the front porch evaporates in an instant. “Why are you here?”
Kenneth flinches and rises from the table, his face red. “Shady—”
“Did you know all al
ong it was Frank?” I ask, ready to punch his stupid face. “Were you covering up for him?”
“Can we talk in private?” Kenneth asks, gesturing me toward the living room. I stomp ahead of him and wait just outside of the kitchen. Kenneth shuts the door, but everyone can probably still hear us, not that I care. I’ve got nothing to hide.
Kenneth faces me. “We still don’t know for sure it was Uncle Frank. You don’t really have any proof,” Kenneth says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s being haunted by your daddy, and he threw a fucking glass bowl at my head. I could have died trying to get away from him.”
“He’s my uncle. He’s my stepdad’s best friend,” Kenneth says. “He never did anything to hurt me. He always tried to make Dad be better to me. He was always a good man.” True pain makes his voice crack. If Frank goes to prison, Kenneth will lose a father and an uncle all at once.
But I don’t have time for Kenneth’s pain, not when my brother’s life is on the line. Not when all our lives are. “You knew,” I say, fuming. “You knew he was involved in Jim’s death all this time. I thought you were hiding something, but I didn’t think it was something that big.”
“Of course I didn’t know! It was my daddy who got killed,” Kenneth says, anger making his cheeks go even redder.
“But you were hiding something,” I say. “Something that proves Frank could have done it.”
Kenneth bites the inside of his cheek. “I saw his truck coming into the construction site when I was leaving that morning. But I didn’t have any reason to think he killed my dad. And my stepdad said to leave it alone. I wouldn’t say I saw Frank, and he wouldn’t say he saw me.”
“And you didn’t think there was anything wrong with that? You thought lying was the right way to respond to your daddy’s death?”
Kenneth stares at the floor, his anger giving way to shame.
He should be ashamed. “If you’d been honest, Frank would have been investigated. That could have changed everything. He might be in jail right now instead of Jesse. I wouldn’t have these stitches in my forehead. And my aunt”—I point angrily toward her room—“wouldn’t be lying in there with a concussion.”
“I’m sorry,” Kenneth whispers.
“Give him a break, Shady,” Rose calls from the kitchen. So they’ve all definitely been listening in. “He’d just found out his dad was killed. And his stepdad’s an asshole.” I guess her protectiveness extends past Cedar and Sarah.
“He is,” Kenneth says, finally finding the courage to look at me. “And I’ve felt weird about it for a long time. When you said you were raising my dad’s ghost, I just . . . I was so scared of what he’d think of me. Of what a coward I am. How I let my stepdad push me around.”
“You’re not a coward,” I say, all my anger used up. Staying mad at Kenneth won’t help anything. And I did accuse him of murdering his own dad. “It’s . . . it’s all right. Let’s just forget about it.”
Kenneth’s face fills with relief and he starts toward me, prepared to give me the same bear hug I saw him give Cedar at Jim’s funeral. How did I ever think this goofball could hit Jim with a hammer? He can barely hold a grudge for more than half an hour.
“Fractured rib,” I warn him before he can get his paws all the way around me. He gives me a small hug and we head back into the kitchen, where everyone looks at us expectantly.
“We’re good,” I tell them. Rose pumps her fist and Cedar smiles, clearly relieved that his best friend and his girlfriend are done fighting.
I look around the table again. “Wait, do you guys all know why you’re here?”
“We’re here for the ghost raising,” Kenneth says. And then he goes back to his seat and slurps up more Cheerios as if we didn’t just enact a scene from a soap opera, as if we’re not about to enact one from a horror movie.
I wrap my arms around myself. “You understand how dangerous this is, right? None of you should feel like you have to be here.”
“Do I look like I’d do anything for you I didn’t want to?” Rose asks.
“We’re helping you, okay?” Sarah says, side-eyeing Rose. “We’re your friends, and we’re helping you. So just shut up and let us.”
Orlando leans down and rummages under his chair, then drops a small bag on the table. He pulls sea salt and a bundle of sage from it. “I didn’t tell my abuela what we’re up to because she would skin me alive. But I asked her some questions about ghosts, and she said these are used for protection from spirits. Maybe they’ll protect us against the shadow man.” Orlando gives me a sheepish smile.
I drop into the chair next to him and put my head on his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his bicep. “Thank you” is all I can say, amazed that he’s willing to meddle in the supernatural for my sake. He lays his head against mine, and I feel like maybe we’re all going to make it out of this all right.
After breakfast, we trudge up the stairs to my bedroom. Sarah sits in my old rocker again, reminding me of the last time we were here and how badly I wanted her. It was only a few weeks ago, but it feels like years. That desire for her is still there, but what I have with Cedar is lessening it to hardly more than a dull ache. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, Orlando was probably right—Sarah and I weren’t ever going to happen.
But my longing for Daddy’s fiddle, the longing to put my fingers on its strings and draw the music out of it, feels almost overwhelming. Despite the damage it can do—what it’s already done to me—it’s a part of me now, and I need it.
When I pull the instrument from its case, everyone eyes it warily. Orlando sighs and begins scattering the salt in a circle around us. He burns the sage bundle and waves it around, spreading the acrid smell throughout the room. He circles me with the sage, and I notice he’s wearing the azabache bracelet his grandmother gave him when he was little. He’s always kept it on his bedpost, but now the jet-black stone catches the overhead light, promising protection.
I tune my fiddle quickly and carefully and wait for the others to finish tuning too. “The Twa Sisters,” I say automatically, and Sarah groans. Rose elbows her in the side, and Sarah smirks. All that autumn-leaf fragility between them has turned to something new, something like springtime.
“Try to stay with us,” Cedar says, his eyes worried. “Don’t go off on your own.” He turns to the others. “No one stop playing, no matter what.”
I nod and begin to play, concentrating on the instruments around me. I feel us sync up, as if we share a single heartbeat. The ghosts, who were so still last night, so hushed, seem to perk up. I can feel them swarming around me, hoping for release, but I push them away and focus on Brandy. I focus all my thoughts onto a little blond-haired girl.
But when I open my eyes, the ghost who stands before me isn’t Brandy. It’s the woman whose ghost I raised in the pine woods, who sang a snatch of song with me. I understand now why she looks like regret distilled into human form.
She’s the woman from the picture—Brandy’s mother. My grandmother, who died before I was born. She’s older and sadder now, middle-aged, her brown hair turning gray, her face prematurely wrinkled. Her eyes are hollow and empty, her mouth hard. She radiates loneliness and longing.
The ghost stares at me vaguely until her eyes catch on the fiddle. “Is that William’s?” she asks. “William’s fiddle? Who are you?” She doesn’t remember me from the woods, from before. She’s lost, drifting through this world like a plastic bag on the wind. I shouldn’t be able to hear her over so many instruments, but her voice penetrates the noise, as if coming from inside me.
“Where’s Brandy?” I ask, ignoring her questions. “I wanted Brandy.”
“William made that fiddle, you know,” she says absently. “I never heard anything so beautiful.”
“No, you gave it to him. It was your ancestors’.”
She shakes her head. “Brandy had a lovely voice too. She sang like a nightingale. But he took h
er voice—he took everything from her.”
“Daddy?” I say, a pit of ice forming in my stomach. It’s an awful thought, but it would explain his dark moods, his guilt.
“He finally got what he deserved,” she says as if I hadn’t spoken. “If only I’d lived to see it.”
Are all ghosts incapable of giving a straightforward answer? Is this some maddening condition of the spirit world?
“I never did though. I never got what this world owed me.” She shakes her head. “I should have stopped him. I should have—”
She grabs her throat, the words strangled there. Darkness pools around us like tar. Her eyes grow wide with terror. “I should have—”
I’m still playing strong, but she begins to fade as darkness fills the room. A distant buzzing reaches my ears, pulling my eyes from her transparent face. By the time I look up, it’s too late. The wasps are already flying out of the fireplace and swirling around us. They pour down the chimney and over the hearth like a funnel of darkness, their wings whirring the air. They flit and dive in circles around my room, flying faster and faster around my head, the sound of their wings as sharp as their stingers.
Around me, my bandmates falter at their instruments, ducking to cover their heads. Their startled cries and screams fill the room.
I drop the fiddle, cutting off the music before the shadows can get hold of me, and then I curl into a ball and cover my head against the encroaching darkness. I won’t let the shadow man take my voice this time—I scream like my voice is a tornado that will pick the wasps out of the air and toss them into another state. I scream all the rage and grief that’s taken up residence in my bones; it pours out of my marrow and into my blood and is pumped through my heart straight into my voice.
When I finally stop screaming and open my eyes, morning light floods the room and dead wasps lie so thick you can barely see the floorboards. Cedar kneels next to me, eyes wide, Kenneth right beside him. Orlando sits up and blinks like an owl, stunned. Sarah and Rose cling to each other, their arms around each other’s necks, their faces pressed together.
