Sticky Bun makes it across the bridge only to wrap her rusty grill around the waist of an oak tree.
I lie perfectly still and listen. I wait for the vengeful spirit with a midnight mane to rip my truck open and pull me to my doom.
I wait for a long time. I wait until the stars sparkle like confetti in the sky. The assault is finally over. The door opens easily and I tumble out. I crawl on all fours up an embankment, getting as far away from the possessed truck as possible. I shake uncontrollably for a few moments, my teeth clacking away in my skull. I bury my face in my hands and try to slow my breathing. When I remove my hands, I’m shocked by what I see.
Sticky Bun is no longer hugging the tree, instead, she’s parked alongside it. There is no hint of what just happened. No damage, no crushed grill, no caved in roof. Nothing. Even the glass of the windshield is unblemished. I’m losing my mind.
I’m not crazy. I know I’m not crazy.
I look down at my outstretched arms and find myself uninjured. I run my hands across my skin. Not even a scratch.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I fumble to press the green button.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Annie? It’s eleven o’clock, you said you wouldn’t be out late.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I got caught up talking with a friend. I’m on my way.”
“You sound strange, are you alright?”
I rub my face with my free hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just crossed the bridge, so I’m basically home already.
“Okay, good…hey, it’s dark out there, you know what they say about that bridge at night.” She’s teasing me, but if she really knew what I’d just been through, she’d be racing down the mountain to rescue me.
“Yep,” I say, looking at my trembling hand. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
As soon as I get home, I go to bed. Lucky for me, it’s already bedtime, so Mom doesn’t say anything about it. I don’t want to pretend I’m alright when I’m really not. I open the window and smoke cigarettes late into the night.
18
Annie
It’s the feeling of being underwater. That place where your subconscious floats just above your body. There it is again, that haunted echo just outside my window; the aching whistle that rumbles in the river and beats the chests of mountains. My brain screams for it to be a train, but my body knows better. I’ve heard this whistle before. My mind has been dismissed, left behind in that foggy place where dreams are the reality. My body leads me to the window. I have no say in the matter. I can’t see her, but I know she’s there, somewhere in that dark terrain. I feel her. I ache from the loneliness of her. The hatred is there too, roiling just below the surface. But that’s how it is with misery, it’s not a clean-cut emotion.
My eyes search for her at the bottom of the mountain, my gaze roaming the length of the bridge. I want to see her. Desperately, I want to see her, but I’m not supposed to feel this way. Seeing her brings about your doom. Everyone has made this painfully clear. But I’m just as fascinated as I am afraid, and that’s a problem. She has haunted, yet she has not hurt me. She wants something from me, I can feel it. But what?
In the yard, just beyond the swing set is a scraggly patch of white hanging from the bushes. It flutters just slightly on the breeze, glowing like a tattered moonbeam. I narrow my eyes to focus, but I can’t make anything out.
Just as the whistle is everywhere and nowhere, a humming resounds in my head. It’s a low rhythm, one made in the throat. A sort of keening an animal might make to comfort itself.
“Angelina,” I whisper, knowing that in her own way, she can hear me. “It’s okay.”
I’m trying to reassure her, but I feel the lie on my tongue as I say it.
I creep from the house as I have before, wondering when my mother might catch me, wondering if she’s ever once heard the whistling, or if it’s just me that’s going crazy.
I look down across the mountain and over the sleepy town below. I know she sees me. I know she’s watching. She’s as present as the stars on a cloudy night, unseen but always there.
I come upon the white thing, a wisp of silk trapped on a thorn. I pluck it from its prison and roll it between my fingers. It’s from Angelina. A gift, a piece of her. I’m as certain of it as the dirt between my bare toes.
Suddenly, my head is beneath water, bubbles of air exploding from my mouth. I try to scream, but only manage to pull water into my lungs. There’s pressure in my chest and on the back of my head. Something is holding me under. I drop the cloth and scratch at my throat, my mouth croaking for air.
I’m drowning.
I’m in the middle of a bone-dry field and I’m drowning.
As quickly as it comes, it leaves me. I fall to my knees and suck at the sky, pulling the soft, cool air into my lungs. Now I’m starting to get it. The offending piece of cloth lays not two feet away, and I give it a withering look.
Part of me wants to get as far away from it as I can. Another part of me wants to keep it just to prove to myself that it actually happened and I’m not losing my marbles. I reach for it, warily. My fingers brush the soft cotton and my throat starts closing again. I drop it with a yelp. I search the ground surrounding me and find a stick. I break it in half and use it as chopsticks. I’ll try picking it up with this, but if I get any sort of weird juju, to hell with it, I’m done. Tentatively, I poke it. Nothing. Not so much as a tickle on my tongue. Breathing a sigh of relief, I pick up the scrap and head for the house.
I put it in a Ziploc bag and hide it in the back of my sock drawer. I want to keep it, but I also don’t want to touch or see the cursed thing, either. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this a secret. How can Mom live under the same roof and not experience the same things? If she is, she’s keeping mum about it. If she’s not, then why is Angelina targeting me, specifically? There’s all these questions and all these warnings, but nobody has any real answers.
19
Annie
Clumps of hair, a tattered cloth, a screeching swing set in the middle of the night. I can deal with those things. Really, I can, but assaulting me is where I draw the line. Angelina’s hauntings have been far from pleasant, but the violence of being on the bridge at night has pushed me over the edge. I will never, ever go on the bridge again, at night.
As much as I hate it, I have to admit that I need help, and the only one I know that can help me would be Widow Jenkins. Flaky, way too loudly dressed, Widow Jenkins.
I crawl out of bed half expecting to smell bacon, or pancakes, or omelets, but then I remember that Mom started her part time job today. When you have a stay at home mom, you get used to having her around. And you get awfully spoiled with her breakfasts. She probably hasn’t been gone an hour and I already miss her. Even though I’ll hate not seeing her as much, this will ultimately work in my favor. Book sales have been down—add in the cost of moving and the fees from the divorce, and you’ve got a suffering wallet. Even though her publisher is of the gracious sort that gave her an extension, Mom has had a hard time finding her mojo. She thinks getting out of the house will help, even if it’s just to bag groceries at the supermarket. My plan is to get Widow Jenkins over here for a cleansing while Mom is at work.
I plod down the steps and see that Mom left a box of cheerios on the table for me. There’s a bowl and a spoon and a little post-it note with nothing but a heart drawn on it. I frown. I appreciate the gesture, but I want my mama and her pancakes. I suck in a deep breath, and get the milk from the refrigerator. The only reason I’m feeling so clingy is because of what happened on the bridge. My mother is not even five miles away, so I need to put my big girl panties on and deal with this. Angelina has already messed with me; it’ll be another thing entirely if she starts messing with my mama.
I shove the Cheerios into my face, even though I associate the taste and texture with cardboard. Poor, poor comparison to Mama’s cooking. I put on some clothes, run a brush through my hair, and check to be sure that Salem i
s okay and accounted for.
I reluctantly crawl into Sticky Bun and begin my descent down the mountain. I take a right at the end of my driveway, but instead of going straight to Angelina’s bridge, I take a left onto Dewey Road. I’m not sure where the hell I’m actually going, but I suspect this will lead across an older bridge and spit me out in town, at some point. I end up driving an additional ten miles, but Dewey Road does end up taking me the long way into town—into Moof’s neck of the woods. This doesn’t make me happy, but I’m not as intimidated in the clear light of day. Regardless, I don’t waste any time lollygagging. I boogie on out of there. The Chamber of Commerce isn’t far from Bella’s Buns, so I drop in and ask for a city map. The clerk behind the counter coughs into her elbow and tosses me a map. Despite myself, I stare at her. She stares back at me a few seconds, then squints as if to challenge me. I break the trance and get out of there. It’s a shame that no cough seems innocent now. Anytime Mom clears her throat, I’m searching her mouth for blood. I don’t know how long I can keep this a secret. Hopefully Miss Jenkins can show me how to bless the house myself, so I can keep Angelina at bay.
I unfold the map across the dashboard and find Miller Street only two blocks away. Sure enough, there’s a bright red house tucked between two nearly identical white houses. I can’t help but smile. Miss Jenkins is the cherry on a vanilla sundae; she will always be a woman that’s noticed.
The doorbell hums a cheery tune, and I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The door flies open, and there she is in her buttercup sundress glory. The shade of yellow is shocking, although not unflattering to her complexion. The neck of the dress is low cut, her breasts pushing forward like two giant pillows. She’s undeniably a robust woman, more breast than torso, really. I’m flat-chested to the point of boyishness, so I admit to being envious. I wonder how she manages to wrangle her ladies and keep them in check, but then I mentally kick myself. I have bigger problems than wanting to be buxom.
She looks down at me and shifts her weight to one hip. A sympathetic look washes over her face.
“I’m not unhappy to see you, child,” she says softly. “But I admit I was hoping you’d never have the need to show up here.”
She steps aside to let me through, then guides me to her kitchen table. There’s a great deal of country charm about the place. Handmade rag dolls lie lazily on the sofa, flowers overflow from fat-bellied pitchers, and crystals of various colors dangle from a west facing window. It’s colorful, no doubt about it, yet comforting, in a child-like way.
“Are you hurt, child?” she asks over her shoulder, busying herself with the stove.
“No.”
“Is anyone in your family hurt?”
“No…not yet.”
She turns on the spigot to fill a kettle and gives me a serious look. Once she places it on the stove, she comes to sit across from me.
“What’s going on?”
I take a deep breath and let it loose in a gush. Where do I even start?
“Well, it started out with little things, I guess you could say. I started seeing clumps of hair in places that there shouldn’t be, and the swing set in the yard sways by itself, even when the wind isn’t blowing. Bumps, noises, that sort of thing.”
The kettle squeals and she removes it from the stove. I continue as she rummages in a cupboard.
“What really brought me here is the fact that she assaulted me last night.”
Miss Jenkins stops mid-pour. “You said you weren’t hurt?”
“That’s the thing. I crossed the bridge at night and it felt like my truck was being ambushed. The windshield shattered, the roof caved in, it rocked back and forth on its wheels, to the point where I felt them leaving the road. I had cuts all over me. But once I managed to get both me and the truck off of the bridge, we were fine. Not a scratch on either of us.”
She sets a steaming teacup in front of me. “Lavender tea. It’ll help calm your nerves.”
“Thank you.”
Miss Jenkins sighs deeply. “That’s an aggressive manifestation for sure. Did you see her? You’re not coughing, are you?”
“Nope, not even a tickle in the throat.”
“Well, that’s very interesting.”
“How so?”
“I’ve never heard of someone experiencing a violent episode with Angelina without being punished in some fashion. She’s not one to just merely scare a person—she hurts them. The fact that you’ve experienced her energy so frequently while remaining unscathed makes me believe that she’s merely trying to get your attention.”
“Well, she definitely has it. But wait, Aunt Ruby experienced similar things too, didn’t she?”
Miss Jenkins nods her head. “There were scratches and bruises but nothing worse than that. I like to believe the blessings stopped it from progressing further, but there’s a possibility that she’s been cutting you and Ruby some slack. I think it may be the simple fact that you’re both blood related.”
I gape at her, incredulous.
“You call this cutting slack?”
She shrugs. “Most people either die or acquire The Cough that plagues them for the rest of their days, so yeah, I’d say aggravation and bruising is her way of cutting slack.”
I scowl at my tea. I decide to take a sip for the sake of good manners.
Miss Jenkins frowns and rubs at an invisible spot on her tablecloth. “Is there anything else that’s happened.”
“A lot of nights I wake up to a whistling sound. At first, I thought it was a train, but now I know it’s associated with Angelina. I found a scrap of cloth in my yard, and for some reason, I just knew it was from her. When I touched it, I felt like I was drowning.”
Miss Jenkins slams her teacup on the table. I’m surprised it doesn’t break.
“Do you still have the cloth?”
“Yes, it’s at home in my dresser drawer.”
“Child, this is the most important thing you could have told me. She left something of hers for you to find. It’s practically a gift.”
“I don’t want her gifts!”
She leans in closer to me. “Answer me this, child, and be completely honest with me. When you found the cloth did you see anything? Did you feel anything?”
“I felt like I was drowning and that was it. But it was so intense that I had to use a stick to put it in a Ziploc bag. I couldn’t stand to touch it.”
The color drains from Miss Jenkin’s face, yet a smile plays across her lips. “If you don’t want her gifts, then why did you keep the cloth?”
I sigh deeply. That’s a good question.
“I don’t know. I guess…I guess even though she does terrible things, I feel sort of sorry for her.”
Miss Jenkins nods her head. “Well now, that’s very interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“I’ve always felt that your Aunt Ruby possessed a psychic gift. Ghosts tend to be relentless with those that are most sensitive to them. I tried to tell your aunt this, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Her main focus was just to keep Angelina at bay. These gifts tend to be genetic, often times skipping a generation.”
“You’re shitting me. You’re telling me that I’m some sort of psychic?”
“Not the sort of psychic that you’re imagining. Not the Hollywood version where you predict people’s deaths. Movie producers have blown that way out of proportion. A lot of energy and images that you glean will be far less dramatic and incredibly subtle.”
“When I felt like I was drowning, it was not subtle.”
She shrugs. “Angelina was being persistent; she was throwing a lot of her energy into it.”
I snort and mumble the word “psychic” to myself.
“Scoff all you like, but part of you knows that it’s true. You’re not just psychic, you’re clairsentient, to be exact.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Have you ever touched something and you automatically feel a certain way? Have you ever sat in an old chair
that once belonged in a study and instantly smelled cigar smoke? Have you ever touched on old china cabinet and suddenly tasted wedding cake? Things of that nature? Things that other people would think you’re crazy for?”
I’m suddenly reminded of an old musket of my father’s. He kept it in a glass case in his study. He was wildly proud of the damned thing, but I hated it. Every time I stood near it I felt guilty as sin, even though I’d done nothing wrong. I felt burdened with remorse and sadness. It made me wonder how many souls died because of that wretched thing.
“No,” I reply.
She purses her lips together and stares at me. “You know I can’t help you if you lie to me.”
I take another sip of my tea. She knows I’m lying, but she lets it drop.
“Has your mother experienced anything?”
“I haven’t point blank asked her, but I’m pretty sure that she hasn’t.”
Miss Jenkins nods her head. “I have no doubt that Angelina wants to communicate with you. It would make sense for her to not target your mother. It’s you she wants. If she was to scare the begeezus out of your mother or make her sick, chances are likely she’d move away and take you with her. It’s counterproductive. For this simple fact, I don’t ever see her bothering your mother, but it’s still wise to be on the safe side.”
“But I don’t want to communicate with Angelina, she hurts people,” I whine. “I want her gone. I don’t care what your theories are about it, I don’t want her anywhere near me or my mother.”
“Well then, let me get my sage.”
“Wait, why have you never tried to communicate with her?”
“I’ve tried, but I’m not a natural born psychic like you are. I can pick up on the presence of spirits, but as far as getting visions, that’s not my forte. I specialize in blessing haunted places by keeping the psychic energy low. You might still hear a whistle in the night, but she shouldn’t be able to play demolition derby with your truck anymore.”
Vein River Page 10
