Ghosts of Bliss Bayou Page 3

  “Abby! Are you all right?”

  I’m gripping the armrest, knuckles white. “Yes. I’m all right. And no, this isn’t the place.”

  “Well, never fear.” Timothy unbuckles his seat belt and pops open the door. “I will go and inquire of yonder swains.”

  Since that night I threatened to punch out the creepy black cloud, I’ve not seen any more hallucinations. Even the nightmares went away for a while. But in the last two weeks, as my trip to Florida got closer, they started up again, vivid and weird as ever. I started to remember more details: people in robes doing strange rituals in painted circles; the blond woman in the black dress and pearls walking around, looking lost and lonely; two girls in long white dresses, standing beside the rushing blue water of the springs. But the dreams always end the same way—me being grabbed from behind and flung into black water to drown. Looking again at the boat dock, I’m sure that’s where it happens.

  “Good news. I think we have the answer.” Timothy climbs back into the van. “This very street is Bliss Road. We follow it back the other way, and we should find your destination.”

  I sit quiet as he backs up the van and sets off the way we came. I suppose it’s possible I saw this house and the dock as a young child and incorporated them into the scary dreams. But that idea’s not very satisfying, since I have no conscious memory of seeing this place, except in the nightmares.

  “Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I,” Timothy mutters under his breath. “But travelers must be content.”

  I don’t answer. The joy and excitement I’ve been feeling about seeing Granma is all deflated. Now I’m worried, reminded of the reason I had to come here. As we bump along the road, I scan the deep green and gray shadows, watching for hallucinations.

  Ten minutes later we’ve looped around in a half circle, past two more old houses, and then I see the one I know is Granma’s. It’s in better shape than the nightmare mansion on the other side of the bayou, but still it looks rickety and run-down, and smaller than I remember.

  A lot of the houses around here date to the 1890s, when well-to-do Northerners founded a kind of colony around the springs. One of those founders was Thomas Renshaw, my great-great-grandfather, and this house has been in the family ever since. Now it looks sad, overgrown with weeds and vines and in need of a paint job.

  We climb out of the van, and Timothy starts to unload my suitcases. Contrary to my arrival fantasy, Granma has not flung open the front door and rushed across the porch to welcome me. Air conditioners are groaning away at two of the windows, so she probably didn’t even hear the van pull up.

  Timothy plops my luggage on the soft ground and stands there, wearing an expectant smile under his Orlando Magic baseball cap. I realize I need to tip him. I open my backpack and fish out my wallet.

  Sometimes I sense people’s feelings and even imagine I can hear their thoughts. In this case, I sense how Timothy is hot and tired and feeling pressured to get back to Orlando and pick up his next round of fares. Because this trip took so long, he’s thinking he’ll probably have to work late and might even get bawled out by his boss.

  Despite all this, he’s been nothing but kind and cheerful.

  Thinking that Mom would not approve such generosity, I hand him a twenty. “I’m sorry to have been so difficult.”

  Timothy grins and holds up the bill. “If these spirits have offended, I’ll think of this, and all is mended!”

  I know that one: the ending of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We read it in tenth grade. It somehow seems appropriate.

  

  I watch Timothy drive away, and then I’m standing alone in the enchanted forest. The sky is a silvery overcast, as it has been all day, and the air is humid and shimmering hot. I hear insects chirping and a breeze rustling in the towering trees. So here I am, returned to the place of my childhood, trying to put myself back together so I can turn into a grown-up.

  And I have no idea if I can.

  The front door swings open, and Granma calls my name. She doesn’t move so effortlessly as in my fantasy, but still she hurries across the porch. I break into a run, meet her at the bottom of the steps, and hug her.

  It’s strange finding that she’s shorter than me. Should have been prepared for that. I’m five seven, so I guess Granma’s about five foot five. And she feels smaller in other ways, diminished, almost frail, and that’s kind of scary. But as she hugs me back, I feel that my strong, caring Granma is still in there, and I touch some of the love and security I’ve missed so much.

  She holds me at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. What a glorious young woman you’ve become! I thought you’d never get here. I expected you earlier.”

  “I’m sorry. The driver had a really hard time finding this place.”

  She nods. “We are out in the sticks. I did warn you.”

  “I don’t care. I’m just so glad to see you, Granma.”

  Together we wrangle my luggage up the steps and into the house. We set it in the hallway at the foot of the stairs. Granma leads me into the living room, where it’s cooler and one of the window AC units is chugging away.

  The ceilings and windows are high, and the room full of the silvery forest light. But I have the same impression I had outside, that the house is sad, forlorn. The furniture and rugs are dingy, and there’s a faint moldy smell.

  Granma picks up on my thoughts. “It’s not much, but I do my best to keep it up. Down here a house requires a lot of maintenance.”

  The last thing I want is for her to feel defensive. “It’s just strange being here after so long.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “No! Really.”

  “Hungry?”

  I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it must be three or four. “Starving.”

  She brightens. “Come into the kitchen, and we’ll see what we can do.”

  The kitchen’s immaculate, with the clean, bakery-like smell I remember. Granma and I spent many, many hours in here when I was a little girl. I sit at the table sipping iced tea while she fixes me a sandwich.

  We chat about school, the track team, her shop. She took the afternoon off from the shop so she could be here when I arrived. She didn’t have to close it, since it adjoins an old bookstore, and the guy who runs that is watching it for her.

  “We’ve got three businesses sharing an old warehouse space,” she explains. “We help each other out, almost like a co-op. Anyway, this is the quiet time of year, so there won’t be much activity…Why are you grinning?”

  “Things are so laid back here. So unlike New Jersey. I think this is just what I need.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  She sets a plate in front of me: tuna on wheat bread, with carrot sticks and chips. I dive in, and everything is delicious.

  As she watches me, a fond smile appears. Between mouthfuls I smile back. “God, I missed you, Granma.”

  This makes her eyes sparkle, like she could almost cry. “I missed you too, Abby. More than I wanted to admit. I’d pretty much given up on having any part in your life.”

  That makes me want to cry. And that emotion drags up a whole lot more—all I’ve been through since Dad died, the grief of losing him, the pain of separating from Granma and my home, the nightmares and hallucinations when I got older, my insecurities about the future, my fears of losing my mind.

  Before I know it, I’m swallowing hard to keep back the tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Granma says. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  “That’s okay. I’m fine.”

  But she’s staring at me hard. “You were such a sensitive little girl. And I get the feeling you still are. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Wow. Where to begin? I take a sip of tea. I wasn’t planning to tell her about the nightmares. She doesn’t even know about my hallucination episodes when I was twelve—unless Mom told her, which I’m sure not.

  As I’m trying to t
hink what to say, I realize I’m hearing the faint wail of a siren—an ambulance or police car. For a second I even think it might be a hallucination, but then I see that Granma hears it too. As it gets louder, we stare at each other with growing alarm.

  “That’s not usual around here,” she says.

  The siren is getting closer and closer. I follow Granma out the back door, where the wraparound porch overlooks the yard and the bayou. Granma looks off to the left, in the direction of the sound. When it seems the siren is almost on top of us, I see spinning blue lights through the trees. Police car.

  “That’s the Parkers’ house,” Granma says. “What in god’s name is going on?”

  She’s not going to wait to find out. She marches down the steps and around the corner of the house. I have to walk pretty fast to keep up.

  By the time we reach the stand of trees that separates the two properties, the siren has stopped, but I still see the blue lights flashing through the undergrowth. I follow Granma down a narrow footpath through the ferns and bushes. The path ends near the spot where the police car is parked, at the side of the house. The car doors stand open, and I read “Harmony Springs Police” painted on one of them. Two officers are trotting across the backyard to where an old man is kneeling, propped up on one hand as if trying to catch his breath. Near the house, a white-haired woman in a flower-print dress stands by the back porch. Granma hurries over to her, and I follow.

  “Emily,” Granma says. “What in the world?”

  “Oh, Kathryn! I saw the devil!” She grabs hold of Granma’s shoulders. “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear to god. Satan himself. He was standing right there at the edge of our yard, dripping wet, like he’d gone for swim in the bayou.”

  “It’s all right,” Granma says. “The police are here now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Across the lawn, the police officers are bending down beside the elderly man, helping him to his feet.

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life.” Mrs. Parker is breathless, nearly hysterical. “John saw it too, not just me. He said it was just some clown trying to scare us. He told me to call the police, then he went out with his shotgun. But Satan didn’t move, just stood there watching our house. Then I heard his voice inside my head. He said, ‘Leave this place.’ And then I saw my husband collapse.”

  She breaks down sobbing, and Granma holds her.

  I’m wondering what the frick is going on here. And then I’m wondering if it could possibly have something to do with my hallucinations.

  One of the officers is walking down to the edge of the yard, where Satan was sighted. The other is supporting John Parker as they walk slowly toward us.

  “He’s all right, Mrs. Parker,” the officer says. “We think it was just a dizzy spell. Of course, we’ll get an ambulance out here if you want.”

  “No ambulance!” Mr. Parker growls at him. “I’m not getting stuck with no co-pay!”

  “Don’t worry about that, sir. We’ll drive you to the hospital if you want to get checked out. No charge for that, I promise. Why don’t you rest here a few minutes and think it over.”

  The police officer helps Mr. Parker sit down on the porch steps.

  Only now I’m not sure he is an officer. He’s young, not much older than me. Tall and lanky, more like a high school basketball player than a full-grown man. And although he wears the same blue shirt, black trousers, and sky-blue cap as his partner, he doesn’t have a badge or gun.

  He nods politely. “Miss Emily. Miss Kathryn.” He glances at me, and for an instant I think I see that look a boy gives you when he kind of likes what he sees.

  He clears his throat. “Miss Emily, can you tell me exactly what you saw?”

  Mrs. Parker has sat down next to her husband. It takes a moment before she replies in a hoarse whisper. “I think I saw Satan.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Mr. Parker snaps. “What we saw was some jackass playing a prank or trying to scare us. Probably the same jackass who showed up at the Hilton place last week dressed as the skunk ape.”

  “You mean this has happened before?” They all turn to me, and I realize that was my outside voice. Oops.

  Granma inserts introductions: “Emily, John, Ray-Ray, this is my granddaughter, Abigail. She’s down visiting me from New Jersey. These are my neighbors, John and Emily Parker, and this is Ray-Ray Quick, son of our chief of police.”

  Ray-Ray Quick? What kind of name is that? (Luckily, this was not my outside voice.)

  Now here comes the other officer, the full-grown one with the gun. “I didn’t see any tracks or breaks in the grass.” He sets down Mr. Parker’s shotgun, which he’s retrieved from the lawn, and beside it the cartridges, which he has wisely unloaded.

  “I understand you saw this intruder also, Mrs. Parker?”

  Emily nods, lips pressed thin.

  “Do you think you can come over and show me exactly where you saw him?”

  She goes white. “I don’t think I want to.”

  “She doesn’t have to,” Mr. Parker says. “I told you exactly where he was. Standing right next to that cypress. And dripping wet, like he just stepped out of the bayou.”

  The officer twists his mouth, looking stymied. “Ray-Ray, you want to take another look over there? Maybe I missed something.”

  “Sure, Dan.”

  Ray-Ray walks off across the yard. Dan suggests we go inside, where it’s cooler, and the Parkers can tell him everything from the beginning. Granma tags along to give Mrs. Parker support. As they’re climbing the steps, I hesitate, then decide to follow Ray-Ray.

  Sometimes I’m impulsive, and this is one of those times.

  When I approach, he is scouting the back of the yard, where the mowed grass gives way to deeper grass and sedges. The ground is soggy under my running shoes, sloping down toward the dark, still waters of Bliss Bayou.

  Ray-Ray glances at me, then goes back to his investigation.

  “Excuse me, officer. But did I understand correctly? Something like this happened once before?”

  He answers without looking up. “Yes. And I’m not an officer, just a summer intern.”

  Summer intern, son of the police chief. That explains the uniform and the not-carrying-a-gun. “So what exactly happened at the Hilton place? And what is a, uh…skunk ape?”

  He flicks me a smile. I’m glad to see he has a sense of humor.

  “The skunk ape is the Florida version of Bigfoot. Just a legend that some people claim to have seen and that a few people have made up hoaxes around.”

  “So you think that’s what’s happening here? Someone dressing up to spoof people? Or frighten them?”

  Ray-Ray shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think. But I sure don’t see any sign that anyone’s walked through here recently. Do you?”

  He and Dan have been careful to stay on the edge of the yard and not disturb the deep grass near the cypress. I scan the area and look closely at the spot where the devil was supposed to have appeared.

  “No. I don’t.” At least no one with a physical body.

  Ray-Ray touches his cap and walks off. “Ma’am.”

  Ma’am?

  I tag after him, hustling to keep up with his long strides. “So, officially the police have no explanation for this or for what happened at the Hilton place?”

  He stops and looks down at me. “Officially? What are you, with CNN? You ought to meet my sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” He stalks away again.

  “Wait.” I hurry after him. “Listen. I didn’t mean to sound pushy. But I just got here today, and I’m curious. You have to admit this is some weird shit.”

  He laughs at that and stops again. “Okay. I’m only an intern. Officially, I can’t speak for the Harmony Springs police force…except that, as I’m sure my dad would tell you, the investigation is ongoing.”

  

  Later Granma fil
ls me in on the Parkers’ interview with Officer Dan. We’ve had dinner and washed up, and now we sit together on the back porch swing, just like years ago. The air is cooling off, and crickets are buzzing like crazy in the June twilight.

  Mr. and Mrs. Parker both agreed that the figure was black, mucky, and shiny wet, as if it had walked out of the bayou. Mrs. Parker said she saw devil horns, but Mr. Parker saw nothing like that. Mr. Parker said the figure never spoke, and Mrs. Parker did not repeat her statement that she heard a voice in her head saying, “Leave this place.”

  Dan took down all the information and verified that Mr. Parker was feeling okay. He and Ray-Ray left after making the Parkers promise that if they were bothered by any more intruders, they would call the police and not try to handle it themselves.

  “I don’t know if John will keep that promise,” Granma says. “As you saw, he’s a feisty old bird.”

  “What do you know about the other incident, Granma? The one with the skunk ape?”

  “Oh, at Laura Hilton’s. Her place is on the other side of the springs. That was also supposed to be a dark figure, but Laura claimed it was seven feet tall. Of course, she saw it in the twilight. It might have been the same person.”

  “So you think it’s someone dressing up in costume to frighten people?”

  “Not necessarily dressing up. Probably just some vagrant hanging around. We’re in the backwoods here, and we get some weird characters coming through from time to time.”

  I mull that over for a bit. “But the police didn’t find any tracks at the Parkers’. The grass was undisturbed.”

  “Well, they can miss things. Or the Parkers might have been mistaken about exactly where they saw the guy.”

  She doesn’t sound entirely convinced, and I get a prickling sense she’s not telling me everything.

  “I don’t want you worrying about this, Abby. We’re safe here.”

  “Oh, I’m not scared. More curious.” I guess I’ve been hoping people might actually be seeing something supernatural. Or else some kind of mass hallucination. Because that would make me feel less crazy. Less alone.

  “Did the figure at Laura Hilton’s say anything to her?”