Ghost Light

by Hautala, Rick

  “Toland… Toland… T … T-O-L,” he muttered as he mentally ran through the alphabet. “It’s gotta be Toland, right?… Yeah, good ole’ Harry’s uncle… T-O-L-A-N-D.”

  His finger dragged down the page, smearing the print.

  “Yeah, all-fuckin’ right! Here it is.”

  Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision, he stared intently at the two listings for the name.

  Toland, Mark and Valerie, on Maple Street in Westbrook, and Toland, Richard S., on Campbell Shore Road in West Gray.

  “West Gray… Campbell Shore Road in West Gray,” he said with a low, rumbling chuckle.

  He picked the map up from the floor and, flattening it out with his hand, looked around the Sebago Lake area until he located the small, black circle designating West Gray. It was on Route 202, wedged between Interstate 95 and Little Sebago Lake, just above a place called Foster’s Corner at the junction of 202 and Route 302.

  “Shit, yes” he said, scanning the distance it was from Portland. “That ain’t very far.”

  Suddenly, he jumped up from the bed, letting the phone book and map fall to the floor, and did a crazy, spinning dance beside his bed, all the while shouting, “That’s gotta be it! That’s fuckin’-A gotta be it!”

  He paused a moment, picked up his beer bottle and, tilting his head back, drained what was left in it before throwing it against the wall where it smashed to pieces.

  “Yeah, you fucking bitch!” he shouted, cackling as he waved his clenched fists high above his head. “And you thought you could get away from me! Ha-hah! But you couldn’t! No-sir-ee! You can run, but you can’t hide!”

  Hysterical laughter filled the small motel room until someone in the next room banged on the wall and yelled at him to shut the fuck up. Alex paused long enough to grab another bottle of beer from the six pack and spin off the bottle cap.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you, too!” he shouted before taking another long, slurping mouthful of beer and spraying it onto the wall. Beer foam dribbled down the sides of his mouth like a Fu Manchu mustache, but he didn’t notice as he continued to laugh wildly and spin around the floor in crazy circles, all the while shouting, “I found her! I fuckin-A found her!”

  3

  Something made Cindy wake up with a start.

  Suddenly, she was ripped out of the thin sleep she had slipped into after hours of lying in bed wide awake. Now she was instantly and completely conscious. She sat up in bed and stared at the dense darkness that filled the bedroom like ink. For a flickering instant a deep panic filled her when she didn’t remember where she was, but then, as her eyesight adjusted to the darkness, she recognized the camp bedroom. A thin wash of moonlight lit the windowsill with a dusty, blue glow.

  “Jesus Christ,” she whispered, rubbing both hands over her face. Her skin was cool, almost clammy to the touch, and she shivered when she remembered a fragment of the dream she’d been having. She had been either lying down or sitting up in an almost totally dark room.

  Just like this one!, her mind whispered, but she tried to ignore it.

  And she had seen a… a hand… a thin, almost skeletal hand, glowing with a peculiar blue light. It had materialized out of the surrounding darkness and had drifted toward her, floating like a log being swept along by the gentle current of a stream. She could clearly see the curled fingers, the wrist, and half of the arm up to the elbow, but then it simply faded away into nothingness. Cindy shivered, unable to deny the impression she’d had that the hand and arm weren’t so much a part of someone as they were a part of the darkness that surrounded her in her sleep and had materialized, reaching out for her, trying to grab her with wispy, ethereal fingers.

  Was that what woke me up? she wondered.

  The bedroom was uncomfortably cold. She shivered again and pulled the musty-smelling wool blankets up under her chin. All the while her gaze was fixed on the cold, crisp bar of moonlight that was shining on the windowsill. Beyond that, outside the window, through the ragged silhouettes of dark, jagged pines, she could see the faint twinkle of a few stars in a cloudless, velvety sky. As she was staring out the window, a high-pitched howling sound suddenly filled the night, warbling up and down the register with a lonely, hollow echo.

  The sound tingled every nerve in Cindy’s body. She pulled the covers even closer to her chin and stared, wide-eyed, at the window, wondering, even before the sound had entirely faded away, if it was really there at all, or if she was imagining it. She waited for the sound to come again, hardly daring to take a breath.

  What the hell was that? she wondered in a rush of frantic, icy fear.

  It had sounded like a wolfs howl. She had no idea whether or not there were wolves in the state of Maine, but if there were, then there sure as hell was one in the area around the camp. Her memory magnified the sound, making her think that it had been right outside her bedroom window.

  Tense seconds dragged into minutes as she waited for the sound to come again, but it didn’t. Her heartbeat was thin and high, pattering like raindrops in her chest. As she tried to recall the exact pitch and duration of the sound, she began to wonder if maybe—that’s what had penetrated her sleep and awakened her in the first place.

  Yeah, the wolf’s howling at the door, she thought, unable to laugh at the grim humor of the thought. It was all too true!

  After a long wait, when the sound didn’t come again, she shifted out from under her covers and sat on the edge of the bed. The rusty bedsprings twanged like guitar strings as they stretched beneath her shifting weight. A chill went up the backs of her legs when her feet touched the cold wood floor. She glanced at the illuminated dial of her wristwatch and saw that it was already well past three o’clock. She sighed, exasperated by the thought that she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep again tonight and that she was probably going to be dragging her butt all the next day. After how hard she had worked, cleaning up the kitchen all day—not to mention the stress she had been under for the last several days—she was surprised that she hadn’t slept at least ten hours straight.

  “Shit,” she whispered in a high, hissing voice.

  She debated whether or not she should go downstairs for a cup of tea or something—anything—to relax her, but then she remembered that there wasn’t any gas to run the stove. Besides, she would have to walk through the bedroom where Billy and Krissy were sleeping, and she didn’t want to risk waking them up. She knew she needed her sleep and told herself that if she would just lie down and close her eyes, sleep would eventually come. She reminded herself that she wasn’t under any pressure to get the cabin clean or do anything else. She and the kids weren’t following anyone’s schedule. Hell, they might not even stay here another night. In the morning, she planned to call Alice and see how things were back at the apartment. And then, who knows? She just might end up taking the kids back to Portland where they could have a semblance of normal life. They sure as hell weren’t going to get it living out here in the boon docks!

  “… Aunt Cindy…?”

  When the faint voice came to her, she thought again—that it had been a trick of the darkness and her loneliness, but in a flash she recognized Krissy’s fragile, frightened voice. Standing up quickly, Cindy walked to the bedroom door and eased it open, giving her eyes a second or two to adjust to the darkness before entering the bedroom where the kids were sleeping. After a moment, she saw a white, indistinct blur that was the little girl sitting up in bed.

  “Shussh. I’m right here,” Cindy said, tiptoeing forward, feeling blindly in front of herself so she wouldn’t bump into the edge of the bed. She didn’t want to wake Billy up; he was sleeping soundly, his breath whistling in and out like a hissing tea kettle.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Cindy whispered. “Did you hear that sound outside, too?”

  For several seconds, the room was completely silent, and Cindy became fearful that Krissy had called out to her in her sleep; but then she heard a low, shivering sigh.

  “I… I
don’t know wh-what it was,” Krissy said in a high, tremulous voice.

  “No, I don’t either, but you don’t have to worry. We’re safe in here.”

  No response came from Krissy, and—again—Cindy had the impression that the little girl was talking in her sleep. Her voice had a dragging, monotone quality to it that didn’t sound at all like it usually did.

  “Do you want to come in and sleep with me?” Cindy asked.

  Her answer was a rustling of sheets as Krissy slipped out from under the covers and crawled to the end of the bed. Cindy reached for her and was surprised how warm—almost feverish—the little girl felt when she put her arm around her shoulder and directed her to the bedroom.

  “I was having trouble sleeping, too,” Cindy said, “but—hey, we can sleep ’till noon if we want to.”

  “Uh-huh,” was Krissy’s only response.

  They made their way back to Cindy’s bed, and after tucking the little girl in, Cindy snuggled close to her, inhaling the sweet, almost cat-like smell of her hair. The room was quiet for a longtime, but Cindy lay there with her eyes wide open as she waited for the howling outside the camp to start again… if it had ever been there in the first place. After a while, she became aware that Krissy wasn’t asleep, either.

  “Is there something the matter?” Cindy whispered. Her mouth was close to Krissy’s ear, as though they were sharing secrets in the dark.

  For a long time, Krissy didn’t reply, but then Cindy heard her sigh heavily and lick her lips before she said, “I… I think I… saw her again.”

  A numbing chill raced up Cindy’s back, and almost against her will she found herself asking, “Saw who?”

  “The… lady,” Krissy answered simply, as if she didn’t need to say any more.

  “You mean the blue lady?”

  “U h-huh.”

  Cindy’s throat felt parched, and her breath caught in her chest like a ball of ice.

  “When did you see her?” she asked. She had an odd, disembodied feeling, as though she wasn’t really speaking for herself, but someone else was using her voice as their instrument.

  “Just a little while ago,” Krissy said, her voice still sounding high and fragile, like fine crystal that was too thin not to shatter soon. “She was… she was sitting in the bedroom, over by the bathroom door.”

  Cindy knew there was nothing there except a blank wall with hardly enough room for someone to get by the bed.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t just—you know, the moonlight or something?” she asked, though she already knew the answer to that question because the moon was shining in through her window, and the door between the bedrooms had been shut tightly.

  “No … no, I’m sure it was her,” Krissy replied.

  “Did she say or do anything?” Cindy asked. She wasn’t sure if she was humoring the little girl’s imagination or if she actually believed her. She felt Krissy shake her head in the darkness.

  “Nope,” she said. “She was just… just sitting there, singing that song she always sings.”

  “You mean ‘I See the Moon?’ ”

  “Um-hum, and she was… she was brushing her hair. She had her head leaning way forward so her hair was hanging in front of her face, and she was brushing it.”

  “I see,” Cindy said, unable to resist the shiver that shook her shoulders.

  “And when she wasn’t singing,” Krissy said with a touch of sadness and hushed awe in her voice, “She was… she was crying.”

  “Well, look, honey,” Cindy said. “It’s really late, and we should both be asleep.” She leaned forward, kissed Krissy on the cheek, and tucked the blankets up around her face. “Try to get to sleep, okay?”

  “Umm… okay.”

  “G’night, Squirt” Cindy said.

  “Night.”

  With that, Cindy rolled over, sinking her head into the soft well of the pillow as she closed her eyes; but her eyes didn’t stay closed for very long. She found herself staring almost without blinking at the pale blue wash of moonlight on the windowsill, and she couldn’t push out of her thoughts the memory of that dream she’d had of a thin, glowing hand, reaching for her out of the darkness, trying to grab her. And all she could think was, what if that sound she’d heard, that pitiful, wailing howl that had echoed across the hollow stillness of the lake, had, in fact, been the mournful, muffled cries of Krissy’s blue lady?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bow Hunting

  It was the second week of October, heading into Columbus Day weekend, and the foliage season was in full swing as Alex drove north on Route 302, heading for West Gray. Explosions of bright reds, oranges, and yellow leaves filled the woods on both sides of the road and stood out like smokeless wildfire against the bright, cloudless blue of the sky. There was a chill in the air that Alex found bracing, and that was exactly what he needed to help counteract the hammering hangover he was fighting after all the beer he’d drunk last night. His stomach was churning with sour acid, but a solid breakfast of over-easy eggs, bacon, toast, juice, and plenty of coffee at a local cafe called Pat’s had helped. He was pretty sure that, by noontime, he’d be feeling just fine again.

  Fine enough, anyway, so he could start thinking through the rest of what he had planned as a cover story if he encountered anyone who got curious as to why he was snooping around in the woods in the vicinity of Little Sebago Lake over the next few days. He had heard on the radio that the bow and arrow deer hunting season had already started, so before leaving Portland, he had stopped at a sporting goods store and bought a Bear compound hunting bow with a sixty pound pull and fifty percent let-off, a quiver full of broad head tipped, aluminum shaft hunting arrows, and a hunter’s camouflage jacket and hat. He was pissed that he had to spend so much more than he had wanted to, but he was even more pissed about what had happened when he had tried to get a three-day, nonresident’s hunting license. The store owner had refused to sell him one because Alex couldn’t produce a previous year’s hunting license or proof that he had taken a bow hunting safety course. After an attempt at friendly persuasion, Alex realized there was nothing he could do about it and decided he would just have to risk going into the woods without a license and hope to hell he didn’t encounter a game warden.

  Besides, if things went well, he should be able to find Richard Toland’s camp by this afternoon. By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, he figured he would have his kids back… after making Cindy pay for all the shit she’d put him through.

  Yes-sir-ee, except for not having a valid hunting license, he looked like a full-fledged, out-of-state hunter, ready to brave the Maine woods and come home with at least a six-point buck slung over the roof of his van. The only difference was, his quarry was human!

  Route 202 followed a winding course, heading generally east past numerous rundown farm uses and a few antiques stores, but Alex didn’t see any signs for West Gray. He found himself stopped at the traffic light beside the Civil War monument in downtown Gray before he realized that he obviously must have missed the turn for Little Sebago.

  Muttering curses under his breath, he pulled up to the self-service gas pumps in the Mobil station across the intersection, got out, and started filling the gas tank. The station had an attached convenience store, and on the paint-chipped wooden bench out front, sat three old men. All of them had gray stubble beards and were wearing flannel shirts, khaki trousers, and mud-crusted work boots. Two out of three of them had faded cloth work hats pulled down low on their brows, shielding their eyes from the glaring sunlight. The hatless man’s bald head shined in the morning sun as if he had just polished and waxed it this morning. Alex thought they looked like they were all in uniform, sitting in front of the store on purpose, just to add a touch of local color to the town for any tourists who might be out looking at the foliage. He couldn’t help but chuckle, painfully aware that he, too, in his own way, was in costume. He finished pumping the gas and walked into the store to pay.

  The kid manning the cash registe
r was young, with long, greasy black hair and a bad complexion. He was wearing jeans with frayed holes in the knees and a black t-shirt with a picture of a bleeding skull on the front and the logo of some rock band Alex had never heard of. A cigarette with at least an inch of gray ash hung from the down-turned corner of his mouth. As Alex handed him a twenty dollar bill to pay for the gas, he cleared his throat and said, “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  Scowling through the thin haze of cigarette smoke, the young man looked back at Alex, but for several seconds didn’t say anything; then he simply nodded his head slightly to indicate that he was listening.

  “I’m—uh, I was looking for a place out on Campbell Shore Road. I was wondering if you knew where that was.”

  The young man ran one hand through his hair, tucking it behind his ear, and squinted one eye a though he was trying hard to remember. Finally, he shook his head and said simply, “Nope. I don’t live around here.” Concentrating his attention on the cash register, he rang up the sale, then counted the change back into Alex’s opened hand.

  Alex fought back the surge of anger that was boiling up inside him. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to give this little punk something to think about, but he knew that he had to maintain his cool and not do anything that might draw undue attention to himself.

  “Well, then,” he said, clearing his throat and using as calm and measured a voice as he could manage, “is there anyone around here who maybe could help me out?”

  Again, the young man scowled, his dark eyebrows almost touching above his nose; then, with a quick nod of his head, he indicated the front of the store. “I dunno. Ask those three old farts sitting out front,” he said. With that, he slammed the cash drawer shut, turned away from Alex, and leaned down to crush his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray beside the counter.

  “Yeah, thanks. Thanks a whole bunch,” Alex said as he turned to leave. He shouldered open the door, pausing a moment in the doorway to slip the bills back into his wallet before turning to the three old men.