A Haunted Twist of Fate

by Stacey Coverstone

  “Uh-huh.” Margaret used the same scolding tone he’d heard many times as a kid. “Hannah told me she met your friend.”

  “Chet says she’s real pretty,” Bill added, with a grin.

  “No secrets around here,” Colt mumbled.

  “It’s awfully early for a visit, Colton,” Margaret stated.

  “For heaven’s sakes, Margie.” Bill gently admonished his wife. “Colt’s a grown man of fifty. He’s not your student anymore. Leave the poor guy alone.”

  “Forty,” Colt corrected. He clapped Bill on the shoulder. “I’m only forty, sir.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that.” Bill tugged on Margaret’s arm and then waved to Colt. “Nice seeing you, but we’ve got to run.”

  He and Margaret broke out laughing at his pun. They jogged a few paces down the sidewalk. Then Bill looked over his shoulder and winked and gave Colt a thumbs-up.

  Twenty

  Shay stepped into the historical society later that morning to find someone other than Doris manning the front desk. A tall bald man greeted her. After Shay explained to him who she was, the man said, “I’m Bart Rockwood, Doris’s husband. Doris is under the weather today, but she told me you might be in.” He pulled out the books and the binder from below the counter where Doris had stored them.

  “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “She gets a migraine when a storm’s on its way.”

  What was he talking about? She’d just walked to the old schoolhouse, and the sun was shining bright and there were no clouds in the sky. There was no sign of a storm. Shay ignored his comment. “I don’t need all the material today. Just the one book, for now. Thank you.” She took the book with the census list in it and headed for a chair in the corner, which sat underneath a window. Hoping to locate Callie and Everett, she began the daunting task of tracing her finger down each column, searching for their first names.

  It didn’t take long for her to become blurry-eyed and realize that method wasn’t going to work. The lists were alphabetical by last name. It would take forever to find Callie and Everett that way. The whole point was to discover their last names anyway. There had to be a better way.

  She set the book back on the counter in front of Mr. Rockwood. “Is there a cemetery in town?”

  “Why sure. It’s up on the hill, just east of here, about three blocks.”

  “Is it the only one in town?”

  “The churches have their own graveyards, of course, but the Black View is the only public cemetery. It’s real pretty and peaceful up there.”

  Hmmm. This could start her on another wild goose chase, one as potentially daunting as the census lists. But chances were, Callie was buried in the public cemetery, not one of the church’s graveyards. It was worth a try to go check it out.

  “The Black View has an old part and a new part,” Mr. Rockwood advised. “The historic graves are in the back half, and the newer are in the front.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Please tell Doris I hope she feels better.”

  Stepping into the warm air and strolling east, Shay thought it would probably be a lot easier to wait until Callie manifested herself to her again. Then she could just ask what her last name was, why Everett had murdered her, and why she needed her help. But what if Callie didn’t return for days? Or she was unable to speak the next time she appeared? It seemed she had trouble getting her words out last night. Maybe she’d lose her ability to communicate at all, or stop appearing altogether.

  Besides, Shay was already caught up in the mystery, and it was a beautiful day. She had nothing better to do with her time right now. She couldn’t very well make plans to open a new business in the saloon as long as ghosts haunted the place. And even though she was rich, she had to do something with her life. A bed and breakfast seemed like a good idea in a tourist town. If she helped Callie with her problem, whatever it was, she’d be helping herself as well. It was important to move forward and put the losses of her parents and the heartaches of her failed relationships behind her.

  Shay strode to the Black View Cemetery, determined to find Callie and Everett’s tombstones.

  The cemetery was a short hike up a hill, as Mr. Rockwood had mentioned, and the view from the top was fabulous. Beyond were the jagged peaks of the Black Hills, for as far as the eye could travel. She guessed that’s why the name Black View had been chosen for this spot.

  What a pleasant place to spend eternity, she thought, glancing around. Towering trees shaded the entire property, making it feel more like a park than a graveyard.

  She wandered through the newer section, while stopping to read monuments that stood out among others. Most were carved of marble or granite. Wooden fences or wrought iron fence and rails surrounded headstones that were grouped together. Most sites looked to be well maintained, with flowers or other mementoes placed at the foot of the tombstones.

  As she strolled, a green granite headstone caught her attention because of its unusual color. She went to investigate and was stunned to see the name Morgan engraved on it.

  The breath caught in her throat as she stared at the inscription.

  Denise Marie Morgan

  Beloved Wife of Colton Morgan

  Precious Daughter of Dennis and Nancy Green

  Born: April 4, 1972 Died: December 15, 2000.

  What a strange coincidence. Of all the graves in this cemetery, what are the odds I should find Colt’s wife’s grave?

  Shay stared at the stone and imagined the kind of woman Denise had been, and the type of life she and Colt had made together. Colt hadn’t talked about her except to mention she’d gotten sick, but Shay sensed it had been a happy marriage.

  She tilted her head and listened to the trilling of a bird. Looking up, she spied a pretty bluebird sitting on a nearby branch. The cemetery was totally quiet, except for the chirping. Not even a breeze stirred the leaves in the trees. It was slightly eerie, being completely alone up here, but the bird’s joyful song helped alleviate her uneasiness, for a few moments.

  As she started walking toward the back half of the cemetery, the little bird followed, flitting from one tree to another. It continued to sing its song. As Shay moved deeper into the cemetery, the bird flew with her. At one point, she stopped and the bird halted its chirping and hovered in front of her, flapping its wings. It seemed to stare right into her eyes.

  “Go on, birdie,” she said out loud. “Shoo. You’re starting to creep me out.”

  Picking up her tempo, the beats of Shay’s heart kept pace with her footsteps—as did the flapping of the bird’s wings. She weaved between tombstones and watched the bluebird out of the corner of her eye. Suddenly, she found herself in the historic section of the cemetery. Populated with older shade trees, that part of the graveyard was denser and darker than the front part. Spooky.

  “Look at these old stones,” she commented aloud, momentarily forgetting about the bothersome bird. Casually walking between the narrow rows, she saw dozens of flat headstones that were cracked and discolored or covered with algae. Most of the names had been worn down by weather and erosion. Some monuments were still partially readable, with years dating back to the early 1880’s, while the faces of others were completely blank, having been worn completely off.

  Undeterred, and with a thrill of excitement, she glided from tombstone to tombstone, searching out the graves of Callie and Everett.

  Twenty-One

  Shay checked each and every marker while imagining the lives of the people that lay in the graves. It had to have been a tough life back then, particularly for a woman. Over a hundred years ago, this area of the Black Hills would have been isolated and untamed, lacking any of the conveniences found in the cities back east.

  Winters had to have been harsh. There would have been few ways to earn a living, and, from the records of history, Shay knew wild and dangerous men roamed the land, inflicting cruelty and pain wherever they went. It would have been a struggle just to survive another day. She wondered w
hat kind of humiliation and pain Callie had endured before Everett ended her life once and for all.

  As she walked and read every headstone that was decipherable, Shay got the distinct feeling someone watched her. Several times, she looked over her shoulder and felt eyes boring into her back. But she found nothing, or no one there. Goosebumps rose on her arms, and the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. They were feelings she’d been experiencing all too much in the last few days.

  The bluebird no longer whistled its song. In fact, it was gone. Wishing the bird was still there to keep her company, she called to it. “Where’d you go, little birdie? You can come back if you’d like. I won’t tell you to shoo anymore.”

  A twig snapped about thirty feet away. Shay jerked her head in that direction but saw no one. “Is someone there?”

  With her heart lodged in her throat, she questioned whether she should have come to this place alone. The cemetery was secluded. Sheltered amid the towering trees, she felt like she was in another world, far from civilization. A serial killer could be lurking behind the tombstones poised to attack. She could lie for days, injured or dead, with no one knowing where to find her. This had been a bad idea.

  Her gaze darted around, and she willed herself to calm down and stop thinking crazy thoughts. “Mr. Rockwood knows I’m here. I’m not going to let some stupid noises scare me. I came here to locate those graves, and I’m not going to leave until I find them.”

  With a tingle racing up her spine, she continued examining headstones one by one. Her spirits lifted when she came to a fenced-in plot with four tombstones inside. Peering over the fence, the largest of the stones was clearly legible. It bore the names of both Dean and Cynthia Averill.

  The marble monument was not embellished in any way, but it was also not a wooden marker like many in the graveyard. The names looked to be professionally engraved. No surprise there. After all, Dean Averill had owned the Buckhorn. He’d probably been one of the wealthiest men in the town at the time.

  Cynthia had been born in 1864 and died in 1894. Shay quickly did the math. She’d been only twenty-nine at the time of her demise. Dean, on the other hand, had lived to be considerably older for the time period. The date of his death was 1910.

  Shay tried to decipher the two stones to the right of the big one. They were little more than markers, and the carvings on them were illegible except for the words God’s Child etched on one of them. Shay figured those two graves to be those of the children of Dean and Cynthia.

  A fourth tombstone was of better quality than the others, and it looked to be newer. The name on it was Marcus Dean Averill. He’d lived to be an old man of seventy. Marcus must have been another of Dean’s children. Maybe he was Frank Averill’s father.

  Perhaps the spot beside Marcus was reserved for Frank. Colt had said he’d been near death several times. She didn’t know the man, but a deep sense of sadness swept over her unexpectedly at seeing the graves of his family lying before her.

  As she stepped away from the Averill family plot, another chill danced across her neck and shimmied down her arms. A rustling in the trees above caused her to look up. Through the breaks in the trees, she saw dark clouds forming. They blocked out the sun and blue sky. It looked like Mr. Rockwood had been right. Unbelievably, a storm seemed to be brewing.

  With hurried steps, Shay tried to shake off the sensation that eyes were upon her. She continued progressing through the rows of graves. Despite the possibility of getting caught in a rainstorm, a feeling hinted for her not to quit looking. Believing Callie herself might be showing her the way, Shay stopped and intoned to the spirit. “Callie, if you’re here, please guide me to your grave.”

  After a moment, she strode to the far corner of the graveyard, seemingly compelled. However, it wasn’t Callie’s spirit that she sensed. It was the invisible hands of an unknown and powerful force that propelled her forward. But whose hands were they?

  Her gaze flew to the ground, and her eyes enlarged. There, by itself, stuck in a sad looking patch of grass, was a small marker made of stone. The words had been carved deep and, remarkably, were barely touched by decades of weather. Shay knelt and traced the simple inscription with her finger.

  Callie Hayes

  Birth: 1865 Death: 1885

  “Callie Hayes,” she whispered with reverence. “Twenty years old. Who buried you? Your friends from the saloon? Or was it your boss, Mr. Averill? Did you have any family when you died?”

  A crack of lightning reverberated across the sky just then, followed by a boom of thunder, which caused Shay to jump. A few raindrops fell on her head. She stared into the ever-threatening sky.

  “Great. This is just what I need.”

  Knowing she should leave now or get drenched, she was hesitant to go, and continued to speak to the stone. “Now that I know your full name, I’ll help you any way I can. You just have to tell me what you need, Callie. What is it you want me to know? Was someone else involved in your murder besides Everett? Did he have a partner in crime? Were they punished for what they did to you? Maybe they were never caught, and you’re seeking justice.”

  When a voice growled in her ear, Shay screamed and scrambled to her feet. “Who’s there?” She spun in a circle. A slow movement captured her attention from out of the corner of her eye. Something—or someone—was watching her, standing about fifty feet away. Her head pivoted, and her gaze landed on a shadow. Was it the branch of a tree, or was it a person? With eyes widening, she saw a dark figure slip behind a tombstone. Taking in a lung full of air, Shay bolted in the opposite direction. Another crash of thunder shook the earth, and a lightning bolt struck the ground in front of her.

  Shrieking, she flinched and kept running.

  Out of nowhere, pounding footsteps rushed up behind her, causing her ears to pulsate. Cold breath teased her neck. A male voice hissed around her head. Frightened out of her mind, she sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her. Her pulse throbbed in her veins. She was afraid to turn and look at the creature bearing down on her.

  Her chest burned, and her legs were about to give out from under her. Running became even more difficult when the storm clouds cracked open and rain started to pour.

  Slipping in the wet grass, Shay twisted her foot and cried out when she fell. She landed hard on her arm. There was no doubt in her mind that a supernatural being was near. She battled against the raging pain and fought to stand. When unseen arms hoisted her up, she found herself eye level with Denise Morgan’s headstone and gulped. As if that weren’t strange enough, the little bluebird sat perched on top with its beady eyes fixed on her.

  Water streamed down Shay’s face. “Who are you?” Something came down upon her head, and her world went black.

  Twenty-Two

  When Shay came to, she was lying on her back in damp grass, hair matted to her face, wet clothes clinging to her like a sodden second skin. But at least the storm had passed. Rolling onto her side, she winced when she moved her foot. Her ankle hurt, and so did the arm she’d fallen on, but there was no time to dwell on the pain. That was secondary to getting out of the graveyard before anything more bizarre happened.

  She hauled herself to her feet and leaned on Denise Morgan’s tombstone, keeping as much weight off the tender foot as possible. Glancing in every direction, the tension in her body melted when she realized the storm must have driven away whatever evil had been chasing her. Her fear subsided. Curiosity took a back seat to pain when she realized the bluebird was nowhere to be seen either.

  With rays of sunlight pushing through the openings in the trees, Shay might have thought she’d imagined the storm, the bird, the dark figure, and the footsteps behind her, if not for being completely soaked. The cemetery was at peace again, the way a cemetery should be.

  She hadn’t found Everett’s grave, but at least she knew Callie’s full name now. That was good enough for one day. Shivering, she knew she somehow had to make it home on her injured foot and get into a hot bath before she ca
ught her death from the cold.

  She eased away from the granite headstone and kept most of the weight on her uninjured foot. Limping slowly, she managed to make it through the graveyard without slipping and falling again.

  Her energy was zapped, but she still had close to eight blocks to walk to get home. Could she do it with pain shooting through her foot? Thinking of the formidable task ahead, tears welled in her eyes. She stopped and leaned against another headstone to rest a moment.

  “You look as if you could use a hand,” said a voice from behind her.

  Shay’s heart leaped inside her chest. She craned her head. An elderly man and woman had slipped up on either side of her. Inquisitiveness etched their lined faces.

  “You must have gotten caught in that storm,” the woman said. “My brother and I waited it out in our truck before coming up to visit our sister, Maude. You should have waited, too.”

  Shay forced a smile when she realized these were real people—not ghosts or evil shadow people. They were older, non-threatening people at that. “I didn’t know it was going to rain when I walked here from town,” she explained, while shoving wet tresses out of her eyes. “I didn’t bring an umbrella, and, unfortunately, I twisted my ankle.”

  “We’re done visiting Maude. You can ride with us back to town,” the woman said, linking her arm through Shay’s. “Julian, take the lady’s other arm,” she told her brother, who jumped at her directive. “And both of you watch your step as we walk down the hill. We might all tumble down like Jack and Jill if we’re not careful.”

  Back at the Buckhorn, Shay thanked the couple as she slid off the seat and out of their old Ford pickup.

  “You sure you can get inside on your own?” asked the lady, as she pulled the truck door shut. “That foot looks like it’s starting to swell.”