by J N Duncan
“Say what?” That was a new one on Jackie. “The second wife took the name of the first wife? That’s pretty damn creepy. Why would anyone want to do that?”
“Assuming they wanted to,” Nick replied.
Hauser chuckled. “Oh, it keeps going. I’ve found seven Thatchers so far who joined the family and became either Beverly or Robert Thatcher. They really do want to keep the family names alive. It’ll be fun to see how far back this goes.”
Nick sighed, both hands wrapped around his coffee mug on the table. “It will be the Thatchers who ran the mill in the 1890s. I’ll bet you anything that’s where the chain starts.”
Together, Shelby and Jackie said, in the same exasperated tone, “Drake.”
“Wonder if that has something to do with the curse that got mentioned?” Cynthia said.
Shelby laughed. “Cursed to become a Thatcher? That’s ...” She turned to Cynthia. “Is that possible, Cyn?”
“Something like that? Not likely. Not without help,” she said. “A curse is more subtle.”
“So, someone is coercing them,” Nick added. “Why is having the Thatchers around so important?”
“Why don’t we go ask them?” Jackie said.
“Yeah, you’ll have to,” Hauser said. “Apparently there’s no home phone.”
“None?” Jackie found that hard to believe. “No cell service either?”
“Not that I can find,” he replied. “If something comes up, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ll keep looking as much as I can. Other priorities, FBI stuff.” He paused for a moment. “Sorry, Jack.”
“No need, Hauser. Thanks,” she said.
“It might be after hours or lunch break, but I’ll keep seeing what I can dig up. Glad to help my favorite agent.”
The speaker went silent. Jackie grimaced. “Wipe those looks off your faces right now.” Their pity was the last thing she needed or wanted. “I’m here by choice. Nobody forced me to do this, so just ... don’t.”
“All right,” Nick said. “Fair enough. Are we heading back to Thatcher’s Mill, then?”
Jackie downed the last of her coffee. It would be a while before she had any of the good stuff. “Yes. Let’s see what other weirdness we can dig up in that ghost town.”
They were in Thatcher’s Mill before noon. Jackie slowed as they crossed the bridge again, wary this time of any lingering dead strolling across the road. Now that she knew they were there, the ghosts were not difficult to pick up on. She counted five with just a cursory look around Main Street.
“Still a party in the Mill,” Shelby said. “Really curious why they’re all here.”
“Maybe the Thatchers will give us a clue,” Jackie said. “I also think that ass-hat police chief knows something. I’m going to have a little talk with him again.”
Shelby reached over and slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Don’t you just love her when she gets all firm like that?”
Nick turned and looked back at her, eyes narrowed. “Actually, yes. I do.”
Jackie’s head whipped around, eyes wide. Shelby snorted but said nothing. For once she had no rejoinder. Nick turned back, one corner of his mouth curled up in a smile and gave Jackie a hard, amused stare before refocusing on the road ahead. What the hell was that all about? Did he actually just say what I think he did?
“The Thatchers’ place is on the edge of town,” he said. “Turn right at the diner.”
Main Street had the feel of a ghost town. Jackie saw more ghosts than actual living people out on the street. Even though it was a cool and blustery November day, she expected there would be more activity. It was also the post-Thanksgiving weekend, and she did not see a single Christmas decoration. “Anyone else find it odd that there isn’t a single Christmas decoration up anywhere?”
They reached the end of the street and began to ascend the drive up to the Thatchers’. Nick leaned forward in his seat, studying the buildings up ahead with an intense gaze.
Jackie glanced over at him, wondering what was going through his mind. “You were up here before, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, barely audible. “This is where Drake and I left our mark.”
“You?”
“Let’s just say the surviving Thatcher thought Drake and I one and the same,” he replied.
“Do tell,” Shelby said. “Do I know this story, babe?”
His reply was simple and final. “No.”
The drive leveled off, coming out of the leafless, tree-lined drive into a large, open turnaround. The farmhouse was painted a soft yellow, with white shutters, and a screened-in porch ran the length of the house. The bushes along the beds in front were trimmed to hedge-like perfection. Jackie even noticed there was a rooster weathervane on the roof. Off to the right of the house was the mill. From her angle she could just see the top of the wheel turning in the water. That building was also in impeccable condition. The whole place smacked of a backcountry tourist spot. She half expected to see gifts for sale in the window.
“Not quite the haunted house I was expecting,” she said.
“No, but it’s haunted all right,” Cynthia said. “Can you feel it? It’s more intense than the town by far.”
She’s not kidding, Laurel added. Blessed Mother, there’s a lot of death here. The wall between us is very thin here, hon. We may not want to stay here long.
Jackie stopped and turned off the Explorer. “What do you mean?”
Meaning that thing can’t be far and we don’t know what it’s capable of.
“About what?” Nick asked.
Why did things always have to be complicated? “Laurel just mentioned that things are pretty thin here between us and Deadworld,” said Jackie.
“If a lot of people have died here, that makes perfect sense,” Nick replied.
“And that Spindly Man is following me around. We might not want to hang out here for very long is all Laur is saying. Can’t say I disagree.”
Nick nodded. “Good point. We’ll try and keep this brief. I have no more desire than you do to confront whatever that thing is.”
Shelby opened her door and stepped out. “Might have to at some point.”
“Only when we have to,” Nick said. “And right now, we don’t. You want to go check out the mill, Shel?”
“Just don’t go in,” Jackie added quickly. “I’d rather not get called on for breaking and entering.”
“Would I do that?” asked Shelby.
“Yes,” everyone said together.
She waved them off and began walking toward the mill. “I hate you all.”
Jackie began to walk toward the screen door when the front door opened. A man’s feet echoed across the floorboards until he pushed open the screen and came down the steps. He wore a dark brown wool suit, white shirt, and a bowtie. Jackie had to do a double take. Yes, it was a brown and red plaid bowtie. His close-cropped hair was parted down the side and smoothed over with some kind of hair product. Round glasses gave him the look of an accountant, a very antiquated “I use an abacus” sort of accountant.
The man stopped a good ten feet from them. “May I help you? I was not expecting any visitors.”
Jackie took a step forward. “Mr. Thatcher? Robert Thatcher?”
“I am,” he said. “And who might you be, if I may be so bold?”
She took another step forward and thrust out her hand. “My name is Jackie Rutledge. My colleagues and I are from the University of Chicago.”
He glanced suspiciously down at her hand. “Professors are you, then? What could possibly bring you to our small neck of the woods, Ms. Rutledge? Chicago is quite the journey from here.” Robert turned and looked over at Shelby. “Excuse me, ma’am? What are you doing over there?”
Shelby waved and yelled back. “Just looking. It’s a lovely mill. Does it still work?”
“Of course,” he said, giving Shelby a confused look. “Why wouldn’t it work? It’s been making our flour for years.”
Makes his own flo
ur? Jackie could not quite fathom that. Was he Amish or something? “Mr. Thatcher, we are in the area exploring the history of ghost stories in the rural Midwest. As you can imagine—”
“Ghosts! Schools are studying such things these days?” He gave her a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. “What happened to literature and mathematics? Honestly! What an absurd thing to study. And you came up here to ask me about ghosts?” He laughed. “That’s preposterous.”
So is your fucking tie, she wanted to say, but the sound of Laurel clearing her throat rather loudly in her head made her bite her tongue. “Be that as it may,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm, “we wanted to see if you knew anything about the many ghosts that wander Thatcher’s Mill or if you’d heard anything about the curse of Thatcher’s Mill. We’ve heard a number of stories.”
“Curse? In the Mill? Surely you jest,” he said, clearly offended. “We’re a plain and practical folk here, Ms. Rutledge. Curses are the work of heathens and you will not find any of them in this town.”
Jackie forced a smile. “I did not mean to offend, Mr. Thatcher. How long have you lived here in Thatcher’s Mill?” From over the top of Robert’s head, Jackie caught movement on the edge of her vision. Someone was looking down at them through an upstairs window.
“The Thatchers have been here for decades, as you might well imagine,” he replied. “Surely educated folk like yourselves would know this?”
Surely, I’m going smack you upside the head, you little twerp. “I meant you, Mr. Thatcher. How long have you personally lived here?”
“Why, I grew up here, as you might expect.”
“Mr. Thatcher,” Jackie said and pushed her hands into her pockets before they involuntarily reached out to throttle him. “We happen to know you married Beverly Thatcher and came to Thatcher’s Mill five years ago.”
“I most certainly did not,” he snapped back. “I married my lovely Beverly seventeen years ago this past July. I may have married into the family, but I am a Thatcher through and through, thank you very much.” He took a step back. “I believe I shall take offense at your presence upon my property now. I politely ask that you leave. Have a good day.” Robert gave her a curt nod, spun on his heel, and marched back into the house. The door slammed, followed by the click of the deadbolt being turned into place.
“What the hell was that?” Jackie stared at the house in disbelief. “Does he even know what century he’s living in?”
“We should get off his property,” Nick said, “before he decides to call upon the police chief.”
Jackie spun around and stomped toward the car. “Nothing a badge and a gun wouldn’t deal with.”
Hon, quit. It’s fine. We’ve learned something. Let’s go from there and move on, Laurel said.
Oh, well that’s just preposterous, Jackie replied in her best imitation snotty voice. People don’t give you shit for being an FBI agent.
Laurel huffed. Then don’t let them give you shit for hunting ghosts. Own your work, hon. Be proud of it. You’re skilled in ways nobody else is.
Jackie slammed the door shut and started up the Explorer. That’s the problem. Nobody else gets it, so it’s just a fucking joke. Pisses me off. Anyway. I’m just being bitchy. He annoyed the crap out of me. “Did anyone else see someone in the upstairs window?”
“A girl,” Nick replied. “Fourteen or fifteen perhaps.”
Shelby grunted. “Did we hear anything about kids?”
“And why would he lie about his past to us?” Jackie wondered. “Marrying someone and changing your name isn’t illegal.”
“Have to admit,” Cynthia said, “that changing both your first and last name is a little strange.”
“But worth getting all offended over?” Jackie didn’t buy it. Something was really off with the guy, besides the stuffy suit.
“Call up Hauser,” Nick said. “I want to see if he can tell us what the names of the Thatchers were back when I was here.”
I’m going to stay here for a bit, hon, Laurel said. Maybe there’s a spirit who will actually have something to say. I’ll come back down to the diner shortly.
Jackie talked with Hauser, who said he would need a little time to find out the old Thatcher names, but he quickly looked up census information on the current Thatchers, which listed only the Robert and Beverly Thatcher living at the residence.
“OK, then,” Shelby said, as Jackie pulled the Explorer up along the curb next to the drug store. “So who’s the girl?”
“Could be a relative for all we know,” Jackie replied, getting out of the SUV. “But I’ll bet we can find out quick enough. I want a coffee, and then maybe we can canvas the town again. Surely someone around here is willing to say something.”
“They might be afraid to talk to us,” Nick said.
“Everyone?” She could not believe that. People liked to gossip about strange goings on in their neighborhoods. This town should be no different. “Someone around here will talk. We just have to find them.”
“We might try neighboring towns, too,” Cynthia added. “They might have some interesting things to say about this place.”
Jackie led them across the street to the diner, feeling horribly conspicuous on the nearly deserted streets. A young woman stepped out of a wall behind the diner and crossed the street, her eyes following them as they passed one another. Jackie waved.
“Hi there,” she said, but kept walking. Maybe questioning was the wrong tack to take with these ghosts. Perhaps, if they just realized someone else noticed them, one of them might eventually take an interest on their own. They might be dead, but they were still human, and humans were curious creatures.
“What was that about?” Shelby wondered.
“A little reverse psychology,” Jackie said, and pulled open the diner door.
“Oh.” Shelby nodded. “Oh! Smart girl. See, I knew you were the boss for a reason.”
When they sat down, Molly came by a minute later and wordlessly poured coffee and set down water. She purposefully avoided eye contact.
Nick took a drink of his coffee after she walked away. “Not pleased we’re back, obviously.”
“Getting the clear impression that nobody around here takes much to strangers,” Jackie said.
“Conspiracy of silence,” Cynthia said.
Molly brought back menus and set them on the edge of the table. Jackie smiled up at her. “Molly, mind if I ask you a question?”
She stopped, her shoulders sagging in exasperation. “I have nothing to say about any ghosts in Thatcher’s. You folk should just move on to some other town.”
Really? Changing your tune already, Molly? Have words with the police chief perhaps? “Actually, I just wanted to know who the Thatcher’s daughter was?”
Molly heaved a sigh. “Which one?”
More than one. “Well, um ...”
“Long, dark hair,” Nick said. “Teenager, about fifteen or so.”
She looked at them in silence for a moment. “That would be Rebecca Thatcher,” she replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got other customers.”
There was one other customer in the diner. Jackie frowned. “She’s going to be useful.”
“So,” Nick said. “How does one go about having a daughter with no record of her living there?”
“Previous marriage?” Cynthia suggested.
“Not if you’ve been married for seventeen years and grew up here,” Jackie replied. “Think we need to get an accurate record of just who these Thatchers were before they were Thatchers.”
“I think you’re right,” Shelby said. “Something ain’t right up on the hill.”
Jackie felt the familiar cold breeze of Laurel returning. She glided through the kitchen and sat down between Cynthia and Shelby. Jackie raised an eyebrow at her. “That was quick.”
She shrugged. “Nobody had much to say, and our favorite alien is back. I did get a name, though, from one of the spirits. Rebecca. Her name was Rebecca.”
Jackie just about spit her coffee back into the cup. “Really. Well, that is some interesting news.”
Nick sat frozen, staring at his cup, his gaze far off and empty. “Interesting indeed.”
“What is it, babe?” Shelby asked. “I know that look, and I never like it.”
“When I was here ... back then,” he said. “The girl I tried to help, the survivor from Drake’s attack, she had a twin sister. Rebecca.”
They all looked at each other in stunned silence. The little nagging feeling of wrongness about this whole situation abruptly blossomed into a hollow pit of dread in Jackie’s gut. “No shit.”
“Well,” Cynthia said. “Can’t say that sounds good at all.”
The door bell chimed as someone walked into the diner. Shelby sighed and downed the rest of her water. “Maybe you ought to tell us that story now, babe.”
“Well, well,” a voice rang out right behind Jackie’s ear, startling her, “what’s a former FBI agent doing in a little town like Thatcher’s Mill?”
Jackie wheeled around and stared up at the source of the familiar voice. It took a second to register who she was looking at before her stomach knotted up in agitation. “Margolin.”
He gave her an unwelcoming grin. “Ms. Rutledge. Fancy meeting you here.”
Chapter 13
Jackie got to her feet, her small frame inches away from Margolin, who towered a good six inches over her. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Might ask you the same question,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when a little birdie told me you were heading out this way. So, what’s Special Investigations doing in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere?”
She inched forward, bumping into him and forcing Margolin to take a step back. “The airport is twenty miles away, you shithead. How’d you know we were here?”
“I know a thing or two about investigation,” he said. “Not that hard.”
Jackie felt Nick slide out and stand up behind her. “I got this, Nick. He’s just a reporter.”
“Hey!” Tucker yelled from behind the counter. “Take your problems outside. I doubt Chief Carson would take kindly to a fight in here.”
