by Anne Frasier
On the crest of the next hill, they stopped to catch their breath. Franklin allowed the beam of his flashlight to move along the ground until it touched the foundation of a crumbling stone building. “There it is.”
The article in the paper claimed Richard Manchester had been buried under an oak tree in the church graveyard. That’s what they were after: dirt from the Pale Immortal’s grave.
“I think I’ll just wait here.” The excitement was gone from Millie’s voice.
“Me too,” Shirley said.
Gabriella wanted to wait with them, but that would be cowardly and senseless. “Let’s go straight to the grave. I’ll grab the dirt; then we’ll hurry back.”
She and Franklin moved forward.
The air seemed thicker, and their footsteps didn’t make as much noise. It was too quiet, like being in some kind of vacuum. Her head felt funny: Pressure was building in her sinuses and ear canals. Her scalp tingled; her eyes watered. She put a hand to Franklin’s arm for physical reassurance.
Franklin found a narrow path that led to a low stone wall. He stepped over and Gabriella followed. They paused in front of a rotting tree.
An oak tree had been planted over the grave of the Pale Immortal to keep him from rising up. A lot of people said the body should have been put back under the oak and not displayed in a museum. Gabriella hadn’t really cared, but now that she was here, now that her head was buzzing in such a strange way, she wondered if maybe she’d finally found something that was real. Something to believe in.
Two massive tree roots as big around as a man straddled a dark pit where the coffin had most likely been. While Franklin shone his light at the base of the tree, Gabriella dug with her gloved hand, scooping loosened soil into the bag. She closed the plastic zipper, straightened, and tucked the dirt into her jacket pocket.
Something had changed.
She could feel Franklin’s stillness.
It was too dark to read his expression, but there was no missing the clawed grip on her arm.
Did the simple act of believing change everything? Did it play an active role in an individual’s reality?
A flashlight aimed at her face suddenly blinded her vision.
“Are you looking for Richard Manchester?” The voice beyond the flashlight resonated in her chest. It joined the weird sounds and thoughts going on between her ears, making her wonder if she’d heard the words only in her head.
Was he communicating telepathically?
She waited for Franklin to answer, but he seemed unable to speak.
“My boyfriend and I . . . we got a little lost,” Gabriella stammered, her heart slamming. “Can you tell us how to get back to the highway from here?”
“If you’re looking for Manchester,” the man said, ignoring her lie, “he’s no longer in his grave.”
“Um . . . no. We aren’t looking for . . . whoever you said. We just want to find our car.”
“Would you like to meet him? Manchester?”
She frowned, perplexed. Was this Evan Stroud? Had to be. People said he was crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.”
That was stupid of her.
“Everybody knows Richard Manchester. Everybody.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. The Pale Immortal. His body is at the museum in Tuonela.”
“Would you like to meet him?” he repeated.
“I . . . we might go to the museum. Right, honey?” She gave Franklin a nudge.
He found his voice. “Yeah.” He gripped her arm, and she could feel him shaking. “Tomorrow maybe.”
“Not right now?”
Her small flashlight was still aimed at her feet. She lifted it and shone it at the mysterious speaker.
White skin.
Black hair.
Eyes like dark pits.
He took a stumbling step back.
She grabbed Franklin’s arm and lifted it until his flashlight beam was parallel to hers, giving the man a double blast.
He dropped to his knees like somebody had kicked him in the belly.
Gabriella spun around, tugging at Franklin’s jacket. “Come on!”
They ran.
They hauled ass as if the Pale Immortal himself were after them. Seconds later they caught up with Millie and Shirley. “Run!”
Crashing through the brush, tree branches smacking faces, lungs burning, with no thought to a broken neck or broken ankle, they ran. Until they were back at the car and Gabriella was sticking the key in the ignition, firing up the engine, slamming the car into gear.
Reverse. Drive. Tromp the gas pedal and roar away.
Sweet mercy.
“Oh, my God!” Franklin curled into the passenger seat, hands pressed to the sides of his face. “Oh, my God. I’m never going back there. Not as long as I live.”
“What happened?” Millie said, leaning forward and grabbing Gabriella’s headrest. “You have to tell us what happened!”
Gabriella gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“It was Evan Stroud.” Franklin was out of breath. “We ran into Evan Stroud.”
Gabriella wasn’t so certain.
She replayed the event in her mind, but no matter how many times she viewed it her memory was the same. Yes, she’d been scared shitless. Yes, she knew her take was skewed.
She’d been to the museum to see the Pale Immortal. Who in the area hadn’t? And now, when she pulled up the encounter in her head, she saw someone she swore was Richard Manchester standing there, not Evan Stroud.
But she wasn’t going to say anything about it.
“Now what?” Millie asked. “Where are we going to find the right dirt?”
In all the excitement, Gabriella had completely forgotten about the bag of soil she’d collected. She tugged off her gloves and reached into her jacket pocket, her fingers coming in contact with the pouch.
They’d gotten what they’d come for: dirt from the grave of the Pale Immortal.
Chapter Twenty-one
We lost our room.
One day after the psychic clip aired on WXOW, the owner of Tuonela Inn told us she was overbooked and we had to leave.
Kicked out.
We could have argued, but Claire pointed out that we were quickly becoming too unpopular. Soon nobody would be talking to us if we continued to cause trouble. And we’d find another place to stay.
We didn’t.
It might have been because of the whole tourist thing, but I had the feeling we wouldn’t have found a room even if every room in town had been empty.
So we were going to camp out.
Camp! I hadn’t been camping since I was a Girl Scout. And that was in somebody’s backyard.
Normally I’d just pack up and leave. This was bullshit. But no way was I leaving now.
I’d screwed up some things in my life. My big one was dropping out of college, thinking I knew enough people in the business to make a living. But Tuonela was going to be a turning point. I sensed it. I felt it. Like a breeze blowing across the surface of my skin. Or the way skinny-dipping touched you in unfamiliar places. Places that had always been there but you hadn’t noticed before. My blood was singing.
But we had to sleep in a tent. It was hard for me to hide my irritation.
We picked up two cheap pup tents at Target, along with camping supplies like lanterns, flashlights, and sleeping bags. “It’s part of the adventure,” Claire said.
I didn’t want to spoil her delusion, so I just nodded and stared forlornly at my Barbie sleeping bag.
I hadn’t told any of them about what had happened at Old Tuonela. That was my secret. My ticket to the future.
A guest appearance on Geraldo popped into my head. Ick. Erase that. Not Geraldo, although it’s true my mother once thought he was hot when he was young. Now he was just strange. That happened to a lot of celebrities. They went from intriguing to just plain weird.
>
No, I was thinking Oprah, although the story was probably too offbeat for her. How many middle-aged women would relate to a guy who thought he was a vampire and spent his nights digging up graves? No, this would be something for one of those hour news shows. Something they could sensationalize.
“Do you have a five?”
I snapped to attention, and saw Claire standing at the checkout, palm extended.
“I thought you were paying.”
“I’m five bucks short.”
I dug around and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
Normally I would be irritated. It was her fault we had to buy the sleeping bags in the first place. Instead I was grateful to her for not seeing an obvious opportunity. Instead I was trying to keep my secret enthusiasm from showing.
The clerk, a bored high-school girl, ripped off the receipt and handed it to Claire. I grabbed a couple of bags and we headed out.
If Claire wanted to turn this gig into fiction while ignoring what was right in front of her face, let her do it. Because even if I pointed it out to her, she wouldn’t see it or care. She wanted it her way and only her way.
“Why are you acting like that?” Claire asked as we headed for the van.
“Like what?”
“Pissed off. I can tell you’re mad. You never seemed like somebody who expected to be put up in a luxury hotel.”
“I didn’t expect to have to sleep in a Barbie sleeping bag.”
“It’ll be fun. Oh, it might be physically unpleasant, but that will add to the documentary.”
“You want to film our camping?”
“Yeah. Especially since none of us are seasoned campers. Could be funny as hell.”
I made a sound of complaint.
Claire stopped. I stopped. “What the hell is your problem?” She was mad. “Do you know how many applications I got for this job?”
“Ten?”
“Close to thirty. And I’ll bet most of them would be willing to drive here today if I called and asked them to.”
I was sure she was exaggerating. “So why’d you pick me?”
“I liked your films. You were funny! I thought you would get what I’m trying to do.”
“There’s a difference between funny and making fun.”
“I’m not making fun of anybody. These people are already what they are. Did I create a goddamn town where most of the people believe in vampires? Did I open a damn museum with a mummy called the Pale Immortal? How can you say I’m making fun of them?”
She had a point.
“You also seemed laid back. I thought you’d be able to shift gears pretty easily and not get bent out of shape if things didn’t go as planned. I was really wrong about that.”
I didn’t want to go back to Minneapolis, that was for sure.
Normally I would argue and tell her I was better than those other videographers. And it would probably be the truth in most cases. Maybe all cases. “Sorry. You’re right.” It was her project, not mine. I was working for her. If she wanted funny, I could do funny. I could be a stand-up comic if she wanted.
And I knew what she was talking about. I did do some funny stuff in the past, but I grew out of it, thank God. I did the light stuff because I didn’t want it to look like I was taking film too seriously. Nothing worse than some serious, black-turtlenecked asshole who made films. I never wanted to be one of those people. So I went the other way. Ha-ha. Don’t get too serious about this. I’m only kidding. If you don’t like it, I won’t be hurt.
Art hurt.
That was the truth of it.
Nothing hurt so much as failing at your dream, which was why I’d given up before I could fail. Was there a psychological term for that? If not, I should make one up. Self sabotage? Fear-of-failure Syndrome?
We spotted Ian and Stewart at the same time. They were cutting across the parking lot, both clutching a paper bag.
Those two could smell a liquor store a mile away. Oh, and Ian appeared to have a huge crush on Claire. Poor guy.
“This is gonna be so cool!” Ian said. “I haven’t slept outside since that time I passed out in the front yard.” Pause for effect. “And I don’t think that counts.”
Stewart joined in the nonsense. “The only way to sleep outside is to get so drunk you pass out.”
“Hmmm. I’m wondering what that merit badge looks like.” I knew I was suddenly coming across as some sour old lady, but I couldn’t help it. Becoming a crazy old lady with twenty cats wasn’t a bad goal and had always been a secret although sarcastic dream of mine. But very often sarcasm is just a thin veil for the truth.
And yet I knew when they broke out the booze, I’d be first in line.
“Is this called making camp?” Ian asked.
“You’re talking about breaking camp.” Stewart opened another beer. Was that his fourth? Fifth? I’d lost count. I was on my fourth, but we’d started out with vodka. “You do that when you pack up and move on. Breaking camp.”
“What about ‘pitching a tent’?” Ian asked.
Both guys burst out laughing at that. Ha-ha. I knew I should be annoyed, but instead I found myself warming to them the way I always warmed to people once I got a few drinks in me.
And they’d impressed me with their wood-gathering skills and their ability to tend to the basics. With no knowledge of camping, they’d managed to get a fire going in the pit using several wadded-up newspapers and kindling.
We were in a designated camping area. We’d passed some vehicles on the way in, but they couldn’t be seen from our location because the terrain was hilly and woody and twisted, with little knolls and valleys and tight clusters of dark trees.
At the pay booth we’d been handed a flyer that explained about the dangers of coyotes. It also explained that none had been spotted in the area, and the campground was patrolled and considered safe.
I’m not a big fan of uniforms, but I liked the idea of rangers keeping an eye on the place. We were probably safer here than at the inn—what with pissing off half the people in Tuonela. I kind of liked the idea that nobody knew where we were staying.
The van doors were open, the CD player was on, the music cranked up. The human noise brought civilization to the woods; it made our little circle bigger, created a buffer behind our backs as we perched on logs arranged around the fire.
Claire was drunk too.
Just last night I swore I wouldn’t drink for at least a week. Now here I was again. And there was no denying it felt good. To hell with everything else. What difference did it make? I needed to quit freaking out about things.
“I’m cold.” Claire stood by the fire, hugging herself and bouncing.
“My coat’s right there.” I pointed. Like she’d wear my coat.
But she did. She put it on and checked the length of the sleeves. “I can’t believe I’ve been making fun of this. It’s so comfortable.” She modeled it for us in front of the fire. We laughed our asses off. The more we laughed, the more she did the hilarious and awkward model walk. The stop, the turn, the bored and blank expression. She sucked in her cheeks and the guys almost wet their pants they laughed so hard.
Ian and Stewart jumped to their feet and began to prance around. Ian suddenly seemed extremely feminine—and also curiously attractive. I laughed at my own thoughts.
I could tell Ian liked that he was entertaining us.
He paced again, and we laughed some more. I got out my camera and turned it on. I was laughing so hard I could hardly focus.
“Dude, that’s just too convincing!” Stewart was almost crying now.
Ian put his hands on his bent knees, then blew him a kiss. He crooked his finger at Claire.
Poor Ian. She was the rich socialite and he was the son of the poor gardener. Or something like that. People liked to pretend that kind of thing didn’t matter in the twenty-first century, but that was bullshit. There was just as much class-consciousness going on now as there had been a hundred years ago. People were just better at hiding i
t.
Ian shifted gears and pretended to be a vampire, pulling out an imaginary cape, then hiding the lower half of his face.
Claire was still laughing, and the sound of it must have been an invitation to Ian. He swooped down, grabbed her, swung her around, and dipped her.
My breath caught.
Oh, he was going to be in so much trouble. And he was going to be so embarrassed tomorrow.
I felt even sorrier for him.
For a moment I thought he would kiss her, but he came to his senses. Maybe it was the sudden death of laughter. The music also stopped, calling attention to the awkwardness of the moment.
Ian let her go and stepped back into the darkness. For his sake, I was glad we couldn’t see his face.
“I have to pee,” Claire announced. “Where’s a flashlight?”
Stewart produced one.
“I’ll come with you,” he volunteered.
There was a real restroom just over the knoll. I could even make out a faint glow from its light.
“Maybe we should all go,” I suggested.
“I can pee by myself,” Claire said.
She was mad at Ian, but also mad at herself for getting drunk and whooping it up with the help. Let her go by herself if she wanted to. I’d never been one of those girls who believed in peeing together.
I thought of the image I’d seen on my film that day . . . the day we’d arrived in town; then I abruptly pushed it from my mind.
Claire was already tromping off in the direction of the restroom.
“She’ll be okay,” Ian said. He got up and rummaged around in the van until he found another CD. He popped it in the player, and suddenly the night was once again filled with music.
Chapter Twenty-two
They were a little tipsy.
Last year Gabriella had joined a wine club before she realized she didn’t even like wine. By the time she canceled her membership, she’d accumulated quite a few bottles of the nasty crap.
