Samhain Secrets

by Jennifer David Hesse

  “Keli Milanni?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was told you would be here. I recognize you from your photograph.” She spoke with a Caribbean accent and gazed at me with earnest ebony eyes. “I must speak with you. Please. It is urgent.”

  I glanced around the empty barnyard. Who told her I’d be here? And where did she see my photograph?

  “What can I do for you, Ms. . . . ?”

  “My name is Fredeline Paul. I need to speak with you about Josephine.”

  Josephine. Ms. Paul didn’t provide a surname, but she didn’t have to. There was only one Josephine she could mean: Josephine O’Malley—Josie, to her old friends, Aunt Josephine to me. The name brought up a rush of conflicting feelings: affection, curiosity, exasperation. Coating it all was a sense of frustration. Aunt Josephine was a mystery. I had never met her, yet I felt like I knew her—or at least a part of her. At one time, I’d even thought I might take after her. But, for some reason, she never let me find out.

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “She is missing.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Josephine O’Malley was my mother’s older sister by five years. When my mom was twelve, Josie packed her bags, kissed her sister good-bye, and snuck off in the middle of the Nebraska night. She met up with her boyfriend, a college dropout who wrote beat poetry, boarded his 1969 Volkswagen Bus, and headed for the highway. She never looked back.

  When I was growing up, not a whole lot was said about Aunt Josephine, especially around my grandparents. Although she did send cards and letters sometimes, they were few and far between, only adding to an overriding sense of disappointment and heartache. It was understood that Josie was the black sheep. Any references to her were usually accompanied by shame-filled terms such as ungrateful, irresponsible, and even traitor. Now and then, someone outside of the family laughingly called her hippie-dippie or, more kindly, free-spirited.

  As I got older and found myself diverging from the religious and ideological beliefs of my upbringing—and toward magical practices such as Wicca—I became more and more fascinated by Josephine. The postcards she sent to my mom came from all corners of the world and were often sprinkled with Latin sayings, which seemed so poetic and sophisticated to me. I moved to Edindale, Illinois, partly because I knew she had once lived here. And I was always delighted when I received my own cards from her. They were always warm, cheerful, and personal, as if I were her favorite person in the world. I even got to speak to her directly one time.

  It was about eight months ago, on New Year’s Day. She had tracked me down at a nightclub (which proved my suspicion that she had been keeping tabs on me), and left a phone number—a local number, no less. I called it, and a man answered. But when I asked for Josephine, I was immediately rebuffed.

  “There’s no one here by that name. You must have the wrong number.”

  That’s when I remembered that the person who had called the nightclub had left initials instead of a name. “How about AJ?” I quickly asked, before the man could hang up.

  His voice softened. “Ah. You must be Keli. Hold on.”

  A moment later, she was on the other end of the line. Her voice was clear as a mountain stream, her manner sweet and disarming. “Keli, love!” she had said, as if this weren’t the first time she’d spoken to me in all my thirty-two years.

  I had so many questions for her, and she patiently answered them all. Well, the first ones, at least.

  Why had she left home at seventeen? She was young and in love, craved adventure, and felt stifled by small-town life. Why didn’t she ever go back? Her parents were unforgiving. Her father had threatened to disown her if she didn’t come home, which only strengthened her resolve. (I hadn’t known this about my late grandfather. I wondered if my mother knew.)

  And what had she been doing all these years? Why the sporadic postcards with no return address? Why all the intrigue? She’d laughed at this last question, but answered without hesitation. “I had found my calling, love. I read Silent Spring and knew my mission in life.”

  Silent Spring. I was familiar with the book, an instant bestseller when it was released in the early 1960s. I knew that the author, Rachel Carson, was considered the mother of the environmental movement. “You became an environmentalist?” I asked. This wasn’t a surprise given that my aunt had once lived in a commune called the Happy Hills Homestead.

  “Absolutely!” she replied. “As soon as I learned that all of nature is interconnected, and that chemical pesticides are so destructive, I was inspired to spread the knowledge. My goal is to promote organic farming as far and wide as possible—which brings me to the help I need from you. I have some deliveries for the Edindale area that must be made as soon as possible, and I can’t do it. My train leaves early tomorrow morning. Gil can’t do it, since he’s going to Tibet. There’s no one else I trust, besides you. I know I can trust you.”

  At that point, my head was spinning. Deliveries? Tibet? Gil? “Wait. You’re leaving? But I was hoping to meet you. Where are you going?”

  “Oh, you’re a dear. We actually have met, though I’m not surprised you don’t remember. I’ve so enjoyed following your life and your career. But, really, it’s safer—better this way.”

  And that’s where all her previous candor evaporated into thin air: Did she have a cell phone? No. Was there another number where she could be reached, or a forwarding address? No and no. Could she tell me when she’d be coming back? No.

  A couple days later a package appeared on my doorstep. There was no note, but I knew it was from her. Inside was a box filled with a dozen or so large manila envelopes, and on each envelope was the address of a small farm. Over the next few weekends, I drove all over the county dutifully delivering the envelopes. At one of the farms, a woman opened hers in front of me, so I was able to see the contents: several packets of heirloom seeds. However, at every single place I visited, not one person had ever heard of Josephine O’Malley. Or Josie, or AJ. They only knew that the packages were from Sister Seeds, a nonprofit that provided open-pollinated vegetable seeds to any farmer who pledged to grow the plants organically and save the harvested seeds at the end of the growing season. They also agreed to send back part of the seed harvest, which could then be given to other farmers. The circle of life in action.

  At each farm, I also asked if anyone knew of a man by the name of Gil. After a string of nos, I finally got lucky: someone asked if I was talking about Gil Johnson, the owner of a canoe shop a few miles outside Edindale. I looked him up and, sure enough, his phone number matched the one Josephine had used the one time I spoke with her. As it happened, Gil was out of the country for the winter, but as soon as he returned in the spring I called him.

  Gil Johnson was a pleasant, talkative guy. In fact, he was so chatty I found it difficult to ask about Josephine. After introducing myself, I made the mistake of opening the conversation by mentioning that I understood he had spent the winter in Tibet. This launched him into an impassioned speech about the plight of the Tibetans and his work on their behalf. I learned all about his travels to India every year, where he stays in an ashram, and how he teaches English to the villagers. Every time I interjected a question about Josephine, Gil managed to change the subject.

  “Do you know where she went when she left Edindale, or where she is now?” I asked.

  “Oh, someplace out west. Could be Arizona, or New Mexico, or California. Probably Arizona. There’s a reservation there she likes to visit. Do you know that Native Americans are still fighting for their lands to this very day? From loggers and cattle ranchers to oil companies, somebody is always trying to steal their sacred land. Most recently—”

  “Do you know when Josephine will be coming back to Edindale?”

  “It’s hard to say. She’s not one for planning. She likes to be spontaneous and drop in on you like a surprise party. You might say her migratory habits are as unpredictable as the weather. Speaking of the weather—”

  �
�But what if someone needs to reach her?” I asked, feeling increasingly frustrated. “What if I’d like to send her a message?”

  “Well, now, that’s a tricky proposition. Josie likes to lay low. She’s not one to pin down. I think it’s best if you just let Josie be Josie. You be you, and I’ll be me. As Buddha said, ‘It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you.’”

  In other words, mind my own business. Terrific.

  So, that’s why I wasn’t particularly concerned when Fredeline Paul told me that Josephine was missing. Missing was her regular state of affairs.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where to find her, Ms. Paul. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think Josephine wants to be found. I’m sorry.”

  Fredeline’s brow wrinkled as she slowly shook her head. “She was to meet me at the airport. It was all arranged. She said she would hire a car service, but there was no car. I had to pay for a taxi. It was very expensive.”

  “Oh. Well, that does seem odd. But I don’t know how to reach her. Except . . . wait a minute.” I consulted my cell phone, then wrote down two names and phone numbers on the back of my business card and gave it to Fredeline. “These are friends of Josephine’s. They’ve never been particularly helpful to me, but maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  She took the card with a perplexed look and mentioned she was staying at Gayle’s Guesthouse, a quaint inn on the edge of town. “Please call me if you hear from her.”

  “Uh, yeah. Okay.” I knew that wasn’t likely.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was still thinking about Josephine when I headed to Mrs. Hammerlin’s house later that night. I couldn’t seem to get my aunt out of my mind. It had been six months since Gil Johnson gave me the brush-off, and I hadn’t heard a peep from Josephine. Reflecting back on my conversation with Gil, it seemed clear that he was trying to protect her. Or at least protect her privacy. But why? Why would she want to “lay low,” as Gil had put it? He almost made it sound like she was a fugitive or something.

  Gil’s was one of the names I had given to Fredeline Paul. I wondered if Ms. Paul was able to reach him. Maybe I should call him again myself, I thought, as I parked my car along the curb on Hamilton Street.

  After leaving the haunted barn, I changed out of my costume before retrieving my car from the parking lot. All my friends had gone home, so I was alone as I walked up the dark sidewalk to Mrs. Hammerlin’s new house. With the bright moon spotlighting wispy clouds overhead and the intermittent breeze skittering dried leaves across my path, it felt like the perfect October night for telling ghost stories.

  Like the other homes on this street, Mrs. Hammerlin’s was a tall, graceful Victorian with gingerbread trim, steep gables, and a broad wraparound porch. She had decorated her porch with a cluster of fat pumpkins and colorful mums. The autumn wreath on the front door shook when it swung open.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Please come in. Follow me.”

  Grace Hammerlin, still willowy and vibrant in her seventies, led me through the elegant foyer, past the formal dining room, and directly to the kitchen at the back of the house, where a large bay window provided a nice view of the cemetery next door. I wondered if this was the cause of her overactive imagination. The old graveyard behind the backyard fence had been a selling point when the house was on the market: “Guaranteed peace and quiet . . . A perpetual, open view of nature out your back door.” But I knew it wasn’t for everyone. The houses on either side of hers had both sat vacant for quite a while. Perhaps living so close to the nonliving was getting to her.

  Then I noticed the small rectangular table on one side of the kitchen. It was set for two, with plates, cups, bowls, a tea tray, cheese and crackers, a dish of grapes, and a plate of cookies.

  “Sit, sit! Have a snack. Is hot tea all right, or would you prefer coffee or cocoa?”

  “I can’t stay long,” I said apologetically.

  “You can eat while we chat. Aren’t you hungry? You look like you could use a meal. You’re so thin.” She laughed nervously, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Watching her flutter about, pouring ice water and taking cold cuts out of the refrigerator, I realized the poor woman must be lonely. She had been widowed for less than a year, and now she was in a huge, unfamiliar house all by herself.

  “Tea sounds good,” I said. “Can I pour you a cup?”

  She joined me at the table. To be polite, I ate a grape and tried not to think about the late hour. “How’s the unpacking going?” I asked.

  “I have only a few boxes left, and a couple things yet to buy for the guest rooms. But with everything that’s been happening, I don’t see how I’m going to be able to open by Thanksgiving—which is what I promised Father Gabe.” I recalled that she intended to open her home as a temporary safe house for abused women through a program run by her church. She twisted her napkin nervously. “I can’t have my guests being tormented by restless spirits. Those poor women have been through enough already.”

  “You know,” I began, “strange noises are common in old houses.”

  “It’s not house noises. It’s something inside the house.” She looked around. “I was hoping it would happen while you’re here, but it’s so unpredictable. Sometimes I hear sounds coming from the basement.” She cast a fearful glance toward a closed door in the corner. “Sometimes I hear it upstairs. And sometimes it appears to be coming in from outside, as though carried in the wind.”

  I frowned. “What do the inside noises sound like? Creaking? Clunking?”

  “Clunking, banging. Scratching.”

  “Scratching? Maybe you have an animal. Mice in the walls or a squirrel on the roof.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen any droppings. And, like I said, the sounds are all over. The whistling is the worst.” She shivered. “It’s always at night. Wakes me up at all hours.”

  “Whistling like a bird? Or a person?”

  “It’s like . . . a banshee. An otherworldly, moaning banshee.”

  She’d stumped me there. I sipped my tea as I tried to imagine something mundane that might sound like a whistling banshee.

  “There have been other things, too,” she continued. “Doors opening by themselves. Things moving on their own or disappearing, like my gloves—there one minute, gone the next.”

  “You don’t think you misplaced them? I do that all the time.”

  “No.” She shook her head firmly. “I’m telling you, there is something in this house. Something uneasy, restless. Father Gabe came over and blessed the house, but I don’t think he used enough firepower, if you know what I mean. I’ve been doing some research, and I found this outfit out of St. Louis, a paranormal society. They have a medium who specializes in clearings—that’s what they call it when they rid your home of unwanted spirits. But it’s not cheap. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think the seller ought to foot the bill.”

  I fought the urge to raise my eyebrows. There was no way we’d get the seller to pay for a “spirit clearing,” especially since the title had already transferred to Mrs. Hammerlin. Besides, in Illinois, sellers are not obligated to disclose any deaths that occurred in the house—if that was what she was driving at.

  “A neighbor told me about the people who lived here a few years ago,” she went on, “before the fellow who sold the house to me. It was an older couple who had one grown daughter who’d moved away. Well, first the wife died in the house, then a week later, the husband died. Also in the house. Two deaths! That might explain why the noises are all over the place.”

  I could tell there was no point in arguing with her. Instead I nodded. “I have an idea. I have a friend who might be able to help. She’s a gifted psychic, skilled at tapping into other planes beyond the physical. She could walk through your house and see if she senses anything unusual. She can also perform a spiritual space cleansing if you’d like.”

  Mrs. Hammerlin readily agreed. “That w
ould be wonderful. Can she come tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know, but I can certainly speak with her tomorrow.” I pushed back my chair. “Thank you for the tea.”

  “Let me wrap these cookies for you,” she said. “You can take them home.”

  While she rummaged in the pantry for a plastic container, I took our cups to the sink. I peered out the window at the headstones glowing in the moonlight. It was a peaceful sight, though melancholy and a little eerie. I wasn’t sure if I’d choose to live so close to a cemetery myself.

  As I gazed at the silent gravestones, a movement caught my eye. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a shadowy figure flit beneath the trees and disappear behind a mausoleum. I shivered involuntarily.

  Maybe it was just my imagination. Mrs. Hammerlin’s superstitions were rubbing off on me.

  * * *

  It was after midnight when I finally unlocked the door to my town house and let myself in. All was quiet and dark, the only illumination coming from a night-light in the kitchen—providing just enough light to see the note on the counter.

  Sorry I couldn’t wait up. I’m beat—and will be up at dawn again tomorrow. But the rest of the day can be ours—I hope.—W

  I sighed. Wes and I had been a couple for nearly two years, but we’d been living together for only a month and a half. After we made the decision on New Year’s Eve, we realized it made the most sense for Wes to finish out the lease on his apartment and then move in with me. I spent the intervening months cleaning out closets and making space for a housemate. I was thrilled to finally have him here. He was everything I ever wanted in a man: honest, thoughtful, interesting, and kind. It didn’t hurt that he also had rock star good looks and eyes that could still smolder. And yet . . . all was not bliss.