EQMM, February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "That's Sophie Morigeau. She was my mom's best friend when they were in high school."

  The plain-looking girl wore an odd smile and huge glasses. Like about two-thirds of the other sophomore girls pictured, her lank hair was parted in the middle and hung straight to her shoulders.

  "Sophie and her folks lived in that house. The one on Linda. The mother's name was Lisette and I don't know the dad's name. My mom's family was living in the same neighborhood then, Belker."

  Ennis nodded.

  "Sophie told Mom she was being abused at home. Bad. Her parents both drank a lot, I guess. She'd come to school with all kinds of bruises, sometimes cuts. Once she showed Mom some cigarette burns on her back. But she always made Mom promise not to tell."

  Josh didn't look up. He was folding a napkin into a compact square. He seemed to have heard the story before.

  Laurel leaned forward. “Then one day, Sophie quit coming to school. I mean just stopped. My mom would call and Lisette would grab the phone out of Sophie's hands. Finally she told Mom to quit calling, She said Sophie had gone to live with her dad and wouldn't be back. That's what she told the school, too."

  "Maybe that's what happened,” Ennis said.

  Laurel shook her head. “Except a few years later, my mom ran into the dad, this Mr. Morigeau. It was in a bar, down in Kalispell. This was after she quit school. My mom, uh, she had kind of a drinking problem, too. Anyway, she asked about Sophie. And the dad just looked at her and said he hadn't seen Sophie since he walked out. He said Lisette wouldn't allow it.

  "Anyway, Mom never saw Sophie again. But she knew Lisette had lied. And she thought there was only one reason for a lie like that."

  Josh decided not to wait for the punch line. “Killed her own daughter,” he said.

  Ennis wasn't quite ready to make the same leap. “Or ran away, more likely. Your mom ever talk to the cops?"

  Laurel gave him a look. “Didn't do any good. She said she talked to a sheriff once and he blew her off. I mean, I guess it didn't help that she was always drinking and everybody just thought ... well, nobody pays attention to a drunk. And it wasn't long after that she heard about Lisette killing herself. Right there in that house. So I guess she thought there was no point."

  "Think your mother would like to talk to me about it now?"

  Josh reddened and concentrated on the napkin. Laurel stabbed the cigarette out.

  "I'm sure she'd love to. Except she's dead."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

  She shrugged, but wouldn't look at him.

  "Two years ago. Like I said, she was an alcoholic. But it wasn't the drinking. It was breast cancer.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, that's the story. I think Lisette Morigeau killed her daughter and then killed herself."

  She forced a little smile. “Think that's enough to haunt a house?"

  Ennis considered the tale: A collection of secondhand details, originating with a longtime alcoholic and amplified through a generation of slumber parties. But the girl's interest seemed genuine, more than just a desire to spice up a dreary autumn in Worland. Maybe it was the link to her dead mother, a question of closure. Or maybe she wanted to right an old wrong against a girl her own age.

  "Tell you what: I'll look into it.” He slid out of the booth, left a five on the table. “As soon as I have time. I'll let you know what I find out."

  * * * *

  A call later that afternoon took him back to the Belker Addition: Two doors down from 221 Linda a woman was threatening to shoot her neighbor's barking pit bull, if not the neighbor himself. It took him most of an hour to establish a tenuous truce, and he returned wearily to his vehicle. It was time to call it a day.

  He was getting in when the wind gusted. He grabbed for his hat too late and cursed as it bounded up the street, past the realty sign at 221 Linda. It came to rest against the board fence separating the house from the one next door.

  Crossing the yard, Ennis saw the upper half of a gray head watching him from across the fence. He lifted a hand in greeting. The guy didn't wave back.

  A raspy voice called out, “You again? What the hell's going on over there?"

  Ennis brushed off the hat and clamped it down tight. The fence concealed all but the guy's wispy hair, wrinkled forehead, and pale blue eyes.

  "You live here?"

  "No, I'm enjoying the goddamn view. Of course I live here. What're you doing?"

  Ennis became annoyed. “Nothing. See you around."

  "Somebody file a complaint? I know them damned kids have been breaking in there."

  "You the one who caught them over here?"

  The blue eyes narrowed. “I'm getting tired of the little shits. Trespassing. They keep it up, somebody's going to get hurt."

  Ennis was getting tired of talking to half a face. He walked around the end of the fence to the neighbor's front gate. The old man was carrying an oxygen tank connected to a nasal breathing tube slung over his ears. His eyes widened and he sidled toward his house as Ennis came across the yard.

  "I don't want to hear about anybody getting hurt,” Ennis said.

  "Yeah? They better stay off private property, then."

  "You own the place?"

  "No, do you? I'm a concerned citizen. Been here since this neighborhood was built. Somebody's got to keep an eye on things.” A sneer crept into his voice. “Damn sure the law around here won't."

  "If you've been here that long, you know why kids come around."

  "Oh yeah, it's haunted, right?” The old man spat. “That's bullshit. I knew the people who lived there. And I know kids. Little bastards, just looking for a place to diddle."

  "What's your name?"

  "What's it to you?” Ennis gave the man a look; he edged closer to his porch. “Gardner. Charles Gardner. Not that it's any of your business."

  "You knew the Morigeaus?"

  The name seemed to surprise him. He licked his lips and looked away.

  "Yeah, I knew ‘em,” he said. “He wasn't worth a damn. Carpenter, worked on the dam project. Little pissant, I had to clean his clock once. I got on okay with the missus, though."

  "You remember a daughter?"

  Gardner's eyes shifted between Ennis and his front steps.

  "Who? Oh. Yeah, I guess maybe there was a kid. Now that you mention it."

  "You know what became of her?"

  The old man coughed. He dredged up phlegm from deep within his ruined lungs and spat. “Ran off. Just like her old man. That's what I heard. Left her mom all alone. It was me found Lisette hanging down there, couple years after. That was a sweet sight, let me tell you."

  Gardner slapped at his shirt pocket and withdrew a pack of Camels.

  "Couldn't stand living alone, I guess.” He shook out a cigarette and took it in his mouth. “Got a light?"

  "No. When's the last time you saw the daughter?"

  "I don't know. And I don't give a shit. Long time ago. Now it's cold and I gotta get back inside."

  Ennis watched Gardner mount the front steps. The old man turned and gave him a smile that might have looked strange even without the oxygen tube below his beak and the cigarette bobbing below that.

  Ennis didn't smile back. The old man chuckled and went back inside.

  * * * *

  Ennis's next day off wasn't until Thursday. He spent the first part of it in a dim alcove of the Kootenai County Courthouse, examining the few official details concerning the death of Lisette Morigeau, 42. It seemed Laurel Hogue's mother and the old man next-door had gotten at least that part of the story right.

  The woman had been found in the basement of her Worland home on the afternoon of October 30, 1976. The coroner thought the actual death had occurred three days earlier. A neighbor had reported finding the front door open in freezing weather. A cat mewling in the basement had led him to the body.

  There was a heavy-duty extension cord around the woman's neck, secured to a floor joist above. It made the cause of death self-evident: asphyxiation
by hanging. The coroner's notes suggested Lisette had entertained second thoughts at precisely the moment it became too late to do so: there were abrasions on her neck and fingernails on both hands were damaged. That wasn't uncommon in such suicides, Ennis knew; he had seen a couple like that during his days with the force in Philadelphia. He pictured the woman clawing at the cord as the squalid little basement around her faded to black. He shook his head. It seemed a particularly hellish way to check out.

  Returning the records, Ennis asked about the coroner who had signed the certificate, Huntley Collins. The obese woman at the counter pleasantly informed him that Mr. Collins had succumbed to a heart attack in 1998.

  He had expected as much, three decades after the fact, but it left him little else to do in Libby after the hour-long drive from Worland. Outside the courthouse, the iron-gray sky seemed low enough to touch and it smelled like snow. He considered heading home, but decided to stop off first at the Northwest News. It called itself the newspaper of record in Kootenai County—maybe it had published an obituary for Lisette Morigeau.

  It took him two hours to find it. Not because of any shortcomings in the newspaper's microfiche archive, but because he kept getting sidetracked by the history of 1976 that flowed across the screen: President Gerald Ford planning to attend the dedication of Libby Dam, which had created the long, useless reservoir that now stretched between Libby and Worland. The Montana Legislature legalizing Keno—what a great leap forward that had been. Ennis tried to imagine the state without the seedy casinos that now infested every bar and restaurant.

  He also found himself lingering over the movie ads of that year: Rocky. Marathon Man. The Omen. It was only when he saw the ad for Carrie, opening in September at the Orpheus Theater in Libby, that he remembered Lisette Morigeau.

  The obituary ran on November 4, a Thursday. It was low on the page and was accompanied by a small picture of the deceased. Ennis supposed it had been cropped from a snapshot. Lisette Morigeau's eyes were little more than pinpoints in shadow; she was not smiling. The obituary consisted of five sentences. It was the fourth that interested Ennis the most: “She is survived by a daughter, Sophia."

  He pondered that on the drive back to Worland. It was dark and snow swirled in the headlights. Survived by a daughter. The Morigeaus didn't seem like a particularly close-knit family; maybe that detail had been a supposition, supplied to the funeral home by a relative who believed the girl had been sent to live with her father. It was probably more likely that Sophie had moved elsewhere, or had simply run away. If the account of Laurel's mother was anywhere close to the truth, she had good reason to go.

  If so, where was she now? Ennis divided his attention between that question and the more immediate problem of keeping his six-year-old Subaru between the ditches. This highway could be tricky in good weather; now it was getting slick. As he drove, white crosses occasionally materialized in his headlights before slipping past like silent wraiths. The State of Montana used them to mark the sites of fatal accidents on state highways. There were 17 between here and home; Ennis had counted. Another pair loomed up and he let the car slow. The curve almost doubled back on itself before angling down toward the black reservoir. He kept both hands on the wheel and resisted the urge to touch the brakes. All the while wondering: What became of Sophie?

  * * * *

  It seemed much later than it was when Ennis got back to Worland: 9 p.m.—still early enough to grab some dinner. He didn't feel like returning to his trailer at Pine View Court just yet.

  There were only three cars in the parking lot at Pizza Station; one of them was a maroon Accord. Libby Howell was seated by herself in the corner, a small pitcher of beer and half a small pizza before her. She was staring moodily out the window, but brightened and waved him over when he walked in.

  "Would you like some? It's a veggie combo; I can't finish all of it."

  Ennis had been thinking along the lines of the meat lovers’ special. “That's okay, I'll just..."

  "At least help me finish this pitcher. I'll get another glass.” She was off to the counter before Ennis could protest. He sat down, leaving his coat on.

  Libby set the glass before him. She looked a bit haggard as she sat down. “I'm celebrating,” she said. The brittle cheeriness in her tone was not infectious.

  "Business is good?"

  "Hardly. No, I'm just happy to have lost my least-favorite listing. You know the house."

  "It's off the market?"

  "Probably my fault. I called the owner about the lock and he got kind of pissy and then one thing led to another and, voila!—my sign no longer graces the front lawn of 221 Linda."

  Ennis took a sip of beer. Light beer, so light it was tasteless. “Sorry it didn't work out."

  "Oh, don't be.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I hated that house. Just hated it. And just between you and me, I am now prepared to say it's haunted."

  Ennis began to suspect this was not Libby's first pitcher of beer. “Really? Why?"

  "Besides the ghost, you mean?” She tried to laugh, but it came out as kind of a choking sound. “I saw it, John. Can I call you John? I saw something. Last night, when I went down to collect the lock box, I thought I'd do a quick walk-through, just so the owner couldn't come back on me later."

  She sipped nervously at her beer. “I just had this strong feeling that somebody was in the house with me, you know? It was eerie. I collected the cards and the info sheets on the counter and I felt someone watching me. I felt it so strongly I looked around.” Libby swallowed hard.

  "And there she was."

  "She."

  "There was somebody standing there! At the top of the stairs. In gray, a dress or something. She looked at me."

  Libby was looking into his eyes. Ennis decided the fear there was real. He waited a few seconds before clearing his throat.

  "Well, it could have been..."

  "I know what you're going to say. Some kid, having fun before Halloween. Or just my imagination in poor lighting. But trust me. If you had been there..."

  He looked at his beer. She smiled wanly. “I know, crazy woman, right? I guess I should ask you not to mention this to anyone else. That old neighbor next-door, he probably thinks I'm crazy too. I saw him watching from his side window when I ran out of there."

  Ennis wanted to reassure her, tell her he believed her, but in fact he didn't. The world was full of people who wanted to see ghosts. It wasn't surprising when their imaginations obliged. He could think of nothing to say. Libby sighed and drained her glass. “Sorry. I just thought ... Well, at least that damned house is not my problem anymore, right?” She stood to go. “I honestly don't think it'll ever sell. If it were up to me, I'd just rip it down."

  * * * *

  Ennis was the last to leave the Pizza Station. It was getting late. The snow had stopped but the wind still gusted and sighed through the darkened town. It was time to go home.

  Instead, he found himself driving through town and across the railroad tracks. He took the right turn down Linda Street. There was the house; the front window faintly illuminated from somewhere within. Libby Howell's sign was gone. Somehow the place looked even more desolate because of it. He parked out front. In the dead of night, and knowing what he now knew of its past, he supposed he could understand how kids might call it haunted.

  As he watched, a faint thread of light appeared at the door and he realized it had come open. Ennis shook his head. Somebody should really get that thing fixed. He got out of the Subaru with his big Maglite and approached the house.

  The door stood open about half an inch. Ennis pushed it wider and stepped through. He stood on the linoleum entry and listened. Maybe another contingent of teen ghost hunters had arrived. The furnace was going downstairs, but he could hear no other sound.

  He found his gaze drawn to the top of the basement stairs. They were barely visible and he turned on the flashlight. There was no sign anyone had stood there recently, although faint depression
s did suggest Libby Howell's path from the front door to the kitchen. He was considering this when he heard a faint sound downstairs. A scrape, like a chair against a concrete floor.

  So: Maybe Laurel and Josh had returned for another thrill. He hoped not. She seemed a troubled girl and he seemed merely hapless; he wasn't in the mood to reprimand them.

  He couldn't locate a light switch at the top of the stairs. He followed his flashlight beam down the steps, pausing again to listen. Nothing. He reached the landing and played the beam around the small basement room. The furnace kicked off; he flicked the beam in that direction. Nothing there but naked pipes along the wall, the bulk of the furnace cloaked in shadow. It made a clicking noise as it cooled.

  Now the silence seemed vast. Ennis caught a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, but his flashlight found only the blank concrete wall. A reflection, then. So why the sudden tingling at the back of his scalp?

  He thought of the thirty-year-old death certificate he had seen that afternoon. Today was October 27. According to the Kootenai County coroner, it was the date of Lisette Morigeau's death. He realized he was probably standing exactly where it had occurred. He moved farther out into the room, now aware of his own heart beating. If ghosts existed, Ennis thought, this would be the time and place he might expect to see one.

  At the door to the furnace room he found a light switch and flipped it on. The fluorescent fixture snapped and hummed; a sickly flickering light filled the room. Ennis looked around.

  The wall next to the stairs landing was bare concrete; part of the foundation. A new coat of paint couldn't hide the cracks that angled from ceiling to floor like bolts of black lightning. The wall at the end of the room was clad in Sheetrock, inexpertly installed, the joint tape and mud still visible beneath layers of paint. Standing next to the wall, he could also detect a slight indentation in the middle of it: a poor job of framing, too, or very crooked lumber. He put his face against the wall and sighted along it. The indentation, if there was one, might be about the size of a door.

  Ennis ran his hands over the painted Sheetrock. Libby Howell had said this was a partial basement. If so, this wall would be concrete too. People often covered over basement walls, but why finish one and not the other?