Oh no, I hope it’s not a dog.
When I get close enough, I can tell that the fur is a sickly shade of green, so thank God, it’s not a dead dog. I get out and poke it with my shoe. It’s a teddy bear. I pick it up by its plump belly. It’s been here for some time. The fur that was once a Kool-Aid shade of blue has started to rot. A yellowed card is pinned to its paw. I slip my fingers between the pages:
I’m so sorry, Angelina. Please forgive me.
I frown and prop the bear upright against the wall. Rocking back on my heels, I notice an array of other treasures. Stuffed animals, pink flowers, and numerous other trinkets climb the bridge’s beams as far as arms can reach.
How did I not notice this when we drove in? I wonder. Probably because it was on Mom’s side of the vehicle and I was exhausted and not paying attention.
I unfold another note taped to a rusty necklace.
I take it back, Angelina. I’m sorry!
I flip the card on a fresh bouquet of roses.
Angelina, I didn’t mean it. I beg your forgiveness!
Trinket after desperate trinket are notes inscribed to Angelina, each one bearing the same imploration, although written by different hands.
This isn’t a memorial.
It’s a shrine.
These notes weren’t lovingly jotted down in reverence, they were scribbled out in fear.
No one else is on the bridge, but I creep back to my car as if I’m trespassing.
I slam the door and lock it. Just as I finish buckling my seat belt, there’s a man standing in front of my fender.
“Oh, shit!” My heart hammers in my chest. “Where the hell did you come from?”
It’s the savagely wrinkled old man from the diner.
“You scared the crap out of me!” I yell at him through the windshield.
He pulls his lips into a thin line and nods apologetically.
I narrow my eyes at him as he comes to my window. He motions for me to roll it down. I dismiss the unease I feel, gambling on the fact that he’s at least fifty years my senior and I can plow him down if I need to.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you,” he says politely. “My name is Charles Oates.”
“Annie Forrester.”
“You live at the McAllister place?”
“Yeah, Ruby was my great aunt. We inherited it.”
He nods as if this isn’t news to him. He’s leading up to something, I can feel it. He’s merely going through the motions of polite conversation. He glances towards the shrine, and I swear the color drains from his pasty face.
“I’m sure Copper already told you about the bridge being haunted?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know that I know Copper?”
Something flashes across his face. Guilt? Sheepishness? It comes and goes so swiftly that I haven’t the time to decipher it.
He shrugs ever so slightly. “It’s a small town and he’s your neighbor. It’s a safe assumption. Plus, Angelina is quite the celebrity.” He says the name “Angelina” as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
He shuffles even closer to my window. “I don’t suggest ever getting out of your vehicle while on the bridge, even in the daytime. It’s not safe. And I highly recommend never coming down here at night.”
The note on my bedroom wall flashes across my mind. I’m weirded out and it must show on my face.
A faint smile plays on his lips. “You look unhinged, child. Good. You should be afraid.”
I feel my face grow hot. “I don’t appreciate you threatening me, old man.”
He takes a step back, genuinely surprised. “I’m in no way threatening you. If anything, I’m trying to save you.”
Charles steps forward again, pressing his forehead into the top of the door. The glass of my partially rolled down window cuts into the soft skin of his neck. If he could crawl into the truck with me, he would, but since he can’t, he’s squishing as much of his face in as he can.
Instinctively, I lean away from him.
“Do you see this face?” he asks, pointing to himself. “If you lay eyes on Angelina, she’ll give you a face like mine. She’ll suck out your life. Do you want to be a teenage hag, child? Is that how you want to spend your life?”
I kick the truck into gear and stomp the gas. If I run over the old man’s toes, then so be it. I don’t need this crap, not from him, not from anybody. I floor it all the way across the bridge. I don’t look in the rearview mirror until I reach the other side. Charles Oates hasn’t moved, instead he stands with his hands in his pockets. For a man who claims that the bridge is so dangerous, he stands with absolutely no fear.
8
Charles Oates
I watch her until she’s out of sight. I hope she’s smart. And living this close to the bridge, I hope she’s brave. I left a warning on the wall while the house was vacant. I wonder if she’s seen it? I reach down for the teddy bear, the bones cracking in my spine. I toss the toy back on its side where it belongs. Angelina doesn’t like it when you touch her things. For the child’s sake, I hope she hasn’t noticed.
I don’t care if Annie Forrester thinks I’m crazy, but I do hope that she’s scared. I hope to God that she’s scared.
9
Annie
The town of Vein River is as equally charming as it is unremarkable. The houses are simple, all-American, with toys in the front lawn and cardboard signs screaming “Go Raven’s!” in black and green. I pass The Floured Fork, a movie theater, and a vet’s office. I take special note of the red brick building with a huge black paw print painted near the door. I guess that’s where I’ll be taking my kitten. I pass a generic nail salon, a consignment shop, and at the end of a strip mall is a charming little cottage off to itself. It’s out of place, in the most complimentary of ways.
Cast iron tables and chairs sit invitingly on the patio beneath the shade of enormous umbrellas. Ivy climbs along the lattice work, while hanging baskets spill over with flowers. It exudes a café ambiance before you even read the sign. It’s like a raindrop traveled all the way from France, fell on the café, and blessed it with charm. The sign above the door reads Bella’s Buns. No doubt this is the pastry shop that Bella’s mother owns.
That’s what I need to settle my nerves. Coffee.
I pull Sticky Bun into the side parking lot, being sure not to pull in too far and bump the hedges. Even the parking lot is tasteful in its simple way. Coffee cups and spilled beans are painted on the side of the café in bursts of Bohemian color.
I pass two groups of people having lunch on the patio. A man in a brown suit has a plate covered in red sauce and noodles. It looks promisingly like lasagna.
The door closes behind me in a whispering hush while my senses are teased by several aromas. There are strong notes of vanilla and chocolate with undertones of cinnamon and sugar. Balancing out the sweet, is the scent of fresh ground coffee and lunchmeat.
I gravitate to a plush loveseat in the corner and sink down into it. Soft jazz plays in sleepy tones, coupled with the soft hum of a twenty-gallon fish tank. Plump Orandas swim in lazy little circles, oblivious to the fact that some old man just totally unnerved me.
“You look like you need a cookie.” Bella stands above me with a concerned look on her face. A cookie the size of a small Frisbee rests on a plate.
“Wow,” I say, surprised by the sheer size of the cookie. “Thank you.”
She smiles the same sweet smile she wore the other night. “Would you like coffee or milk with that?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Both.”
Bella takes off behind the counter and returns with a coffee cup the size of a cereal bowl.
“You guys serve enormous portions here, huh?”
“Yep, that’s us,” she says with a wink. “Go big or go home.”
I take a bite of cookie, and of course, it’s divine.
“So, the store is named after yo
u? I ask between bites of cookie.
“Yeah, Mom named it after me when I was just a baby. But now that I’m older, I can’t help but feel it’s an insinuation about my ass.”
I bust out laughing. “Bella, you’re hilarious!”
She smiles broadly. “It’s good to hear you laugh. You came in here looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I take a gulp of coffee and it burns clear down to my navel. Am I that obvious?
“Is the bridge really haunted?” I ask her pointedly.
“Yes,” she says matter-of-factly, as if I simply asked her if the sky was blue. “Why? Have you seen something?”
Do I tell her about the strange things that have been going on? Or do I keep it to myself? I want to trust this sweet girl, but I also want to be her friend. I’m scared she’ll think I’m crazy, or even worse, desperate for attention.
I shrug. “Well, I met this strange man today, Charles Oates. He told me to stay away from the bridge, that it’s dangerous. Went into this spiel about Angelina.”
Bella runs a hand through her long, black curls. “Charles is an unusual one, that’s for sure, but I promise you he’s completely harmless. He’s one of the old codgers that believes in the curse. If he’s trying to warn you, just try to understand that he means well, even if he comes off as odd.”
I nod politely. I’ve already decided to avoid the man any time I see him.
The bell above the door jingles and a group of twenty pour in.
“Gosh, you guys are popular!” I exclaim.
She grins. “We try.”
“Bella, I need you!” A beautiful, older replica of Bella calls from behind the counter.
“Coming, Mom! Sorry. Duty calls, lunchtime rush and all. The cookie is on the house.” She touches me gingerly on the shoulder. “You should come back to the cemetery Friday night; we’ll be throwing another party. Kinda the only thing to do around here, if you know what I mean.” She winks at me as she walks away. “And try not to let Charles bother you, he’s a quirky old man, but he’s a good one.”
I smile softly at her, watching her curls bounce as she rounds the corner.
Finishing the coffee and cookie is no small feat, but I refuse to leave anything behind for fear of it being an insult. I nod my thanks to Bella on the way out. Climbing into the truck, I see Bentley and Aria pull in. I lock the door and shrink down in my seat.
Crap. I so don’t want to see them today. They walk past my truck without noticing me. I peek over the dashboard long enough to watch them disappear inside the café. Turning the key in the ignition, I chastise myself. There’s no reason for me to hide from them, I haven’t done anything wrong. But I hate that I already have an enemy and I haven’t even lived here for a week.
I wait until they get inside and the door closes behind them. I go to one of the two grocery stores in town. Lucky me, it’s only a block away from the café. The perk of a small town is that you’re in and out in a jiffy. The downfall is, the selection is limited. They only have one brand of kitten chow, and most of the cat toys are pink. I don’t suppose kitty will care. I get what I need and keep it as much to a minimum as possible, because I know I’ll be paying for this later. Mom is a stickler for responsibility.
On the way home, I drive across the bridge with a renewed sort of trepidation. Not only have I been warned to keep a look out for a ghost, but I’m avoiding a crazy old man, as well. Where did he even come from? Luckily, I arrive home without incident, paranormal or otherwise.
I breeze through the door with my sack of kitten supplies. Mom frowns from the kitchen table. “You missed lunch. You were gone a long time. Did you get lost?”
I snort. “This town’s too small to get lost, Mom. I did make a friend though.”
She perks up considerably. What parent doesn’t want their child to have friends, right?
“Really? Who?” she inquires.
“Her name is Bella. Her mom owns a pastry shop in town. They’re also our neighbors at the bottom of the mountain. She invited me to hang out on Friday night. Is it okay if I go?”
I fail to mention that there’s boys and a cemetery involved.
“That’s fine, as long as you don’t stay out too late.”
“Awesome!” I kiss Mom on the cheek. “Let me get the kitten squared away and I’ll come eat some of the lunch you made.”
I have no idea how I’ll make room with the giant-sized cookie and coffee floating around in my stomach, but I have to eat just a little bit or I’ll hurt her feelings.
I enter the bedroom to find the kitten in a pool of unraveled yarn.
“You evil little devil!” I hiss.
He has taken apart the middle portion of an afghan my grandmother crocheted for me as a baby. “Mom sees this and she’ll kill you,” I whisper. I double up the blanket and flip it over, damaged side down.
His little gray head turns to the side; a picture of complete innocence. I could see the little bugger belonging to a witch. When I think of witches, I think of the Salem witch trials.
“Salem,” I say, testing the name on the air.
The kitten meows as if to answer.
I pick him up and he melts in my arms. “Your name is Salem. I think it suits you.”
10
Aria
She thinks I didn’t see her there, scrunched down in the seat of her ugly ass brown truck. I chose to ignore her because I’m the one that’s in control. I’m simply biding my time. I’ll find out what makes her tick and then I’ll hurt her where it hurts the most. No one throws horseshit at me and gets away with it.
No one.
11
Annie
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Salem is none too happy about being in a carrier. He howls at the ceiling like a lost coyote. I roll down the windows for the sake of my eardrums. I’m so happy this town is small. It only takes about fifteen minutes to get to the vet. I pull into the parking lot and slide the carrier off the seat. Salem peers at me through the bars, his green eyes as big as saucers.
“It’s okay, little dude. I’m just trying to keep you healthy.”
He merely blinks at me, unconvinced.
The vet’s office is charming despite the strong odor of dog and disinfectant. The only other person in the waiting room is a flamboyantly dressed woman. She’s wearing a muumuu with dark colors near the hem, that gradually shift to lighter colors near the top. It’s like the woman is trying to wrap herself in the Northern Lights. The garment, alone, is flashy enough, but the woman must not have thought her outfit complete unless she applied purple eyeshadow.
I park my duff as far away from her as I can, because she’s studying me as if I’m the one that’s dressed like a clown.
“Hi,” she says.
Inwardly, I scowl.
“Hey,” I smile.
“Cute kitten.”
“Thanks,” I glance at the purring tabby on her lap. “Yours is cute, too.”
She grins and strokes the cat affectionately. “Fiddle is a handful.”
“You named him Fiddle?”
“Yes, as a baby he cried a lot. Whined and cried and played his fiddle, so to speak.”
“Clever.”
“Why, thank you.”
We sit in silence for a few beats and then she says, “I know everybody in Vein River, or I guess you could say, everybody knows me.” She nods at her outfit as if this is self-explanatory. “I’m Widow Jenkins.”
“Annie Forrester.”
Just like Charles Oates, she nods as if she already knows.
“Any relation to Ruby McAllister?”
“My great aunt.”
“I’m assuming you’re staying at the old home place?”
“You assume correctly.”
“I was good friends with your great aunt. She was a nice woman.”
“Thank you, but I’ll have to take your word for it. I didn’t know her very well.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Salem?�
� A vet tech calls from an open door.
“That’s us, buddy.” I pick up the carrier and nod to the woman. “Nice chatting with you.”
She flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.
Salem is a trooper through the whole ordeal. He didn’t cry when they gave him a shot, and he took his wormer like a pro. He tried to run away when they put the thermometer up his butt, and I can’t say that I blame him. The whole ordeal took less than thirty minutes. Before I knew it, the bill was paid and I was loading Salem into Sticky Bun.
“Excuse me!”
I turn to find Widow Jenkins.
She hurries up to my vehicle.
“Hi, again,” I say reluctantly.
The woman surveys the parking lot and then returns her attention to me.
“I’m not going to bother asking if anything strange has happened at your place, because I know there has. Now, I want you to understand that I’m a church going woman and I believe in the Lord, but I also believe that there are things that can’t be explained, and just because you can’t explain them, doesn’t mean that they’re not real. Your Aunt Ruby asked me to come over periodically and bless the house, which I did numerous times—and I will again, if you need me to.”
What does one say to this?
“Did my aunt happen to mention what was going on?”
“The usual ghost stuff. Things moving on their own, loud noises. She never seemed to want to talk about it, so I never pressed her. I just blessed her home when she invited me to do so.”
To the best of my knowledge, nothing weird has happened to Mom, and I have no idea how she’d react to this flake of a woman coming in to bless the house. When it comes to blessings, my mother would expect a priest—not a member of the Big Top.
Vein River Page 5
