Dead Willow

by Joe Sharp

  As the Willow explored its new resident, more pine boxes began to appear. Men planted them all around the soil under the shade of its branches. There seemed no end to their supply, and soon the Willow's field was dotted with carved markers.

  The Willow had thrived for months midst the far off sounds of cannon fire and musket blasts. It seemed that men never tired of making other men just like themselves bleed out into the ground. They attacked it with such passion that the Willow wondered if it might be some kind of game.

  The Willow had begun thinking a lot of unusual thoughts like that of late.

  It now towered over the field where it had once barely a foothold. Its roots wound their way down deep into the black soil, reaching even to the center of the crater where the second sun had crashed. The more bits of sun the roots encountered, the stronger and deeper they had grown. The Willow no longer craved water as it had. Though water had its place, the Willow could go an indefinite time without a drop to drink. Its roots had learned new, more creative methods to leach nutrients from the soil, and to stimulate the production of other nutrients more compatible with the Willow's needs.

  Then, the birds had come, and other life which made their homes within the Willow's branches. Soon, the Willow learned how to leach nutrients from them as well, and their carcasses littered the ground beneath. It was grateful for every morsel that had sacrificed itself so that the Willow could thrive.

  Then, the men had come with their pine boxes.

  The slender roots were not powerful enough to penetrate the wood veneer, so the Willow sent thicker, stronger roots to the sites. Within a month, the Willow had grown sufficiently to wrap its massive fingers around the first pine box and crack it open like an egg. The smaller tendrils crept inside the broken shell and wormed into the flesh of the man.

  Things got a lot more interesting after that.

  Jessilyn, October 6th

  The banner hung in the air big as life, like the sign over the gates of Hell. Willow Tree Festival. Looking up at it, all Jess could think was WTF. Yeah, she thought; that was a fitting description for the week she was having.

  The banner waved lazily over the main street through town, tethered by fraying cords that threatened to snap at any moment. If the banner floated away, then maybe the festival would float away with it. Wouldn’t that be sweet, she thought.

  She coasted down the main thoroughfare with one foot hovering over the brake pedal. Foot traffic flooded the streets like Black Friday at the mall. How the hell was she supposed to get through this? She kept inching through the sea of people, which did NOT part to let her pass, and hoped there was an open side street where she could park. Her old Chevy wanted so badly to mow down some pedestrians, forcing Jess to be the even-tempered one.

  Little kids were skipping all over the place, holding onto parents with one hand and swinging balloons and whirly-gigs with the other. Apparently the gift shops didn’t sell any toys made after 1950. Some were even selling three-cornered hats. Jeez!

  Jess hated these goddamn backward towns. She couldn’t believe anyone would seriously want to live back in Civil War times. Guaranteed, if there really was a time machine, ninety-nine percent of people would go into the future! Who wants to shit in an outhouse with bugs and snakes and other people’s shit under you? She had no intention of going back to a time when women were treated like slaves - not to mention the fact that there really were slaves!

  She scanned the shops up and down the main street, which was actually called Main Street, and each establishment looked like it had been put together with Jenga blocks. There wasn’t a foot of siding or chrome or steel in sight. The most impressive building was a brick structure that Jess took to be some kind of town hall. Even that had a chimney bricked into the side, with wisps of smoke curling up out of the top. She wondered if the mayor had to chop his own wood.

  The crowds started to thin at the edge of the business district, and Main Street gave way to rustic wood houses. Each home had chimneys or stovepipes exiting the roofs, and well stocked woodpiles in the backyards. There were no privacy fences or above ground pools or patios with propane barbecues in evidence. The less she saw, the harder she looked. There were no air conditioning units on the sides of the houses, and the further she got from the center of town, the fewer cars she saw. She began to wonder where they kept the horses.

  It was becoming increasingly clear that these people took the concept of a ‘Pioneer Village’ to a whole new level. This clearly wasn’t some amusement park where the townspeople were just actors in costume. This seemed to be how these people lived.

  Jess was starting to smell another story in the town of Willow Tree.

  Up ahead she caught movement. It was a girl, or a woman; it was hard to tell. She was wearing a drab Civil War costume, corset and hoop skirt, with a frilly long sleeve top that went up to a modest neckline. She was wearing some kind of shawl and a laced bonnet, and Jess was struck by how … normal it all looked. Like something you would wear every day. The authenticity was eerie.

  Jess needed some directions, and this woman looked like the authority on all things Willow Tree. She pulled to the curb and parked. The street was so quiet here, away from the crowds downtown, that all Jess could hear was the woman’s broom as she whisked the dust off of her wood porch.

  She knew the woman had noticed her, the Chevy being the only car for blocks. She glanced at Jess out of the corner of her eye, as if she couldn’t imagine why someone would be stopping in front of her house, in a car. That made Jess’ antenna go up. Nervousness was like an engraved invitation. She got out of the car.

  “Hey!” she shouted to the woman, as she stepped up onto the curb. “Quaint little town you have here.”

  Jess walked up the dirt path to the porch step. The woman stopped sweeping and held the broom in front of her, both hands gripping it tightly, as if she might have to use it to defend herself. Her eyes darted around furtively while she thought of a response.

  “Thank you,” she finally came back. “We like it.”

  The woman seemed to be in her late twenties, though it was hard to tell with only a face showing. And that costume … now that was something else.

  With that hoop skirt and corset, she looked to have maybe a twelve inch waist, but that was probably just an illusion. The shawl looked like it had been knitted by someone’s grandmother. The lace on the bonnet was fraying a bit, and the lace on the edges of her skirt was fraying a bit more. The whole outfit seemed worn.

  Jess wondered if she would find a whole rack of them in this woman’s closet, all similarly worn.

  She could feel herself staring and looked the woman in the eyes, smiling. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but admire your cost-, your dress. It’s very … lovely.”

  The woman blushed, something you rarely see these days.

  “Thank you,” she said with a dip of her head. She glanced toward the center of town. “How are you liking our festival?”

  “Oh, it’s wonderful!” Jess lied. “Everything seems so authentic. You guys really go all out.”

  “Well,” she said, her eyes flitting around again, “we love it.”

  “I’m Jess,” she said. She almost extended her hand, then thought better of it.

  “I am Crystal,” the woman said, nodding shyly.

  “Well, this is my first time here. I was wondering if you could tell me where the Rusty Gate is?”

  The woman’s eyes lit up, as if Jess had finally given her a task she could accomplish.

  “Oh, certainly!” She let go of the broom long enough to point down Main Street. “You go down one block to Shiloh, then take a left and go two blocks to Savannah. Go left again and head downtown. You can’t miss it. It’s the biggest building on the street.”

  “Thank you!” said Jess enthusiastically. The woman was starting to open up. “So … how many people live here in Willow Tree?”

  Apparently, Jess had asked her a tough one.

  “Oh my,” she said, flu
ttering a hand on her chest. “I’m not quite sure. I think … something like … three thousand? Perhaps a bit more? I don’t really know.”

  Seems it was not fashionable for a woman to know numbers. Jess decided to try something a little more gossipy.

  “So, the Rusty Gate,” she said, leaning in. “I hear it’s haunted.”

  The woman’s eyes went wide and her pretenses went down. It was obvious that Crystal was as truly shocked to hear this as Jess was at her reaction.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?” she gasped.

  “I, um … I read it on the internet.” Jess lied for the second time.

  The woman scowled with disdain. “You know you can’t believe anything coming out of those computers.”

  Crystal shivered as if shaking off the idea. Jess felt embarrassed, and it was pissing her off. Journalists don’t get embarrassed! They embarrass other people!

  “Still,” she said, probing, “I wonder why someone would say that?”

  That’s when Crystal got the saddest expression of anyone Jess had ever seen. She looked as if she had just lost a loved one … or was about to. Jess felt like a shit-heel for asking the question.

  “People lie,” Crystal said finally, with a stony glare. “It’s what they do.”

  Jess decided that was her cue to shut up and drive away.

  “Well, thank you very much,” she said, walking quickly back to her car. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding the place.”

  Crystal did not respond. She simply looked down to her porch and started pushing her broom again, short, angry sweeps. Jess could only imagine what dusty memories she was really trying to sweep away.

  She got in her car and pulled out onto Main Street, wondering what she had just learned, if anything, and would it even figure into her story.

  - The Rusty Gate -

  A Pre-Civil War farmhouse, it was abandoned at the turn of the century. The deed to the farm passed to the county in 1908, and the land and buildings were sold at auction. It was purchased by

  Eunice Louise Pembry

  in 1910, and reconstruction began. With the help of the hard working men and women of the community of Willow Tree, the renovations were completed on

  December 14, 1913

  This commemorates 100 years of faithful service in the continuing care of this historic landmark.

  The framed placard hung on the wall of the Rusty Gate lobby. Recessed lighting in the ceiling cast an ethereal glow on the treasured words. Jess ran her fingers along the edge of the hand-carved walnut frame and admired the effect. A commemoration from the governor himself. Not a bad way to spruce up the place.

  She scribbled her notes quickly as she headed for the line leading up to the front desk. Parents were bustling this way and that, dragging luggage and toddlers, fighting for a spot at the front. Irate customers pounded their fists and poked stubby fingers at check-out bills, while patient desk clerks smiled and nodded. Children with plastic swords and Flintlock pistols zigged and zagged between people’s legs, each one firing the imaginary ‘shot heard round the world’.

  It was the Willow Tree Festival in all its glory.

  The reenactors were out in force, salting the lobby with gray and blue uniforms. Several had attempted to bring in muskets and other lethal-looking paraphernalia, only to be shooed away by the hotel staff.

  Make that ‘inn’. Jess still didn’t get the distinction. The size of this place could have given the Marriott a run for its money. This abandoned farmhouse had obviously been added on to several times in the last hundred years. And, while the look was still 1800’s, she doubted the flat screen TV’s and WiFi were original equipment.

  Yeah, we didn’t mind going back in time, just not too much.

  The front desk was a good thirty feet long with desk clerks every five feet or so. The lady clerks were all decked out in the era’s finest. They apparently wore layers of petticoats under their dresses, as hoop skirts would never let them get close to the front desk.

  Men were costumed in the uniforms of the war, alternating even numbers of gray and blue so as not to start the war all over again. The men wore caps and the ladies bonnets.

  Business was conducted on laptops which sat out of sight below the long, molded top of the front desk, keeping the present from intruding on the cherished past a much as possible.

  The walls were all of dark, rough log construction. The seating in the lobby, while comfortably padded, were made of rough hewn wood, and could have complimented the home of General Grant himself. A fire crackled in the large hearth, and it was real wood. Throw in a few potted willow branches and a Union flag or two and the illusion was complete.

  After a few minutes in the lobby, a normal person would start to feel out of place.

  Jess was certain that, had she asked, they would have provided her a Civil War era dress and bonnet to accompany her on her stay in Willow Tree. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be asking.

  “Welcome to the Rusty Gate. How may I be of service?”

  Jess looked up from her notepad, totally unaware that the family in front of her had concluded their business. She came face to face with a striking woman, who appeared to be in her early forties. She wore the requisite costume dress, but no bonnet. Her hair was done up in traditional style, pulled back into a bun, which was covered with a knitted hair net. But the thing that caught Jess’ attention was the one bit of present day paraphernalia that all the employees of the Rusty Gate shared - the gold name tag.

  Hers said “Eunice”.

  “Um, I just … ” said Jess, pointing to the ostentatious placard on the wall, “I just saw your name.”

  The woman’s expression never flickered, causing Jess to flicker hers.

  “But, it couldn’t be yours, could it?”

  The woman smiled and let Jess off the hook.

  “No, my dear, but she could be my great, great, great grandmother, Eunice Louise Pembry. Just call me Eunice.”

  “Thank you for clearing that up,” said Jess, chuckling. “I thought I was going crazy there for a minute.”

  “Well, you might still be,” she joked, “but at least we’ve figured out who I am.”

  “Well, ‘Eunice’, my name, I’m pretty sure is Jess Granger and I believe I have a reservation.”

  Eunice typed on her keyboard behind the desk. “Let’s see … yes, here it is. Jessilyn Granger, one single.”

  “Please don’t call me Jessilyn,” Jess asked her in a lowered voice. “It’s a long story.”

  Eunice gave her an odd expression for an instant, then went back to her keyboard.

  “Alright, no N, no Y, no L, no I,” she said, hitting the backspace key each time. “There … she no longer exists. That is, until you checkout, and then she’ll show up on your credit card receipt.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Sorry,” said Eunice, like she really meant it. “So, will you be staying with us through the festival?”

  Jess considered how much she should tell Eunice about her stay here. It wasn’t like they could kick her off the property just because she thought the inn might be haunted, she reasoned. She decided to put it out there and gauge Eunice’s reaction. If she was as shocked as Crystal, then maybe it was time to call this a wild goose chase.

  “I have it on good authority that the Rusty Gate is … haunted.”

  Eunice didn’t blink.

  “And what authority might that be, my dear?” she said, with a tone as dry as a desert wind.

  Shit! Jess had been caught in a half-truth. There was no ‘good authority’; there was only an anonymous tip, and Eunice had called her on it. She could toss it off as a joke, or she could lie her ass off. Punt or kick a field goal - which should she do?

  As she stared at the stony face looking back at her from across the desk, something was itching at the back of her mind.

  Eunice hadn’t said no.

  The expression on her face wasn’t shock and it wasn’t a denial; it
was more like … an accusation. It was as if Eunice believed that the Rusty Gate had been betrayed and she wanted a name.

  Jess could sense the shift, like a splash of cold water in her face. The amiable innkeeper was gone. The real Eunice was coming out.

  “Someone who prefers to remain anonymous,” bluffed Jess, hoping that Eunice wouldn’t see her sweat.

  “You’re a journalist,” said Eunice, taking a half step back, as the last of the humor drained from her face.

  “You say that as if it were a bad thing.” Jess had a feeling the witty banter wasn’t working anymore.

  “Why do you look for the dead, Miss Granger,” she asked, “when the living are so much more interesting?”

  Jess felt like someone had just let the air out of her tires.

  “I guess because the living never seem to want to pay my bills.”

  “Well, I doubt that our ‘ghosts’ will either.” Eunice fumbled with something behind the counter. Then, she handed Jess a key card to room 213. “But you’re welcome to try.”

  Eunice looked passed her to the next person in line, and just like that, Jess had been dismissed. She stepped away from the desk in a fog, as the couple behind her jostled into position. As she made her way down the hall to the elevators, she wondered where she had taken such a wrong turn.

  Perhaps, she was just out of practice. It had been a while since she had done a truly ‘investigative’ piece. Most of her recent blogs had been researched from the comfort of her own laptop. Field work required stealth, and Jess had come in like a rampaging buffalo. She knew better.

  On the elevator ride up, she started to tick off her options again. She may well have burned this particular bridge, but there was still something about this Eunice. During the exchange, for just a moment there, she had felt something that made the prickly hairs on her arms stand up.