Hush My Mouth

by Cathy Pickens

  I walked over to the closest counselor, her dark silk hair braided into a pigtail, her arms and legs bark-brown with the kind of tan my Scots-Irish genes can only covet.

  “Hi. I’m Avery Andrews. I was invited up to the bonfire and storytelling?” With an earnest smile, I hoped to convey not only my purpose in coming but that I wasn’t a pervert or someone with evil designs on her campers. Her tired expression said she couldn’t care less. In fact, she might have paid me to cart off two wildly screaming boys practicing their best cartoon ninja kicks on each other.

  The counselor waved absently toward the picnic tables at the edge of the woods, close to the mess hall. I nodded my thanks—no opening for conversation with the banshees wailing—and strolled toward the shelter and tables. I’d come early, wanting to get here before dusk made it difficult to find my way.

  Two male counselors, both lanky and thin with the loose-jointedness and slouch that serves as a uniform for guys their age, paid me no heed as I slid onto a picnic bench and watched them put the finishing touches on the wood stacked for the bonfire.

  I was content to slip into the background. Before long, the frenetic activity and the decibel level calmed as though a mystical hand had passed over the campers. It took a moment for me to spot the cause.

  A sheriff’s patrol car pulled slowly around the rough-paved drive. All the boys stood in awed attention, staring at the car. The girls kept chattering, I noticed, clustered in small bunches, heads together. But even they followed the patrol car’s progress.

  The deputy rode with his window down, his arm resting on the window frame, offering a cool-hand wave to the kids as he drove past: Chief Deputy Rudy Mellin.

  Who’d invited him? I wondered.

  As he parked, some of the more audacious kids ran over to his car, peered around him to study inside the car, and when he got out, stood with their heads cocked back listening to his every word and staring at his gun.

  Two on the fringe of his groupie gathering mimed shooting at each other. One clutched his stomach and fell back in a puff of red dust, his legs straight up in the air before they thunked to earth.

  Rudy chatted with his entourage as he made his way across the large central yard to take a look down the slope toward the ball fields. He then strolled at a magisterial pace around the perimeter and sat at a picnic table twenty yards distance from mine, the kids still giving him their rapt attention.

  No need to interrupt them. I kept my seat, my chin in my hand, listening to the chatter and laughter, smelled the pine tar and the lighter fluid, felt the air take on a clammy coolness as the sun began to disappear behind the thick trees. I hoped there’d be marshmallows.

  About the same time the glow of the fireflies appeared, the ghosters pulled in, driving their honest-to-goodness Scooby-Doo van.

  By the magic of an unseen hand, everyone began to drift together without an audible or visible signal. As dusk passed full into dark, the bonfire caught through the kindling and blazed, and the kids drew in around it, whether from the primitive mesmerism of fire or a conditioned response to the promise of scary stories and toasted marshmallows.

  Trini saw me and waved, but Colin and Quint were too busy setting up their camera shots. Their handheld giant flashlight would scare the ghosts away if they weren’t careful.

  As I followed their progress, I noticed other adults had gathered. A cluster of guys lounged at a picnic table on the opposite side of the bonfire from my perch. To my surprise, the motley assortment was soon joined by PeeVee Probert and Donlee Griggs. For the second time in two days, Donlee had appeared without his pumpkin-helmeted girlfriend. Even more surprising was seeing gigantic Donlee and his scrawny best buddy, PeeVee, up here partaking of wholesome family entertainment. Tap’s Pool Room was their usual haunt. Who’d been responsible for the guest list at this wingding?

  PeeVee hitched his jeans up as he sauntered over to the crowd of misfits. Something wasn’t right with that group. I wasn’t believing they’d driven up the mountain to listen to ghost stories. As I studied the half-dozen men, I got my first clue: they’d chosen seats facing the ghosters and their cameras, not the log where the storyteller would sit.

  I winced. Word was surely out about the ghosters. Of course it was no surprise they’d attracted sightseers. I recognized several in the bunch as members of the Ghouly Boys, my pet name for the police-scanner addicts who rushed out at the first word of a bad wreck or other opportunity for gore. I’d seen the others around town or knew them from criminal court docket day at the courthouse. Unless this summer camp session was designed for the children of once and future convicts, I had a sneaking suspicion the ghosters had replaced car wrecks and drownings as the entertainment top bill in Camden County.

  I couldn’t see what was so entertaining about watching the ghosters at work. Colin knelt in the dirt and climbed on picnic tables, studying his light meter and camera viewfinder. Trini stood around holding the hubcap-sized flashlight until Colin finally ordered her to switch off. Quint bristled with an assortment of straps and bags.

  The kids weren’t paying any attention to Colin’s artistic posing. They were seated on the makeshift board-and-rock benches encircling the firepit or setting marshmallows on fire, watching flicks of sparks dance into the air like fireflies freed from the netherworld. I really wanted some marshmallows, but this wasn’t my party.

  The weathered wood on which my rump rested creaked as Deputy Mellin wedged himself on the opposite end of my picnic bench.

  “Surprised to see you here, Deputy.”

  “Not the least surprised to see you. You’re pretty easy to entertain.”

  “I’m not the only one.” I nodded across the fire and the circle of kids to the isolated misfits. Donlee towered over the huddle, swaying slightly, eyes bright with the firelight.

  “Donlee ain’t quite right,” Rudy said, “but those other guys ought to know better.”

  “You’re thinking what I am.” A statement, not a question.

  He gave one curt bob of his head and crossed his arms on the table.

  I kept staring at one guy in particular, the one who was doing the most talking. His close-cropped hair and oxford shirt set him apart from the scruffier members of the group, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Who’s the guy regaling the Ghouly Boys?”

  Rudy didn’t have to ask for a description. “Cuke Metz.”

  “Cuke?”

  “Short for Cucumber. Don’t ask me to explain that one.”

  I kept staring, trying to place him.

  “The fellow you ran into in Maylene’s?” I said finally.

  “Yep.”

  “He sure seems to be the center of attention over there.”

  “Got better sense than to be hanging with those guys.”

  “You need to get those guys reined in,” I said. “Before somebody gets hurt.”

  Rudy huffed. “I was fixing to tell you the same thing about your little ghost-hunting friends. They’re big buddies with your friend Melvin.” He said “friend” like a bad word.

  “What you want to bet those are the guys that sent them out to see Max and the motorcycle gang?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s an easy bet.”

  And likely put the ghosters on to the “haunted house” next door to Edna’s stakeout. They couldn’t have known Edna would be there—or we’d have heard their inebriated cackles and howls from some hiding place when Edna chewed out the ghosters. No, they’d mostly pulled their pranks at a distance. They’d had something else planned for the ghosters that night, and I shuddered to think what.

  The video of the haunted train track and the swaying light and the raspy EVP tape-recorded warning came to mind. Among the ones gathered across from us, who was smart enough to create the video and the disembodied voice? Then again, it would be a mistake to underestimate the creativity of a bunch of guys who want to pull a stunt. For some of them, drunk is better than sober when it comes to planning and execution. Ask any dean of s
tudents on any college campus. The same guys who flunk physics can get the dean’s car up in the bell tower.

  “Can’t you say something to those guys, before somebody gets hurt?”

  Rudy didn’t have time to commit to anything. A man with wiry strands of gray hair sprouting unruly all over his head and stringy leg muscles ambled into the center of the campfire half circle.

  “Our storyteller tonight has been a huge hit with all our campers this summer.” He gave an introduction that not a single kid cared about. Bring on the spooky stories.

  A woman stepped up to take the stool, her back to the fire. She was as round as she was tall. Dressed in gauzy black skirts and scarves, she seemed to float rather than walk.

  She started with an old campfire standard. As I listened to her tell it, the familiar story gave me a renewed thrill, her husky voice and gentle movement first hypnotic, then shocking as she bellowed, “Give me back my bone. Here! Take it!”

  The younger kids all screamed. Even some of the counselors jumped, then smiled sheepishly.

  The nervous laughter died, and she leaned close, her voice now soft, forcing us to lean close to hear.

  “Some tales are just for fun. We know they’re made up, and we love ‘em for that.” Her mountain drawl had the color and consistency of molasses.

  “But some tales we tell because they’re true and we need to know about them, because they’re part of us, part of the first who came to these mountains. You’ve got to keep the stories. They’re entrusted to you.

  “The Native Americans who lived in these hills told stories about where they came from, how these hills were made. They believed a water bug pushed mud up from the bottom of the sea, stacking it a little bit at a time until it built up the land. Then a buzzard flew overhead, using its powerful wings to dry the wet mud. But it was such a big land, with such high mountains, that when the buzzard grew tired, his wings brushed the still-wet mud, leaving valleys and draws and places for rivers and waterfalls.”

  Even the Ghouly Boys had slipped with her into the story. Donlee sat on the tabletop, his feet on the bench, his chin in his hands, looking like a nine-year-old with a glandular problem. PeeVee, who normally danced from one foot to another like a wind-up tin toy, sat enthralled.

  “Not all stories from these hills are lovely ones, though. Some are sad. Do you want to hear any sad stories?”

  The kids sitting between me and the storyteller shook their heads in silent no’s.

  “Some are love stories. Do you want to hear those?”

  Vigorous headshakes were accompanied by giggles and a few retching sounds.

  “Some are truly, truly scary. Do you want to hear those?”

  Enthusiastic nods and cries of “Yeah!”

  “Now, think about that. You’ll have to leave this toasty bright fire and walk all the way back to your dark cabins along those dark, dark paths through the dark, dark woods. Are you sure it’s a good idea? You really want those stories?”

  “Yeah!” A chorus of yells.

  She shook her head and sighed, resigned to serve their choice.

  “Very well then. You must understand I can’t be responsible for what happens. I told your counselors that. They’re the ones who’ll have to explain to your parents if—well, if anything happens. You’ve come to these hills. Some part of these hills will now be part of you. I can’t be responsible.”

  She paused. I felt myself draw in closer, savoring her offer to be a part of something unknown.

  “Some who’ve lived here have thought the mountains themselves were bewitched. Just over that rise there, people from ancient times reported hearing cracks and groans from the mountain itself. Other times, people have seen wisps of smoke float up. Some have tried to explain it away, saying it was from a campfire.” She waved over her shoulder to the bonfire and the smoke that rose from the glowing logs.

  “Others said it was nothing more than gases released as plants decayed, or that it was stray bits of fog. Those who saw the smoke and heard the groans believed no such thing. Some believed souls may be trapped within the mountain, bound by ancient curses. Other, more practical people say these old mountains are just settling in on themselves, worn down and tired.”

  She looked from one firelit face to another. “Have you heard any strange sounds at night? Groans or sighs from the ground itself?”

  The headshakes were jerky and slight.

  “Seen any wisps floating about in the trees?” She paused. “Yet?”

  The shoulders of two girls in front of me drew up, as if they’d both felt a chill.

  “Keep your eyes open,” she said, “and be careful, because you will see and hear. Oh, you certainly will.”

  Quint sat on one of the ankle-high board seats in the front row, to the side of the storyteller, catching her profile on film. He hunkered with his knees in the air on either side of the tripod, lowered to what had to be its shortest setting.

  Colin didn’t sit still. He moved from place to place, probably capturing shots they could cut in later.

  Trini held a still camera and seemed to be snapping shots without even looking through the viewfinder. She mostly faced the crowd, but I also saw her wander off into the trees, snapping at random. Trying to catch some free-floating spirits?

  When the storyteller finished, her stories left us just where the counselors wanted their little campers: satiated and happy and ready for bed. And so was I.

  Rudy and I sat on our opposite ends of the picnic bench in companionable silence while the campers filed off into the night. Some of the boys still had the energy to goose each other and the girls chattered endlessly, in the way of girls, as they ambled off in opposite directions.

  I kept staring at the Ghouly Boys across the circle. When Cuke Metz turned his head to his right, I recognized him and almost popped out of my seat. Cuke Metz. Suddenly I could picture him with a hat pulled over his thick curls. That’s where I’d seen him. Driving a truck at Moody Springs. A truck with no passenger. The pieces tinkled into place.

  I didn’t have time to say anything to Rudy. Trini and Colin came rushing at us in a flurry.

  “You won’t believe what we got!” Colin was dancing.

  Trini swung one leg over the bench and straddled it beside me, holding the digital camera. Colin huddled behind us.

  “Look.” She held up the camera display.

  On the tiny screen, I could see me and Rudy, our chins in our hands, looking like a woodland remake of American Gothic. We were framed at opposite edges of the photo, in what looked like a snowstorm of bright, round white balls.

  “Orbs,” Trini intoned.

  The picnic bench creaked as Rudy stood. I heard his knee pop, and he groaned as he stretched and came behind me, leaning over to see the source of excitement.

  I handed him the camera and, over my shoulder, watched his expression. I didn’t want to miss the look on his face.

  Reflected in the firelight, I saw what I expected: not awe, but puzzlement.

  “The lightning bugs?” Rudy asked finally when all Quint and Trini offered were expectant stares.

  “Those are orbs,” Trini said, almost reverential.

  “A manifestation of coalesced residual energy,” Quint offered by way of logical explanation.

  “Those blobs of light?” Rudy jabbed his finger toward the back of the camera and asked in his best noncommittal cop tone.

  “Yes.” They both nodded, seeing the dawn of understanding, one who was beginning to see the light.

  “Those are bugs.”

  “Lightning bugs and dust don’t photograph like this,” Quint said. “As you can see, there aren’t that many bugs flying around here. We’ve studied all the online examples by other researchers. We know the difference between natural and paranormal phenomenon.”

  Quint reached for the camera, both palms extended, retrieving the sacrament from an infidel, one clearly not ready to join the believers in fully partaking.

  Quint turned back t
o me. “You are surrounded,” he pronounced.

  Trini nodded.

  “You’ve drawn forces to you. We’ve never seen such a manifestation.”

  “Never been in the damn woods near full garbage cans on a summer night,” Rudy muttered without benefit of sotto voce as he wandered toward the dying bonfire. Maybe he’d toast me a marshmallow.

  Quint and Trini ignored him and gathered on either side of me, earnest in their excitement.

  “Once Colin sees this, I’m sure he’ll want to interview you,” Quint said.

  “And film you,” Trini added.

  “Do you have any idea why you would be the center of such activity?”

  I bit the inside of my lip, hoping I looked like I was ruminating rather than stifling the giggles.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Probably just a fluke.”

  “We’ll definitely want to study you,” Quint said. I was glad Rudy had walked away. I didn’t need to hear about this for the rest of my life. Queen of the Fireflies.

  Glancing around, I spotted Rudy, his hands in his pockets, having a casual chat with a couple of the Ghouly Boys. I didn’t want to interrupt that or attract the attention of Donlee, who was hovering at the edge of the group, so I slipped away in the other direction back to my car, forfeiting any leftover marshmallows.

  Orbs. I winced as I closed the car door. Wait’ll Melvin sees the orb photos. There would be some more ribbing. Maybe it wouldn’t last twenty years, accompanied by a nickname, the way it could coming from Rudy. But I could hear it now.

  I needed to get home and get some sleep. If I was to be the center of a manifestation, it would be helpful if Gran would hover over me and tell me what happened to her girls. That’s a haunting I would welcome.

  Saturday Morning

  The next morning, Edna called just as I climbed into the front seat of Rudy’s unmarked patrol car, which had conveniently pulled to the curb in front of my house.

  “Thought you’d want to know as soon as possible,” she said without preamble.

  “Hey.” I mouthed “sorry” at Rudy, who signaled with a head shake that he didn’t mind me taking the call.