Ghosts of Bliss Bayou Read online

  “Well…” Granma laughs. “Now that you mention it, she claimed to have heard it tell her to ‘leave this place.’ That’s probably where Emily got the idea. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a skunk ape talking before.”

  “Hmm.” This is getting weirder and weirder. “Suppose it was a vagrant, like you say. Why would a vagrant say something like that?”

  “You are the curious one!” Granma sighs. “Okay, one of the rumors that came up last week—and I think it’s a crackpot rumor—is that the skunk ape incident has to do with the development.”

  “What development?”

  “There’s a real estate company from Texas that’s trying to buy up land around the springs to build luxury houses and a golf course.”

  “Yuck!” I find that thought almost as scary as my nightmares. I want this place to stay the way it is forever. It’s my childhood. It’s sacred.

  “I know,” Granma says. “In Florida, there’s always conflicts over development. Out here we’re isolated enough that we’ve mostly been spared. But this time there’s real pressure, and it’s creating a rift in the community. Some of the owners want to sell out, poor folks who need the money, a few speculators who bought properties and now see their chance to cash in. The rest of us are against it. We’re afraid that once developers get a foothold and put up a few mansions, it will ruin the springs. Then others will want to sell, and it will be like dominoes falling. It’s happened before in other places.”

  “Wow. So someone might be trying to frighten more homeowners into selling?”

  “That’s the theory. I think it’s pretty far-fetched. Don’t you?”

  “You’re not thinking of selling, are you, Granma?”

  She peers off across the darkening backyard, toward the bayou. “No. I’ve lived in this house since I moved in with your grandfather. Over forty years. I’ll hang on if I possibly can. I always wanted to pass the place down to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Who else? You’re my only heir. Of course, once I’m gone, you can do whatever you want with it.”

  My brain is whirling. Abby Renshaw, slightly insane girl from New Jersey and backwoods Florida heiress.

  I put my hand on her forearm. “I hope you live a long, long time, Granma. And that you never sell this place.”

  

  Upstairs I have a big, airy bedroom in a corner of the house. Windows face the backyard and the woods to the side. Granma’s had one of her downstairs air conditioners brought up so the room will be cool enough for sleeping. It rattles and chugs away as I unpack.

  Tired as I am from the trip and the long day, I am way too wired to sleep. Long after Granma has said goodnight, I am up rearranging my clothes in the drawers and closets, checking for a phone signal (without success), and trying to get into one of the honors reading assignment books on my tablet (with very little success).

  Finally I dig out my Tarot deck. I ask the cards about the dark figures seen by the Parkers and Laura Hilton. Are they men or hallucinations? Or something else?

  The reading is hard to decipher. Swords, wands, pentacles, cups: all the suits are here and seem to tell different stories. In the position of the environment is the Knight of Cups, and he reminds me of Ray-Ray Quick. I stare at him for a while and notice that I’m smiling.

  I focus on the crown position, the High Priestess again, the goddess at the point of balance, the source of the waters…the source of the springs. She stares back at me—kind, serene, powerful.

  What are you trying to tell me?

  Now I feel a presence in the room, a cool, mysterious power, like a breeze lifting me up in a dream. I stand and walk to the window that faces the woods.

  On the ground below, at the edge of the trees, a woman is staring up at me. Not the stern blond woman in black I’ve seen before. This one is young and slender and seems very alive. She wears a long white skirt, a white blouse, and a straw bonnet, like a sun hat. She reminds me of the girls in white dresses I dreamed about, the ones standing beside the springs.

  I literally pinch my arm to be sure I’m not dreaming.

  I have no fear, like with the other hallucinations. Only this deep sense of wonder. I feel I know her, and that she means me well.

  Slowly she raises her right hand in greeting.

  I wave back. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and look again.

  She’s gone. I see only a wall of trees under the black sky.

  3. Have you ever heard of a curse on the Renshaws?

  Next morning, we’re having a late breakfast in the kitchen when I hear knocking on the front door.

  “Now what?” Granma sounds flustered. She’s had more excitement in the past twenty-four hours than she’s used to, for sure.

  I go and open the door.

  A girl grins at me. Short, curly orange hair and a face full of freckles. She’s about my age and height, but curvier.

  “Hi, you must be Abigail. I’m Molly Quick. My brother said I should meet you.”

  “Oh…Ray-Ray?”

  “Yeah. Mind if I come in?”

  “No…sure.” I step back, and she brushes past me.

  “Is your grandmother here?”

  “Yeah. We’re having breakfast. Come on in.”

  She follows me down the hall.

  “Oh, it’s you, Molly,” Granma says. “Can I get you some breakfast?”

  “No, thank you, Miss Kathryn. Well, maybe just coffee, if you can pour it over ice. It’s going to be another hot day.”

  I volunteer to get it so Granma doesn’t have to get up. Molly sits down at the table.

  “So what brings you out here on a Sunday morning?” Granma asks.

  “Research,” Molly replies. “I heard about the devil showing up next door.”

  Granma laughs. “I hope you’re not going to write that in the Quick Report.” She explains to me: “Molly is a budding newswoman. She writes a blog about Harmony Springs. Pretty good stuff, too.”

  “Thank you!” Molly sounds pleased. “But I’m actually starting a new blog. With more of an investigative slant. All these weird events, they’re looking less and less like coincidence.”

  “Now, Molly—”

  “Seriously, Miss Kathryn. First Pete Hastings is bitten by a cottonmouth, then Laura Hilton is visited by the skunk ape, and now the Parkers see Satan in their backyard.”

  I set the iced coffee down in front of Molly. “What’s this about a cottonmouth?”

  “That was three weeks ago,” Granma says. “Pete was clearing out some weeds and surprised a snake. It happens around here. Molly, there’s no reason to believe that’s related to these other things.”

  “No reason to conclude it’s not,” Molly says, “without investigating. That’s why I rode out this morning, to talk to the Parkers. Unfortunately, they were not very talkative. They seemed pretty upset. They told me everything they have to say is in the police report, which of course I’ve already read.”

  She’s added milk and sugar, and now she gulps down half the glass of coffee. “This is delicious, thanks. So, I understand you two went over to the Parkers’ when you heard the siren…”

  Granma confirms that we hurried over there, and no, she didn’t see any intruders—natural or supernatural.

  “How about you, Abigail? Or is it Abby?”

  “Abby. It’s just like Granma said. We arrived after the fact and didn’t really see anything.”

  “Ray-Ray told me you went with him to look at the spot where the figure appeared.”

  “Well…not with him, exactly.”

  Molly gives us her grin. “He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but from the way he described you, I’d say he thinks you’re cute.”

  Really? That’s nice. I guess he’s not so bad either…

  Now both of them are grinning at me. I hope I’m not blushing. I think I am.

  “So, what do you think?” Molly asks. “I mean, about these strange rep
orts of intruders?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m new around here.”

  “Yeah. I understand you lived here as a little girl? How does it feel to be back? What are your impressions of the town so far?”

  Not sure how many impressions I want to share. Particularly with someone who’s going to post them online. “Well, I just got in yesterday.”

  “I can show you around if you like. It’s a quiet little town—apart from these possibly paranormal events, of course. My favorite hangouts are the library and Springs of Coffee. That’s this little coffee shop and bakery on Main Street. They have Wi-Fi.”

  “That’s good to know.” I touch the phone in the back pocket of my shorts. “We don’t have a signal out here. And I need to text my mom today.”

  “You can ride in with me now if you want. They open at eleven on Sundays.”

  “No, thanks. I’m going with Granma to help in her shop today.”

  “Oh, you can meet me there if you want,” Granma says. “I won’t open up ’til noon or twelve thirty.”

  Well…I don’t want to seem unfriendly. And despite all the nosey questions, I like Molly. Her enthusiasm’s kind of charming.

  

  So ten minutes later, with my tablet in my backpack and the backpack slung over my shoulder, I’m climbing onto Molly Quick’s electric bike. The bike seems patched together, with an old, rusty frame and motor but a seat and deep-tread tires that look like new additions.

  “Are you sure this is safe for two people?”

  “Absolutely! Would the daughter of the chief of police suggest an unsafe ride?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

  “Ha! Then you’ll just have to hold on and trust me.”

  Molly walks the bike in a half circle so it’s pointing away from the house. She instructs me to wrap my arms around her waist. She turns the key, and the motor hums to life. We start off with a jolt. Molly twists the handles to accelerate, and we go streaming down the tree-lined road with the wind in our faces.

  I’ve never ridden on any kind of motorbike before. “Hey! This is really fun.”

  “I know!” Molly says. “I love the electric motor. Eco-friendly. And quiet, so I can sneak up on people.”

  “Do you sneak up on people a lot?”

  “Oh, I never have. But as an investigative journalist, who knows when I might need to start?”

  We ride down Bliss Road in the direction opposite the way I arrived yesterday. The trail curves past three more old houses set back in the trees, then merges onto a narrow blacktop. A short time later, we’re on the outskirts of town.

  We turn onto Main Street and cruise past houses and shops under the huge oak trees hung with Spanish moss. There’s almost no traffic, except in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church.

  Molly pulls into the side yard of Springs of Coffee and leaves the bike leaning against the brick wall. Inside, she introduces me to the gay couple who own the place. Benjamin is the baker and Lewis is the barista and “business genius.” They seem really nice, and they treat Molly like family. Benjamin insists we sample some pieces of blueberry muffin.

  Molly orders a caramel macchiato and I ask for an iced chai. We sit down at a little table in the corner and fire up our computers. While mine is booting, I check my phone: two texts from Mom. The first, from yesterday, tells me they’ve landed in Paris and are having a grand time, and asks how I’m doing. The second, from this morning, says, “Where R U? U promised to text everyday!”

  I thumb in a reply: “I am great. no signal at Granma’s. messages may be irregular. stop worrying bout me and enjoy ur vacation!”

  After we pick up our drinks, we both get involved with our screens. I’ve been so charged up with settling in at Granma’s and the excitement at the Parkers’ house that I’ve hardly noticed not having internet. Now it hits me hard, and I get a burst of anxiety about catching up. I look at the latest posts from my teammates and add comments and emojis. I check in on Franklin and some of our friends from the drama club.

  Franklin is maybe my best friend. I met him three years ago, when we were both patients of Dr. Mark. Like me, he has anxiety disorder and suffers from too much imagination. But since we got to high school, he’s done really well. He’s extremely smart, and he’s acing all his classes. And getting involved with the drama club has really helped him bloom socially. We talk a lot about books and plays. He’s tried to get me to join the club, but it’s just not my thing. I do love hanging around with them and watching them all perform. I make a good audience.

  So I send Franklin a text to let him know I’ve arrived safely and that my phone access is limited. Then I think I ought to post something of my own, so I snap a picture of the coffee shop and post that I’m at Springs of Coffee in Harmony Springs. I think of taking one of Molly and adding “with my new friend Molly,” but I guess that would be false. I mean, she’s not really my friend, is she?

  After considering this, I look up to find Molly staring at me with a thoughtful expression.

  “About the Parkers," she says. "Dan’s report stated there was no sign of disturbance in the grass where they claimed to have seen the intruder. Did you see anything?”

  “No.”

  “But the Parkers were pretty definite about the spot, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So wouldn’t you say that’s evidence that this could be an actual paranormal event?”

  She would obviously like to think so. I have to admit, so would I. But I fall back on “I really don’t know what to say. I can’t explain about the grass.”

  Molly nods. “It’s not as far-fetched as it might sound. The history of Harmony Springs is full of paranormal stories.”

  A wriggle of fear starts in my stomach. “You mean like apparitions and ghosts?”

  “Sure. The families who founded the town were spiritualists. The Greenes, the Hollingsworths, the Aldens”—she gestures at me with an open hand—“the Renshaws.”

  The wriggle turns into a cringe. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve read a lot about it. Old newspapers and diaries over at the library. Alden was a rich guy from Boston and Greene was a minister in Indiana, but they were both into the occult. The story is that on the same night in 1882, they were visited in a dream by a spirit named Lebab. Lebab told them both to come to the springs and build a community. There was no town here then, just a little backwoods settlement.”

  Molly pauses to sip her coffee.

  “Go on.” I’m staring at her, enthralled. Why have I never heard this before?

  “Well, it gets more interesting. The spiritualist community grew and seems to have split into different factions. Some of them practiced magic, I mean, rituals where they conjured spirits and raised powers to do things for them. Others said that this was dangerous and called it sorcery.”

  Her eyes focus in on mine. “Did you ever hear anything about a curse on the Renshaws?”

  I lean back, hunch my shoulders, put my hands under the table and curl them into fists. I know I’m overreacting big-time, but it feels like she’s just punched me between the eyes.

  “Abby?”

  My voice is choked. “I…that’s sort of a painful subject. My dad said he was cursed. He died in a car wreck.”

  Molly looks horrified, then guilty. “Oh, I’m sorry. My big mouth! I ought to just shut up.”

  “No, please! Tell me what you know about it.”

  She goes on reluctantly. “Well, I don’t know a lot. It’s not the kind of thing that got written up in the newspapers. But I’ve heard a few older folks mention it. And it’s in one old diary I found. There was a young woman named Annie Renshaw in the second generation. She was the daughter of the Renshaw family who moved here from the north. Supposedly, she and some of her friends were very skilled in magic. When they were still teenagers, they got in contact with some powerful spirit or entity, but it turned out
to be evil. Eventually Annie Renshaw went insane and drowned herself in Bliss Spring.”

  “Bliss Spring? Is that the bayou?”

  “Yeah, now it’s the bayou, but it used to be a spring. See, originally there were five springs: Bliss and the other four upstream. But sometime after Annie Renshaw drowned, the source of Bliss Spring closed up, and it became a backwater.”

  “But…who put the curse on us?”

  Molly shrugs. “The story is that Annie did, just before she drowned. She was possessed by all this evil, and since she was never going to have any children, she put a curse on her brothers and sister and all their descendants.”

  “Wow…wow.” This does not feel like some quaint horror story from the last century. This feels like the hidden truth of my own past—the cause of my nightmares, the source of my mental instability.

  “Really, Abby. I’m sorry. I know I talk too much. But it’s just that I’m so curious and interested in things. People around here understand that they can just tell me to back off when I go too far. Please don’t hate me.”

  I’m finding it a little hard to breathe. “I don’t hate you…Really, I appreciate your telling me. I’m curious about this myself.”

  “Thanks.” Molly looks relieved. “But please, if I ever get too nosey, just tell me to shut up.”

  4. Drowning six or seven times an hour

  A little past noon, I say good-bye to Molly and walk the few blocks to Granma’s shop. While yesterday was overcast and humid, today is hot and dry. Sunlight filters through the oak leaves and casts wavy shadows on the ancient, broken sidewalks. The buildings and overgrown yards all look like they haven’t changed in a hundred years—not since the time of Annie Renshaw. But the modern world is also right in my face: cars and pickup trucks driving by, advertisements in the shop windows for the theme parks in Orlando, a road sign about the development issue:

  Save Harmony Springs

  Community Meeting June 24

  Granma’s shop is one of three businesses in a brick building. The sidewalk is raised a couple of steps above street level and bordered with an iron rail. The lettering on the front window says “Glenda’s Antiques.” Granma told me that Glenda was actually three owners ago, but no one’s ever seen a good reason to change the name.