Vein River

by Kellie Honaker

  Dawson frowns.

  Copper gives him a pointed look. “He has The Cough, and he has his reasons. You know how the old-timers are.”

  Dawson presses his lips together and nods.

  I instantly think of the old man in the diner.

  “What cough?” I ask. Normally I wouldn’t be so forward, but the third bump from the bong has made me too chill to care.

  Copper looks at me sadly, then down at the ground. “Go for it, Moof, you’re the storyteller.”

  Stupid, insensitive idiot. I inwardly kick myself.

  Moof waves his hand at me, wanting his bong back. I pass it down the circle.

  He takes a hit and closes his eyes. “The legend varies from person to person, some say she was jilted by a lover, scorned by a married man, lost a baby, or was simply stark-raving mad. The only facts that never change is that her name is Angelina, and if you cross the bridge at night, she will either kill you or cause you to be deathly ill. Your only chance of pardon is to take her dangling feet into your hands while she sways gently by the noose. You kiss those feet, ask for safe passage, and apologize for disturbing her.”

  “I tell you this right now,” Zane says, reaching for another beer, “I ain’t kissing no dead bitch’s feet.”

  The group erupts with laughter. Copper grins and I’m happy to see it.

  “Have you guys ever seen her?” I ask.

  Dawson starts to say something, but Bella elbows him in the ribs. “We’ve never seen her, and if these boys tell you that they have, they’re lying.”

  “So, who has actually seen her?”

  “The old folks,” Zane says, lighting a cigarette, “especially the ones who cough.”

  I look to Moof for further explanation.

  “A lot of elderly people in Vein River have a sort of whooping cough they can’t get rid of. Most die from it; they just get sicker and sicker until their bodies give out. A few kids have had it, but the majority contracted it back in the sixties, when people got high and hung out at the bridge. It’s completely random as to who lives and who dies. Jamie Whitlock used to run the feed store on Dewey Road. He was only twenty years old when he got The Cough. They found him dead in bed two weeks later. Buford Spurgeon has had The Cough for fifty years. He suffers every day of his life, but he’s still alive.”

  “What happens if someone sees her, but they’re not on the bridge?” I ask.

  They all gape at me.

  “That’s right,” Moof says. “Your house is the closest to the bridge. Within eyeshot, actually. Have you seen something?”

  The swing comes to mind, but I block the thought. “No,” I say firmly, “but if I do, I’d like to know if I’m going to end up with the never ending flu.”

  Dawson cracks up but tries to disguise it as a sneeze. He sneaks a glance at Copper, but Copper ignores him.

  “I’ve heard of several people seeing her just as they come to the bridge,” Moof says. “They turn around and forget about going to town for the evening and just leave Angelina to sway over the floorboards. She’s never harmed those that turned tail and ran. But from what I understand, she’s the most pissy while in her death pose, and when you set foot, or tire in this case, onto her bridge, you’ve had it.”

  I drain my beer.

  Moof stands up and offers me his hand. “Gimme.”

  I stare at him, bewildered.

  “Your can—I’ll dispose of it.”

  I hand it to him, since he seems dead set on it. He grins as if I’ve just given him candy. He crushes the can, climbs to the top of the mausoleum, and hurls the empty can at Jimmy.

  “Ow! Asshole!”

  The group chuckles.

  “Lord,” I say, “you guys are this mean over jerky?”

  Copper bumps his shoulder against mine. “Everybody must bring an adequate contribution to the party. Whoever doesn’t gets put in the mausoleum. Every cigarette butt and beer can that is consumed gets hurled at the unlucky soul. Moof gets the privilege of hurling the waste at Jimmy because he was the one that was in there last week. Jimmy will get the honors next. Everybody gets their turn, eventually.”

  “Yeah, I totally don’t see Twizzlers as a poor contribution,” Moof huffs, returning to the group.

  “You only brought one pack!” Dawson exclaims.

  “Family size!” Moof throws his hands in the air, incredulous. “I can’t help it you guys are pigs!”

  I look at Bella. “Even you have been stuffed in the mausoleum? As sweet as you are?”

  She pulls her lips into a grim line. “I’m usually safe with bringing left over muffins. But apparently the guys aren’t fond of lemon poppy seed.”

  “Oh, boo…” I say.

  “I know, right?” She smiles.

  I glance over my shoulder at the couple still sitting with the confederate dead. They’re making out. Nice to be that absorbed in each other.

  “Okay, chicken shits, let’s get this thing going!” Dawson rubs his hands together. “One of you get a pen and paper and write down whatever this thing says. The rest of you in the circle, put your hand on the planchette.”

  They each do as they’re told. Including me. Copper grabs a beer and takes a seat by Susan Miller. I wonder briefly if I should join him, he did bring me, after all. Reluctantly, Susan digs a pen and grocery receipt from her purse.

  The moon slips behind a cloud as if it wants no part of this. A breeze blows across the tombstones in one quick gust, blowing out several candles.

  “Hey, hey, ambiance!” Moof cackles.

  Dawson rolls his eyes. “We call upon the spirit world. Is anyone here? We’d like for you to communicate with us.”

  A lone bullfrog croaks in disapproval.

  Bella bites her lip nervously and winks at me.

  “Man, this is bullshit,” Eugene mumbles.

  “Shut up! Look!” Dawson whispers.

  The planchette moves slowly across the board and lands on the letter A. Susan writes it down. It glides eerily towards the letter N, hovers, then stops on the letter G.

  Copper studies all the hands on the planchette. Each person has only a single finger placed on the piece of plastic. He notices, however, that the tip of Dawson’s finger is white. He’s the only one applying pressure.

  “You’re moving it!” Copper accuses.

  “No, I’m not!” he cries, and removes his finger.

  The planchette continues to move, stopping over the letter E. It glides to the center of the board, then rests over the letter L. Dawson reapplies his finger to the planchette, just as it hovers over the letter I. It moves over the letters N and A before coming to a complete stop.

  “Angelina,” Susan announces, looking unamused. “Of course it spells Angelina.”

  “What do you want, Angelina? Why do you terrorize the people of Vein River?” Dawson asks.

  The planchette hovers over five more letters. Susan looks down at the paper and frowns. “S.W.I.N.G. What the hell does “swing” mean?”

  Everyone looks at each other in bewilderment.

  My chest grows cold.

  “This is pathetic, you guys. One of you are doing this.” Bella removes her finger and breaks the circle.

  I’d like to say I’m relieved, but I’m not.

  “This game is lame,” Zane mutters and repacks the bong.

  The two love birds finally decide to join the group.

  Having missed the formal introduction, Aria sweeps her eyes over me. “So, who’s the dog?”

  Bristling, Copper retorts. “Her name’s Annie, and she’s had her shots. Unlike you.”

  Zane snickers.

  “Burn…” chuckles Moof.

  This gets a rise out of Bentley. He pushes past Zane, intent on breaking Copper’s neck.

  Dawson cuts him off at the pass. “Children, children,” he chastises, as if he’s twenty years their senior. “That’s quite enough. If you insist on explaining black eyes and bloody noses to your parents, then go for it. But I will feign ig
norance when they ask how you got stranded at the cemetery.”

  “It’s time to split anyway, it’s after three,” Zane says. “It takes Dawson a good hour to get everyone home, and there’s no way I’m pissing off the general.”

  I look at Copper questioningly.

  “Zane’s dad is a general in the army. A real hard ass. You, me, and Bella are the only ones that live within walking distance, the rest hitch a ride with Dawson. He parks his truck at the gate on the other side of the woods.”

  We busy ourselves by picking up empty beer bottles, potato chip bags, and burnt out candles. I’m bent over, absorbed in picking up a strewn bag of Twizzlers when a cool wetness slides down my back. I gasp in surprise.

  “Oops…” Aria tilts her head, smiling a black-lipped smile. An upturned beer bottle dangles in her purple finger-nailed hand.

  “You did that on purpose!” I hiss through gritted teeth.

  “Your word against mine,” she smiles, dropping the bottle at my feet.

  “What is your problem?!” I scream but Aria ignores me and walks away.

  Enraged, I see a pile of manure, courtesy of Checkers. I pick up a fistful and hurl it at Aria. It hits her full-force in the back of the head. I’m stunned. I was aiming at her back, but the head will most certainly do. Aria whirls around, confused as to what just hit her. She runs her fingers across her scalp and it dawns on her.

  “You little bitch!” she screams.

  “Oh, it’s on, now!” Moof howls with delight.

  Aria charges towards me but I stand my ground.

  A catfight commences with hair pulling and curses. Dawson is so amused that he forgets he’s the chaperone. Aria knees me in the groin, to which I apologize for not having testicles, then I run my manure coated hand down Aria’s face.

  Bentley sidles up alongside Dawson and sneers, “Odd how girls are allowed to fight and boys aren’t.”

  Dawson just grins. “Alright ladies, that’s enough.”

  Aria is past having enough, considering her entire head is smeared in manure. I’m just getting started.

  Copper pulls me up by the waist while Bentley hauls his girlfriend up by the wrist.

  “Why didn’t you help me!?” She spits in Bentley’s face.

  He sets his jaw and drags her towards the cemetery gate.

  “I’ll get you! You mark my words! You’ll pay for this!” Aria screams over her shoulder.

  Copper places his hand gently on my back. “Other than smelling like a drunken horse, you appear to be okay, yes?”

  I nod. “I guess this isn’t a very good first impression of me…”

  “Oh, I’d say half of us are actually quite impressed with you,” he laughs.

  Copper grins at Moof, who gives the thumbs up.

  “Uh-huh,” he chuckles. “That was awesome! But you’re in for it now, you’re on Aria’s shit list!”

  Zane and Susan pick up on the pun and double over with laughter.

  If Copper minds me holding onto him while there’s manure on my hoodie, he doesn’t show it. I believe the horse is ready for bed, because Checkers has us home in no time. Copper gets off first, just as he did at the cemetery, and helps me down.

  Still holding my hand, he says, “Look, I know the bridge joins your property and you have every reason to go there if you want to. I’m not a superstitious freak, I promise, but...”

  He releases my hand.

  Oh, why did you have to let go of my hand?

  He runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “I know my uncle. He would never lie to me. He made me promise as a kid to never go to the bridge at night, and so far, I’ve kept my promise. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or curses, but if there’s something bad enough to scare my uncle, then it’s best to never go there.”

  I stare into his deliciously yellow eyes. I don’t know what else to say, so I whisper “thank you.”

  He nods and gets back on his horse.

  “See you around,” he says.

  “Hope so.” I try to smile at him as sweetly as Bella. Then I remember I’m covered in manure.

  He nods at the door. “I’ll leave once you’re inside.”

  Such a gentleman.

  I tiptoe back into the house and wave at him from the window. Once they’re out of sight, I return my attention to myself.

  Lord, I stink.

  I strip in the kitchen and streak through the house as quietly as I can. I throw my clothes in the washing machine; thankful that we switched Aunt Ruby’s machine with our newer, quieter Whirlpool. Afraid that the shower upstairs will wake Mom, I decide to take a bath in the downstairs bathroom. It’s not as relaxing an atmosphere—with the cracked plaster and lack of windows—but it’ll get the job done. The cool thing with old houses is that you sometimes luck up and get a claw foot tub out of the deal. I pour Lavender Lace into the tub and watch the steam fill the room. Dipping down into the hot bubbles, I reminisce about the evening:

  I think Copper likes me.

  Aria doesn’t even know me and she hates me. Why? I guess some people are just that miserable.

  All in all, that party was fun. If I get invited again, I wonder what I could bring that would keep me from getting stuffed into the mausoleum? I could probably steal two bottles of my mom’s wine, and if she mentions anything about them, I’ll blame the move. Things always disappear when you move. The fun part is figuring out where to hide them. Even my menthols aren’t in the safest of places when it comes to Mom doing laundry, she could easily discover them in my sock drawer. I scrub bubbles across my face as I think about it. There’s an old outhouse at the corner of the yard; the floorboards as rotten and spotted as an old man’s arm. As long as I don’t fall through the damned floor, it’d be the perfect place to sneak a smoke. My friend Mickey used to buy me cigarettes, but considering he’s in a different state now, I’ll need another supplier. I bet Moof would hook me up. He could hook me up with something even better, if I asked him to. I grin as I remember the goofy boy in the beanie. It’s hard not to like somebody that damned jolly.

  I’ve avoided thinking about the Ouija board, but it slips into my mind just as bubbles slip through my fingers. No doubt about the swing last night. No way that was just my imagination. It was Angelina communicating through the board—it had to be. And she was singling me out. But why? Is it because I live so close to the bridge and I’m an easy target? I can’t believe that these kids have lived here for so long and have never seen her, yet the older folks have. Seems suspicious to me. Somebody has to be lying. I’ve always believed in the spirit world, but I’ve never had any experience with ghosts. Then another thought occurs to me: the note on my bedroom wall. It warned me to stay away from the bridge at night, and now Copper has warned me, too. Could he have broken in and left the note? That seems a little extreme. And creepy.

  I decide to give it a rest and not think about it anymore tonight. Things have ways of sorting themselves out.

  I reach out to the towel rack with my eyes still closed. My fingers slide against the wallpaper until it hits cool metal. I place my hand atop the soft cotton, but feel something resting against the cloth. It’s wiry and not right. My first thought is a rat, so my eyes snap open.

  It’s hair.

  A long, wet clump of hair is stretched across the length of the towel as if left for me to find. I gasp and clamp a hand over my mouth. It’s jet black and roughly two feet long. Substantial enough that if it were cut from a pretty girl’s head, she would cry.

  My mother and I are dark blondes. Aunt Ruby was snowy white. And none of us have hair that long, even if you wove all three of us together.

  The room was warm and inviting, the water piping hot. Now, I shiver with dirty water to my shins, the steam icy and uncomfortable. I avoid the hairy towel, and pull the neighboring towel around me instead. I climb from the tub and pat my face dry. I glance back at the towel rack.

  The hair is gone.

  I stand there naked and slack-jawed.
/>   It was there. I know it was. I saw it. I felt it. I was repulsed by it, so there’s no way I just imagined it.

  I bite my lower lip and back out of the room. I slam the door without bothering to turn off the light.

  I’d like to blame the pot I smoked earlier, but I just can’t. Just as I can’t dismiss the swing or the Ouija board. This place is seriously haunted and I have no idea what to do.

  4

  Charles Oates

  The whiskey is warm against my throat, a soft comfort for the burning in my chest. My bones are brittle, my vision is poor, and yet she still seeks to torture me. I take another swig of the amber liquid, my will to fight long since over. I parade across her godforsaken bridge for the sheer desire of pissing her off. I want to see her, to touch her feet, but not to ask forgiveness. I want to curse her. Condemn her with every fiber of my being so that when I am a spirit myself, I may terrorize her as she has done.

  I see more than people give me credit for. I watch over things. I keep people away as much as I can—my valiant efforts rewarded with whispers and disdain. If they knew what I knew, they’d be strange people too.

  I noticed Copper at Ruby McCallister’s place. I saw him with a girl and a horse. I watched as they shared nervous glances and I smiled at the innocence. That’s what I’m protecting. The innocent. That’s why my cursed soul haunts the bridge just as faithfully as Angelina. I turn from the house, knowing that they’ll be safe for another night.

  I whistle “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” as my hard-soled shoes clap against the boards. I do not sneak across to appease her. I want her to know I’m here.

  I know the spot where she hangs. Three more feet and I’m there.

  “Where are you, devil woman?”

  No sooner than I call out for her, I feel a brush across my scalp, the nails of her toes tangling in my hair.

  “There you are,” I whisper, knowing that she can hear me.

  I don’t bother looking up because I know she won’t let me see her. That’s part of her morbid charm, you see. Sometimes you see her, sometimes you don’t. I stand there beneath her and reach with my arthritic hand. My fingers curve around her ankle, her heel fitting perfectly in my palm. I reach even further, as far as I can and squeeze the meat of her calf muscle.