Texas Gothic

  “Just go about your business,” she said. “It’s not instantaneous, just sooner rather than later. These kinds of spells merely affect probability. But you can’t manipulate the human factor. Influencing free will is a much bigger deal.”

  “Okay,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Tell the others I’m going to the restroom, then heading home.”

  Phin frowned. “I don’t think the ladies’ room will up your chances of meeting Joe Kelly.”

  “It’s not a tactical stop. It’s too many Dr Peppers.”

  In the “Cowgirls” room, I washed my hands and hit the dryer with my elbow and just a little bit of déjà vu. I was taking Phin’s advice and going about my business, which unfortunately meant wondering whether Ben had asked Caitlin out (or accepted her invite) before or after the back-rub, and why it mattered.

  The door opened and a woman in the Hitchin’ Post uniform (jeans, T-shirt, apron) came in. She was older than Jessica by a long shot, and might have been a natural blonde at some point in her life, but not now. She watched me as the dryer ran out, but I thought maybe she was just waiting for the sink.

  I had no hint of anything odd until she asked, “Are you the witch that’s digging up the bones in the pasture?”

  Warily I dried my damp hands on my jeans, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I’m one of the volunteers working with the crew from the university.”

  “I know who you are.” Whoever she was, her eyes were hard as flint, her voice a bitter pill. “Jessica told me you’re not just digging up bones. You’re digging up the ghost.”

  “I’m not—”

  The words stuck in my throat like a tongue on a frozen flagpole.

  No, no, no! Not now!

  Think, Amy. This is what you do.

  But I couldn’t. I reached for my store of clever evasions and found nothing but cold, empty space. Panic spiked, my mind raced, but I couldn’t find a single word.

  “You are,” said the woman. I silently begged her not to be a small-town, small-minded cliché. “You’re poking your nose where it shouldn’t be. No wonder the Mad Monk is stirring. A witch like you digging up his bones.”

  “Trust me,” I managed. Hope flared, and I tried again, “I’m not—”

  But my tongue knotted on that, too, and holy crap what was wrong with me? I wasn’t a witch. Why couldn’t I say that?

  Maybe because there was a spell in my pocket and a ghost paying calls at my house. But it wasn’t honor or nerves or guilt that stopped me. I physically could not speak. This was not natural.

  “You are.” She spit words like daggers. “All of you Goodnights, passing yourself off as hippie, new age types, thinking you can charm this town with your money. But what you’re doing is unnatural. And so are you.”

  She poured out her venom on me, thinking I was young and defenseless. And, horribly, I was. I couldn’t control this conversation and couldn’t even walk away. I was paralyzed by my inability to deny what she said and my unwillingness to just own it.

  No one was that bitter without some cause. I seized on that and used it to say something. “I’m sorry for whatever’s happened to you.”

  “You should be.” Her voice hitched, but her fever of anger didn’t break. “My husband is in the hospital right now because of you. Hit on the head because you city types can’t leave things alone.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again. I didn’t try to explain that I hadn’t even heard of the ghost until two days ago. Excuses wouldn’t make any difference.

  “You tell those college folks to stop violating those graves. And you—” Her voice quaked. “Just get out to your farm and stay there, before you hurt any more decent people than you already have.”

  She straight-armed the door and left. In her wake, I sagged against the counter, the strength washing out of me. My eyes burned with tears I’d held back while she was flaying me.

  My hands shook too hard to turn the knob on the faucet. It took me three tries before I could splash cold water on my face and begin to sort through my tumbling thoughts.

  Why couldn’t I lie?

  What was wrong with me? How had I lost the ability to steer my own voice?

  I heard Phin’s words in my head. Influencing free will is a much, much bigger deal.

  Was my bond with the ghost enough to do that?

  Panic rose up to choke me. Maybe I could live being haunted, but how could I exist without the ability to spin-doctor my crazy dual life? My glib explanations, my denials and dodges … those were my lifeline. They were how I kept my balance between my worlds, and how I protected my family from the skeptic authorities and the crazy believers.

  Even if the Goodnight Effect would keep them safe without my help, I didn’t even have that. Could I handle a lifetime of living in a magical world with no magic, and no defenses, dealing with situations just like this? Because the only other option would be to disown my family and become a totally different person.

  It was too much to hold in, and I did not want to cry in the bathroom in front of the condom machine. I fled the cowgirls’ room and in the hall turned away from the throng in the bar, toward the back door with the half-dark exit sign.

  I burst out into the night air. Or more specifically, into a haze of marijuana smoke. And in the middle of it, sitting on an upended milk carton, two minions lounging with him, was Joe Kelly.

  This was why I didn’t mess with magic.

  23

  mom always knows the right time to call, even when it seems like the wrong time.

  When I rushed out of the bar, Joe Kelly shot to his feet. Impressive, considering what he was smoking. He stared at me, and I stared at him, and finally he thought about holding his joint somewhere less obvious than right in front of him.

  I didn’t care. I had reached my limit and couldn’t possibly construct a sensible sentence just then. Ironic, when searching him out had put me in this situation in the first place.

  So I turned and ran to Stella in the parking lot. I flung myself into her, closed the door, and sat soaking up the toasty warmth of the car.

  When I’d collected myself, I headed home. Screw you, Mad Monk. I’m taking the night off.

  Usually I love to drive, because it gave me time to think. No teachers, no TV, no Internet. But tonight, the best part of the Hill Country was that you couldn’t think and drive. The twilight shadows and the curving stretch of highway took all my attention, like meditation. By the time the phone rang where I’d tossed it in the passenger seat, I thought I’d recovered at least a surface calm.

  But there was no fooling Mom.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  I put the call on speaker rather than pull over. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  I didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want I-told-you-so’s, and I didn’t want to admit how fear had turned to fury.

  Stupid ghost.

  “I’m sure Daisy told you what’s going on,” I said.

  “No one likes to hear secondhand that her daughter is under a geas to a spirit.”

  Geas. The word was heavy and old-fashioned, which was about right.

  I scowled at the windshield, because she wasn’t there in person. “Well, I didn’t really like finding it out firsthand, either.”

  “Are you taking a tone with me, Amaryllis?”

  I took a deep breath and eased my foot off the gas pedal as the road dipped. It was tempting to put Stella through her paces, but there were other drivers out. And also, my mother was on the phone.

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Tell me what happened, sweetie.”

  “Aunt Hyacinth has cursed me, that’s what happened.”

  “Oh, honey. She would never do that.”

  “Not literally. But I have this ghost tied to me, and I can’t say it’s not real, or that I’m not looking for it, or even that there’s no magic involved. My mind just goes blank and my mouth will not work.”

>   She paused, and I felt the point even over the phone. “So, you can’t lie?”

  “It’s not lying, Mom. It’s smoke screen.” Except that it was totally lying, with one exception: “I couldn’t even speak to say I’m not a witch.”

  “Sweetie, saying you’re not a witch is like saying you’re not a carnivore if you get your meat from the supermarket instead of hunting it yourself.”

  The road took a steep curve, a little too on the nose, metaphorically, to what just happened in my head.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I said when things leveled out.

  “You must have, or you would have been able to say it. Triple promises work on your own conscience, even if it’s subconsciously.”

  It was true. I didn’t practice magic, but I used it like some people use the Internet. No, not the Internet, because I couldn’t function without that, but something life enhancing yet nonessential, like text messaging. Not spells, usually—teas and bath potions and the occasional crystal jewelry.

  “How did you know it was a triple promise?” I asked, even though I could guess.

  “I talked to Phin, of course. I’m so proud of you, honey, for taking on this task. I always knew you had an affinity of your own, but I’d almost given up—” She corrected herself with a laugh. “No, that’s not true. I’d never give up on one of my babies.”

  I flexed my hands on the wheel, my knuckles stiff from gripping so hard through twists and turns, literal and figurative. I wished I had pulled over while I had the chance. This was taking much more concentration than the venting/bitching session I’d anticipated.

  “What are you talking about, Mom? I didn’t volunteer for this.”

  Her voice cut in and out, and when she came through clearly again, she was speaking as if she hadn’t heard me.

  “Funny, I suspected your talent might be spirit related, because of—”

  She cut out again.

  “Because of what, Mom?” I yelled at the phone on the console, as if that would make a difference in reception. “If I’d volunteered for this, I could get rid of this ghost, right? Mom?”

  “Yes, dear?” And she was back.

  “Did you hear what I said? I’m losing the connection in the hills.”

  “Are you on the road?”

  “Yes. I must be going through a dead spot.” Wow. There was a poor choice of words. “I’d better go.”

  “Amaryllis Goodnight! You’re not talking while you’re driving, are you?”

  “I’m on speaker—” A hiss of static cut off the conversation. I glanced at the phone, saw the call had dropped, and when I looked up, there was a man in the middle of the road.

  I slammed on the brakes. Stella struggled to grip the pavement and I clutched the wheel, bracing myself for something horrible, every muscle tensed as if I could will the car to stop in time.

  Please, God, stop in time.

  A squeal of tires and an explosion of static from the radio. Then everything went quiet, and dark, and I was stopped in the middle of the two-lane highway, surrounded by mountains and fences, with nothing ahead of me but more road, a long strip of winding yellow line, and no one in sight.

  “What. The. Hell.”

  I stared at the spot where I would swear—where I would bet my life if I hadn’t managed to control Stella’s swerve—someone had been standing just an instant before.

  Nothing.

  Fear crept up my spine with sharp, cold feet. When I say nothing, I mean nothing. There was no man, there were no other cars, not even a distant house or barn light. I was completely alone.

  What, exactly, had I seen? A flash. A figure in the headlights, man-shaped, standing straight, arms to his sides. I had no memory of what he looked like. It was just an impression, a pillar of a person. A shade.

  I pried my fingers from the wheel and flicked on the hazard lights. The thought of leaving my car, my bubble of safety, even if it was just an illusion, spurred my racing heart. It hammered in my ears as I climbed out and searched either side of the highway. The contrast from the headlights to the dark was too great for me to see much, but if someone had run off to one of the shoulders, I would know it.

  Nothing.

  Sagging, weak-kneed, against Stella’s hood, I rubbed my trembling hands on my pants to get the feeling back into them. I was being foolish to react now to something that hadn’t happened. But I had a good imagination and could hear the thud in my head, of a body hitting the hood, the crack of bone against windshield.

  I felt like I’d been pranked. This ghost was starting to really piss me off.

  With a surge of anger, I jumped to my feet and I shouted at the empty road, “What do you want?” Then I spun and called to the limestone hills, “I’m busca-ing for you, you stupid ghost. What more do you want?”

  Only silence answered.

  The ghost wanted me to stop. I was stopped. I remembered the EVP, and though I’m sure Phin would be ready with a digital voice recorder, all I had was my phone. Maybe the voice-note app would work.

  Before I could get it from the car, I heard a strange, deep whump.

  I knew that subwoofer sound. It was soft and distant, but not as distant as when I heard it at the farm, or at the dig site.

  I caught a flicker of light in the darkness past the fence that ran along the highway. There was a gate about a hundred feet from me, and the sign told me I was in the middle of McCulloch land, but the twists of the road made it hard to know exactly where. Which probably made what I was about to do even more stupid.

  There was something out in that pasture, and I was going to follow it, and I was going to find it. Ghost, mystery, Mad Monk … I was hell-bent on putting them all to rest.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I got in the car and drove closer to the gate, pulling off the road and into the weeds on the shoulder. Then I grabbed my phone and my flashlight and clambered over the gate.

  I was doing exactly what I’d sworn never to do again. I was chasing ghosts into the darkness. But my determination was stronger than my fear.

  The deep sound didn’t repeat, but I could hear a throaty rumbling. The hills made it impossible to localize. I left my flashlight off and picked my way down the white caliche road until my eyes adjusted to the moonlight. Something big moved in the shadows to my right, scaring my heart into my throat—until I heard rhythmic chewing. A cow.

  The cows had been cleared from around the dig site, so I was in a different section of the ranch. I thought the looming bluff in front of me might be the big granite outcropping that Mrs. McCulloch had pointed to at lunch, which helped me get my bearings.

  The light I’d seen from the road winked out. I fixed the point where it had disappeared in my mind and, trusting my night vision, set off at a slow jog across the pasture. At first I kept to the packed-down cattle trails, but when it became too difficult to keep on target, I abandoned the path for the more uneven ground.

  The hill was a black shadow against the charcoal of the sky, and as I neared it, I heard an intermittent rumble. It took me a moment to identify the sound as a diesel truck engine, coming toward me.

  Coming right toward me, I realized with a start. The bounce of its shocks, the crunch of rock and dirt under big tires, but no headlights. Who drove over this terrain in the dark with no headlights? There were ravines and ditches and cows and girls with more determination than sense out in these hills.

  In those heartbeats of frozen confusion, I couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t be extremely annoyed to see me. But I also couldn’t think of any good reason for someone to be driving without lights. I mean, no reason that wasn’t sneaky and dangerous. I didn’t want to be caught there by anyone, but especially someone who didn’t want to be caught there, either.

  For another second I danced indecisively from foot to foot, then spotted a rocky outcropping like a gift from heaven. I ran for it and rolled into the concealment of shadow beneath it.

  Only it wasn’t a shadow. It was a
hole.

  And I was falling.

  I slid down an almost vertical slope, sharp rocks tearing my shirt and scraping my back, but slowing my descent. Before I had time to let out more than a startled screech and pained yelp, I landed on something soft and yielding and really foul.

  My flashlight clattered down beside me and hit with a squish.

  The blackness was so profound it hurt my eyes. From overhead I heard the faint rustle of leathery wings in the keen, cutting silence that followed my landing.

  I took stock of the mess I’d gotten myself into. On one hand, I was bumped and bruised and scraped, but when I tested arms and elbows and knees, they all still worked.

  On the other, I was trapped at the bottom of a sinkhole, and my neck had just been saved by a ginormous pile of bat guano.

  I was well and truly in the shit.

  24

  i felt around for my flashlight, promising myself that when I got out of this—however I got out of this—I would indulge in an almighty freak-out about the fact that I was covered in bat crap. But for now I’d be thankful it had broken my fall.

  Turning on the light helped. Knowing your situation, even when it sucked, was better than not. I was in a cave of reasonable size. One section seemed to go deeper into the ground, though I couldn’t tell how far because stalactites—or stalagmites, I could never remember which—blocked my view. I was not at all inclined to investigate, because that would mean crawling on my belly into places where neurotic control freaks were never meant to go.

  In central Texas, school field trips to the big tourist caves are a requisite. Inner Space, Natural Bridge, Longhorn Caverns … limestone caves riddle the hills—big, little; dry, active; open, closed—and I knew from helpful docents—not just from Ben McCulloch—that sinkholes do open up now and then.

  This one, judging by the pile of guano, had been there for a while. It only felt as though I’d been swallowed by the earth. Really I had just, literally, leapt before I looked.

  The slope I’d slid down was way too steep to climb. The mouth of the cave was a flat oval with an overhang, ten feet or so above my reaching fingers. A few fluttering black shapes clung to it; it was probably solid with bats during the daytime.