Scary Stuff

by Sharon Fiffer

  “Yes, that’s true,” said Oh. “However, when one has difficulty hearing, I find that one looks harder at the speaker. Even those who don’t read lips seem to concentrate on a speaker’s face especially hard when they are trying to hear. If Cousin Ada’s sight is also impaired, that might explain her lack of focus, but . . .”

  Jane waited for Oh to finish his thought, but instead, he began a story.

  “When Claire and I were first married, we took a trip to Canada and attended a theater festival where we watched one or two plays each day. Shakespeare, mostly. It was a trip that Claire thought would be good for us. She could go off and visit galleries and antique dealers when we weren’t sitting in an audience, and I would be kept busy with lectures and classes between the performances. She was correct . . . it was a most enjoyable vacation. I learned a great deal about stagecraft as well as Shakespeare’s plays. A lighting designer spoke to our group one day and he announced that all lighting design came down to one tenet. ‘My job,’ he said, ‘is to light the actors well enough so the audience can hear them.’ Of course, someone in the audience who heard but did not listen shouted out, correcting the speaker that he must have meant to say ‘see them not hear them.’

  “The designer smiled and shook his head and said that he had spoken correctly. Lighting on stage allows audience members to hear the actors as well as see them. And the hearing is much more difficult if the lighting is not right.” Detective Oh nodded. “That stuck with me, Mrs. Wheel. I see light now as the key to hearing as well as to seeing.”

  Oh had driven into the town by following the service road behind the barn, all along the now-spent fields, and turned onto the county road, taking a good minute, minute and a half, off the already short trip to Herscher’s main street from Swanette’s farm. Oh had driven conservatively, though. Jane was certain, with a little more speed, at least two more minutes could be shaved off the trip. Jane had directed him to park across from the diner, in front of Ada’s house.

  Jane was looking up at the gabled structure where her second cousin had spent her isolated life. The house seemed to give off darkness even now in the bright morning light, and she waited for a moment before speaking, hoping Oh’s story would make enough sense to her that she wouldn’t have to break down and ask him what the hell he was talking about.

  Waiting worked. The house, Jane thought, if only its outlines were rendered with slightly more curve and slant and bend, would be a dead ringer for a cartoon Halloween illustration. Jane realized she was tilting her own head, staring at the house while she had listened to Oh. And now, as clearly as if she were next to her in the car, Jane heard Ada’s voice admonishing her to turn off the light, that it was unnecessary in the house.

  “Ada is looking at someone else, listening to someone else. Is that what you mean?” asked Jane. “Do you mean she’s looking into a kind of light so she can see? Or hear?”

  “If someone tells you that they live with a ghost, Mrs. Wheel, it’s always best to believe them.”

  “I believe that Ada thinks her brother is taking care of her,” said Jane. “For her, Brother James is quite real.”

  “I believe in ghosts, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, opening his door and stepping out of the car. “Have I ever told you that before?”

  Jane didn’t answer.

  “And I believe if Ada is listening for others, certainly others are listening in this house. Shall we go in and give them something to listen to? To think about?”

  Just as she had watched her mother do yesterday, Jane knocked loudly, then opened the door, calling out to Ada as they entered. Jane pointed out the vintage garlands of black cats in the dining room to Oh.

  “Ada’s got a small fortune in vintage Halloween decorations,” said Jane.

  “Are you here to steal them?”

  Jane and Oh both turned around.

  A small sturdy woman, dressed in blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, with her brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, stood with arms crossed, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m Jane, Nellie’s daughter. Nellie is Ada’s cousin and we were here yesterday. . . .”

  “Aha, so it was real. Ada told me her family had been out to see her and carve pumpkins, but I just thought she might be dreaming it all up. I’m Linda Weller. I live out in Limestone down the road, but I come in once a week to check on a few people around here. I’m a kind of visiting nurse.”

  “Do you work with someone else? A partner? I met a woman yesterday when I was here who says she checks in regularly . . .” said Jane.

  “Nope. I work alone, strictly volunteer for some of the old-timers around here. I grew up down the road and I remember coming here every Halloween, and my older cousins remember this place for all kinds of holiday stuff. Hayrides and Christmas caroling and stuff, but for me, this was the Halloween House!”

  “I’m really confused,” said Jane, adding to herself, and a little worried. “A woman came into the study while I was admiring the books and acted like she was a regular visitor, and I mentioned her to Ada who said no one came to see her, she didn’t need a nurse.”

  “That’s right. And when she comes downstairs in a minute, I stop being the nurse. I don’t know who you met here yesterday, maybe one of the neighbors. But today, I’m Linda, here to buy some pumpkins. Some weekends, I stop in to see if she’s got jam for sale or salad greens. In the winter, I ask if I can shovel snow or help out for a dollar or two. She just thinks I’m a hobo or something,” Linda said, laughing. “One time, she actually made me cart out ashes from the fireplace, then gave me a silver dollar for my trouble,” said Linda. “Told me to go buy myself a meal at Edna’s Diner.”

  “It seems you have found the cleverest way to be kind,” said Oh, extending his hand and introducing himself as Jane’s friend Bruce.

  “Look, I don’t need to monitor her blood pressure or run labs on her. She wouldn’t take any medicine anyway. She’d just cook up some of those herbs out back. I just feel it’s my duty, you know. As a neighbor. And other people do for her, too, because the walk’s almost always shoveled before I get here and her groceries are delivered. I can see she’s well nourished and seems healthy as a horse.”

  “Who does she say takes care of her?” asked Oh.

  “Her dead brother, of course,” said Linda. “You must know she has a ghost living here with her.”

  “Does she hear and see well enough to live here alone?” asked Jane.

  “If somebody gave her a battery of tests, I think the official answer would be no. But she gets by. Like I say, she’s got someone bringing her food. Edna’s even given her free run of the diner kitchen if she’s hungry. Every once in a while I get by with bartering something. Like, I’ll bring in a bushel of apples I’ll say I picked and could she give me some mint from her garden or something. She figures I stole some apples and she takes them and I watch her bend over and pick that mint and she doesn’t ever moan or groan. Heck, I can’t even tie my shoe without thinking I broke something. And she hears more than you think she does. Sometimes I think she just likes being the spooky old lady in the haunted house . . . you know . . . like she’s just acting in a play or something.”

  They heard Ada descending the stairs so they all came out of the dining room so she could see them head-on and not be startled.

  “I’m here to buy a pumpkin,” said Linda, loudly.

  “Of course you are,” said Ada. She came close to the three, patting Jane’s cheek firmly. “Nellie’s girl, Jane,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Jane, “and this is my friend Bruce.”

  Ada nodded and motioned for them to follow her into the kitchen.

  The long table was covered in old newspaper and, as it was yesterday, laden with several pumpkins carved in various stages of expression. There are more pumpkins today, Jane thought. She noted three additions at the far end whose mouths were all finished with snaggle-toothed frowns, but with no eyes, making their expressions all the more grim. They really don’t like what
they can’t see, thought Jane. Several knives lay on the table, along with a small keyhole saw and several long scoops and instruments with curved blades. Jane spotted an entire set of Bakelite-handled wood-carving tools in a leather pouch that was unrolled next to a pumpkin with a particularly menacing grin.

  Ada did not stop at the table, but instead walked through the kitchen, past the deep farm house sink and the gigantic butcher block, so used and worn that its wood top undulated like rolling hills. A large platter was balanced on this wide oak piece of topography and on it were heaped small mounds of roasted pumpkin seeds glistening with salt. Ada pointed to it as she passed and all three of them obediently took small handfuls and popped them into their mouths. Continuing through the back porch where a tangle of rubber boots looked as if it had been planted as a single boot a hundred years ago and had since grown roots and branches of work shoes and Wellingtons, Jane, Oh, and Linda Weller followed Ada, a stately, if sinister, mother duck leading them into the backyard.

  Although Jane had been awed by the vintage Halloween displays inside the house she had not anticipated the jaw-dropping effect of Ada’s backyard.

  “Cut or solid?” asked Ada.

  “One of each, maybe,” said Linda, walking toward the rows of picnic tables and benches where more than a hundred pumpkins were carved and displayed. Eight tables were lined up with their sixteen benches forming rows in front of them. Every available surface was covered with carved pumpkins. They grinned and frowned, leered and ogled. Some looked as if they had a million questions to ask and more than a few looked as if they wanted to provide the answers. One of the picnic tables had large bottle and bird house gourds carved with leaf and geometric shapes interspersed with the pumpkins, but it was the jack-o’-lanterns that were the stars.

  “Halloween’s a week away, yes?” asked Oh. “Will these creations last?”

  Linda Weller may have been right about Ada’s hearing being somewhat selective because, despite her back being to Oh, she heard his quiet question and turned to face him. “These are today’s pumpkins. For sale if people want them to burn tonight or for a party. Doesn’t matter if they last until next week, since they can come and buy more all week. These are just for the early birds,” said Ada, “the people who like scary nights.”

  Her usually solemn face cracked into a sly, guarded smile. “Some folk around here celebrate Halloween more than one night.”

  “She looks exactly like my mother,” said Jane softly.

  “Speak up, Nellie’s girl,” said Ada.

  “You look like Nellie,” said Jane. “You look like Mom.”

  Ada turned back to the pumpkins.

  “Phone’s been ringing. I don’t answer it, but it’s people wanting their jack-o’-lanterns for their parties and such. I know it when the phone starts ringing when the leaves are falling. So pick while you got a selection.”

  Linda Weller asked Ada if she could help her get one down from the pile of uncarved pumpkins on the other side of the yard. Jane started to go over to assist Linda, but Bruce Oh shook his head and put his fingers to his lips.

  “This is Ms. Weller’s method for examining your cousin,” said Oh, whispering.

  How old was the woman? Seventies? Eighties? Her face was weathered and her long dark clothes suggested an old crone, but Jane watched her actually hoist a pumpkin from the top of a small mountain without a wince or groan. Linda Weller was right. Ada did not seem to suffer from any age-related aches or arthritis pains. She also followed Linda’s directions as she pointed here and there, asking to see that “tall one” or the “round fat guy” on the other side. So Ada wasn’t blind . . . at least she could see well enough out here in the bright October light. Maybe her visual limitations were exacerbated by the dim gloom of the house’s interior as well as the dark-tinted lenses she wore. And she heard Jane’s comment that was very nearly whispered. Maybe Oh’s explanation of light helping one to hear was true for Ada.

  “Who do you employ to carve these many pumpkins?” asked Bruce Oh.

  “Anybody who wants to come and help with the carving is welcome,” said Ada. “Ma always said to leave the doors open during harvesttime.” Ada turned toward Oh, but included Jane in her look. “But it’s a family business,” she added. “Most are done by the family.”

  “So you have family members who come to help you?” said Oh. “That is excellent teamwork.”

  “My cousin Nellie and her girl came to me yesterday,” said Ada. She nodded then caught herself. “You came to me yesterday,” she said, looking at Jane.

  “That’s right,” said Jane. “Mom and I came to visit you. Mom carved a pumpkin and I got to see your beautiful house.”

  “You like old houses?” asked Ada.

  “Very much,” said Jane. “So does my friend.”

  Jane had planned to ask if she could show Detective Oh the study. She wanted another opportunity to look around for any more papers that tied this house to Honest Joe’s auction site. The key to that particular puzzle had been in front of her on the desk just yesterday.

  Ada waved her hand and Jane took the gesture to mean she could show Oh the house. This time when she went into the library, she would not only search the desk more thoroughly, she would pay special attention to the bookshelves to determine all the actual books that were missing. She could look up those titles and see what they were worth and, as she—

  “I am a collector of books, Cousin Ada,” said Oh, “and I would love to visit your library. Mrs. Wheel tells me it is most impressive.”

  “You two go on in. This one”—she nodded her head at Linda—“takes her time deciding. Makes me set up a dozen before she makes up her mind.”

  Walking back through the kitchen, Jane stopped Oh.

  “Did you notice that before?” she asked.

  A wooden pie safe stood against one wall. Its punched tin panels were original, Jane was sure, even looking at it from across the room. On top of it sat a large pumpkin . . . the biggest one by far in the room. Only partially carved, it had eyes, both with half-moon pupils carefully cut, a conventional triangle nose, and half of a large leering grin. The tableau of pumpkin on top of cabinet was not so arresting because of the partially finished face, but because a large butcher knife stuck out of the mouth. One might have guessed that the person carving it had been interrupted and simply put it up out of easy reach so he or she could come back and finish the job. The knife, however, was not placed into the pumpkin’s flesh from the outside. The handle was inside of the large mouth, the blade sticking out dangerously—as if the pumpkin were being carved from the inside out.

  Jane thought she saw Oh shudder, but she knew she might be projecting her own shivers. She had never seen a creepier Halloween display.

  Her cell phone rang then, and she fumbled for it in her pocket. Usually annoyed at the interruption of a mobile phone, she realized that this time she welcomed the distraction. She pointed out the door to the library and told Oh she would follow. Oh touched one ear briefly and Jane nodded. It was his reminder that there were ghosts listening to them. She would plan carefully what she wanted them to hear.

  Bruce Oh nodded to himself once inside the wood-paneled library. It was every bit as majestic as Jane Wheel had described. Clearly, the person who had arranged this space, used it for private study, for work and contemplation, had revered reading and writing. The inkwells on the desk, the pearl-handled magnifier on the dictionary stand . . . each object was the most exquisite one for its job. Those qualities of precision and beautiful design were what Oh admired about the antiques his wife bought and sold and the objects pointed out to him by Mrs. Wheel. If we only possessed the correct tools and the most perfect, he thought, we would require so few things.

  The detective took out his notepad and began jotting down the titles that he could see were written on the sham paper covers. Six, maybe seven, books, he thought, although without climbing up the curved library stairs parked by the far end of the cases, he couldn’t be su
re about the highest shelves.

  Oh heard Jane come into the room, but did not immediately turn away from the bookcase. He was counting books, trying to figure out if there was any type of pattern to the placement of the substitute paper books. Perhaps he should move the ladder into position and check the uppermost rows.

  “Would your cousin mind, Mrs. Wheel, if I climbed up and—” Oh stopped when he heard a sharp intake of breath that did not sound at all like Mrs. Wheel. Turning to the doorway, preparing to introduce himself as the curious friend who had innocently wandered in to admire the book collection, he automatically slipped his notebook and pencil into his pocket.

  No one was there.

  Oh stood still, waiting to see if the dim light was playing tricks on him and a person actually did stand in the shadows on either side of the door. Willing his eyes to readjust to the dimness, he could see no one in the room other than himself. He turned slowly around, looking for the standard comic device of a pair of shoes at the bottom of the heavy drapes to indicate someone hiding behind them, but the drapes hung straight, admitting no light from the window and revealing no hidden visitors.

  Oh continued turning in his slow circle until he was back gazing at the bookcases, his back to the door, the position he had been in when he had first heard what he knew was the sound of footsteps, what he was positive was a breathing being behind him.

  He turned around again slowly. This time, Mrs. Wheel stood in the doorway. He knew, hearing her light step, hearing her soft breathing, that she was not the person who had been in the room with him only moments ago. How had he even believed for a moment that the heavy step and the far from delicate inhalation and exhalation had belonged to his dear friend and partner? No, his visitor had been the opposite of Mrs. Wheel. He . . . or she . . . had been a larger and more formidable presence, the ghost who had lumbered in to surprise him at his task. Detective Oh wanted very much to meet this ghost, and felt certain he would, but the confrontation would have to wait.