Ghosts of Bliss Bayou Read online

  “I don’t know her well. She left town a year or two before you and your mother did. Got married and moved to Atlanta. I understand she and her husband worked in real estate up there. A couple of years ago they opened an office in Florida, up near Ocala somewhere. I think they both still work in Atlanta too. She inherited the old Alden house across the bayou from us. They’re putting a lot of money into fixing it up.”

  “Oh…the house with the construction going on? The one with the boat dock?”

  “That’s the one.”

  

  So the next day, waiting for Fiona to pick me up, I’m pretty apprehensive. Just thinking about the big house with the dock is enough to start nasty fears crawling in my stomach. I keep telling myself this is stupid. Just because she owns the house where I had my bad scare doesn’t mean I should worry about meeting her. Besides, I haven’t seen a hint of anything paranormal or hallucinatory since Granma and her friends did their magic.

  When Fiona arrives, I immediately feel at ease. She’s brisk and pleasant, dressed in a tailored pantsuit. She chats a few minutes with Granma, and I can tell she’s really bright and good with people. She reminds me a lot of Mom in her professional mode.

  I hope I’m dressed okay. I worried about what to wear and finally settled on a sundress and sandals. I put a barrette in my hair and even applied a little makeup to cover my fading bruise. I’m relieved when Fiona tells me how nice I look.

  We go outside and get in her car, a Lexus hybrid SUV. She backs out of the parking space, makes a quick U-turn, and accelerates smoothly. Really nice car.

  “I thought we’d drive out to I-75,” Fiona says. “There are some good restaurants at the mall. Or if you’d rather, we could lunch at the country club.”

  “Either one sounds great. Thanks.”

  “Do you play golf?”

  “No. I haven’t taken that up yet. Mom and Jim play. Jim’s her husband. I run on the track team.”

  “You look very fit. How about tennis?”

  “Some. I’m not very good.”

  Fiona smiles. “I think you’re probably too modest.” She drives as fast as the traffic allows, keeping just three fingers on the wheel. “Tell me about school. What do you like to study?”

  I tell her I like language arts and psychology, but I’m pretty good at math too. Fiona is so polished and accomplished that I feel pressure to say things she’ll approve of. So when she asks about college plans, I tell her I’m undecided and toss out a few impressive names, schools where I think I’ll apply. I’m also not sure yet what I’ll major in, but I mention subjects I know Mom would like to hear—marketing, maybe finance.

  That gives me a chance to turn it around and ask Fiona what she likes about her work. I’ve noticed most adults like talking about themselves more than about me, and Fiona is no exception. I find out she loves the real estate business and has a great “synergistic” partnership with her husband, Adam. He’s great at finances and planning, and she feels really confident “on the sales and people side.”

  “We’ve done very well up in Atlanta. But I’m really happier in Florida. It’s where I grew up, you know? It’s home. Eventually I’d like us to live here year-round.”

  We’ve taken County Road 245 north of town and then turned onto a state highway. There’s little traffic, and Fiona flies past cattle ranches and patches of wetlands and woods. Then we start to pass developments with big tile-roofed houses behind concrete walls. Signs on the gates announce names like Paradise Prairies and River Ranch. Fiona tells me she has a house near here on a lake. A little later, she points out the country club.

  After forty minutes we come to the mall, which is built next to the interstate. We go inside and walk past shops and salons and a high artificial waterfall. It feels a lot like New Jersey.

  This is the real world, Abby. Harmony Springs, the enchanted forest, the nightmares and hallucinations—all seem a zillion miles away.

  We have lunch at a continental café with white tablecloths, on a big terrace overlooking the mall. We eat crepes with crabmeat and drink Perrier from a bottle that the server keeps chilled in a silver ice bucket.

  Fiona asks about Mom and Jim. I know enough about their work that I can answer semi-intelligently. I tell her how Mom tracks financial sectors and writes analysis reports and that Jim flies to London and Zurich several times a year. That seems to impress her.

  “But this time they’re in Europe for vacation. No work for three weeks. At least that’s what Mom promised.”

  Fiona nods, smiling. “Your mom is very ambitious. I always admired her for that.”

  

  On the way back, I remember my promise to Molly, so I ask Fiona about Save Harmony Springs. I can see immediately that I’ve touched a nerve.

  “Those guys from Texas are the type who give developers a bad name. They come in and throw money around, knowing nothing about the people or the heritage of a place. Then they build acres of ugliness, leave the environment and the infrastructure a mess, and take their profits and run. When I heard about their plans, I just had to get involved.”

  “I’m really glad you feel that way. I guess someone like you can help a lot.”

  “I hope so. There are a number of strategies we can pursue to stop them. Denying permits, easements, environmental impact assessments. But it all gets into politics, and in the end depends on the community wanting to preserve its heritage. I hope you and your grandmother will come to the meeting next week.”

  I say that we plan to, then mention Molly. When she hears that Molly is on our side and wants to help spread the word, she says she’d be glad to do an interview. I take out my phone and text Molly, giving her Fiona’s mobile number.

  Fiona answered some phone calls and texts while we were at the mall. Now she says, “Speaking of the springs, I need to stop off at my house on the way back into town. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, right. Your house on Bliss Bayou…”

  “Just for a few minutes. I need to talk with the foreman about the new windows.”

  “Sure, that’s fine.” The skin prickles on the back of my neck. I’ve been terrified both times I went near that house. I met Shadow Man there less than two days ago. I search frantically for some excuse so I can ask her to drop me on Main Street first. But I can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound crazy.

  I’ll just have to tough it out and hope for the best.

  So I’m pretty nervous when we turn off the county road and head for Bliss Bayou. I try to concentrate on holding up my side of the conversation. Fiona’s explaining how she inherited the property from an aunt who died several years ago. The house hasn’t been lived in since the 1990s.

  “Parts of the structure needed to be rebuilt from the ground,” she says. “It’s cost us a ton of money, but Adam’s been very understanding. It’s important to me to restore the house to its original grandeur.”

  “I think that’s really great. I love Granma’s house, and I know it’s a struggle for her to keep it in good shape.”

  We pull up to the house. Pickup trucks are parked in the front yard, and the place is noisy with hammering and power saws. I’m anxious but feel none of the inexplicable terror I experienced the last two times I came here. I glance down at the bayou and see only the old dock and the quiet water gleaming in the sunlight.

  Fiona asks if I’d like to come inside. I can’t think of a good reason to refuse, so I put on a smile and say, “Sure.”

  Inside, the place is cluttered with scaffolds, ladders, and drop cloths. Workers are clattering around, and the air smells of sawdust and paint. But I can already see the house is going to be gorgeous—polished wood columns, arched doorways with stained glass, big, airy rooms with high ceilings. I can feel how proud Fiona is, and I make what I hope are appropriate comments of appreciation.

  After she has her conference with the foreman, we head back to the car. I take a last look around as we drive aw
ay. Somehow, seeing the house this time—in the daylight, with Fiona, and going inside it—has reassured me.

  Maybe the nightmares are over.

  Maybe the magic work Granma and Violet and Kevin did for me has solved the problem. Or maybe it just gave me some reassurance, and the fears lurking in my subconscious have been brought to light and vanquished, the way Dr. Mark used to explain.

  Maybe I can just be plain-old, sane-old Abby Renshaw from now on.

  That would be so nice.

  7. I’ve never seen anyone as scared as I just saw you

  Two days later, having experienced no relapse of my Abby-insanity, I keep my kayaking date with Molly. She meets me at the antique shop, and we ride her bike over to Founders Park.

  The park stretches along the shore of Harmony River, about a mile and a half downstream from the headwaters of the springs. We cruise past tennis and basketball courts, a sandy baseball field, and picnic tables spread out in the shade of oaks and slash pines. There’s also a swimming hole formed by an inlet of the river, and down from there is a place to rent kayaks and canoes.

  The rental shop is run by a wiry, bearded guy named Jess and his assistant, Hank. Hank is around our age, tall and broad-shouldered, with curly hair and a sleepy smile. Molly flirts with him while we arrange the rental.

  Because the river current is fast, part of their service is to truck the kayak upstream or to pick you up at a landing point downstream, if you choose to go that way. Molly wants to show me the source of the springs, so we’ll be driven up there and then ride the current back. After we pay, Hank loads a two-seat kayak onto the back of a pickup. Molly makes a point of sitting next to him in the front seat.

  Leaving the park, we cross a bridge and then follow a road up the west side of the river. Molly talks to Hank about school and the football team (I learn he plays linebacker). He jokes about her being the daughter of the chief of police, and about how boring the town is in the summer. He mostly keeps his eyes on the road, but every once in a while they slide sideways to check out our legs.

  He turns onto a dirt road, and we drive past houses built in the woods and along the edge of the river. Some of them are big 1890s-style houses like the ones on Bliss Bayou. But there are also cracker houses, run-down cabins, and even some old trailers. Molly points out where Pete Hastings lives—the guy who was bitten by the cottonmouth. She says that several of the property owners along here are talking about selling. She’s learned who they are from her interview with Fiona, which happened last night. She thanks me again for helping her arrange it and says she is still working on writing it up for her blog.

  At the head of the springs is a little nature preserve. Hank parks there and carries our kayak down the trail to the landing spot. Molly and I apply sunscreen and put on our life jackets. Hank makes sure we’ve got them fastened snugly, and Molly takes the opportunity to flirt with him some more. Hank gives her his sleepy smile. He holds the kayak steady as we climb in. He hands us our paddles, then pushes the kayak off the bank. As we slip out into the current, he reminds us to be back by six thirty, when the shop closes.

  Molly’s in the front and takes the lead. We paddle against the current, up along the swampy shoreline. Oak and ash trees stick straight up on the banks, eighty or a hundred feet tall. The water is crystal clear, and I can see the bottom—sand and rock, with underwater grasses waving in the current. Molly points out a wide fissure marked by tiny bubbles escaping to the surface.

  “I think that one is Love Spring,” she says.

  Each spring is a vent where water gushes up from the aquifer deep underground. I know from looking at maps that the headwaters are shaped like the joined fingers of a mitten. The four main springs still have the names the founders gave them: Love, Endurance, Balance, and Amity. The fifth spring, now Bliss Bayou, is at the end of its own channel downstream from here—the thumb of the mitten.

  I saw the springs as a little girl, but never this close. “Wow. This is beautiful.”

  “I know,” Molly says. “Definitely one of the cool things about living here.”

  I spot a big black bird standing on a rock with its wings spread, drying them in the sun. It makes me think of a guardian spirit keeping watch over the springs. Molly says it’s an anhinga, a kind of cormorant.

  We paddle around and look at the other vents. Molly points out a clearing at the top end of the shore, just visible through the brush. According to legend, the founders used to do magic rituals there. That makes me curious, and I tell her I’d like to see it. She says it’s hard to get to from the water, but there’s another clearing at the head of Bliss Bayou that we can check out.

  As we glide down the opposite shoreline, I suddenly suck in my breath. A four-foot alligator is sunning on a dead log.

  “They don’t bother you if you don’t bother them,” Molly assures me.

  I think about the alligator men I used to see in my hallucinations. I’m really glad Molly steers us well away from that log.

  A little later, we pull into an inlet to rest. Molly insists that it’s safe, so we climb out and drag the kayak onto a sandbar. We stretch out on the soft sand and crack open bottles of water. Molly asks me what I thought of Hank.

  “Oh, he’s fine.”

  Molly grins. “Really fine.”

  Lying there in the shade, we compare notes on guys and sex. Molly admits to having done it twice, with two different guys. Neither time was as thrilling as she had hoped, and the relationships didn’t last very long.

  I confess I’ve only gotten to second base, and that I’ve never gone out with a guy more than a couple of times. “They always want to go farther, faster than I do.”

  Molly laughs. “Most of them do seem to be engineered that way.”

  “Sure. But I want to feel I can trust a guy as well as like him, you know?”

  “What does that mean, trust him?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know what it means to you.”

  That forces me to think about it. “Trust him not to hurt me, not to use me and then leave right away.” I guess it brings up fear of abandonment…like my father abandoned me when he died. I file that away as something I should examine.

  “I don’t know,” Molly says. “Depending on the guy, I might want him to leave right away.”

  We both laugh at that.

  “Not Hank, though. Him I’d like to hang around for a while.”

  

  We float downstream to the mouth of Bliss Bayou, then have to paddle hard to get out of the current. Once we enter the bayou there’s almost no current, and the water is dark and muddy. I wonder out loud what could have caused Bliss Spring to close up all those years ago. Molly shrugs and says apparently it just happens sometimes.

  We work our way up the bayou, passing the Alden house on the north shore and Granma’s and the other houses on the opposite side. At the head of the bayou, the land curves around in a half circle, with mucky pools and thick cypress trees. But there’s a little stone landing and a raised path that Molly says was built in the founders’ time. We tie up the kayak and follow the path through the undergrowth.

  We emerge in a clearing about fifty feet wide, almost a perfect circle. There’s a fallen tree along one edge, and a few small saplings, but otherwise the ground is clear, a carpet of pine needles and decaying leaves.

  My eyes lock on the center of the circle, where three slabs of gray stone are set up like a table—or an altar.

  “Weird, isn’t it?” Molly says.

  “Yeah. What keeps the forest from taking it over?”

  “Every few years, the town pays someone to come in and clear-cut it. This end of the bayou was bequeathed to the town as a park on the condition that they keep this area cleared.”

  As she’s talking, the edges of my vision blur, and I lose focus. I blink hard.

  Then the world changes.

  I’m staring at a scene that I know is from lo
ng ago. It’s night, and the clearing is lit by candles in glass lanterns. Two girls are standing at the stone altar. I recognize them as the girls from my dreams. A guy is with them, a young man with slicked-back hair parted in the middle. The three of them are wearing robes with wide sleeves, their arms raised high over their heads. They’re holding wands like the magic wand Violet used, and they’re chanting, reciting words in English and some other language I don’t know.

  “Abby. Abby!” Molly is shaking my arm.

  I blink again, and the vision is gone. But now I’m terrified—a physical sensation of pure terror that I can’t explain and can’t control.

  “What’s wrong with you? I’ve been calling your name for like a minute.”

  “Let’s get out of here.” I turn and look for the path. “This place is creeping me out.”

  “What happened?” Molly walks beside me. “You were totally zoned out!”

  I don’t answer her. I go down the path as fast as I can without slipping. I climb into the kayak, almost tipping it over.

  “Slow down!” Molly says.

  She steadies the boat, climbs in carefully, and unhitches the rope. As soon as she does, I push off with the paddle.

  “What is wrong with you?” Molly is facing away from me now, and I’m glad she can’t see my face. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t talk about it.” I almost can’t talk at all, I’m so scared. “Let’s just get out of here!”

  “All right! We’re going!”

  Numb and shaking, I’m not much good at paddling. Luckily Molly settles into an even stroke and doesn’t press me with any more questions. I stare at my hands, trying to concentrate on paddling, trying to calm down.

  But when we get near the Alden house, something forces me to look up.

  Shadow Man is standing on the dock, watching us.

  

  After we return the kayak, Molly insists that I sit down and collect myself. She marches me over to a bench beside the river. It’s late afternoon, and we sit for a long time, just staring at the water.

  Finally Molly says, “I’ve hung around the police station since I was a little kid. I’ve even gone with my dad on emergencies, when he got called suddenly and I happened to be in the car. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as scared as I just saw you.”