A Night At Old Webb

by Kevin Lucia

  He licked his lips. “It sorta popped into my head, this morning. Don't know why, but it did. Remember how I said I thought I'd heard her last name before. Titchner?”

  I nodded, a curious numbness creeping over my mind. I remembered because I'd thought the same thing, too.

  “So I asked my Mom. And she...well...”

  He gestured at the propped open back door with his flashlight. “Let's go check it out.”

  He ducked through the door. I followed; once again pursued by the thought everything in my life was about to change.

  * * *

  We walked down Old Webb's main hall, our sneakers scuffing against debris-strewn concrete. The building's immense emptiness pressed in around us. I couldn't deny feeling a little creeped out. I hadn't scouted around Old Webb's halls for a few years. Mostly, I only went on Saturday nights anymore, with twenty or so people hanging out in the gym, muted boom boxes playing in the background. I'd forgotten about the oppressive silence filling the halls when Old Webb was empty.

  And as we made our way down the hall and past the gym to the other side of the building, Old Webb's strange air of hurried abandonment weighed upon me. The school hadn't been cleared out or stripped of useful furniture or appliances. It had seemingly been closed “as is.” Classrooms not plundered by Saturday night guests still held rows of desks, some of them eerily straight and neat, monolithic teacher's desks and podiums looming before them. If it weren't for the graffiti on the walls, the litter strewn everywhere and the ceiling tiles piled on the floor in sodden clumps, you'd think a weird sort of suspended animation had descended upon Old Webb, locking it in the same condition as the day it closed. Despite the common knowledge Old Webb had been closed because of “dropping enrollment,” I couldn't repress the fantasy of something compelling the entire school population to abandon the building en mass, never to return.

  We turned right at an intersection. The hall stretched onward, an endless, cavernous abyss. Despite myself, I wondered what kind of rodents or small animals hid in the darkness, and felt glad for Gary's flashlight.

  We walked only a few feet before Gary stopped so abruptly I almost plowed into him. He didn't say anything, however, his usually sarcastic air dampened by the weight of Old Webb's emptiness.

  We stood before a double door. I peered through the windows and saw a long counter. Rows of rectangular tables marked the interior. Bookshelves ran along the walls, also standing in rows on the room's far end.

  The library.

  “For some reason that girl's last name was bugging me this morning,” Gary whispered. “Don't know why. So I asked Mom. Y'know she attended third grade here, before it closed? Anyway, I asked her if she recognized 'Titchner' and she said...well.”

  He aimed the flashlight above the double doors.

  I wanted to, didn't want to, and I looked anyway.

  SOMETHING SOMETHING MEMORIAL LIBRARY.

  I read it again, because for some reason the first part didn't register. When I finally did see the name fully, I stared for several more minutes, unable to pull together my thoughts.

  MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY.

  I opened my mouth.

  Closed it.

  Opened it again, but nothing came out. I'd read about moments of open-mouthed shock many times in stories, but until then I'd never thought it was something people actually did. Luckily, Gary kept right on talking.

  “Mom said they got a big speech at the beginning of every school year, their first trip to the library. Back when this was a Bible Camp or something, there was a horse stable across the street. Up in the woods, called Shady Acres. Anyway, this lady - —her name was Michelle Titchner – —had wanted to work with horses her whole life, but back then I guess girls were supposed to get married and pop out kids, and that's all. Least-ways, around here that's the way it was. Only she said 'screw it' and did her own thing. Got disowned by her family but ended up owning her own little horse farm, Shady Acres. She lived there, too, in a little cabin or something, her whole life. After Town of Webb bought this and turned it into Old Webb...”

  I sort of tuned Gary out for a bit.

  I'd heard this part already, of course.

  “...anyway, I guess when she passed, she left a lot of money to Old Webb. They renovated the library, renamed it the Michelle Titchner Memorial Library.”

  He stopped, abruptly falling into silence. We stood there and stared at MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY without speaking.

  Finally, I swallowed and managed, “What...what does this mean?”

  Silence.

  Gary shook his head. “Hell if I know. Nothing. Probably a distant relation is all. Maybe she doesn’'t even know about this.”

  I nodded dumbly, knowing different, of course, having seen the remains of Shady Acres myself, having heard almost the same exact story from a girl named Michelle Titchner, who'd exhorted me to follow my writing dreams and not buckle under parental pressure to pursue something more “practical.”

  “Yeah,” I rasped. “Probably. Gotta be.”

  There was nothing more to say. We stared a little longer, then turned and left. Gary decided - —despite other plans - —to join me fishing, which worked out because I always brought an extra pole. Apparently he hadn't wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon alone.

  I felt the same way. Because if you have a chance for company, why would you want to be alone?

  * * *

  I'd like to say I went to Old Webb one last time. I'd like to say I had the courage to attend one last Saturday gathering before its scheduled demolition in the fall, and I'd like to say I either saw Michelle Titchner one last time, or I visited the ruins of Shady Acres once more and felt some sort of resolution, some answer to the mystery.

  But let's be honest. I was a nineteen year old kid confused about his future, tugged by the sport he'd played since fourth grade but also compelled by some new, strange desire to chase dreams through pen and paper. Confronted with so many choices about my future, as well as something I didn't understand in the MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY?

  I pushed my questions away.

  Buried the things I didn't understand and focused on what I did: basketball. With the first semester of college and pre-season practice looming, its familiar immediacy was comforting, far more preferable to thoughts of an uncertain future, cataclysmic changes, and the MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY.

  I threw myself into my chores and then my afternoon workouts with Corey. I ran and lifted weights with reckless abandon. I relentlessly prowled the asphalt courts of Old Forge and Inlet with Corey and my friends, playing hours of basketball. It served me well. I started as a freshman at Webb Community, played well enough to earn Freshman of the Year honors in our conference. And hey - —I still enjoyed playing basketball fine, even if my passion for the game was slowly fading. But the truth?

  I didn't pursue basketball so intensely the next two years because I loved it more than anything else. I buried myself in it so I wouldn't have to think about things I didn't understand and couldn't explain.

  Which was fine with me.

  * * *

  I've thought about Michelle Titchner off and on over the years, focusing, of course, on the time we spent together, what she said to me, and our moment under the moon. Her arm around my waist, mine around hers, her head nestled on my shoulder. I relegated things like Shady Acres and the MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY to the locked box I believe we all carry deep in the primitive corners of our brains.

  Michelle Titchner.

  Who was she?

  A ghost?

  A distant relative of the Michelle Titchner of the MICHELLE TITCHNER MEMORIAL LIBRARY?

  Why? Why me, why that summer of 1992?

  Does it matter?

  Even now, I'm amazed at how she managed to deflect or avoid any probing questions about herself or her background, where she lived, went to school, and her telephone number. A logical, rational assumption would be that she was a
n intensely private person sharing a moment she knew wouldn't last with someone she realized wasn't ready for the likes of her. Maybe the two names were completely coincidental.

  Also, her dress, manner and speech fit right in with the rest of us. Sure, she acted a little wiser, and a little more “knowing” than her apparent age. She was an “old soul,” as my grandfather was fond of saying. But she fit right in with the 1990's. Nothing stood out, no outdated mannerisms or sayings, no out-of-fashion clothing.

  But if ghosts do exist, what would we know about them? How do you develop “rules” governing what the supernatural can or can't do? Who's to say a ghost - —from a person who’d lived a fulfilling life, from a person who’d apparently died peacefully in their home - —couldn't adapt themselves? Learn? Blend in as part of the crowd?

  Especially if they were lonely and wanted someone to talk to. Especially if a place she'd dedicated so much of her life to was about to be bulldozed into the ground.

  Couldn't she come say...goodbye?

  In the end, I believe it doesn't matter. The only information I’ve ever found for Michelle Titchner was for the decades deceased horse ranch owner, the one to whom Old Webb dedicated its library years before I was born. However, I like to think that —living somewhere in the United States, or still lingering around what's left of Shady Acres—Michelle Titchner is happy we met and shares the same memories I do of those two nights. I hope she knows—wherever or whatever she is—that I was finally ready for someone like her when I met Abby, and it was she who helped prepare me for meeting her.

  And I hope that, somehow, someway, she's no longer lonely.

  Arcane Delights

  I can honestly say that in the short time I’ve known her, never once has Cassie been rendered speechless. Until now. A hushed silence falls after I finish my story, in which Cassie sits and stares at me, blinking. She opens her mouth to speak, thinks better of it and closes her mouth, looking deeply thoughtful, her brow furrowed. I notice idly that at some point during the story she slid her feet off the desk, and is now leaning forward, as if she’s been hanging on my every word.

  Another minute passes.

  And another.

  Cassie finally shakes her head and says, “Boss. Wow. And you didn’t want anyone knowing you wrote stories when you were a kid. I mean. WOW.”

  Oddly enough, now that the story’s been told, I no longer feel embarrassed or nervous. Mostly, I feel at peace. I haven’t revisited my encounter with Michelle Titchner since I first wrote it down twenty years ago, and I wonder how much of it has been simmering in the back of my mind without me even knowing it.

  I smile and shrug. “Well, keep in mind I didn’t read you the exact words I wrote back then, just sort of ad-libbed based on what I remember, and what was written down. The actual writing itself is pretty simplistic.”

  Cassie gave me a look I can’t quite define, almost reproachful and kind at the same time. “Yeah, but the way you tell it now...damn. Write that down, boss. Write that the hell down.”

  “Yeah, but telling a story isn’t the same as actually writing it and having it sound good...”

  “You’re still making excuses, huh? Doesn’t sound like you listened to the moral of your own story.”

  This leaves me a little speechless, Cassie’s remark is far bolder than anything she’s ever tossed my way before, bordering on stepping over the boss/employee line into the realm of ‘friend’ for the first time. She must’ve seen it in my face, because she quickly waves and adds, “Don’t take that the wrong way. I mean, it’s none of my business what you do. But I love reading, boss, and I love stories...and that’s one hell of a story. You should write it down. Get it published and all. Seriously. Besides,” she nods at the letter on the desk. “Your Dad was a published writer and everything, and he thought there was potential there. Was he the kind of guy to pat your back if you didn’t deserve it?”

  She has a point, I’ve got to admit. “No, I don’t suppose he was. Probably why I never showed him my writing. Think I was afraid he’d be a little too honest with me about how good or bad it was.”

  Her excellent instincts kick in as she directs me toward a different topic. “Why do you think he never mailed that to you?”

  I pick up the letter, staring at those words that speak from across a gulf of four years. “Well, he had a spotty memory even when he was healthy. A lot like mine, actually. Could’ve very easily got busy and stuck it in that drawer and forgot about it. Or, maybe his Alzheimer’s had been brewing for longer than we thought.” I shrug. “Either way...I still got it.”

  And of course, that makes me wonder, idly, about this store and its odd vibe. In a flight of fancy, I imagine Dad losing this package, leaving it on the bus or at a restaurant, throwing it away by mistake or sending it to the wrong address...but the store drawing the package back to this desk drawer, despite it all.

  “So what do you think? Was Michelle a ghost, or a distant cousin, or what?”

  My answer comes without hesitation. “I don’t think it matters, really. And even if I could find out, I don’t think I want to know.” I think, then, of strange stories written in journals, stored in a box waiting for me at home, in my office. Stories of this town, stories the likes of which maybe I could write, myself. “Some things are just better left unknown.”

  “So what about you? You finally ready to write that story the way it needs to be written, so people can read it? Cause I think you need to go home right now and hop to it for a few hours, while I hold down the fort here.”

  I smile at Cassie, suddenly thinking I’d be very proud, indeed, if my daughter Madi turns out to be like her someday. “Out of curiosity...you don’t have any distant cousins named Michelle Titchner, do you?”

  Cassie snorts and is about to offer a sarcastic reply when the bell over the front door rings, unceremoniously ending our lunch break. Cassie wipes her hands on her pants, stands and heads to the front counter. “Well, I’m back on the clock. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  With that, she offers me a grin hauntingly like the one given to me twenty-three years ago, before ducking through the door to the front. As she approaches the customers at the counter, I look down at my old blue notebook and the letter Dad wrote but never got to send.

  “You know,” I whisper as I gather them up and stand, “I think I’ll do just that.”

  About the Author

  Kevin Lucia is the Reviews Editor for Cemetery Dance Magazine. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, and he is the author of Hiram Grange & The Chosen One, the short story collection Things Slip Through, the novella duet Devourer of Souls and the novella quartet Through A Mirror, Darkly.

  He’s currently finishing his Creative Writing Masters Degree at Binghamton University, he teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children.

  Visit him at: kevinlucia.com or add him on Facebook at either facebook.com/kblucia or facebook.com/authorkevinlucia.

  Things Slip Through

  Meet Chris Baker, the new sheriff of the quiet Adirondack town of Clifton Heights. As one inexplicable case after another forces him to confront the townsfolk in The Skylark Diner, it’s the furtive Gavin Patchett that hands Chris a collection of not-so-fictional short stories that tumbles him into a world of monsters, ageless demons, and vengeful citizens.

  As Chris reads through the stories the veil starts to lift, and he soon questions what is real and what’s not, and whether he really wants to know.

  Nothing will ever be the same again.

  Welcome to Clifton Heights, New York,

  Through a Mirror Darkly

  Arcane Delights. Clifton Heights' premier rare and used bookstore. In it, new owner Kevin Ellison has inherited far more than a family legacy, for inside are tales that will amaze, astound, thrill...and terrify.

  An ancient evil thirsty for lost souls. A very different kind of taxi service with destinations not on any known map. Three co
ins that grant the bearer's fondest wish, and a father whose crippling grief gives birth to something dark and hungry.

  Every town harbors secrets. Kevin Ellison is about to discover those that lurk in the shadows of Clifton Heights.

  LampLight Volume 1

  Features the Clifton Heights novella “And I Watered It With Tears” by Kevin Lucia.

  J.F. Gonzalez takes us through the history of the genre with his Shadows in the Attic articles.

  Fiction by Robert Ford, Kelli Owen, Ronald Malfi, Elizabeth Massie, William Meikle, Nathan Yocum, Rahul Kanakia, Ian Creasey, Mandy DeGeit, D.J. Cockburn, Christopher Fryer, Christopher Kelly, Tim Lieder, Jamie Lackey, Matthew Warner, Sheri White, Dinos Kellis, S. R. Mastrantone, Mjke Wood, Delbert R. Gardner, Michele Mixell, Sarah Rhett, Armel Dagorn, E. Catherine Tobler