by Debi Matlack
I shivered as he mentioned Cora and the sinkhole. What the hell was it about that thing?
Lillian spoke up. “This one says something about a man being killed in a knife fight right in that same area a little before the Civil War.” She handed me the piece of paper.
“ ‘Family legend states Cuyler Phillips was stabbed in a "duel" with Matthew Williamson.’ ” I smiled and handed it back. “I’ve heard other versions of this one. A lot of people say he was stabbed in the back as he bent over to pick up his brother, though I don’t know what his brother was doing on the ground in the first place. Cuyler’s daughter, Armerintha—”
“Seriously, her name was Armerintha?” Scott snickered and Lillian popped him with the back of her hand. I just shrugged.
“Hey, I didn’t name her. Anyway, apparently she kept his shirt so she could show the blood marks on the back of his shirt. A hole too, presumably.”
I’d read all the articles, many times over, but hearing the stories coming from the mouths of people that were relative strangers to the area somehow made the idea of a curse seem more real. Instead of standing in the middle while these incidents whirled around me, I was able to stand aside and view it more objectively.
“Well, it’s always been said that rednecks have short tempers. I’m pretty sure that this was more of a Hatfield and McCoy sort of thing. Most of the people in this town are related to one or both sides, myself included.”
“Southerners have long memories, too,” Lillian pointed out. “His daughter kept his shirt just to show people the blood. If that’s not vengeance waiting to happen, I don’t know what is.”
I made a wry face. “Exactly. That’s why I asked Scott to look at this stuff. He knows what he’s doing. I just start seeing conspiracies and perpetrators everywhere.”
Scott brandished another piece of paper. “Can I hang onto this one? I just want it as a reminder.”
“Sure, take whatever you want. I’ve got most of them saved to a flash drive anyway.” I twisted my head to read the headline and my breath caught. I disguised it with a cough, though I wasn’t fooling either one of them. “Local Businessman Murdered.” It was the article that ran in the Reporter, The Gainesville Sun and the Florida Times-Union after Poppy was killed.
“You okay?” Lillian got up and gently touched my shoulder. I nodded, biting my lips while I tried to bully my heart back into a normal rhythm.
“Yeah, it just—well, it takes me by surprise sometimes, y’know?” I sat on a tiny bit of clear space on the corner of the coffee table. “I mean, that’s what started this whole thing for me, all this craziness. If Poppy hadn’t been killed, if I hadn’t been—” Another wave of unreasonable fear washed through me and Scott leaned forward, taking my hands in his.
“Hey, we’ll find out what happened. Even if we can’t make it official because of the weird stuff.”
Despite myself, I snorted, a glimmer of humor doing much to beat back the fluttering wings of panic. I squeezed his hands and let them go. “Yeah, we will.”
Chapter 14
It had been almost a year since all the hoohaw that resulted in me owning a store and a freak show of psychic abilities. The store was not a problem. Maybe Poppy refusing to unload that junk for all those years was meant to build a material base for me to create from. Maybe the planets were aligned, maybe it was destiny, fate, kismet, or maybe I was just lucky. Business was good enough that I hired a couple of people to mind the retail end of things while I stayed busy in the storeroom, restoring, repairing, creating Frankenstein hybrids from two or more otherwise-unusable pieces of furniture, making mosaics out of broken antique china. I even started a blog, of all things, chronicling my adventures in recycling. You name it, I’d give it a whirl.
The weirdo crap, well, I did the best I could. After the initial round of confessions to those closest to me, I didn’t feel the need to let anyone else know. As a matter of fact, Karen and Mike were so accepting now they’d ask me about Poppy and anyone else I’d seen. We didn’t tell the kids, but I wondered at the wisdom of that, especially considering my suspicions about Deanna. Ever since that day in the cemetery, I wondered if she already saw spirits and if so, I was pretty sure Chris knew about it.
One Saturday, I left the shop in the eminently capable hands of Anna, a retired schoolteacher with a knack for sales. She was incredible at sizing up customers and directing them to what they wanted, whether they knew they wanted it or not. I was confident that the totals at the end of the day would be much better than if I had handled things alone. Mike and Karen wanted a grownups-only outing so I volunteered to watch the kids. As the happy couple drove away to spend the day on the lake, I looked at the two critters left to my care.
“So, what do you guys want to do?”
“Disneyworld!” was Deanna’s contribution. I cocked a brow at her.
“How about something more local?”
Christopher grinned. “Let’s go to the flea market.” Deanna jumped up and down in glee.
“We can pet the ponies!”
“And eat junk food, and see weird people,” Chris added.
“And look at cheap crap!” My declaration sealed the deal. I knew I loved these kids for a reason beyond the mere fact that I’m supposed to because they’re related to me.
The local flea market had been there for forty forevers, never progressing beyond a grassy parking area, a central cluster of metal-roofed sheds trickling out to weathered tables in the open and, connecting it all, dirt paths that swung between muddy and dusty, depending on the weather. I loved it. Any improvements to the facility would have ruined the rural swap-meet, redneck ambiance.
We tromped across the grass to the entrance, immediately assaulted by the scents of food fried in last week’s oil, old dusty wood, the designer knockoff perfume lady’s booth, and Adventures in Body Odor. Out in the boonies like this you saw all kinds, from panhandlers to Junior Leaguers. At the flea market, everyone was on the same level.
Ahead of us, an old man walked a fat pug leashed with a piece of hay twine. Families with kids strolled the aisles while teen girls bounced and squealed their way among the booths, especially after passing an attractive teenage boy. Deanna wrinkled her nose after one such display and asked, “What’s wrong with them?”
“Hormones.”
“What’s that?”
“Something that makes you do stupid things when you get older.” Boy, did I ever have experience with that particular source of idiocy. Please God, let Dee have better sense than me. If I can’t be a role model, at least let me be a lesson. Lucky for me, my explanation seemed to satisfy her curiosity. My next answer to ‘what are hormones?’ was going to be the ever-popular ‘Ask your Dad.’ Mike would kill me.
Half of one long shed was devoted to tools and mower blades, directly across the path from a patch of grass studded with landscape plants in gallon plastic pots. The other half of the shed consisted of a single business, presided over by an Asian lady with an apron and a cash box. The floor was covered with cardboard boxes filled with cheap imported toys. I lost the kids in that one for a little while and indulged them by buying Chris a gaudy silver wind-up Corvette and Deanna a plastic horse with little saddle and bridle pieces that she would probably lose before we got home with them.
The sky was wide and blue and blazed with sunlight, making me squint and seek the shade before it induced a headache. Maybe I’d find one of the many designer-for-five-dollars sunglasses booths and pick up a pair that I would lose before the next weekend. But the antiques section sang her siren song and I answered. I guess Poppy was right, it is in the blood. The kids indulged me with a wander through a shop where I picked up a glass hen-on-nest dish for five bucks. It would make a nice display piece for small items in the store and, based on the manufacturer’s marks on the bottom, would itself sell in my shop for twenty dollars. I was learning. Then we went out back to the petting zoo and I let Deanna feed the ponies.
As tantalizing as the flea m
arket food smelled, I decided against the risk of spending the evening in excess quality time in the bathroom and opted instead to take the kids to IHOP. I scanned the newspaper obtained from the machine outside while we ate. Chris rolled his car across the tabletop which I ignored until it clattered into the glassware. I looked up, met his gaze and he sighed and put the car back on the bench beside him. Deanna started to slide off the seat in search of the saddle for her toy horse. I shook my head. “No ma’am.”
“But I lost the thingy—”
“We’ll get it before we go. Right now, we eat.” Dee reluctantly put her denuded plastic Thoroughbred on the table and picked up her fork, carving into the stack of pancakes. Meal concluded, tiny saddle retrieved and bill paid, we piled back into my truck.
“Where to now?”
“Let’s go see Poppy.” Deanna looked up from her plastic horse to meet my eyes. “Please?”
“Where? At his house or at the cemetery?”
“The semmaterry.”
Damn. What once had been a quiet refuge for me was now an ordeal. And why a six year old liked going… well, I had my suspicions. If she could see spirits, she sure was better adapted to the curse than I was. I’m not sure if I would be better or worse off if I’d started as young as she was.
“What about you?” I looked at Christopher, trying to project my desire on him to avoid the graveyard. He shrugged, noncommittal.
“I don’t care.” Double damn. I was having no luck. I could always pull the adult card and refuse to go but I wanted to be the cool aunt more, so I embraced the inevitable.
“Okay. But let’s stop and get something to leave for him.”
“Like what? Flowers?” Dee was my little horticulturist. She may be a girly-girl, but she liked growing plants almost as much as admiring the results. She was Granny, all over again.
“We could do flowers.” Poppy would appreciate the gesture, even if flowers weren’t something he’d been deeply fond of in life. People take flowers to the cemetery and leave them at graves. It’s standard procedure and Poppy was fond of tradition.
“We could pick some!” Deanna vibrated with enthusiasm. Poppy really would enjoy flowers gathered by his great-grandchildren. Trouble was there weren’t any flowers just randomly growing along the road or in a field that wasn’t private property. Except the private property we were already privy to.
“Let’s go out to the house then so we can get him some of his own flowers.” This decision was met with resounding approval, even Chris was glad of the trip. He enjoyed the woods and outdoors of the old homeplace as much as I had growing up there.
We piled out in the driveway and Deanna beelined for the edge of the yard. Granny had loved flowers too and planted the edges and foundations with anything that bloomed. Since she’d died, the more delicate flowers had expired for want of the tender upkeep they’d enjoyed from her. Poppy was a farmer at heart, not a gardener. Plants needed to be more than ornamental in his mind. Still, rambling roses and wildflowers survived and thrived and now overflowed their borders. “Careful of the thorns!” I called after her, pausing to pluck a branch of lantana to add to the collection. We soon had a substantial bouquet and I found a rubber band in my pocket to hold it all together.
I let the truck idle down the path between the plots at the cemetery. I already felt my skin prickle with the gaze of unseen eyes. Deanna seemed oblivious and I started to doubt my theory about her. I parked and we got out, Deanna racing ahead to Granny and Poppy’s plot. Flickers of movement teased me from the corner of my gaze and I tried to ignore them. I let Chris and his sister take the flowers, doing their best to get them to stand upright against Poppy and Granny’s granite marriage stone. I hung back, knowing there was something watching me with ill intent. So far, the spirits I saw here seemed bound to their plots, but I didn’t know their rules, if there were any. It seemed to me, if a spirit wanted to get after someone badly enough, they would, just like people. With a glance to ensure the kids were occupied and safe and I was unobserved, I began to seek whoever, whatever it was that was staring at me. It didn’t take long. I already had an idea of where to look anyway.
The grave of the malevolent spirit that startled me after Poppy’s funeral lay just ahead. She stood at the very edge of her plot, like a vigilant, unfriendly dog confined behind a chain-link fence. I swallowed my fear and went to her.
Her face was hollow-eyed, pallid and her blonde hair disheveled. She had died young, I could tell that much, and violently, I imagined. I didn’t think sickness would have infuriated someone so much that they would remain behind and develop such malice. The sky blue dress she wore was torn as if she’d struggled and her hands were still covered in ragged white cotton gloves…oh my God…
The dawning realization dulled my fear and I ignored her furious shriek as I drew closer to the headstone. She raged and screamed as I knelt to read the epitaph, brushing away dirt splashed and dried over the letters by the last rainstorm.
“Coraline Jane Tanner, Born June 18, 1919, Died August 4, 1935. Beloved daughter.”
I’d found Cora.
The terror of that reading slammed into me again and now I understood why she was angry. She’d been brutalized, murdered, her body dumped in a sinkhole like garbage and her killer never found. What was there to be happy and at peace about? Burning tears seared my eyes as I faced her, no longer frightened.
“Cora… I saw you die.”
She paused as if I’d slapped her, if such a thing were possible. With a flicker, she appeared less vengeful spirit and more like the sixteen-year-old girl she had been. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.
“I saw you, and who killed you. But I don’t know his name. And I think he may be back.” I pointed toward Poppy’s grave. “He was killed and I was…” I shoved my hair aside to display the scar. I felt an unseasonable chill as she drew closer. A trail of burning cold traced the horseshoe shape, much as Poppy had done. Turning back to her, I whispered, “Who did this to you, to us?”
She opened her mouth; her lips moved but produced no words. Anger flared afresh with her mounting frustration as she could utter no sound but screams. Maybe the decades of feeling nothing but fury had left her unable to express herself any other way. Her eyes grew wide and desperate; she rushed at me, arms outstretched. I felt the insubstantial contact of her hands on the back of my head as she pressed her head into mine. My vision instantly switched to the information, the memories she was pushing into me, the outside world was gone as if it had never existed. Flashes of faces, locations, conversations, everyday ordinary encounters, all this filled my mind, stretching it beyond its limits and still didn’t stop. I felt every nuance of emotion she had during her short life from the innocent joy of discovering a litter of newborn kittens in the barn to the numbing horror of her final moment.
All I could comprehend was a colorful blur, like the jumbled landscape seen through the window of a speeding car. But one face kept recurring, leaping to the front of the disorderly mess that overflowed my brain and spilled out through my eyes, my ears, slid down my throat. One face was thrust into my vision again and again, Cora made sure I saw him. Dark hair, curling over his forehead and ears, bright blue eyes, stocky muscular build, he was a handsome young man. But there were deep shadows behind those sky-colored eyes. And a name.
Tony Fentriss.
She pulled away from me, let me go and I fell back, my head igniting with all she had conveyed to me. How I was ever going to sort it out or even remember it, I had no idea. Actually, staying conscious was a definite challenge at this point. I lay on my side on the ground, curled into a defensive ball. I heard Chris and Deanna run over and oddly, my cell phone playing “Badge” by Cream. Deanna shouted angrily at someone and a hand dug in my pocket for the phone. “Hello? Who is this?” Christopher is a smart boy. “Yes, Mr. Jenkins, this is my Aunt Maeve’s phone. We need help.”
I faded in and out after that. A plain car with hidden cop lights blazed into the cemetery,
but only the one, as far as I could tell face-down in the dirt. Scott Jenkins and another man jumped out. He hurried to me while Scott scanned the vicinity for assailants and wrongdoers. I could have saved him the trouble but speech was beyond my grasp at the moment. His companion knelt over me, nothing more than a blurry silhouette against the hard crystalline summer blue of the sky.
“Are you hurt? Did someone attack you?” Well, yes and no. I was sure Cora’s intention wasn’t malicious, but the result had felled me like a sapling. Monosyllabic replies were the best I could do, though.
“Migraine.” I shook my head and nearly blacked out again. “Kids?”
“They’re fine. They’re right here.” He leaned over me, ran his hands over the back of my head and down my body. At any other time, I might have found this attention from a man titillating but right now it was all I could do to not puke on him. Fingers fell on the pulse at my throat, withdrew and landed on my face, thumbing back my eyelids. I caught a jumbled glimpse of a stubbled chin and blue eyes before another icy spike of agony impaled me through the temples. Satisfied I was uninjured, at least physically, he turned to the kids. “Is your aunt diabetic or anything like that?”
