by fox, angie
"So you had the run of the whole world until I…" No wonder he'd been ticked.
The look on his face warned me it would be a good idea to let it drop. "Okay," I said, scooting past him and into the kitchen, shivering at the cold spot he created in my doorway. I opened the pullout drawer next to my sink. "I think I have a few grocery bags still left in here." Hopefully that wouldn't insult him. Darned if I knew the etiquette on this.
The air chilled ten degrees as he moved in behind me. "Get a backpack," he said, "I don't want you getting scared and dropping it."
Like I had in my kitchen.
"Listen here, I'm no simpering southern belle." I straightened, shocking us both when I stood up right in the middle of his chest. It was like stepping out into a freezing cold rain. Or standing in a cloud. It felt cold, wet, and terribly uncomfortable, like I'd invaded his personal space in the worst possible way.
Each of us froze for a moment. Then he shot backward and I shuddered.
"Sorry," I said, patting myself down to get rid of the watery, chilled feeling of him, even as I tried hard not to make it look like I was wiping him away. I needn't have bothered. He wasn't looking at me. He huddled in the corner of my kitchen against the ceiling, clear on the other side of the room.
"Are you trying to make this worse?" he demanded, as if it were my sole purpose in this life to torture him in the next.
"It was an honest mistake," I said quickly, searching for something, anything else to say that wouldn't make us both feel like ten miles of bad road. The rough, tough gangster looked almost frightened up there above my empty mug rack.
So I did what my mother and my mother's mother before her most likely would have done. I changed the subject.
"I realize a bag that zips closed would be a better choice for your…urn," I said, trying to act as casual as possible, "but I don't have one. My backpack was a gift from my ex and he took it when he left." Because Beau really needed a pink leopard-print JanSport with double zip pockets.
Frankie's long face set into a scowl. "I used to shoot people for less," he muttered to himself.
Yes, well we all had our crosses to bear.
I grabbed a hemp grocery sack and shook out a few lingering onion skins into the sink. Then I retrieved Frankie's urn. I tipped it inside and dared him to say another word about it.
He didn't.
I grabbed a dish towel and swiped up the spilled water, before placing the rose bud on the counter. It's not like I had another vase.
"All right, then," I said, holding the door open for him. "We might as well get to finding that hidden cash." I prided myself on being practical. We didn't have all night.
Frankie slid down, his shoulders hunched. Then he deliberately snubbed me by walking through the wall to get out to the porch. I sighed. It didn't matter. I used the door and closed it behind me, not bothering with the lock.
"I can't believe you thought my urn had sexy pictures," he grouched as we started down the steps.
The polite thing would be to let it go, but if I didn't stand up to the man, he was going to think he could walk all over me.
"How can you blame me?" I asked, catching him out of the corner of my eye. I mean truly, "There was a girl and a boy—"
"Dancing the tango," he snapped.
"I suppose that's one way to look at it."
He let out a regretful sigh. "I used to love to dance."
"What about the extra boy?" I asked.
He gave me the kind of slant look that suggested I was crazy. "He's playing a custom-made, highly decorative bandoneon, with ivory inlaid handles and feather accents. From Argentina," he added, as if that made a difference.
I pulled the car keys out of my pocket. "We thought it was a goat."
"My wingman, Suds, carved that," he barked. "It took him a week."
"Maybe Suds should have spent less time stealing, more time practicing art." I barely said it. Frankie heard me anyway.
"Can you think of any other way to insult me? I thought you outdid yourself when you dumped my ashes on your rose bushes, but you keep surprising me."
We reached my car on the side drive, a 1978 avocado green Cadillac handed down from my grandmother. Good thing it was worthless or I would have had to sell it. "You really aren't going to let that drop, are you?" I asked, opening my door.
"No," he said. He shimmered out of view, and then reappeared in my passenger seat. Neat trick. "I'm more of the avenger-type," he said, leaning back against the worn upholstery.
"Great." I slid in next to him and started the engine. "A vengeful ghost."
He shook his head as I started up the engine. "You don't know the half of it, sweetheart."
Chapter Three
My car set to rattling before we even started hitting the bumps at the end of my street. Frankie was polite enough not to mention it. Or maybe my car performed about even with a 1920's jalopy.
We took a left, and then followed Rural Route 7 until we came up on the main road that led into town. I steered that way without even thinking, until Frankie piped up.
"Whoa," he said, as if everybody didn't drive a little fast off Route 7. "Hang right." He pointed to a narrow asphalt road that disappeared into the underbrush.
"You've got to be kidding." I hit the brakes, forcing the Cadillac to lurch to a stop. The dim dashboard lights made the ghost look watery in the moonless night.
He had his directions straight. Maisie lived out east, past the civilized part of town, but there were nicer ways to get there, ones that didn't include a barely-there road through the woods.
Besides, I'd been down there years ago, before I had more sense. "There's nothing that way but Johnson's Cave." We didn't need to be wandering along dark, deserted back roads, even if he did think he knew where we were headed.
"Trust me," he said, settling in, spreading his arms over the back of the seat.
Had the man forgotten I'd only met him tonight? Still, this whole mission had been his idea. I supposed it wouldn't hurt to do as he asked, even if it annoyed the spit out of me.
I clicked on my brights and made a right onto the uneven asphalt. My tank of a car lurched and every bolt shook as we tested the limits of my decades-old suspension system. Frankie cursed under his breath.
"Don't start," I shot back, daring him to make this more difficult as braches from the bushes on either side of the road scraped against the sides of my car.
"You drive like a woman," he said, flinching as a longer branch caught my windshield wiper and dragged the arm of it up before the stubborn old thing snapped back.
"You led me this way," I said, cringing as we bottomed out and something hard and crunchy scraped the undercarriage of my car. "So stop being sexist."
He let out a choked sound, but I wasn't about to take my eyes off the road, what little of there was of it. "I'm not the one who keeps bringing up sex."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I began, and then it hit me. He didn't know he was being sexist. He didn't even know what that meant. How to explain... "Oh Lordy. I didn't mean sex sex, I meant—"
"Stop it. I'm not listening to another word," he said, like he was my father or something. "First you think there's a girl and a boy and a…goat on my urn, and now this. You might like to skate around, but I can't do that no more."
Sweet heaven. "I'm not coming onto you." I didn't even know how to explain. "Forget it."
"Gladly," he muttered.
I kept driving. "If it makes you feel any better, this is the first time I've ever had a conversation like this," I told him. I certainly hoped it would be the last.
"You're making it worse," Frankie said, his voice rising.
"Fine. You have my apology." I'd never met anyone who necessitated more subject changes. Frankly, I was losing patience for it, especially when we were running around hell's half acre because of him.
The road split in two. The path to the right led down to Johnson's Cave. A thick chain stretched over the entrance, bloc
king that wider, easier route. We took the other road, the one less traveled.
Lord help us.
I blew out a breath. "I should turn around right now." I would have if I could have found anywhere to do it. I had a feeling we'd missed our chance.
"You thinking of backing out?" Frankie demanded.
"Yes," I said, slowing as I spotted Bambi's mom in the woods. I furrowed my brow, hoping the doe didn't dart out in front of my tank on wheels. "I told you. I'm not one for trespassing."
"Me neither," he grumbled. "Stealing's way more fun."
"No wonder somebody shot you between the eyes."
"Like I haven't heard that one from every dead smart ass in the last ninety years." He pointed to a shadow up on our left. "Turn there."
I slowed and took another hard left onto a road that was even narrower than the one we'd been on. I'd have to be careful not to get lost. Until tonight, I thought I knew every inch of Sugarland. This forgotten part of town was quiet. Creepy. "This may be a shortcut, but it's a dumb way to go." In fact, I'd have been worried the ghost was luring me somewhere shady if he hadn't been so wigged out by touching me.
Or maybe that was an act.
I shot him a glance. He caught me at it and raised his brows.
It felt like we were entering another world as the road opened up and I caught sight of an abandoned gas station. The sign read Tennessee Oil. My headlights caught rusted pumps under an old tin awning. The narrow windows of the building at the back were dark and broken.
"I've heard of this place," I said. I'd just never seen it.
"It's the land that time forgot," Frankie said, a little melodramatic for my taste.
"Don't tease." I was already a little freaked out.
Farther down, I spotted an old diner, its white tile exterior chipping and streaked with graffiti, its parking lot all but lost to weeds. "The boys in high school used to dare each other to come out here," I said. I'd been too scared.
Now I realized it was sad, too. I'd read stories about disappearing rural towns, but never thought mine would be included.
"Unincorporated," Frankie said, "with a spotty police presence. A perfect spot for me and my associates back in the day."
Frankie watched out the front window with a faraway look. He turned as we passed a lump of a building completely overtaken by bushes and trees.
"The turn past Dolly's place," he murmured before clearing his throat. "Up here," he said, as we reached a lonely crossroad. "Right."
I did as he instructed, glad to realize we'd left the ghost town behind. No doubt someone had loved that place a long time ago, like I loved Sugarland now. But the relic of a town didn't feel right.
Maybe I was merely unsettled about how easy it was to lose a home, a road, an entire community.
We drove until the road went from asphalt to dirt.
"Kill your lights," he ordered.
"Dang it, Frankie," I muttered. But I did as he asked.
Now we were really asking to hit something.
"Drive straight," the ghost said quietly, as we crunched over dry ground.
Off in the distance, I saw a single porch light. "That's Maisie's house, isn't it?" I murmured. We were in about the right place for it, although I couldn't see the rest of her 1940's-style bungalow. The place was too dark.
Frankie straightened in his seat. "Follow my lead. Sneaking's one of the things I do best." He shot me a dark look. "Stop the car."
He sounded like we were about to rob a bank or something. I didn't like it. "I never should have agreed to this," I muttered as I ground the car to a halt. The engine clicked and protested as I shut it down.
Frankie adjusted the Panama hat low over his eyes. "The widow's been looking in the ground. That's the wrong place." He shot me a grin. "Oskar hid the cash in the old family homestead."
"You mean the haunted house on the hill?" I shot back. We'd told stories about the old Hatcher place, an abandoned Civil War-era two-story where candles still glowed in the upstairs window and the ghost of Jilted Josephine threw rocks at people. Word had it she'd pitched her lover head first out of her window before she'd hung herself. The widow Maisie hadn't let anyone near the place in forty years and I didn't blame her. "I'm not going in there."
Frankie shot me a dry look. "You'd rather take your skunk and live in an apartment by the railroad tracks?"
"That's not fair."
He disappeared from the seat next to me, and materialized about ten yards ahead.
Crimeny.
I popped open the locks, grabbed the bag with the urn, and hurried after him. "Can't we discuss this like rational human beings?" I hissed. It was dark and freaky and he'd better not leave me alone. "I thought you said you couldn't go anywhere."
As if determined to prove me wrong, he disappeared completely, abandoning me in the darkness. It was colder than it should have been. Blacker. A bloodcurdling cry rose up from the woods to my right and a twisting, hollow fear settled into my chest.
"I didn't go far," Frankie said, right up against my ear.
If I'd had a heart condition, that whisper would have been the end of me. "Stop it."
"Relax," he said, shimmering into view. "I'm just messing with you."
I shot him my dirtiest look. "Have you heard the stories of Jilted Josephine?"
"No," he said. "Focus on the prize." He motioned me forward.
I took a few tentative steps. A dark mass loomed up ahead, surrounded by an overgrowth of woods. Josephine's lair, no doubt.
This time, Frankie stuck close. "If this Josephine dame lives up there, and she's a little squirrely, that's good for us. Most folks don't like that, so they won't have come close to the loot. We, on the other hand, don't care. We need the cash."
I stopped. I'd thought I was up for this, but I had my limits. "I'm not going to sneak into a haunted house."
He turned back to me, surprised. "What? Are you afraid of ghosts?"
I planted my hands on my hips. "I don't like them very much."
He broke into a grin. "That's only because you met me."
Heavens to Betsy. This was different and he knew it. He also knew I didn't have a choice. "You have to admit this is creepy." It wasn't merely the pitch black, middle of nowhere spooky forest. I pointed to the shadows of the towering oaks surrounding us. "Did you see these trees? They have no leaves. I know it's almost October, but still. Nothing. They're all gnarled and dead."
"You done?" Frankie asked, completely unaffected by my outburst.
"I need my flashlight," I gritted out, fumbling for the one on my keychain. "It would be great if you could go in by yourself," I added, with just a hint of desperation. He could find it as well as I could. Maybe.
"It takes a lot of energy to move anything on your plane," he said, "much less do a full-out search. Don't you know anything?"
"Not about this," I said, flipping on my light. The watery beam spilled down onto the path in front of me.
Frankie stared out into the darkness, lost in thought. "If I could, I would have taken the cash already." His brow furrowed. "Not that I could have spent it. It would have been more like a force of habit."
He turned his back and began gliding toward the cabin. "Wait up," I said, chasing after him.
I had a hard time following the path, and my Keds didn't offer great traction, but I didn't dare fall too far behind. I kept as close as I could to Frankie. He was the least creepy thing here.
How messed up was that?
The closer we got, the more I wanted to turn back. Seeing the house straight ahead didn't help.
The rough, wooden boards looked like they'd been pieced together with nails, spit, and not much else. Darkened windows gazed out from both stories and the front door leaned drunkenly on its hinges.
Weeds invaded the path, winding around my ankles. The entire property felt dark, wrong, like it lay in wait for me to enter and make a mistake.
"How far in do I have to go?" I whispered to Frankie.
Maybe Oskar hid the money by the front door or something.
He glanced up at the house. "Let's get inside before we worry about that."
As he spoke, a candle sputtered to life in the upstairs window. I would have screamed if I hadn't been too busy trying not to fall.
"Don't let that bother you," Frankie said.
The light flickered even as I stood there, scared out of my wits. "There is a ghost up there," I said, as loud as I dared.
"It's her house," Frankie said simply.
Right. A hysterical giggle threatened to burst from me. I could relate to that. If I lost my nerve now, I was going to lose my house tomorrow. Or if not tomorrow…soon. Josephine was nothing but a ghost. A spirit. A remnant from another age, like Frankie. He hadn't harmed me, and I'd actually done something to tick him off.
I forced myself to take one step forward, then another, until I made it to the front door and touched my fingers to the latch. "What do I do when I get inside?"
"Follow your gut," Frankie said.
My gut told me to run.
But I knew I could do this. I had to do this. And so, I slipped inside.
Chapter Four
The chill and the dark seeped over me. The wooden floorboards creaked under my feet. Oh my Lord, this place was creepy. It made no sense for it to be colder in here than on the outside. That's right, I told myself. Focus on the logic.
I should have run out of there screaming.
Instead, I took one more step, then another, until I was all the way inside.
The thin beam from my flashlight reached tentatively into the blackness. I could barely see two feet in any direction. I had no idea what surrounded me, or which way I should go.
I shuddered to think what might lurk just beyond my reach.
The whisper of a breeze stole over me and I jerked in surprise.
It was coming from inside the house.
I sucked in a breath. "Calm down," I told myself. I wasn't some stupid horror movie heroine going into a dangerous situation for no reason. I was merely taking a gander inside a haunted house in order to help an old widow and save what should have been rightfully mine in the first place. This wasn't the same thing at all.
