Dancing Dead

by Deborah Woodworth

  “Who was she? A Shaker sister? Was it this ghost everyone has been talking about?”

  Mairin shrugged. “I’m ready to go now,” she said.

  “Oh, Mairin . . . You’ve got to promise me never again to sneak out at night. Will you do that?”

  “Yea.”

  Gennie didn’t believe her for a moment, but it was the best she could do for now. She would have a talk with Rose as soon as possible. Right now, she just wanted to go back to her room and rethink the whole idea of marriage and children. In the past half hour, Gennie had become convinced that, should she ever have children, God would ensure that they were every bit as difficult as she had been as a child.

  Gennie sat alone in the parlor of the Shaker Hostel, curled in a wing chair, a light blanket covering her knees. She sipped at a cup of spearmint tea she’d fixed herself in the kitchen. It was well past midnight. Everyone else had gone to bed, but she knew that sleep would elude her. She had a lot to think about. For once, it wasn’t Grady who occupied her mind—well, not all of it, anyway. Little Mairin and her nighttime adventures kept interrupting Gennie’s attempts to sort out her own future. That dear and exasperating child had crept into Gennie’s heart, just as she had already done with Rose and Agatha. Yet Mairin trusted none of them, not completely.

  Gennie held the steaming tea to her chest and inhaled the sweet fragrance. The days were warming up, as they did quickly in April, but it could still be chilly at night. She knew her room would be colder still. At least here she had two dying fires—one in the fireplace and another in the black cast-iron stove against the wall. The old stove was the only distinctly Shaker object in the room. Otherwise, Brother Andrew had used worldly furniture and décor, as in the dining room. Gennie had come to feel at home in such surroundings, yet a part of her always yearned for the simple Shaker life she’d known as a child. I’ve probably grown soft, too, she thought. It wouldn’t hurt me to do a little physical labor. Then she remembered standing in a kitchen all day, cooking for forty people, and going soft didn’t sound so bad.

  A creak above her head startled her. She listened for a few moments, but all was quiet. The house itself was settling down to sleep. Gennie irritably kicked off the blanket. This wouldn’t do. She’d been ruminating for nearly a week, and she wasn’t getting anywhere except frustrated and—yes, bored. She needed to do something. Mairin’s haunting hazel eyes popped into her mind again, and Gennie knew exactly what to do. Right away.

  Her heart fluttering in a familiar and pleasant way, Gennie folded the blanket over the chair back, returned the empty cup to the kitchen, and climbed the stairs to her room. Without bothering to flip on her light, she reached around to a wall peg just inside her door and grabbed her light spring coat. She’d changed out of her dinner clothes into a comfortable cotton dress and low-heeled shoes, so she was all set for adventure. She threw on her coat and hurried down the hall, giving no thought, in her excitement, to the noise she made. She slowed down only when she passed a door under which she could see a faint glow of light. Someone else couldn’t sleep. As she remembered, it was Mina Dunmore’s room. She didn’t hear any movement as she tiptoed past. Maybe Mina had fallen asleep reading. To be safe, though, Gennie made a mental note to avoid the view from Mina’s window.

  She closed the front door behind her, grimacing as the latch caught with a click. North Homage still didn’t lock its buildings, even the hostel, so she didn’t have to fuss with a key. She turned and looked around her. She could see the north side of the village, all of which was dark except for one light in the Infirmary. She’d heard that Sister Viola, now in her nineties, was down with a spring chill, so Josie was probably sitting up with her. It was unlikely that a dancing ghost had materialized anywhere near Josie—if it dared disturb a patient, she’d give it a tongue lashing it would remember for eternity.

  Mairin had seen the ghostly dancer in the Sisters’ Shop, which was at the south end of the village, southeast of the Shaker Hostel. Was the ghost drawn to one place, or was it roaming the village, building by building? What did ghosts normally do? While she was growing up, Gennie had heard lots of stories about Shakers receiving communications from the dead, but she’d never heard of an actual shade haunting a Shaker village.

  Gennie walked around to the east side of the hostel so she could see the Sisters’ Shop. The building was dark, as it should be so late at night. Gennie would have to pass three buildings to reach the shop. The South Family Dwelling House was no problem; it had been abandoned for some time. The Schoolhouse would also be empty. But then she’d have to slip by the Children’s Dwelling House unseen. Sister Charlotte and the children still lived and slept there. Rose had wanted everyone to move to the big dwelling house, but Wilhelm drew the line at children. He didn’t like them much to begin with, and their numbers had grown in the past year because so many had been left with the Shakers by desperate parents crushed by this relentless Depression.

  All children slept in the north end of the building, to be closer to the village. But that didn’t mean they’d stay in their rooms. Gennie had only to remember herself as a child to realize that. It would be just like Mairin to have slipped out of her bed and into one of the empty east-facing rooms. That’s probably how she first saw the ghost.

  In the distance, the Sisters’ Shop showed no sign of life, either corporeal or ethereal. The spring air still carried a damp chill, and Gennie’s enthusiasm was waning. Before just giving up, however, she walked toward the back of the hostel to get a closer look at the shop. As she rounded the corner, she saw what she’d been waiting for—a brightly lit window that should have been dark. Not in the Sisters’ Shop, though. Instead it was to her right, in a second-floor window of the Carpenters’ Shop.

  At times in the past, a brother might work into the night and then sleep in the Carpenters’ Shop, but Gennie knew no one did that now. Anyway, if someone were working late, the light would be shining on the first floor. Gennie approached the building slowly, keeping her eyes on the window even if it meant wandering off the path and into the dew-soaked grass. She didn’t care about her shoes or stockings.

  Gennie had ventured within about a hundred feet of the Carpenters’ Shop when she saw movement through the window. It looked as if an arm had reached across and yanked shut the thin white curtains. Gennie stood still and waited, half expecting the light to go out. Nothing happened for several moments. Gennie chided herself for her overheated imagination and was more than ready to leave when a silhouette appeared in the window. The translucent curtain turned the image into a dark, faceless apparition with an unusually large head.

  The figure bowed directly toward Gennie—or so it felt. Could it possibly see her? The creature turned sideways and bowed again, twice this time, as if someone else were in the room. Now Gennie could see that the large head was really the hood of a Shaker cloak pulled forward, hiding the face. Did ghosts have faces? Gennie was caught between the world and her Shaker upbringing. In fact, it was her worldly experience that made her believe this creature might be a real ghost. Grady would laugh at her, but his sister, Emily, loved séances and regularly used a Ouija board to guide her life. This was just the sort of ghost Emily believed in—dark and mysterious and probably very evil. It was nothing like the Shakers who had passed on, the ones Agatha used to tell her about.

  The apparition faced the window again and bowed, then repeated its sideways double bow. Gennie caught her breath. It’s dancing. That stylized bowing was so like part of a choreographed Shaker dance of worship. The figure stretched its arms straight up, which expanded its width as the cloak unfolded like the wings of a bird. Circling slowly, it turned its face toward the ceiling. Miraculously, the hood did not fall backward.

  Gennie ignored her damp feet and ruined shoes as she watched the ghost twirl faster and faster till the cloak billowed out like a tent. The specter whirled out of sight, then reappeared and twirled across the window. Gennie stood breathlessly still, waiting for it to return. Secon
ds passed. She began to count them. A minute went by, then another. Gennie’s heart was battering at her chest in anticipation of the next surprise. Three minutes passed.

  “Well, I guess the show’s over.” The voice came from behind her. Gennie yelped and spun around. At first she saw nothing; her eyes had been glued too long on the bright window. As she adjusted to the darkness, a figure emerged, then another. Three people had been standing behind her, watching the window. She glanced around and located two more observers peeking around the corner of the Schoolhouse. As they approached, she realized they were all strangers.

  “Look, she’s leaving,” said a woman in a hoarse whisper. She pointed toward the window. Gennie turned just in time to see the light fade out. The group waited several more minutes, but no other window lit up, at least in the part of the building visible to them.

  A man took off in a sprint, circled the Carpenters’ Shop, and returned, out of breath. “All dark,” he reported.

  “Haven’t seen you before,” a woman said to Gennie.

  “This is my first time.”

  “We been here every night this week,” the woman said. “At least most of us have. It’s better’n the circus. Why, I like to fainted dead away first time I seen that ghost prancing around.”

  “How did you hear about this?” Gennie asked.

  “Oh lordy, everyone knows about her by now. It’s been in the papers and so forth. My cousin down in Bowling Green heard about it even. I’m surprised there ain’t more folks here, but there’s probably lots watching the wrong buildings. Anyway, nothin’ much happened till a few days ago. We guessed she’d be at this building because she’s already done all the other buildings in this area, ’cepting that boardinghouse or whatever it is.” The woman seemed to have appointed herself the group’s storyteller, because the others had pulled back and were whispering among themselves. One of the women broke away and began spinning gracelessly. She collapsed, laughing, into the arms of a man.

  “I’m Betty, by the way.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Betty,” Gennie said, without giving her own name. “Do you really think she’s a ghost?”

  “I reckon so. There’s different stories going around, don’t know which is right. There’s them that says she’s a Shaker girl done in by her lover, and others think she done herself in, out of love for some man that jilted her. Me, I figure she got herself murdered and she’s come back looking to punish the man that did it.”

  “But wouldn’t he be dead by now, too?”

  “Well, more’n likely,” Betty said, “but if she’s been gone for a hundred years, maybe she got confused.”

  Gennie gave up on any attempt to wring logic out of Betty.

  “Have you seen her face—that ghost’s, I mean?” Gennie asked.

  “Nope,” Betty said, with regret. “She’s always got that hood pulled forward or something. Maybe ghosts ain’t got faces.”

  Gennie didn’t venture an opinion on the subject. As her excitement dwindled, her discomfort grew. She’d begun to notice that her shoes were soaked through. She wanted to go to her room, dry off, and snuggle under her covers. She forced herself to ask another question. “How many times have you seen her?”

  “Oh, me and Arlin—that’s my husband—we been out here five nights in a row, ever since we seen that story in the Lexington paper, while we was visiting my sister. The first night we just wandered around, didn’t see nothin’, but we figured we’d come back and try again. That’s when we met those folks.” She pointed toward the others, who chattered as if they were at a church social.

  “When we finally seen her, it was in that building over there.” Betty’s arm swung toward the abandoned South Family Dwelling House. “Next night she was over there, and then last night over there.” She’d indicated the Schoolhouse and the Sisters’ Shop. So the specter had jumped around a bit but stayed in the same area, avoiding the buildings occupied at night. Would it stick to the abandoned or empty buildings or become bolder and begin to haunt the Shakers’ living quarters? If the ghost ventured into the Children’s Dwelling House, it would surely have an audience of one very determined little girl. Gennie smiled into the darkness at the thought of Mairin following the phantom from room to room. If someone was perpetrating a hoax, Mairin would soon figure it out.

  Betty stared at the South Family Dwelling House, her face scrunched up as if it hurt to concentrate. “Now I think of it,” she said, “I did notice something the other night. Arlin seen it, too. That ghost looked like she was fat. We didn’t notice it at first, not while she was dancing—maybe ’cause her dress was puffed out by all that spinning around. But when we was back in our wagon heading home, we caught sight of her running between a couple of buildings, and it sure seemed like her cloak was still pushed out, you know, like it would be over a fat person. Arlin, he didn’t think a ghost could have fat, not solid fat anyways. She was supposed to be a pretty young thing, too. So I reckon she was, you know, in the family way. Maybe that’s why she killed herself—or got killed. Makes sense, don’t it?”

  “What buildings was she running toward, do you remember?”

  “Oh honey, these buildings are so plain they all look alike to me.” A tall man who must be Arlin called to Betty. “Time for bed,” Betty said. “You take care now, hear? Get yourself dried off. Ain’t worth a chill.”

  Gennie no longer cared about her cold, wet feet. A pregnant ghost—this was something she should take to Rose. And Agatha, too. If anyone would remember a story about a Shaker girl who got into trouble and died as a result, it was Sister Agatha. Gennie’s morose mood had melted away. She could put aside this endless fussing about Grady and Marriage. Adventure was in the air.

  Five

  LIKE ALL OTHER DAYS, SATURDAY WAS A BUSY ONE FOR the Shakers of North Homage. Normally they would give themselves an extra half hour of sleep on Saturday morning, but planting season had begun. The ground was warm enough to till, the air was sweet with apple blossoms, and the brethren were hard at work outdoors. Rose, however, was unlucky enough to be shut indoors with Elder Wilhelm Lundel. Gennie had reported all she’d seen and heard the previous night on her ghost-hunting adventure, and Rose had felt compelled to relate the information to Wilhelm. She and Wilhelm shared responsibility for the spiritual guidance and care of the North Homage Believers, but often Wilhelm had difficulty remembering he was not sole leader of the community. This was one of those mornings.

  “Wilhelm,” Rose said, “it is not Andrew’s fault that this odd specter has seen fit to inhabit our buildings.” She arranged another set of books on the shelves that their carpenter, Brother Archibald, had refinished for the library’s new location in the Center Family Dwelling House’s smallest meeting room.

  “Then it is thy fault, for encouraging Andrew to open that . . . that place.” Wilhelm, for once, was helping Rose with the move. She suspected it was only because he wanted the room arranged his way, not hers. Why he should care, she didn’t know. Wilhelm had established his beliefs long ago and saw no reason to deepen them with spiritual study. He preferred working outdoors.

  “It’s only a hostel, Wilhelm, not a den of evil.”

  “It is something of the world, right within our village. It brings an evil influence, which has called up this creature from Hell.”

  “You don’t think it possible that this manifestation might be a long-dead Believer who has returned to tell us something?”

  “Nay, I most certainly do not. She would have spoken by now. She would be watching over us, not performing for the world.”

  Rose had to admit he was probably right. “Wilhelm, do you remember hearing any stories about a young Shaker sister who died here under strange circumstances a hundred years ago? Did Obadiah ever mention anything like that happening?”

  Wilhelm snorted derisively. “Obadiah was far too busy as elder to worry about such foolishness.” He flicked a bit of dust from a copy of Mother Ann’s Testimonies and placed it gently on a shelf. “As am
I.” He scooped his broad-brimmed work hat from a wall peg and faced Rose. “Sister, I leave it in thy hands to rid us of this intruder. If she is not gone soon, we will be forced to close that hostel.”

  “Wilhelm, that’s—”

  “I haven’t time to argue, and we haven’t time to waste. We have people of the world wandering around the village day and night, and who knows what fresh evil they will bring with them. All this nonsense only creates spiritual confusion for our Children, for whom we are responsible, are we not?”

  Rose could think of nothing to say. Wilhelm had turned her own argument against her, the very words she had used to convince him to move with her to the dwelling house.

  “Good,” Wilhelm said, as he strode toward the door, “then we understand one another.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “One other issue. That child, Mairin—I hear she has been roaming the village at night, disobeying her elders.”

  “Mairin is my responsibility,” Rose said.

  “Precisely,” Wilhelm said, turning to face her. “And she is a bad example to the other children. If she cannot be controlled, we will have to send her away. We will send her to an orphanage—one of those orphanages that operate farms. She obviously does not appreciate all that we provide for her, asking only light work and study in return. Working on a farm might teach her gratitude.”

  “Nay, we will not send Mairin anywhere.” Rose drew in her breath and prayed for calm. Her prayer was answered in the form of a sudden inspiration. “You yourself know that Mairin has shown spiritual promise. Don’t forget her gift drawings.”

  Wilhelm’s face tightened, and Rose knew she’d won a point. Though Mairin had drawn nothing lately, she had in the past used crayons to translate elaborate images from her dreams. They had impressed Wilhelm, at least for a while.

  “It seems the spirits have abandoned her, however,” he said. “Perhaps they don’t find her a worthy instrument.”