“No. Never liked them things. Don’t like the government knowing everything I’m doing. Ain’t no one else’s business.”
“Well,” Jeremy said, reaching for his wallet, “it is a problem. I’ve heard the government has spies everywhere.”
Tully nodded knowingly. “I bet it’s even worse for you doctor folks. Which reminds me . . .”
Tully kept up a stready stream of talk for the next fifteen minutes. Jeremy learned about the vagaries of the weather, ridiculous government edicts, and how Wyatt—the other gas station owner—would gouge Jeremy if he ever went there for gas, since he fiddled with the calibration on the pumps as soon as the Unocal truck pulled away. But mainly, he heard about Tully’s trouble with his prostate, which made it necessary to get out of bed at least five times a night to go to the bathroom. He asked Jeremy’s opinion about that, being that he was a urologist. He also asked about Viagra.
After he had replugged his cheek twice with chaw, another car pulled in on the other side of the pump, interrupting their talk. The driver popped his hood up, and Tully peered inside before wiggling some wires and spitting off to the side. Tully promised he could fix it, but being that he was so busy, the man would have to leave his car there for at least a week. The stranger seemed to expect this answer, and a moment later, they were talking about Mrs. Dungeness and the fact that a possum had ended up in her kitchen the night before and eaten from the fruit bowl.
Jeremy used the opportunity to sneak away. He stopped at the department store to buy a map and a packet of postcards featuring the landmarks of Boone Creek, and before long, he was making his way along a winding road that led out of town. He magically found both the turn and the fork, but unfortunately missed Wilson Tanner’s place completely. With a bit of backtracking, he finally reached a narrow gravel lane almost hidden by the overgrowth of trees on either side.
Making the turn, he bumped his way through various potholes until the forest began to thin. On the right, he passed a sign that noted he was nearing Riker’s Hill—site of a Civil War skirmish—and a few moments later, he pulled to a stop in front of the main gate at Cedar Creek Cemetery. Riker’s Hill towered in the background. Of course, “towered” was a relative term, since it seemed to be the only hill in this part of the state. Anything would have towered out here. The place was otherwise as flat as the flounders he’d heard about on the radio.
Surrounded by brick columns and rusting wrought-iron fencing, Cedar Creek Cemetery was set into a slight valley, making it look as if it was slowly sinking. The grounds were shaded with scores of oaks that dripped with Spanish moss, but the massive magnolia tree in the center dominated everything. Roots spread from the trunk and protruded above the earth like arthritic fingers.
Though the cemetery might have once been an orderly, peaceful resting place, it was now neglected. The dirt pathway beyond the main gate was rutted with deep rain grooves and carpeted with decaying leaves. The few patches of dormant grass seemed out of place. Fallen branches were propped here and there, and the undulating terrain reminded Jeremy of waves rolling toward shore. Tall weeds sprouted near the headstones, almost all of which appeared to be broken.
Tully was right. It wasn’t much to look at. But for a haunted cemetery, it was perfect. Especially one that might end up on television. Jeremy smiled. The place looked like it had been designed in Hollywood.
Jeremy stepped out of the car and stretched his legs before retrieving his camera from the trunk. The breeze was chilly, but it had none of the arctic bite of New York, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of pine and sweetgrass. Above him, cumulus clouds drifted across the sky and a lone hawk circled in the distance. Riker’s Hill was dotted with pines, and in the fields that spread out from the base, he saw an abandoned tobacco barn. Covered in kudzu with half the tin roof missing and one of the walls crumbling, it was tilting to the side, as if any uptick in the breeze would be enough to topple it over. Other than that, there was no sign of civilization.
Jeremy heard the hinge groan as he pushed through the rusting main gate and wandered down the dirt pathway. He glanced at the headstones on either side of him, puzzled by their lack of markings until he realized that the original engravings had largely been erased by weather and the passage of time. The few he could make out dated from the late 1700s. Up ahead, a crypt looked as if it had been invaded. The roof and sides had toppled in, and just beyond that, another monument lay crumbled on the pathway. More damaged crypts and broken monuments followed. Jeremy saw no evidence of purposeful vandalism, only natural, if serious, decay. Nor did he see any evidence that anyone had been buried here within the last thirty years, which would explain why it looked abandoned.
In the shade of the magnolia, he paused, wondering how the place would look on a foggy night. Probably spooky, which could prompt a person’s imagination to run wild. But if there were unexplained lights, where were they coming from? He guessed that the “ghosts” were simply reflected light turned into prisms by the water droplets in the fog, but there weren’t any streetlamps out here, nor was the cemetery lit. He saw no signs of any dwellings on Riker’s Hill that might have been responsible either. He supposed they could come from car headlights, yet he saw only the single road nearby, and people would have noticed the connection long ago.
He’d have to get a good topographical map of the area, in addition to the street map he had just bought. Perhaps the local library would have one. In any case, he’d stop by the library to research the history of the cemetery and the town itself. He needed to know when the lights were first spotted; that might give him an idea as to their cause. Of course, he’d have to spend a couple of nights out here in spookyville as well, if the foggy weather was willing to cooperate.
For a while, he walked around the cemetery taking photographs. These wouldn’t be for publication; they would serve as comparison points in case he came across earlier photographs of the cemetery. He wanted to see how it had changed over the years, and it might benefit him to know when—or why—the damage had occurred. He snapped a picture of the magnolia tree as well. It was easily the largest he’d ever seen. Its black trunk was wizened, and the low-hanging branches would have kept him and his brothers occupied for hours when they were boys. If it weren’t surrounded by dead people, that is.
As he was flicking through the digital photos to make sure they were sufficient, he saw movement from the corner of his eye.
Glancing up, he saw a woman walking toward him. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a light blue sweater that matched the canvas bag she was carrying, she had brown hair that lightly swept her shoulders. Her skin, with just a hint of olive, made makeup unnecessary, but it was the color of her eyes that caught him: from a distance, they appeared almost violet. Whoever she was, she’d parked her car directly behind his.
For a moment, he wondered whether she was approaching him to ask him to leave. Maybe the cemetery was condemned and now off-limits. Then again, perhaps her visit here was simply a coincidence.
She continued moving toward him.
Come to think of it, a rather attractive coincidence. Jeremy straightened as he slipped the camera back into its case. He smiled broadly as she neared.
“Well, hello there,” he said.
At his comment, she slowed her gait slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed him. Her expression seemed almost amused, and he half expected her to stop. Instead, he thought he caught the sound of her laughter as she walked right by.
With eyebrows raised in appreciation, Jeremy watched her go. She didn’t look back. Before he could stop himself, he took a step after her.
“Hey!” he called out.
Instead of stopping, she simply turned and continued walking backward, her head tilted inquisitively. Again, Jeremy saw the same amused expression.
“You know, you really shouldn’t stare like that,” she called out. “Women like a man who knows how to be subtle.”
She turned again, adjusted the canvas bag on her shoulder, and kept on going. In the distance, he heard her laugh again.
Jeremy stood openmouthed, for once at a loss as to how to respond.
Okay, so she wasn’t interested. No big deal. Still, most people would have at least said hello in response. Maybe it was a southern thing. Maybe guys hit on her all the time and she was tired of it. Or maybe she simply didn’t want to be interrupted while she did . . . did . . .
Did what?
See, that was the problem with journalism, he sighed. It made him too curious. Really, it was none of his business. And besides, he reminded himself, it’s a cemetery. She was probably here to visit the departed. People did that all the time, didn’t they?
He wrinkled his brow. The only difference was that most cemeteries looked as if someone came by to mow the lawn now and then, while this one looked like San Francisco after the earthquake in 1906. He supposed he could have headed in her direction to see what she was up to, but he’d talked to enough women to realize that spying might come across as far more creepy than staring. And she didn’t seem to like his staring.
Jeremy actively tried not to stare as she disappeared behind one of the oak trees, her canvas bag swinging with every graceful stride.
It was only after she’d vanished that he was able to remind himself that pretty girls didn’t matter right now. He had a job to do and his future was on the line here. Money, fame, television, yadda yadda yadda. Okay, what next? He’d seen the cemetery . . . he might as well check out some of the surrounding area. Sort of get a feel for the place.
He walked back to his car and hopped in, pleased that he hadn’t so much as glanced behind him to see if she was watching him. Two could play that game. Of course, that presupposed that she even cared what he was doing, and he was pretty sure she didn’t.
A quick glance now from the driver’s seat proved him correct.
He started the engine and accelerated slowly; as he moved farther away from the cemetery, he found it easier to let the woman’s image drift from his mind to the task at hand. He drove farther up the road to see if other roads—either gravel or paved—intersected it, and he kept his eye out for windmills or tin-roofed buildings, without luck. Nor did he find something as simple as a farmhouse.
Turning the car around, he started back the way he had come, looking for a road that would lead him to the top of Riker’s Hill but finally giving up in frustration. As he neared the cemetery again, he found himself wondering who owned the fields surrounding it and if Riker’s Hill was public or private land. The county tax assessor’s office would have that information. The sharp-eyed journalist in him also happened to notice that the woman’s car was gone, which left him with a slight, though surprising, pang of disappointment, which passed as quickly as it had come.
He checked his watch; it was a little after two, and he figured that the lunch rush at Herbs was probably ending. Might as well talk to Doris. Maybe she could shed some “light” on the subject.
He smiled lamely to himself, wondering if the woman he’d seen at the cemetery would have laughed at that one.
Three
Only a few tables on the porch were still occupied when Jeremy reached Herbs. As he climbed the steps to the front door, conversations quieted and eyes drifted his way. Only the chewing continued, and Jeremy was reminded of the curious way cows looked at you when you approached the pasture fence. Jeremy nodded and waved, as he’d seen the old folks on the porches doing.
He removed his sunglasses and pushed through the door. The small, square tables were spread through two main rooms on either side of the building, separated by a set of stairs. The peach walls were offset by white trim, giving the place a homey, country feel; toward the rear of the building, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen.
Again, the same cowlike expressions from patrons as he passed. Conversations quieted. Eyes drifted. When he nodded and waved, eyes dropped and the murmur of conversation rose again. This waving thing, he thought, was kind of like having a magic wand.
Jeremy stood fiddling with his sunglasses, hoping Doris was here, when one of the waitresses ambled out from the kitchen. In her late twenties or so, she was tall and reed-thin, with a sunny, open face.
“Just take a seat anywhere, hon,” she chirped. “Be with you in a minute.”
After making himself comfortable near a window, he watched the waitress approach. Her name tag said RACHEL. Jeremy thought about the name tag phenomenon in town. Did every worker have one? He wondered if it was some sort of rule. Like nodding and waving.
“Can I get you something to drink, darlin’?”
“Do you have cappuccino?” he ventured.
“No, sorry. We have coffee, though.”
Jeremy smiled. “Coffee will be fine.”
“You got it. Menu’s on the table if you want something to eat.”
“Actually, I was wondering if Doris McClellan was around.”
“Oh, she’s in the back,” Rachel said, brightening. “Want me to get her?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
She smiled. “No problem at all, darlin’.”
He watched her head toward the kitchen and push through the swinging doors. A moment later, a woman whom he assumed was Doris emerged. She was the opposite of Rachel: short and stout, with thinning white hair that was once blond, she was wearing an apron, but no name tag, over a flower-print blouse. She looked to be about sixty. Pausing at the table, she put her hands on her h*ps before breaking into a smile.
“Well,” she said, drawing out the word into two syllables, “you must be Jeremy Marsh.”
Jeremy blinked. “You know me?” he asked.
“Of course. I just saw you on Primetime Live last Friday. I take it you got my letter.”
“I did, thank you.”
“And you’re here to write a story about the ghosts?”