As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about the woman’s distressed physical state when she found her in the house lying on the floor, panting and gasping for air. She felt certain now that Opal Peabody had a rehearsed heart attack routine that she used when it was convenient.
Chapter 33
The spirit sat on the windowsill dangling one leg over the other, watching Georgia sleep. He leaned his head back against the pane as exhaustion made his limbs feel like steel logs. The encounter with the psychic woman had sapped his strength so much; he wondered if this afternoon’s transformation into effluvial mist was his last. Because now, his human form felt like it had been dragged in the dust behind a horse and buggy for miles.
It seemed that the old biddy with spectacles as large as grapefruits would not leave him be. He was shocked that she had been brazen enough to dare to come to the house again. He thought that glaring at her through the windows on her last visit would have been enough to frighten her into a comatose thumb-sucking state.
But, she had come back, shivering like a wet lamb.
Luring her in with the open door had been a device to kill her in seclusion. And he would have...if Georgia hadn’t arrived at that precise moment.
He cursed the psychic’s luck. She was the only one who knew that he had been reborn, but her inane questions made it clear that she knew nothing about who he was or the nature of his past. He knew that he still had some measure of mystery on his side, even though he had told her his name.
There were times that this stramaledetto—damned bloody—need to ingest the souls of others to maintain himself strained his patience. But, was it his fault? Of course not. It must be the fault of the woman who had brought him here. Something she did must have caused him to return to life as a monster, needing to feed on others to sustain himself.
For that...and for her interference, she had to die. Next time, there would be no interruptions when he began to squeeze the life out of her...until nothing came out of her but a mouse’s squeak...until nothing came out at all.
He saw Georgia’s chest heave up and down. Watching her like an invisible voyeur made him pant with desire to be closer to her. If he felt better now, he might go over to her, press his lips against her cheek, touch her hair, inhale the sweetness of her scent...
If she woke up, he hoped that, even in his taxed state, he could fade away in an instant if she were to suddenly look in his direction.
Was she just here for Virginia’s funeral or would she be staying longer? If she lived in another town, he wondered what tricks he could perform to make her stay.
Tricks? How could he do any sort of tricks for her if he wasn’t prepared to introduce himself?
He no longer wanted to hide in the shadows. He wanted to make himself known...and make her stay.
But, how could he do that now that he had told the psychic his name? He certainly couldn’t make his introduction as AlphonsoGiovanni.
He sat, tapping the whiskers on his chin...thinking.
After a few minutes, an idea came to him.
“Naturalmente!” he whispered out loud. He needed a new name. Something simple. Something not too archaic, but true to himself.
He walked over the bed and peered down. Her long black eyelashes smudged against the white pillowcase above her soft pink lips as she slept and dreamt. He thought she looked just as sweet and innocent as his Margaret had once been.
“Don’t worry, my angel,” he whispered above her. “I know the perfect way to launch our new acquaintance.”
Chapter 34
Opal broke every traffic law on the way back across town. Instead of heading home after the near-death encounter with the spirit and the humiliating scolding from Georgia, she headed north towards Hondelsburg. It was a thirty-minute drive to the county library, but she was sure that she could make it in twenty.
She kept repeating the name over and over again as she drove. AlphonsoGiovanni. AlphonsoGiovanni.
Now that she had a name, maybe she could find out who he was. That would be the first step in getting rid of the bastard. She could only hope that she could arm herself with enough information to get rid of him before he could harm Georgia.
That stupid stubborn granddaughter of Virginia’s! Her bark was no match for this evil spirit. He would either kill her soon (if he hadn’t already)...or he would frighten her into submission for a while like he must have done with Virginia.
She reached the library in record time, thankful that she didn’t get stopped for speeding or kill any small animals along the way. But, she had to slow herself a couple of times on the sidewalk that led to the main doors as she found her feet going faster than her aching lungs could oblige. Her sore rib cage reminded her just how close she had come to death.
Once inside, she headed for the Reference Room upstairs. Her body made her stop again before she got very far. Out of deference to her traumatized body, she took the elevator.
When she reached the Reference Desk, she rested with her elbow on top of the table and wheezed for a few moments before she could get any words out.
“All you alright, Ma’am? Can I help you?” the librarian asked.
“Where can I find old title records, birth and death records, newspapers...”
“From what year?”
“Early 1900’s? Or...maybe late 1800’s?”
The librarian pointed her towards the microfiche readers. “Everything before 1964 is on the microfiche. Newer records are in the computer database.”
After some coaching on how to work the machine and handle the plastic films, Opal sat down and began her search.
She looked through title records of the old Blake house, and found little more than she already knew. The land was purchased in 1882 by Georgia’s great great grandfather, WilliamCrawford, and the house’s construction was completed over a decade after that in 1893.
After an hour of going though records, she discerned that Crawford had married ClarabelleJohnson in 1874. They produced a daughter, Elizabeth, in 1878, then a second daughter, Margaret, in 1881.
Opal knew that was the famed Margaret of Calathia legend that had drowned herself in the river in the summer of 1900 after her forbidden lover ran off and left her, never to be heard from again. The family covered it up as an accident for many years, but the story of her suicide eventually leaked out and was whispered throughout churches and harvest festivals until it was commonplace knowledge.
Once, in the mid-1970’s, on Halloween night, some naughty teenagers dressed up a female mannequin in a Victorian style dress and floated it down the river. The mockery even made national news, but the town Mayor put a halt to the publicity before Calathia could become any more famed for the suicide.
It was Elizabeth, Margaret’s sister, who continued the family line. In 1902, she gave birth to CarolineWolden, who later became Virginia’s mother. Virginia later married HenryBlake in 1942 before his Army service during the World War II conflict. Her daughter, Susan, had been the mother of Marsha and Georgia.
Though the husbands of all of these daughters were mentioned as property owners as the titles of the house changed hands through the years, there was no mention of an AlphonsoGiovanni. After further research, she decided that if a man by that name ever lived in Calathia, he had not been born there, had not owned property there, and had not died there.
Still, she was certain that he had some tie to the house. He seemed downright possessive of it.
By the look of his clothing, Opal knew that he had to have died somewhere around the turn of the 20th century, during the Victorian...or Edwardian age. His voice had a strong accent, and the surname, Giovanni, sounded Italian. Might someone like that have stood out in this small town that was just a flyspeck a hundred years ago? She supposed that immigrants passed through the Midwest quite frequently back then in search of land or work on the railroads. Many passed through Kansas on the way to the silver mines in the Rocky Mountains...or to the gold mines in California.
; As Opal headed back in her car towards Calathia, she wondered if there was still anyone old enough around who could tell her stories about the old days...and any goings-on at the old Blake homestead. There was one man that came to mind. EdHanson was over a hundred years old. Word had it that he still ran the Calathia Inn with the help of a couple of his great grandchildren.
She decided to pay him a visit in the morning.
Chapter 35
Something woke Georgia from her nap.
The loudness of it startled her, sounding like the sudden tolling of a bell on a ship in a fog-laden harbor. After the noise stopped, she realized that it had been her grandmother’s volume-enhanced phone ringing in the bedroom down the hall.
She moaned as she opened her eyes and saw that she was in her old bed in the house where she had spent most of the earlier years of her life. It was a relief to see that she was in a safe familiar place...far away from the awful nightmare that had just played in her sleeping head.
She was sweaty and exhausted from the age-old dream. It had played through her mind like a reel-to-reel movie in agonizing slow motion. The nightmare seemed to be recorded in her brain, repeating itself on an endless loop.
And how many times had she had that awful nightmare lying in this very bed? Over the years, she had lost count of the nights of seeing the shadowy figure, the bright gorgeous flowers behind him, then the cold hands pushing her into a watery grave. The dream was more vivid and seemed more real in this house, even as it had when she was younger.
Her hands reached for her throat. It seemed warm and sore, as if the assailant’s hands had just been around it while she slept.
As she stretched, her stomach felt woozy, an acid stew of the remnants of Marsha’s breakfast many hours ago and the caustic pills. But, as she rubbed her temples again, she realized that the heaviness in her head had lifted. She still felt a bit groggy from the yellow brick’s sedative effect, but it was a pleasant haze.
She glanced at the soft fiery light seeping through the curtains and was glad that she hadn’t slept until nightfall. Waking up in the dark and not remembering where she was after having the awful dream might have given her a fright.
After getting up, she didn’t bother checking the phone down the hall. There was no Caller ID. Whoever called would have to call back.
She went to the bathroom, smoothed her rumpled hair back, and splashed water on her face to counter the grogginess. As she returned to the hallway, she felt a rumbling in her stomach.
She walked down the stairs on her way to the kitchen to look for something to eat, but stopped on the third step as she heard a noise.
Maybe it wasn’t the phone that had initially woken her up. It sounded like someone was in the house.
She heard a rustling sound, not unlike the sound she had heard in the spare bedroom during her first visit. With her heart racing, she listened and tried to figure out who or what she might be hearing.
The sound of footsteps pounded across the wood floor below. Then, she heard creaky hinges, the sound of sliding metal, and a crinkling of paper. Who was in the pantry?
For a moment, she froze. Should she tiptoe back upstairs, lock herself in a bedroom, and call for help? Or, should she go down there and confront the intruder? She couldn’t think of anything to grab for a weapon. Scissors from Grammie’s craft room? The spiked heel of her shoe? Where was a spare baseball bat when you needed one?
Wait—she knew who the intruder was—it was that Peabody woman. She had come back and was looking for something to steal now that she knew that she had no one else to swindle.
Her face reddened with anger. She forgot about a weapon and flew down the staircase.
“Freeze!” she yelled in her best imitation of television cop as she hopped around the pantry door.
The intruder whipped around with a guilty look across her face and dropped the bag of cookies on the floor.
“Marsha? You scared me to death! What are you...”
With a sheepish look, she spoke with her mouth full of crumbs. “I called a little while ago, and when you didn’t answer, I came over to check on you. When I found you upstairs asleep, I decided not to bother you. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Georgia kept her arms folded. “You scared the hell out of me. You’re lucky I don’t pack a loaded gun.”
“Come on...who else would you expect to be in here?”
“Funny you ask. Let me tell you who I found in the house when I got here.”
“What?”
“There was a woman lying on the living room floor when I came over earlier. She seemed to be having some sort of panic attack. If she hadn’t been a little old lady, I’d have called the police.”
“Oh my God,” Marsha said as she bent down and picked up the cookies then offered one to Georgia.
After a couple of bites, she continued. “It was Opal Peabody, the town psychic. She said that she came here to warn me about some sort of ghost living in this house.”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know. I don’t buy it either. I think she scared Grammie with her hokey stories and tried to blackmail her—telling her to fork up some dough or this evil ghost would get her in the middle of the night.”
Marsha sat on the chair next to the table. “Wow. That would explain some of grandmother’s peculiar behavior. I’ve never met Opal, but I’ve heard of her. I never heard she was a scam artist, though.”
Georgia went into the kitchen to get them something to drink and noticed the open drawers and cabinets in the kitchen.
“You haven’t just been searching for a snack. You’re looking for something, aren’t you?”
Marsha turned away, looking out the window as a crow cawed and lit on a branch outside.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
She folded her arms. “I have my reasons.”
“It has something to do with that letter of Grammie’s from the bank, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t want to talk about—”
Marsha’s retort was aborted by the sound of the doorbell. Georgia stomped past her and saw the figure of a tall, lanky man standing on the other side of the stained glass in the door. She wondered who it could be. The figure was too thin and wiry to be Fred from next door.
When she opened the door, she was surprised to see Stevie standing there with a large brown grocery sack in his hand.
“Hey, Mom sent me out for food.”
He handed a bag to her with deli sandwiches and bottles of lemonade.
“Thanks. I’m starving.” As he stepped inside, she noticed that he had morphed back into his casual clothing, wearing a torn and faded black concert t-shirt and jeans. “The post-funeral party must be over.”
Stevie nodded. “Yeah. Hey...looks like the lawn needs mowed.” He rubbed his fingers together. “Sure could use some dough.”
She grinned. “Another friendly neighborhood opportunist.” But, Stevie she could indulge if he was willing to work for it.
“You’re right. Twenty bucks for the front...and the spot by the back patio?”
“Cool. Where’s the mower?”
“I don’t know. The garage? Let’s go look.”
She dropped the sack of food on the table in front of Marsha without a word. Then, she and Stevie went out through the back door to the garage and searched with no luck.
“I wonder if Fred borrowed it.” She glanced towards the Birman’s. “I don’t think they’re home.” Then, she caught a glimpse of the old shed. “Maybe it’s in there,” she said as she pointed.
Stevie followed her down the path. When they reached the shed, she saw that the deadbolt on it had been cut, and it was dangling off to the side. “Someone’s been in here. I can’t imagine...” As she lifted off the lock and opened the door, her words choked off.
Inside, instead of finding a mower, garden tools, or old farm implements, she saw what appeared to be a straw-filled scarecrow dressed in her grandfather’s old
overalls with a straw hat and his worn leather work-boots that he had worn for the last ten years of his life. A photograph of his face had been photocopied and enlarged, then attached. Her grandfather’s eyes stared at back at her as she looked down at his mahogany pipe resting in the straw hand. The rest of the shed was a shrine. Photos were tacked up on the walls—some from when he was a young boy all the way to up to right before he died. There was a small wood table with dried cobs of corn and produce from his garden in canning jars. Next to these items, there were candles and matches.
“Man!” Stevie chuckled. “Great Grammie sure did go a little nuts, hunh?”
Georgia couldn’t speak. All these years after Grandpa died, Grammie had kept this shed locked. Her little secret had been the fact that she never did let go of him. She must have come in here and had private conversations with this effigy. Maybe the candles were there, so she could see at night. Or maybe she had her own little séances in there to try to bring him back to life. Georgia understood now that it was possible that her grandmother had called Opal for help to contact him.
“Don’t tell your mother. Please don’t...”
“I’m not gonna say anything,” Stevie said. “I don’t want anyone thinking Great Grandma was crazy.”
“Thanks, kid. She was just a lonely old woman. You can’t blame her...”
Stevie took off his hat and smoothed back his hair as he tried to hide a strangely smug grin. She thought he looked secretly pleased about the odd discovery, but she couldn’t guess why.
After discovering the lawn mower on the side of the house next to the pile of Rustenstuff, she watched Stevie mow for a few minutes from the porch swing as she took nibbles of her sandwich.
The neighbors stopped by on their way home. “You look awfully comfortable on that swing...almost like you still live here,” Annie said as she walked across the field separating the two houses.
“I’m sure Marsha’s already told you that Grammie left it to me in her will.”
“Yep,” Fred answered. “I sure hope you’re not going to sell it. I never could have another neighbor better than your grandmother.”
The Gardener Page 15
