It was a mess, but not that big of a deal. At least the message wasn’t threatening. That said, Eve was clearly upset. The ghost was getting to her.
“Don’t worry, Eve. I’ll clean this up. Then we can hit the store tomorrow and you can stock back up on Head Cheerleader Red, or whatever color this lipstick was.”
My effort at levity failed. Eve’s expression didn’t change as she glanced away. I followed her eyes and saw a pair of scissors lying on the floor under the sink. “The ghost gave up on the lipstick. I think she thought it would work better to write on me with those.”
Okay, that was threatening. I had to solve this ghost problem, and soon.
I started to clean everything up, and after a few minutes Eve had collected herself enough to help me erase the mess. We worked in silence. When we finally finished, I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get this all figured out.”
She nodded, arms crossed over her chest. I gave her a hug and felt her silently sobbing. After a time, she stopped.
“Thanks,” was all she said before pulling away and returning to her room.
I went to bed thinking I would be up all night after what had happened. I guess it was testament to my exhaustion that I was asleep shortly after my head hit the pillow. I dreamed about Rose coming into my room and spending the night with me. We lay together on my bed and talked while she held me. She told me about all the different cities she had visited over the years. It was one of the stranger dreams I’ve had. If I was going to dream about a beautiful girl, I’d think that we would have done more than talked.
At least the ghost didn’t put in a repeat performance. I wasn’t sure if we could survive another one.
Chapter 20
Wednesday went marginally better than the day before, even though I dragged through my classes. I was dead tired, which was odd, considering that I had slept most of last night except for the thirty minutes I spent cleaning the bathroom with Eve.
Given the whole dance fiasco, I went to school preparing to be snubbed. Pending the imminent shunning by my current circle of friends, I had been dreaming up ways to integrate myself with the small contingent of skaters that hung out near the vending machines at lunch. They had a cool spot over at the culvert where they practiced tricks after school.
As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. Our regular group ate lunch together, though Becky sat with Monica on the grass instead of on the wall next to me. The two of them were also noticeably cooler to me, though everyone else acted more or less normal.
I was relieved, but also a little annoyed that any of this should even be an issue. I mean, it wasn’t even an important dance like prom or homecoming. This was the Back to School Dance, for goodness’ sake. I had more important things to deal with, like a ghost that had recently developed a homicidal bent.
I remembered my visit with Mrs. Brown was scheduled for that afternoon, and that cheered me up. I hoped she could shed some light on what was going on. Once I got the situation straightened out with the ghost, then maybe I could focus on getting things squared away with Becky.
“Hey, are you okay, dude? You’re looking pale,” Richard asked. Becky and Monica paused in their whispering to evaluate me.
“I’m fine. Just had a rough night is all.” Becky made an unsympathetic sound and the girls resumed their muffled conversation.
“Don’t worry about it; it’ll all work out,” said Richard, apparently assuming I had been worrying about the dance.
I almost filled him in on the bathroom incident, but I wasn’t sure if Eve wanted her attack to become common knowledge. Instead I said simply, “Yup. One way or the other.”
Richard and I spent the rest of lunch discussing the football team’s chances of going to State. Everyone else kept to themselves. Eve stayed with her regular group of friends, and when the bell finally rang, I trudged off to finish my afternoon classes.
I couldn’t help spending the afternoon dwelling on the ghost and what it might have done to Eve with those scissors if I hadn’t interrupted. As soon as my last class let out, I used the map application on my phone to locate Mrs. Brown’s house, then made a beeline for it.
Mrs. Brown lived on a quiet street lined with tiny houses. Some were shabby, but most were well cared for. Mrs. Brown’s fell into the latter category. Even in the dry heat of August, bright flowers ran along the walk and nestled in the beds in front of her house. Her lawn was green and well groomed, and the porch I stood on was swept and freshly painted.
I knocked on the door and waited. I was about to knock again when the door opened to reveal a small elderly woman, well into her eighties.
“You must be Christopher.”
“Yes, Mrs. Brown. Christopher Harding.”
“Don’t look like a Harding.”
“My sister and I were adopted.”
“Your real sister?”
I flinched inwardly, but I was used to it. Instead of answering flippantly, I politely said, “We have different birth parents. But I consider her my real sister.”
“’Course she is, and y’all’s parents are your real parents; didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Well, don’t just stand there. The plants get plenty of shade from the trees without you giving them any more. Come on in.”
She led me into a cozy front room, indicating that I sit on a couch covered in a hand-knitted white afghan. She disappeared into the kitchen, and I occupied myself by surveying the orderly room from my perch until she returned a few minutes later with a platter of cookies and a pitcher of ice-cold lemonade. I tried a cookie and then the lemonade. It was tart, but with the summer heat, I wouldn’t have wanted it any different.
“Birth parents, eh? So that’s what they call ’em these days. In my day they called the birth parents the parents, and the parents that done the actual parenting, the adopted ones. The words change, but not much else does, I suppose.”
“I guess so.”
“Now then, what did you want to ask me? Something about Charlotte Monroe?”
“Yes, that’s right. What can you tell me about her?”
“Not too much. She was born and raised here in Pico. She was surely beautiful, and despite her background had no shortage of men lining up to take her out. Never married, though. I suspect she had eyes for an unavailable man.” She held up a hand to stop any questions. “Don’t know who it was, so don’t bother asking.”
I wondered if it was the man in the photo from the library. I pulled the picture out from my backpack, and showed it to her. “Do you know who this guy is?”
“Why, sure, that’s Mr. Collins. Not the current one, of course. His father, William. Why you asking? Oh, I see it now—he’s looking at Charlotte there in the picture. Could have been him she fancied. Anyway, they’re both dead now, so it don’t matter much.
“Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Charlotte. She was doubly blessed: she not only had looks, she had means. Her father did a good business in construction and left everything to her. She was an only child, and her parents died young. Her mother passed on when Charlotte was maybe eighteen, and her daddy followed two years later from grief. She sold off the company and was plenty comfortable.” Mrs. Brown took a sip of lemonade and a bite out of a cookie, then gazed into the distance and continued.
“Still, she weren’t idle. Charlotte was a midwife, and a kind of healer. Some called her a witch and, well, that might be true. I know her momma was one for sure.
“Her momma came from Louisiana, out in the bayou somewheres. She might have been a witch, but she was still a Christian. Went to church every Sunday. Sang in the choir. She had a beautiful voice.” She took another drink and then sat lost in thought for several minutes before she continued. She didn’t appear to be in much of a hurry about anything. The speed of modern life hadn’t made it past her fence. When she continued, it was with an air of explaining something important.
“Charlotte’s momma weren’t evil and neither was Charlotte. Mostly they made medicines for people, cures for aches and
pains, that kind of stuff. Grew all sorts of strange things out in their garden. Sometimes they’d hold rituals, or whatever you call them, out in the back, but they were harmless enough. Usually to cure whatever ailment wasn’t getting fixed fast enough by the doc. He was my husband, you know.”
“Yeah, Mr. Sherman told me,” I said. The history lesson was interesting, but I had to learn where the ghost came from. I tried to nudge the conversation in the right direction. “So why was Charlotte killed? You think it was just because she was having an affair?”
“Well, that and maybe a little more. Her mother was of mixed race, but not so you could tell. That was how her dad got away with marrying her. I think some people might have guessed, and I suspect Mr. Monroe lost some business because of it. Didn’t seem to bother him much, though. Anyway, Charlotte looked white enough and, like I said, she had plenty of men lining up to court her, but…” She paused.
“But?”
“She got pregnant.” Even though decades had passed, I could still hear the disapproval in Mrs. Brown’s voice. She stared out the window like she was watching her memories unfold in the yard. “She was in a motherly way one day when she came in to see the doctor. I remember that day well—she was full of tears. Wouldn’t say who the father was, of course. I assumed he was married. Doctor suggested she go stay with a relative and put the child up for adoption. That happened a lot back then.
“Well, she finally agreed to go out of town, but she wouldn’t give the child up. Not by adoption, or the other way, if you know what I mean.”
She looked back at me. “Back then people adopted local children. Nowadays it seems like it’s fashionable to go fly somewhere and get one from someplace else. Don’t understand it. Perfectly good ones available here.”
I had some ideas on that topic, but this wasn’t the time for that conversation. So I just nodded.
“Of course, maybe there’s not as many children put up for adoption now. Nowadays you can have children out of wedlock and no one looks twice anymore. Maybe Charlotte was just born eighty years too early.”
“So what happened? Did she have the baby?”
“Uh huh. She went to stay with relatives in Vermont and had it there. A daughter named Emily. She came back and kept it as much of a secret as she could, which in this town, of course, meant it wasn’t much of a secret at all.
“Maybe someone found out who the daddy was. A jealous wife who discovered he had an affair with someone of mixed race. Folks could be mighty narrow-minded in those days.” She left the conclusion to that thought unspoken.
“What about the daughter—Emily? Where is she now?”
“Don’t know. Charlotte sent her back up North to live with her relatives, I reckon. Likely still there.”
“And Charlotte?”
“They lynched her. She was seeing someone in town she shouldn’t have. Had his baby. Could have been your Mr. Collins, I don’t know. I assume people found out, and that was that. Called her an adulterer, and a witch on top of it. I told you before, she was of mixed race, and with the man being white and well-off to boot, well, that was good enough to seal her fate.
“They strung her up one night and called it a suicide. Sheriff was in on it, of course, so there weren’t no investigation. Some Yankee cousin inherited all the money, probably all the happier for it. Sold the house and everything in it not long after. Never even came down to look at it.”
She took another sip of lemonade and finished her cookie. I did the same, and we sat in silence for some time again.
“So, you seen her?” she asked me finally.
“Who?”
“Charlotte. You seen her? I imagine that’s why you’re here. You moved into her old house.”
I nodded. “I haven’t seen her so much as heard her. At first it wasn’t too bad; mostly noises, and things like the AC going out. But lately it’s been different. We, ah, tried to contact her and it seemed to, um, upset her. Since then, she’s gotten a little violent.”
Mrs. Brown just nodded. “I see.”
“And so I’m trying to figure out what she wants, and maybe what I can do to get rid of her.”
“Don’t know what she could want, unless it’s revenge. If so, that ain’t going to be easy. Most of the folks that killed her are dead and gone. And this town holds too many of their relatives to count, let alone hold accountable.”
“So who’s left? Still alive, I mean?”
She looked sideways in thought. “Not sure it’s worth stirring up all that old stuff. Just going to upset people.”
“She came after my sister last night with scissors. I have to do something.”
“Have you considered moving? That’s what most people do. They have been moving out of that house faster than they can move in, ever since the cousin sold it the first time sixty years ago. That’s what I’d do if I were you. Plenty of nice houses in town without ghosts in ’em. Find yourself one of those.”
“Can’t you please?”
“Sorry, child; wish I could help you.”
With those words, the conversation was over. I thanked Mrs. Brown for her time and walked back out into the afternoon heat. I mulled over what I had learned as I skated down the sidewalk. Halfway home, I changed course and aimed instead for the library. Maybe I could connect Mr. Collins to Charlotte and prove that he was the father of her child. One glance captured in an old photo wasn’t much proof, but it was the only lead I had.
It was a wasted trip. I didn’t find anything useful about the identity of the father. I did come across a couple of references to the Monroe family, but neither was worth anything. The first was an obituary for Charlotte. It was brief; there was no mention of Emily or any other useful information or pictures.
The second was a write-up on the cousin from Vermont. He had sold the Monroe house and donated a lot of Mr. Monroe’s architectural drawings, sketches and plans to the Pico Historical Society. According to the article, the society planned to display the plans for some of the prominent buildings over in city hall.
Defeated, I gave up and headed home. I thought about stopping by the drive-in to see if Becky was working, but thought better of it. It probably wouldn’t go over well, and I was wiped out anyway.
I shuffled into the family room and collapsed in front of the TV. The AC was still out, and I could hear my mom on the phone telling the home warranty company to either work the gremlins out or pay for a new system. I didn’t think a new AC unit was going to do us much good.
I read somewhere once that the term “gremlins” was coined by World War One pilots and mechanics to explain unexplained mechanical issues in planes. I thought about telling my mom that we had ghosts, not gremlins, but it’s not like she would have believed me if I told her why it really wasn’t working.
Later, I tried searching the internet for Emily Monroe. Hundreds of results appeared, but none were the one I was looking for. I tried using Vermont, Pico, Charlotte, and various other likely keywords to narrow my searches. Still nothing. For all I knew, she was married and had a different name. Without more information it was going to be almost impossible to find her.
When it was time for bed, Eve came in and asked if I wouldn’t mind sleeping with the door open. She was planning on doing the same, and wanted me to be able to hear her just in case something happened. I agreed, wondering if we should collect all the sharp objects in the house and lock them up just in case.
I needn’t have worried. The night before must have taken its toll on our ghost, because she didn’t visit. Neither did Rose, though she was in her window reading. She gave me her customary wave, and then added something new: she glanced up and blew me a kiss.
Chapter 21
School on Thursday was a vast improvement. Becky was in a good mood at lunch—almost smug. She even acknowledged my existence, though she still sat on the lawn with Monica. I felt better until I noticed Richard giving me a look that said something was up. I found out what it was later at work.
“How’s it going?” I said to Richard when he came into Cooped Up Books and headed over to the magazine rack.
“Hey, Chris.”
“We got a couple of new comics in this week. No decent magazines, though. Good ones don’t come in until next Wednesday,” I said, indicating the magazines he was staring at.
“I know.” Richard half-heartedly flipped through a car magazine.
“Gotta wonder how long they’re going to last. Paper magazines, I mean. Can’t be too much longer before they stop making them.” Frankly, I was surprised they were still around, given that you could find everything you wanted on the internet. I guess some people still liked paper, which was a good thing, since I needed the job.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Richard agreed absently. Then he looked up at the ceiling and said, “Becky is going to the dance with Jason Burns.”
I felt a twinge in my stomach. I’d known it was coming. It was inevitable; someone like Becky wasn’t going to have to wait long for a date. I was surprised it took two days, though.
“Okay.” There wasn’t much else to say, though I did ask about the guy. “Never heard of him—is he a junior? Senior? Freshman?” Please let him be a freshman.
“Senior. From Clarksville. It’s her ex. They were on-again, off-again for a while. I thought she finally got rid of him over the summer, but looks like he’s back. Sorry, dude.”
I shrugged. “It’s not like she was going to wait around for me, especially after what I did. But who knows—maybe they’ll be off again sometime soon and I can make my move, right?”
“That’s the spirit. At least you get to go out with this cute neighbor we’ve been hearing about, so it’s not like it’s a complete disaster. Y’all are going to be the most popular couple at the dance. The whole school is waiting to find out who you stiffed Becky for.”
Did every single bit of useless information have to instantly travel to the four corners of this town? I cursed cell phones and texting.
The Haunting of Pico (Pico, Texas - Book 1) Page 16
