This would be a perfect place for something to appear.
If I were a ghost, I think I’d hide up in one of these old trees, releasing snot-freezing wails when someone is about to die like the Banshee Hale. I like the idea of being prescient in that way. And terrifying.
I study the branches as they pass overhead, searching for any sign of something unearthly. They’re twisted and gnarled exactly as they should be, unadorned by ethereal shrieking maidens or raving madmen.
For a flash of a second, I’m disappointed. My life is quickly being defined by the things I can’t do. I’m not used to feeling inadequate at anything except singing, and I accepted that shortcoming a long time ago, so why is it that two things completely beyond my control feel like personal failures? I pedal faster, anxious to leave these feelings behind.
The Lillard House stands in all its decrepit glory at the end of the long tunnel. Fog hides some of its more embarrassing age spots, but its dusty walls can’t hide the fact that they, like Nanny’s hands, long for younger days. It’s beautiful in the way only destroyed southern relics can be.
When I leave the shelter of the oaks, I drop my bike and walk slowly. This close, the house looks different than I remember, especially the lower levels, where the siding looks sturdy and the paint pale. It makes an unsettling contrast to the weary upper floor.
On the third level a perfect black circle of a window sits in the peak of the attic. It’s just large enough to remind the person on the other side that the sun exists. If I were telling this story, now is the moment a hand would appear there, insubstantial and pale, fingers splayed with distress, suggesting some unseen horror in the darkness beyond. This is the moment the spirits inside this dying house would do the worst thing they possibly could . . . they’d notice me.
But this isn’t a story, and I shouldn’t waste my time with such ensnaring flights of fancy. If I keep my wits about me I’ll escape this town without too much superstitious country attached. In less than two years I’ll be on my way to a place like Harvard or Yale or UCLA—somewhere far from here where no one gives credence to talk of ghosts and magic, and no one cares about my uterus except old white congressmen. To a place with a post office that’s open more than twice a week. With any luck, I’ll have a volleyball scholarship. Without luck, I may have a regular, intelligence-based scholarship.
I’m smack dab in the middle of an ego boost when I spot them: three figures climbing the hill behind the Lillard House. Fog parts for them, swirling around their ankles and legs, turning them into dark silhouettes against a white background. One is so small it could be a shape made from night and fog, but the other two are tall enough to distinguish. A boy and a girl, for sure. The third, I realize, is a child. With no good reason for being way out here by the house Sticks forgot.
Ghosts.
I think it before I can reject the idea. There’s no such thing. It’s impossible. It should be impossible. I should want it to be impossible.
Except part of me wants it to be true, too.
I look away. I close my eyes, blink them several times, and count my fingers to ten. If I’m going to join the ranks of those who’ve seen a ghost, I’m going to be damn sure. Once a story’s been told, it becomes true.
But I need mine to be true before I tell it.
Convinced that my vision is clear, I raise my eyes again.
The figures have stopped at the crest of the hill, thin and indistinct in the moonlight. Together, they turn their heads as if listening to some distant call. The boy reaches for the child’s hand and pulls him closer, but they don’t move from that spot. I watch, transfixed, wondering if I should get closer, fearing that they will get closer. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I need to see their faces, and it’s this thought that finally convinces my feet to move forward two inches.
Then, all at once, they look right at me. They notice me.
The yelp I utter is involuntary, but that was eerie as shit and I’m not ashamed. I run for my bike and leap on, pedaling halfway down the drive before I dare to look again. There’s no sign of them, but I don’t slow down. I go home as fast as I can. Not ’cause I’m scared, but because I’m immensely satisfied that I, Candace Craven Pickens, once again exceeded expectation by sighting not one, but three ghosts at once.
6
THERE’S NO MERCY IN A hot summer day spent inside a church.
Though the air conditioner’s taking a vacation, Father O’Connor’s got no interest in compassion and keeps us trapped inside this cumulative cloud of B.O. as long as possible. I don’t like people telling me what to think, so I try not to pay too much attention to his homilies.
Father O’Connor aside, I like sitting in church. Usually, I like the smells—incense and wax and wood polish. I like the way the light blinks through the high windows of stained glass. I like how the tall ceilings give me room to think. But this morning my mind is a dangerous place to be. The corners are all full of thoughts with knives, images and sounds from that night with Leo and Red, my mother’s disappointment, ghosts and trees and blood. I bounce so quickly between them, I trick myself into thinking I’m spinning.
Finally, the service ends and we leave the chapel a bouquet of wilted flowers.
Sterling’s unusually chipper when we meet in the parking lot. She dances on her toes, looking more awake than someone ought to after sitting in a spiritual sauna for sixty minutes.
“Guess what?” she sings, climbing into my car and snapping her seat belt.
“Please, just tell me.”
“Heath’s home.” She claps her hands in her lap and I swear the girl’s trying not to bounce in her seat. “He got home late last night.”
“So what were you doing in church?” I tease, smiling as my plans for the day, the week, and all eight days before school starts up again, crumble.
“Sweating. I need a shower, but I told him I’d meet him at the Lillard House in”—she checks her phone—“fifteen minutes! Curse Father O’Connor and the horse he rode in on!”
“Don’t panic,” I say, pulling out of the parking lot and speeding down the road. “It’s not like he’ll give up on you.”
I didn’t say it to be sweet, but Sterling presses a hand over her smile and fades into some romantic thought. I’d like to say I’m not jealous of what she and Heath have, but I’m not dead inside. Just not so lucky. The last guy I dated thought it was a good idea to give me camouflage underwear for my birthday and ask for a fashion show. And boy did I give him a show. Though not the sort he expected. It involved the panties. It just also involved a lighter and a megaphone.
No one’s ever accused me of being too subtle.
When we get to the blue house, we race upstairs and Sterling sheds her Sunday clothes on her way to the bathroom. I pick through her closet to find a new outfit—white shorts and a navy blue tank—and sit on the bathroom counter while she scrubs off the sweat.
“I need to tell you something,” I say to the red-and-tan shower curtain.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It might be. It’s definitely strange. I’m not sure how I feel about it, actually.”
Sterling’s face appears around the edge of the curtain. “Tell me you’re not talking about sex.”
“Why does everyone always think I’m talking about sex?”
“One,” she says, disappearing, “I don’t always think you’re talking about sex. Two, you are frequently talking about sex. And three, when we do talk about it, promise me it’ll be face-to-face.”
“Lord a’mighty, Saucier, I promise. Face-to-face.”
Floral-scented steam clouds the ceiling, wisping this way and that like fog from the river. I concentrate on the word, amenorrhea, and the explanation, absence of menstruation. She should know. There’s no reason not to tell her. Compared to everything we’ve dealt with lately, this, at least, isn’t in any way supernatural.
“I saw ghosts.” The words are out of my mouth before I know it—one confession replacing anot
her. “At the Lillard House last night. Three of them.”
The water cuts off and Sterling’s hand snakes out for the fluffy towel in mine. Two seconds later, the curtain snaps open and her stone-blue eyes fix me in place.
“Candace Pickens, say that again.”
I slide off the counter and try to recall the victory I felt as I fled the scene. “I saw three ghosts on the hill. A boy, a girl, and a kid. Plain as day.”
“Candy!” She steps out of the tub. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“Because it’s still crazy,” I say, turning my back so she can get dressed without showing me all her naked glory. “Besides, I wanted to sleep on it and make sure saying it out loud still sounded like a good idea.”
She rustles behind me, quickly climbing into the outfit I chose, and nudges my shoulder when it’s okay to turn around. Her expression is nothing shy of joyful.
“I have to admit, even having said it, it still doesn’t seem like the best idea.”
“Candy!” She rises on her toes. “You saw a ghost! This is great!”
“Sometimes, I think you’re not playing with a full deck of cards.”
“Oh, come on, this is great. It means what we did at the tree worked; it just took a little longer on you. Doesn’t this make you feel better?”
“Maybe,” I say, smiling in spite of myself. It’s strange to recognize that some part of me wished for this. Now that I’ve admitted it, my brain resumes its normal functions. “But the issue remains: Why are we seeing them at all?”
As Sterling squeezes water from her hair, her face falls into a winsome expression I’ve come to recognize. She’s pondering the events of earlier this summer, when her brother, Phineas, was taken by a tortured swamp spirit and replaced with a girl, Lenora May, who became the sister Sterling never had. It cost Lenora May her life to free Phin.
I was there. I was essential for my Shine-repelling qualities. I hadn’t seen things the way others did. I saw the swamp as the dull mud pit it is, and I saw a dozen confused people wander out of the mire. The strangest thing I remember was that one minute I didn’t remember who Phin was and the next I did.
I pluck at the ugly leather band Sterling forced me to wear before we knew Shine had no effect on me. Supposedly, it bears a Shine spell that protects the wearer’s mind from being altered by the swamp. Except mine, of course, but I’ve gotten used to the band.
“At the beginning of the summer, the Shine couldn’t cross the fence,” she says, “but now it can and does. It doesn’t go far and it’s not dangerous, I don’t think, but the Shine is definitely different. Maybe the ghosts are, too?”
“That’s an assuring thought,” I say.
She watches me in the mirror as she layers a little powder over her skin and dabs her lips with gloss. “Time?”
I gladly swap talk of ghosts and magic for talk of Heath. “We’re out of it. Ready?”
When we turn down the side road, Heath’s sad excuse for a truck is parked in the long grass by the river. He leans against it, staring at the water in that stoic way of his. The sun glints off his short hair and hangs on his shoulders as if he’s a painting in dusty strokes: Study of a Truck and Its Boy. Beside me, Sterling holds her breath.
I stop several feet behind the truck. Sterling’s running before I’ve put the car in park. A better person might leave them to whatever reunion they’re planning, but I’m nobody’s chauffeur. I’ll have a greeting and a thank-you-very-much before I go.
I delay my approach by changing out of my delicate Sunday sandals and sliding into my cowboy boots. Calm, faded brown with exquisite rows of tan and teal stitching, they complement my amber cotton skirt. I spend an extra minute fussing with my phone before slamming the door.
Heath’s eyes shift to me ever so briefly. He gives me the courtesy of a slight nod before falling into Sterling’s gaze once again. Moving closer, I notice how different he looks. His hair’s been shorn into a standard buzz cut, his face is thinner, his shoulders more broad, and he’s actually standing up straight for once. As far as punishments go, he wears this one well. In just a few short months, Heath has gone from distant and guarded to someone who actually lives inside his own face.
“You look like a proper meathead,” I say. “Can you throw a decent punch yet?”
“Nice to see you, too, Candy,” he answers. You can always tell a decent boy from a dangerous one by the trail their eyes cut during conversation. Heath’s eyes are unwavering; they promise stability and honesty and roses on Valentine’s.
“I thought you were supposed to call everyone ‘ma’am’ now. Don’t they do that sort of thing at military camp? Change your vocabulary? Lord, was it horrible?”
“Some parts,” he says with a meaningful glance at Sterling.
He’s my height, which makes him the preferred four inches taller than her. I’d forgotten what a neat set they make. Or maybe I never knew. They’ve both changed since the start of the summer. They both beefed up in all the right ways and adopted healthier practices in general. Without the weight of drugs, or swamp magic, or starvation, they glow, and his golden tones are just the right contrast to her winter hues.
“How long do we have?” Sterling asks, already anxious.
During the last week of school, Heath made the crucial mistake of aggressively telling his parents that he quit taking his antidepressants because of Sterling’s influence. Not long after Sterling’s stepfather gave Heath a speeding ticket, and still not long after that Heath snuck out to help Sterling save her brother. All of that became Sterling’s fault, and Heath’s parents promptly sent him to military camp for the summer with strict instructions to clean up his act. Essentially, Mr. and Mrs. Durham turned Sterling and Heath’s relationship into the quintessential forbidden fruit. Now, my two little lovebirds will stop at nothing to have each other.
“My parents think I’m out visiting Blake and the boys at the field.” Heath holds up his cell phone. “I’m sure they’ll call me in for dinner.”
She tugs at his hand. “Want to go up to the house?”
“Ah, that’s my cue,” I say, and start to leave, but Heath’s next words stop me in my tracks.
“I don’t think we’re allowed. Looks like someone’s moving in.”
“How?” Sterling sounds offended. “It’s a state historic site. You can’t just move into that sort of thing.”
Heath shrugs. “There’s a slew of trucks up there and I’d have sworn at least one was a moving van. That’s why I met you down here.”
He’s still talking as we start moving toward the driveway. We’re halfway to the house when a large white van rumbles past. The driver waves. Casually, because we all know him. It’s Mr. Napoleon. He’s the school plumber, which means he’s also the town plumber. He’s smiling like it’s totally normal for him to be out at the Lillard House, which hasn’t seen a piece of plumbing in a century.
It’s possible that the town council has suddenly taken an interest in the house. But not likely. The Lillard House is as far from the town’s attention as Sticks is from getting a mall. At least that used to be the case.
At the end of the oak tunnel, there’s a flurry of activity. People pass constantly in and out of the front door. Hammers bang, buzz saws whine, and men shout. Long strips of white paint lay scattered across the grass like dandruff. Most of the trucks parked on the lawn are marked as part of the Wawheece & Sons Construction fleet. The rest must’ve come from outside of Sticks.
On one side, there’s a crew of boys on ladders, sanding off the old paint and replacing rotten boards. I recognize the beautiful blond head of Quentin Stokes and the bald one of Riley Wawheece among them. It’s likely there are a dozen other boys from our grade scattered around the site.
Everything is in motion, but we three become more rooted than the trees lining the road. At least this explains why the house looked mismatched last night. They must’ve started work yesterday.
Sterling breaks our silence. “But they c
an’t.” There’s real panic in her voice. This is where she and Phin used to hide when their jackass of a dad was on a bender. It means something to her. “How can this be happening?”
“Let’s find out,” I say, striding ahead.
The closer I get the more dramatic the changes appear. The walls are barely white for all the sanding, the windows are all flung open, the front porch is in a state of transformation, and the roof’s been skinned and prepped for new shingles. There’s no part of it that hasn’t been touched. I can only imagine what’s happening on the inside. And how many people it’s taken to make this happen in the day since I was here.
Sterling trots along beside me muttering half sentences I don’t fully hear.
“Cut that out before we get up there, Saucier,” I chide. “You sound cracked.”
We follow the trail of sawdust to the front porch and step carefully around discarded tools and stacks of wood to get to the open front door. Heath urges caution, saying, “Maybe we shouldn’t,” but I wave him off. Girls can get away with more rudeness than boys. So long as I remember to use wide eyes if I get stopped, we won’t catch much trouble.
Plastic coats the floor in all directions, and there’s so much dust in the air I could chew it. Two men carrying long planks of wood pass us to climb the winding stairs, another zips up after them, and not one of them looks at us like we shouldn’t be here. Encouraged, I lead my timid troops down the main hallway to the back of the house. The room we congregated in to prepare our final foray into the swamp for Phin has been stripped of its infested wallpaper and prepped for something new. It’s a marvel, really. Uncle Jack’s been remodeling his spare bedroom for the better part of a decade. The day he and Dad peeled off the wallpaper some eight years ago was the last day it looked good. These guys must’ve started working early to make so much progress. And on a Sunday. Around here, that takes money. Whoever is doing this, they’re serious.
Behold the Bones Page 5
