Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  “My mother refused to let Sam come anymore after the age of ten. She said she missed having at least one of her sons close by. Sam never complained, he didn’t care for the farm anyway.”

  Chelsea leaned into him. “That’s too bad, it would have been wonderful growing up here, if only part of the time.” She smiled at him and turned to the other notches. “Why to only fifteen?”

  “When I turned fifteen, I told Aunt D I was a full grown man. D laughed at me, said I still had a ways to go.” His fingers rubbed the last notch. “I guess she knew what she was talking about.” The notch wasn’t even eye level. “She was the one I came to whenever I needed to talk. She always listened, even if she didn’t like what I had to say.”

  Chelsea reached for his hand. “She loved you too.”

  “What I want to see is probably in the attic. Want to come up?” He tugged her hand.

  “Sure, what are you looking for?” Chelsea followed him up a short flight of stairs into what appeared to be a small parlor or home office — the second level of the home was smaller than the first. He reached over his head and released a thumb latch, and eased a dusty set of stairs down.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone else has been here in a while. I hope that means the photo albums are still up there, and not hidden in some drawer in my mother’s office.”

  He started up the steep steps with Chelsea following him. “When Aunt D and Uncle Mick bought this property, she took loads of pictures detailing the outlying areas, the beauty of the prairie.” He smiled. “She showed me the pictures so many times, I think because she loved this place so much.”

  “So what you want to see is in one of the photo albums?”

  “Yeah.” They’d reached the top of the steps and entered a short attic, not bigger than the space below. Chelsea brushed the dust from her hands. Brad pointed. “You start over there, just set aside any albums you find. I won’t know which album might have the pictures I want to look through.”

  Together they moved boxes, some filled with clothing, some mementos from vacations, memories and pieces of a happy life. Dust bunnies couldn’t begin to describe the layer of dust on the floor, their footprints made it easy to see where they’d already looked. Chelsea opened an antique trunk and the scent of cedar filled her nose. It was a hope chest, maybe in which a younger Deloris stored her precious memories. Chelsea moved some of the ancient linens still stored inside and found what they’d been searching for.

  “Brad … ”

  He moved across the room to see what she’d found. “I don’t remember there being so many of them.” But he smiled, touched Chelsea’s cheek, and kissed her lips. “Thanks, I would have been looking all day.” He brushed her nose. “You’ve got a smudge right here.” He kissed the tip of her nose too.

  She picked up the albums and opened the first pages, pictures of people she didn’t know, places she’d never been. Brad reached down inside the trunk and retrieved the remaining albums. “Let’s go back down. We can hunt through these, I hope she kept the pictures.”

  Together they carried the albums to the living room, spreading them out over the carpet. It was another welcoming room — photos of Deloris and Mick together from vacations sat on the tables. A younger Brad smiled with Sam in school photos and happier times. Several more of Brad’s family sat on shelves. Once, love was shared here.

  Chelsea gazed at a picture of the two small boys, arms looped around each other shoulders, Brad and Sam, dark and light. They appeared so happy, so carefree, mugging for the camera. The younger boy looked nothing like the Sam she’d seen in the parking lot a few days before. What had happened to him? Where was that happy little boy?

  A small wooden plaque Brad won in the third grade hung from the wall. “Best Short Story: Bradley Rearden” the inscription read. Chelsea walked over, examining the plaque. “She must have been very proud.”

  “I didn’t know she still had that.” Brad joined her and reached for the plaque.

  She stopped his hand. “No, leave it. It’s supposed to be there.”

  More photos lined the top of a small upright piano. “Do you play?” Chelsea asked.

  “Aunt D tried to teach me, but chopsticks is about my skill level.”

  Chelsea sat down on the bench, plunked a few notes from “Yesterday”. “My mom insisted I learn, but I didn’t keep up. Too busy, but now I wish I had.”

  Brad leaned back against his aunt’s sofa. He opened the first album. Deloris and her family when she was a child. He opened the next, a wedding album, Deloris and Michel dressed in wedding white. In the next he found images of farm fields, a stream stretching into the distance. “I think this one is the one I need.” Brad’s excitement grew as his fingers moved over the old photos. He grabbed Chelsea’s hand, striding toward the kitchen where the light shone better on the faded photos.

  “See, she took pictures of everything.” He spread the photo album across the smooth wood of the kitchen table. “She said it might be the only thing left if some big corporation moved in one day, bought up all the land, threw up some housing development.” His eyes wandered to the window, and he gazed out at rolling landscape. His voice caught and he had to swallow away its thickness before he continued. “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  He continued to flip the pages until he came to the ones detailing the rear of the house, and a small pool of water, the pond where Deloris met her death.

  Carefully, he eased back the paper arrows holding the pictures in place and then stood, pulling Chelsea up with him.

  “Come on, I want to see the pond.” He opened the back door and led her outside.

  “Are you sure you want to go out there?” Chelsea’s eyes echoed the pain visible in his own.

  “I need to have a look around, see if my suspicions are true. Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my gut. I’ve been avoiding it since Aunt D died … and I shouldn’t have. D knew this place like the back of her hand, so how had she fallen? If the medical examiner had claimed a heart attack or something … but there was nothing.” His eyes looked over the fields surrounding the backyard. “Something’s not right,” he said again.

  Large white oaks provided shade, and in the distance, over the pond, a weeping willow stood watch, its graceful branches murmuring back and forth in the slight breeze. The small pond sat almost hidden amongst the floral cornucopia. A fat goldfish scooted through the water, searching for insects. Somewhere close by, locusts buzzed, waiting for the coming night; a toad croaked out its warning song.

  It must have been a favorite spot; there was a cleared place that would have been perfect for a picnic. A small statuette of Tom Sawyer with a fishing rod leaned lazily on the bank, hiding an aerator to keep the water fresh. Lilies sprouted along the water’s edge.

  “There.” Brad pointed, and a small boulder poked the tip of its head out of the water. “Aunt D was supposed to have slipped, fallen in the water, and somehow hit her head.” He stepped closer, scanning the bank of the small pond. He felt around until he found an indentation in the Earth, then moved away the brush trying to take over the diminished expanse. It was a small space, maybe six inches wide — something hard had rested there many years for the soil to hold its impression.

  Brad’s eyes blazed, and he gestured from the pictures to the rock. “It’s been moved.”

  Chelsea leaned in to get a better look at the photo. There was a small boulder sitting close to the edge of the bank — its broad surface looked similar to the one now resting at the bottom of the pond. “I don’t know. It could be the same one.”

  “It is the same one, I know it. I spent my summers here, running through these fields.” He gestured to the open fields around them and smiled sadly.

  “Maybe your aunt had the boulder moved or something.” She took his hand. “Or maybe it just fell in on its own as the ba
nk wore away with time.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “But maybe not.”

  “What are you saying?” She glanced up at his calculating eyes.

  “I think … I think someone moved the rock on purpose.” Chelsea watched as he moved around the pond. The moment it clicked for him shone on his face.

  “I think,” Brad looked around at the pond, “Aunt D came out here, and somehow that boulder got pushed into the water. The question I’m wondering about is if it happened before or after.”

  “Before or after what?” Chelsea asked.

  “Before or after Aunt D died,” Brad said quietly.

  “Brad, let’s think about this for a minute. Do you know how strong someone would have to be to pick up that rock?” Chelsea played devil’s advocate, and pointed at the pond. “What do you think happened from there?”

  “I don’t know, I need to think about it some more. But something smells bad about the whole scenario.”

  “If it wasn’t an accident … ” She paused. “How do you prove it, who would you suspect, what proof do you have other than one or two old photos?” She watched his eyes come to the same conclusions she had. “I don’t know if your suspicions are right or wrong, but it’s going to be difficult to change minds that are already made up.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it’s thin. It might not even be the same rock.” He scratched his chin while he thought. “I’m going to call a buddy of mine. He runs a forensic lab, maybe he can answer a few of my questions.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chelsea rested her head against the back of the seat. It was starting to throb, and her ears ached. The buzzing grew louder than before. She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing the back of her neck.

  Brad slid into the seat next to her. “Hey, are you alright?”

  “I will be when I get home, take a couple of ibuprofen, and sleep for a bit. My head is killing me and the buzzing is louder today.”

  “Buzzing? You’ve never mentioned a buzzing before.” He watched her with concerned eyes.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing.” She wanted to be home before confronted by whatever soul was going to beg for her help this time, and she didn’t want to worry him more. The buzzing softened to a whisper. If she listened hard enough, she could almost make out words but it made her head pound harder. She’d never asked for any of this. Yet, here she was, trapped, an unwilling vessel to the afterworld.

  “We’ll be back to your house in a few minutes.” Brad reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. Concern colored his features as Chelsea felt herself grow more pallid.

  “I’m okay, it’s just a little headache. I’ll be fine.” But her head pounded harder the longer she denied the whispers. She closed her eyes, and let the whispers in. Her head swam; she’d never hurt like this before. She was new to all this, maybe it was normal, but the throbbing … She put her hand to her forehead and gritted her teeth. She strained to listen. There was only one voice but she still couldn’t make out the words. “Stop the car.”

  Brad pulled over to the side of the road. Chelsea opened the door and hopped out. She gazed around at her surroundings, and wandered away from the road, toward an indiscriminate figure standing by what was left of an old house, worn by the indifference of time. What remained of the paint peeled off in big chunks, it had been a long while since someone had lived there. She heard a car door slam, and Brad called to her.

  She turned to the sound of his voice. “I’m fine. I want sit here a minute.” She gestured to the steps before the fallen porch. “I just need a little fresh air.” The gentle breeze carried her words and cooled her aching head. She tried to place the scent assailing her senses: rotten eggs. She scrunched her nose in disgust. Brad strode across the highway to join her.

  Chelsea covered her mouth and nose. “Do you smell that?”

  “Car exhaust fumes?”

  “No, it smells horrible, like sulfur from chemistry class.”

  He shook his head. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, just give me a few minutes.”

  He leaned against an old porch post. “Are you sure you want to stay here?”

  “Why?”

  His eyes roamed over the space. “It’s so desolate, unfriendly. I don’t like it.”

  Chelsea shivered, peering up into Brad’s eyes. “No, I don’t like it either, but I’m about to have a visitor. Are you sure you want to stay here? This might get freaky weird.”

  He shoved his hands in pocket. “I’ll stay.”

  As she sat, the figure approached her, becoming clearer. She felt the brush of chilled air that she now associated with those who were determined to seek her out, but the stench grew stronger too. “Hello,” she said to the farmer in the faded overalls and tried not to inhale too deeply.

  Brad gazed around, he lifted his shoulders. “Cripes, this is strange.”

  Chelsea hushed him.

  “Miss, I was wondering if you knew where I could find my wife.” The old farmer pulled on the worn bill of his threadbare cap. “This is our farm, but I can’t find her anywhere.” He reached out to Chelsea, but she pulled further away — he seemed different from the others somehow. The thought struck her as funny — when had dealing with the dead become her new normal? He reached out again, but she avoided his icy touch. Even the air around him seemed frozen. Without thinking, she reached up to cover her nose and mouth, and had to stop herself.

  “Sir, what’s your name and your wife’s? I’ll do my best to locate her. How long since you’ve seen her?” For as long as Chelsea could remember, this farm house had sat empty, bits and pieces falling away, barely a place to stop in the middle of the highway. It always struck her as a lonely place, waiting for the owners to find their way home as it deteriorated with time.

  She glanced around the landscape, and caught the gaze of the old farmer upon her. For a moment, his features changed, grew harder, his mouth widened, and she imagined row upon row of razor sharp teeth. She blinked, and his face returned to normal. He looked sad, a little lost, and he reached out toward her arm again. She scooted further away, going up another step.

  “I can try to find her, but I really need her name.” She rubbed the spot on her arm where his fingers would have met her flesh.

  The old farmer nodded his head and stuck out his hand, “Name’s Peter Wallace, ma’am, Pete to my friends.” Chelsea let her fingers brush his. His frozen flesh touched hers like a slithering reptile, and a great weight fell over her. It was harder to breathe, her head swam with dizziness but it lifted as soon as their fingers parted. Exhaustion swept over her and she moved with stumbling slowness.

  “Helen asked me to wait for her, and she’s never come. That’s her name — Helen, Helen Wallace. Don’t know how long it’s been anymore, time seems to all run together now.” He wandered further away, stood in the middle of the road, not quite as faded as he was before. But as the space widened between her and the apparition, peace settled in her body, though the fatigue remained. Chelsea relaxed — to any passerby, she was just enjoying a break from the long car ride, sitting in the sun.

  “I’d be much obliged if you could find her for me.” He walked further away. “It’s been a long time.” He vanished as he strode away, but his grin captured Chelsea’s attention. It promised something more and its presence made her tremble.

  The buzzing had stopped, her head no longer pounded. She stood in the afternoon sun, the sounds of insects and cars the only noises that reached her ears, the scent of spoiled eggs gone. Relief flooded through her. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “Your visitor’s gone?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re right, that was freaky weird.” Brad rubbed his hand across his worried face as they approached the car. He started the car as she slid in beside him.

  “Just what I need
, someone else who wants my help.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “What did you see out there?” Brad asked as the Jeep ate up the distance back to the Karmikel house.

  “An old farmer, looking for his wife. Thanks for staying with me out there, that farmer gave me the creeps.” She rubbed her arms. “Do you think your secretary might be able to check into the old farm, maybe find out where the family went?” She watched him drive; he was so confident in everything he did, his hands so sure. Even when they were looking at the photos. If he could, he’d figure out the puzzle surrounding Deloris’s death, and maybe that’s what his aunt really wanted.

  “Sal’s pretty good. Give me the name and I’ll have her check it out.” He stared at the road. “Hey, thanks for coming today. It meant a lot to have you there.”

  “I wanted to. I hope it gave you back some sense of peace.” She folded her hands in her lap. “And I hope you can live with whatever you find,” she whispered to herself. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to work out well for any of them, his aunt included.

  • • •

  Chelsea yawned and stretched her tired muscles, exhausted by the day’s events. “Hey, I’m beat, I’m going to lie down, join me later if you want.” She smiled at Brad, kissed him goodnight, and headed for her bed. But no matter what she did, sleep denied her. She tossed and turned, unable to shut off the thoughts filling her mind. She waited until she heard Brad’s steps on the stairs, and crept into Teresa’s old room. Grams had stopped by sometime during the day while they were out, and true to her word, the pink sheets and bedspread were gone. In their place were dark blue sheets and a matching comforter. The curtains were no longer bright pink but a shade of maroon that complimented the sheets.