Sparrow Hill Road

  “Aunt Rose!” She twists to look at me over Bobby’s shoulder, and her eyes are the pleading eyes of a trapped animal. “Please, help me! Don’t let him—”

  “You’re the one who said that family didn’t mean anything, Bethany,” I say. Her eyes widen, hope draining out of them. I feel like I’m going to be sick. But I can’t save her from Bobby, not here, not now, not when she made the bargain of her own free will. The only thing I can do is offer myself in her place . . .

  And she’s not worth it.

  Bethany screams as I walk out of the parking lot, out of Buckley, down into the twilight, where the ghostroads hold no surprises anymore. Even as the daylight fades around me, taking the smell of ashes and lilies with it, I think that I can still hear Bethany, screaming. I’ll be hearing her for a while, I suppose. And I walk on.

  2014

  Do You Believe in Ghosts?

  THE PREACHERS THAT WALK and talk and trade their snake oil sermons among the living talk about death like it’s some sort of vacation. “Going to your eternal rest,” that’s a popular one. So’s “laying down all worldly cares,” or my personal favorite, “at peace in the fields of the Lord.” I’ve seen more than a few fields since I went and joined the legions of the dead. Most of them didn’t have any Lord to speak of, and the few that did were dark, twisted places, controlled by ghosts who’d gone mad and decided that they were gods. The real gods of the dead don’t fuck around with fields. Just in case you wondered.

  If there’s some peaceful paradise waiting on the other side of the twilight, no one has ever been able to prove its existence—not in any way that I’m willing to accept, and this is my afterlife, right? I get to make requests every once in a while. I know the daylight exists, and I know the twilight exists, and if there’s anything beyond that, I’d like to see a road map and a tourism brochure before I agree to go. The ghostroads aren’t Heaven. They aren’t Hell, either. They just are, eternal and eternally changing, and I’ve been here a lot longer than I was ever anywhere else.

  The preachers that sell their snake oil to the dead don’t preach about paradise. They preach about the sins of the living, and the silence of the grave, and the unfairness of our exile. But they never say what we’ve been exiled from, and if you’re fool enough to ask, you won’t be welcome in that church for very long.

  Alive or dead, the world turns on faith, and on the idea that someday, somehow, we’re going to get our just rewards, and the chance to finally rest. I didn’t believe it when I was alive. I definitely don’t believe it now. These days, I’m just happy if I have time to finish a cheeseburger before the shit starts hitting the fan.

  The air conditioning is turned just a little too high, raising goose bumps on the half-naked tourists who walk, unprepared, out of the muggy Ohio summer. Most of them turn around and walk out again, unwilling to deal with this two-bit diner where the music’s too loud and the air’s too cold. They won’t be missed. The folks who stay seem to know the deal they’re getting when they come through the door, because they bring coats, and they all seat themselves. I fit right in. Best of all, one of the busboys is a routewitch, probably clearing tables to get his bus fare to the next stop on his private pilgrimage. He pegged me the second I walked in. The jacket I’m wearing is his, a Varsity prize from some high school I’ve never heard of, and every time he passes the counter, he slides another plate of fries my way. If I believed in Heaven, I’d be willing to write this dirty little diner down as a suburb.

  This is definitely my kind of place.

  The sound of the door opening doesn’t even get my attention. I’m too busy sizing up the waitress on duty, trying to figure out how I can talk her into giving me a milkshake—of her own free will, of course, since it doesn’t count otherwise. Someone takes the stool next to me.

  “How’s the pie?”

  It’s an innocent question, a way to strike up conversation with a stranger. I’ve heard it before. I still smile as I turn my head to the man beside me. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just passing through, and I haven’t had the pie yet.”

  One look is enough to let me take his measure—I’ve got some experience with this sort of situation. Mid-twenties, brown hair, eyes the color of hard-packed median dirt. He’s cute enough to know it and be cocky, but not cute enough to be arrogant about it. There’s a difference. I like it.

  His smile travels half the distance to a smirk as he asks, “Well, then, how would you feel about letting a stranger buy you a piece of pie?”

  “Only if he’s willing to stop being a stranger.” I offer my hand. “Rose.”

  He takes it, shakes once, and lets go. “Jamie. So you’re not from around here?”

  “Nope. I just rolled in from Michigan, and I’ll be heading out as soon as I find a car that’s going my way.” This is another familiar script; I could recite it in my sleep. “I’m taking some time to see the country, you know?”

  “Yeah. That’s cool.” He pauses while he flags down the waitress and orders two slices of pie, one peach, one apple, both a la mode. She heads for the kitchen, and he looks to me, asking, “So is there any chance you have local friends? Relatives? Anything?”

  “Sorry, but no. Why do you ask? Are you wondering if anyone will figure out where you dumped my body?”

  He laughs. “Not quite. I’m in town with the rest of my crew, and this is the part where we fan out to talk to the locals about, you know, local legends, hauntings, that sort of thing. We’re from the Ohio State University.” He leans closer, lowers his voice, and says, conspiratorially, “We’re here to catch a ghost.”

  For a moment, I just stare at him. He stares back. And then, in unison, we start laughing.

  Oh, this is gonna be too good to miss.

  Jamie wasn’t kidding; he’s here with four other students from the Ohio State University, and they’re planning to catch a ghost. Of the other students, two are physics majors; one is in folklore; one, for no apparent reason, is in physical education. I’m not sure what Jamie’s major is. I’m just sure he’s in charge, and that his little squad of junior Ghostbusters isn’t very happy that he came back from his scouting expedition with a date.

  “You do understand this is a serious scientific expedition?” asks one of the physicists, for the sixth time. Their dialogue is practically interchangeable, a long checklist of questions that all boil down to “you are an intruder, you aren’t supposed to be here, get out, get out.” It’s like trying to talk to a haunted house—a fact that doubtless wouldn’t amuse them in the least. I’d probably be unable to tell them apart if it weren’t for the fact that they look nothing alike, and one of them is a guy. Instead, I take a perverse pleasure in refusing to remember their names.

  “We’re staking out an abandoned diner somewhere off the highway in hopes of seeing a ghost,” I say drily. “I’m not seeing the ‘serious.’”

  “But we’re going to get something no one else has ever managed to get,” says the folklore major. Angela, I think her name is. She looks like an Angela.

  “What’s that?” I ask. I love ghost-hunters. They’re so hopeful, and so willing to walk wide-eyed into the places where angels—if not Angelas—should fear to tread.

  “We’re going to catch a ghost,” says Physicist One.

  I start to laugh, and stop as I realize that they’re serious about this. “I—wait—what? You can’t catch a ghost. I mean, nobody’s even sure that they exist. How are you planning to pull this off?”

  “We had a little help,” admits Jamie. His tone says he doesn’t want to tell me, and his face says he’s been praying for this opening. People like to brag. I think it’s an essential part of the human condition. “Marla, get the book.”

  The phys ed major blinks, her eyebrows knotting themselves together. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? We just met this girl.”

  “I’m sure.” Jamie looks at me, chin slightly tilted up, like he’s trying to present his best profile. That’s when I realize what he thinks my rol
e in this little drama is going to be: I’m the wide-eyed Timmy to his mysterious Mr. Wizard, the adoring ingénue ready to be seduced by his showmanship and drama. I’m okay with that. I’ve played worse parts in my day. “We can trust her. Can’t we, Rose?”

  “Absolutely,” I agree, nodding so vigorously that for a moment, it feels like my head is going to pop clean off. “I’m really interested. Like, really.”

  Marla still looks unconvinced, but she turns, rummaging through the big plastic storage bin that serves as the group’s “ghost hunting supply chest” until she comes up with a battered brown journal that looks like something you’d find in a high school senior’s backpack. She holds it reverently, and for a moment, it seems like she’s going to run away from us rather than risk bringing a nonbeliever into the fold.

  Finally, grudgingly, she says, “You’d better be right about her,” and thrusts the book against Jamie’s chest, hard enough that I can hear the impact. He takes it before it has a chance to fall, and she retreats, joining the sullen, glaring twosome of the physics majors. It’s weird, but I’m actually starting to feel a little nervous. Why would she be reacting so badly if they didn’t really have something? I understand people getting jealous—Jamie’s good-looking, and the way she looks at him tells me she’d like to give him a little physical education on the side—but this isn’t jealousy. This is something else.

  “Professor Moorhead came to our club meeting, and brought us this,” says Jamie. He flips the book open to a point about halfway through, holding it out toward me. He’s showing it, not offering it; the distinction is in his hands, the way his fingers grip a little too tightly against the cover. That’s okay. I couldn’t hold it right now if I wanted to. I’m having enough trouble keeping myself from sitting down involuntarily, because it feels like the air has just left the room.

  The newspaper clipping is old, a little yellow and curled around the edges. That doesn’t make it any less painful. LOCAL TRUCKER DIES IN TRAGIC CRASH says the headline. Larry Vibber, age 42 . . . , that’s how the article begins. There’s a sidebar—there’s always a sidebar—and that’s what really makes my heart hammer against my ribs, like a raccoon kit caught in a snare and trying as hard as it can to work its way free. Suddenly, this little outing doesn’t seem nearly as funny as it did a few minutes ago.

  A GHOST STORY COMING TRUE? The tale of the Girl in the Diner is a familiar one on these American highways, and some of Mr. Vibber’s fellow truckers have reason to believe that it’s true . . .

  And then: Larry Vibber’s body was the only one retrieved from the crash. So what, then, explains the woman’s jacket in the seat next to his?

  Stupid stupid Rose; there’s only so much evidence you can leave, only so many breadcrumbs you can scatter before the witch in the woods starts catching up with you. “Whoa,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as unsteady as I feel. “So you’re hunting for the ghost of Larry Vibber?”

  “Better,” says Jamie. “We’re hunting for the Girl in the Diner.”

  I nod slowly. “Of course you are.”

  It makes a certain sort of fucked-up sense. If you’re going to catch a ghost, why not start big? Why not start with a ghost that everybody’s heard of? I suppose I should be flattered that this little crew of collegiate ghost hunters wants to stuff me into a soul jar—or whatever it is the kids are using for their exorcisms these days—but mostly, I feel the serious need to run very far, very fast. There’s just one problem with that little plan. If they’re going the high-tech route, I’m fine. But if whoever gave them that book also gave them some more traditional routes for attracting the restless dead, this could be a bad night for everyone concerned.

  “Who did you say gave this to you?” I ask, looking around the group. “I mean, ’cause wow. If I had the stuff to hunt a ghost, I’d probably want to hunt it myself, you know?”

  “She can’t,” says Marla stiffly, looking offended by the very idea. “She’s a professor. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

  “A professor? Of what? Ghostology?”

  “The Ohio State University doesn’t have a parapsychology department,” says Physicist One. “If we did, we’d have better faculty support.”

  “Professor Moorhead teaches American History,” says Jamie, and flips to the front of the book, where the face of a woman stares out at me from another, older newspaper clipping. The picture is black and white, but I know her hair is dirty blonde, and that the eyes behind her glasses are pale, and cold.

  PROFESSOR LAURA MOORHEAD TO SPEAK ON THE LEGEND OF THE GIRL IN THE DINER, that’s what the caption underneath says. I take a breath. Force a smile. And ask the one question that stands a shot at saving me:

  “So what do we do first?”

  It turns out that what we do first involves driving out to tonight’s designated hunting ground, an abandoned diner in what was once a truck stop and is now a deserted patch of asphalt and gravel. The freeway redirected the traffic, the trucks stopped coming, and time moved on. I’ve seen it before, these little dead spots, and they break my heart a little more each time. I ride in the back with Angela and the Physicists, ceding the front seat to Marla in the vain hope that it will make her glare at me a little less. This night’s going to be long enough as it is.

  “So how long have you been into ghosts, Rose?” asks Angela. She’s at least trying to make conversation. I appreciate that.

  Answering “since I died” seems like a bad idea right now. I pretend to give her question serious thought before I say, “Oh, forever, I guess. It sure seems that way sometimes.”

  Angela nods, expression set in a look of absolute and total conviction as she says, “I started believing when I was eight. That’s when my grandfather’s ghost came to me and told me things were going to get better.”

  Scrooge was right about one thing: most spectral visitations are actually dreams or indigestion. I have to fight to keep my eyes wide and filled with belief. And if her grandfather really did come to visit her when she was a kid, why the hell does she think catching a ghost is a good way to spend a Friday night? If anyone was going to be live and let not-live about the dead, it should have been her.

  “Have you ever experienced a genuine paranormal visitation?” asks Physicist Two. The question sounds more like a demand: Prove it. Prove that you belong here.

  I’m still trying to figure out how to answer when the minivan pulls to a stop outside the broken-down old diner. “We’re here!” announces Jamie, with near-maniac cheer. “Everybody out and to your stations. Rose, you’re with me.”

  So much for getting Marla not to hate me. She shoots me a venomous look as I slide out of my seat and move to stand next to Jamie. He hands me a container of salt, ignoring her displeasure.

  “Angela, Tom, you go west. Marla, take Katherine inside and start setting up the camera.”

  Marla may not be happy, but she doesn’t argue. She moves quickly and efficiently. So does everyone else. In a matter of minutes, it’s just me, Jamie, and the salt.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get started.”

  “I can’t wait,” I reply, and follow the crazy ghost-hunter into the night.

  Their approach is a weird synthesis of traditional and technological. Cameras to catch any apparitions, gauges to catch any unexpected fluctuations in the local temperature . . . and spirit jars with honey and myrrh smeared around their mouths, to catch any wayward, wandering ghosts. Salt circles with just a single break in their outlines. Half-drawn Seals of Solomon on the broken asphalt. Even scattered patterns of rapeseed, fennel, and rye, guaranteed to attract any poltergeists who happen to be in the area. They aren’t missing a trick. If I weren’t already wearing a coat and hence protected from their little surprises, I’d be worried.

  “So what are we hoping to achieve out here?” I ask Jamie, as we walk slowly around the edges of the old parking lot, throwing down torn carnival tickets and bits of broken glass. “This doesn’t seem very, you know. Scientific.”

  ?
??That’s why we’re going to succeed when nobody else ever has,” he says. He sounds so damn serious. He really believes what he’s telling me. “We’re pursuing synergy between the spirit and material worlds.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” I say. I sound serious, too. I have no damn clue what he’s talking about.

  Jamie smiles. “It means keep scattering those ticket stubs, and by morning, you’re going to see something you’d never believe.”

  “Oh, I can believe that,” I murmur, and keep scattering.

  The sun’s been down for a little more than an hour. Everyone seems sure that nothing exciting will happen until midnight—they insist on calling it “the witching hour,” which is making me want to scream—so people are mostly just checking equipment and taking walks around the grounds, making sure everything has stayed in place. So far, the valiant ghost-hunters have managed to successfully attract two raccoons, a stray cat, and a hitchhiker who isn’t quite as dead as I am.

  “Spirit world, one, college kids with a high-tech Ouija board, zero,” I say, sweeping my flashlight around the edges of the blacktop. They’re letting me patrol on my own now, probably because they don’t really think there’s much I can do to disrupt things if I’m on the other side of the yard. Marla’s probably hoping I’ll see something mundane and scream, thus proving that she was right and Jamie was wrong.

  I don’t think she’ll be getting her wish tonight.

  When I actually do see something, it’s not mundane at all. One of the spirit jars is closed, rocking gently back and forth with the weight of its pissed-off contents. I stop beside it, squatting down, and tap the glass. The rocking stops. “Yo,” I say. That’s about as much ceremony as I can muster at the moment.