Boo Who

  Reverend Peck gazed out at the town. From the porch view, he could see the tops of the buildings on Main Street, the steeple on his church, the top of Wolfe’s house, and the trees at the park. Not a bad view. Nobody had ever thought too much of prime real estate in this town. If you weren’t four blocks from the store, you were eight. Of course, he’d lived in the old parsonage since his ministry began, though he’d always imagined a horse ranch with twenty acres might fit him nicely.

  “Here you are.” Dr. Hass offered him cream and sugar for his tea, then fixed himself a cup. He sat down.

  “Thank you.” A single sip warmed his chilled body.

  “I wanted to tell you,” Dr. Hass said, “that I really enjoyed preaching for you Sunday. I don’t often get a chance to stand up in front of people and speak. It was quite exhilarating, if I do say so myself! I suppose you’re used to it.”

  “Well, thank you for filling in on such short notice. I don’t suppose that’s what you had in mind when you came to my house that morning.”

  Dr. Hass chuckled. “Well, it did revive me.”

  The reverend sipped his tea and said, “The truth of the matter is that I don’t have any business counseling anybody’s spirit. I’m a dried-up old has-been.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. I seem to have nothing more to say. Or maybe nobody wants to listen anymore.” A heavy sigh filled the pause. “My whole life I thought I was supposed to be a pastor. It never occurred to me to be something else. But I have to admit that either I’ve lost the anointing or there’s no hope for this town.”

  “An identity crisis.”

  The reverend glanced at Dr. Hass. “I guess so. Who’s having the identity crisis might be up for debate.”

  “It might be time to reexamine your cheese.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I read this book called Who Moved My Cheese? It’s all about dealing with change in our lives. There are some who work their whole lives resisting it. There are others who take unexpected change and use it for their advantage.”

  The reverend held the teacup close to his face, allowing the steam to warm his skin. “Whatever could I do except preach about God’s love? I don’t have any other skill.”

  “That’s what everyone says … in the beginning. But in the end, we’re all able to find things we’re good at. Adapt. Become chameleons to our environment. I, in fact, have had my cheese moved all the way from California to a small town called Skary, Indiana.”

  “What in the world brought you to Skary if it wasn’t our famous resident, Wolfe Boone, who is becoming less and less famous now that he has retired?”

  Dr. Hass refilled his teacup. “I like cats.”

  “Hmmm. Well, we’ve got plenty.”

  “Cats are great companions, and they have actually been proven to release stress in humans who take care of them.”

  “Maybe I should get a cat,” the reverend said. “But then I’d end up having to adopt its eight hundred siblings.” The reverend chuckled. “Used to be legendary, a real mystery that added to the allure of a town called Skary. But ended up being the sheriff’s promiscuous cat, Thief. The problem is fixed now.”

  For a moment, they were silent. The reverend studied his transparent face in the puddle of tea at the bottom of his cup.

  “I’ve heard we can change who we are,” the doctor said. “For the better, I mean.” He patted the reverend’s shoulder. “And you, sir, seem to bring out that side of me. You’re a good man. I can see that. I want to be a good man too.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to be a good man after years of being, well, not-so-good.”

  The reverend set his cup down and looked at Dr. Hass. “You need a clean slate.”

  “Skary, Indiana.” Dr. Hass smiled.

  “Yes, but you’ve followed yourself here. I’m talking about a clean spiritual slate. You came to my house the other day. What for?”

  Staring at the wood beneath his feet, he said, “I suppose I have noticed the old me is hard to shake. He’s like a shadow. And the brighter the light gets, the bigger he seems to grow.”

  The reverend nodded. “The light does seem to expose things the darkness likes to hide. Eventually, though, he won’t be able to hide anymore.”

  Dr. Hass’s fingers began fidgeting with every part of his teacup. The reverend patted him on the arm. The man looked like he was not used to being touched, but he accepted the gesture with a small smile. “There is one who can walk inside of you, who can fill you with good that you cannot find within yourself. A Houseguest, I suppose you could call Him, who can put things in order.”

  Dr. Hass bit his lip. “My house is old, Reverend. Full of dust. And rotting wood is stealing its sturdiness.”

  The reverend said, “I’m not talking about this house.”

  “Neither am I.” Dr. Hass stood. “The house that cages me is not fit for a King.”

  The reverend squeezed the man’s arm. “But He became a lowly servant.”

  The reverend continued, “Doctor, come Sunday. Come to church.” He grinned. “And you won’t even have to preach the sermon!”

  Dr. Hass’s eyes lingered on the reverend’s. Then he went inside.

  Missy Peeple imagined it was sometime in the afternoon. She’d never kept a clock in her bedroom, as she always woke up at precisely the same time every morning. But now it was late afternoon. Soft light shone across the room, and she watched the hazy, dusty air swim through the beams of light, weightless and carefree.

  Her long gray hair lay across her shoulder, exactly the way it had all night. She slept on her back, always had, right in the center of her bed. There were times at night, as she drifted off to sleep, when she imagined the mayor as her bed companion, though she wondered how he would fit on the slice of bed to her left. Or how he would take to the rock-hard mattress she insisted upon.

  Lazily, her eyes opened and closed, and she wondered how she would eat today. Her strength these days seemed to flee like the night moon as the sun tipped itself over the horizon. And all day today, she’d floated between sleep and wakefulness, with hardly even the energy to stare at the ceiling.

  Her mind was alive, as it always had been. And though her body would not obey a single command, her thoughts ordered themselves to come to attention. Yet what good were they, captive inside her head?

  She could call out, but nobody would hear her. Scarcely a soul ever came to her home. Was this her moment to die? Alone? Starving to death over several days?

  She gasped at the thought, her eyes popping open as if shaking off deaths impending approach. She had hardly thought of dying all her life. And even old age had not hinted at taking her life.

  The gasp she had taken in flowed out in the form of tears, trickling down her temples and dropping onto her pillow. “Not like this,” she mumbled. “I can’t die like this.”

  Clutching the edge of her sheet and blanket, she pulled them toward her chest with all the effort she had in her. The soft cotton tickled her chin, and it reminded her of what she might’ve felt like wrapped up in the soft blankets her mother had held her in.

  She hadn’t thought of her mother in years. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself a swaddled baby, tight in her mother’s arm. Yes, she was close to completing the circle of life. Death had cracked the door open, wondering if she would come quickly or kick and scream on the way out.

  Miss Missy Peeple whispered to the silent walls, “I don’t want to die like this. Give me a chance, and I will make things right.”

  The rest of her words garbled themselves into dreams only a deep sleep can spawn.

  Wolfe sat in the back room of the bookstore, a box of books next to his chair. Thumbing through the pages of Petals of Destiny, he was not sure his life could sink any further. He’d been fired from selling cars, which was fine with him, but now found himself in charge of reading and selecting romance novels for the bookstore. He’d moved a notch lower on the totem pole of dream job descriptions.

  Y
et he saw how passionate Oliver was about selling cars. He wondered if the passion came out of desperation to love an unlovable job, or if Oliver truly loved selling cars. He certainly was good at it. He’d stayed in business for years.

  Should he try to find a passion for whatever he was doing and love it? Or find what he loved and the passion would follow? Glancing at the top of the page, his heart sank. He was only on page thirty-four and had been reading for two hours! Reading his own thoughts…

  Trying to refocus, he began reading Petals of Destiny again:

  Stella watched him walk along the edge of the water, his thin white shirt ruffling against his hard body. His golden hair, swept side-ways by the cool breeze, glimmered as brightly as his tanned and sweaty skin.

  When he saw her, he smiled, the one that spoke a thousand different words to her heart. She wanted to run to him, throw her arms around his neck, kiss him until waves washed away the sorrow she felt in her heart.

  Yet, how could she love a man such as this? And with Christoff’s voice still beckoning her home?

  Several times he found himself laughing out loud. Did women really read this stuff? But it wasn’t long before the laughter faded, and Wolfe found himself staring at his own reflection in the small window across the room. His fingers thumbed the one-pack that was supposedly called his abs. He flipped the book over and looked at the stunning machine of a man on the front cover, tanned, sculpted, with perfectly aligned ears. Wolfe touched his left ear, sharply aware of the half-inch lower it was than his right. He stared at his face, fingering the pages of the book, wondering if he should start working out.

  “Wolfe?”

  Wolfe turned in his chair. Mr. Bishop stood at the doorway. “Can you come out and help on the floor? We’ve got a few customers, and I need to send Dustin on an errand.”

  Wolfe hopped up and walked swiftly to the door, happy to be able to close the book. He laughed. With a few slight changes, these books could easily become horror novels. They were plenty scary as it was. Surely women didn’t really buy in to that junk?

  Out on the floor, Wolfe was happy to help a few customers while Mr. Bishop handled the register. Maybe if he stuck with it long enough, he’d be relieved of his romance novel duties.

  “Wolfe?”

  Wolfe turned at the voice. “Hi Martin.”

  “Listen,” Martin said, his tone quietly serious, “I have to know how your novel ends. I didn’t ask before. But I need to know. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe there’s something in there that could save the town.”

  Wolfe led Martin to a vacant aisle. “Martin, I know my book. I know everything I wrote in there. I made up a story. It couldn’t possibly be relevant to what this town is going through.”

  Martin nodded. “I know, I know. But I’m desperate, Wolfe. I won’t lie to you. Mayor Wullisworth loses touch with reality more and more every day. And I’m losing this town. In the not-so-distant future, we might be a ghost town.” Martin’s eyes shone with urgency.

  Wolfe sighed, looking around to make sure there were no customers in need of help. “Okay, fine. But I’m telling you, there’s no secret mystery locked in the pages of my book. I know what I wrote, and it’s just a story. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “So how’s it end?”

  “As I told you before, the town realized how strangely the cats were acting and believed them to be cursed. Finally, after a lot of effort, the cats vanish, nearly overnight. And the town seems to be heading toward recovery. But then, tragedy strikes.”

  “What happens? Do the cats come back in bigger forces to kill the humans?” Martin’s eyes widened with each word.

  Wolfe smiled. “No. In fact, most everyone in the town dies in an earthquake.”

  Martin’s hands found his hips. “What? What kind of ending is that?”

  “The cats weren’t acting strangely because they were cursed. It was because they were trying to warn the people an earthquake was coming. It is documented that many animals, including cats, have the ability to sense weather changes and impending seismic catastrophes. The town lay on a fault line, and it was well known throughout the town that it had a chance of succumbing to that sort of disaster. In fact, that is why the forefathers of the town kept a lot of cats around. They knew the cats would forewarn them of disaster by their behavior. But through the years, the people had forgotten this. They’d focused primarily on their future and forgotten their roots. If they’d remembered what their forefathers had done for the town, they might have known why the cats were acting in such a strange way and then escaped in time.”

  Martin rubbed his chin. “So … the cats were trying to warn them. That’s why they were acting strange.” Martin’s eyes darted to the window.

  “Martin,” Wolfe said calmly, “our cats aren’t acting strangely. They’re just being cats. Remember, this is just a story.”

  “But the note said the answer to this town’s problems is in your book.” Martins fingers fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt. “Maybe the black cats will start acting strangely.”

  “Martin, Indiana isn’t exactly known for its earthquakes.”

  “You know as well as I do that an earthquake can strike anywhere.”

  Wolfe scratched his forehead, trying to figure out how to convince Martin his book did not hold the secret to this town’s future. “Martin, look, the only thing my fictitious town and Skary, Indiana, have in common is their search, or lack thereof, for their history. My town didn’t care about its roots. Skary is searching for hers. That is the only correlation between the two books I can see.”

  “Other than the plethora of black cats.”

  “Yeah, but I got my idea for the book from our problem. Don’t you see? It’s just a story. That’s all. A horror novel. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  Martin did not seem convinced. He was staring at a large poster of the book hanging from the ceiling.

  Wolfe decided to tell Martin something he’d convinced himself was not necessary before. “I know who sent you the note.”

  Martins head snapped around toward Wolfe. “You do?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t going to tell you before, because mingling with this person can only cause one trouble. I learned the hard way.”

  “Who sent it?”

  “Miss Peeple.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she visited me on Christmas, handed me a copy of Black Cats, and told me the key to the towns future was in my book.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Martin demanded.

  “Because it’s absurd. I know my book, and I know it has no such mystical solutions to a towns problems. It’s just a story!”

  Martin scowled, but upon further thought, his expression softened and he looked at Wolfe. “Maybe I should go see Miss Peeple anyway. Find out what her agenda is.”

  “I’m sure she has one. It’s usually to cause trouble.”

  Martin buttoned up his coat and shook Wolfe’s hand. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Be careful,” Wolfe said, escorting Martin to the front door of the store.

  “Of the cats?”

  “No, Martin. Of Miss Peeple.”

  “Oh.”

  “And Martin?”

  “Yes?”

  “The townspeople caused their own troubles through paranoia. Their fears drove them to be blinded to reality and to create things that did not exist. In the story, I mean.”

  Martin pulled his gloves on, swept his scarf around his neck and continued out the door. Headed in the direction of Miss Peeple’s house.

  CHAPTER 25

  MARTIN KNOCKED several times, each time more furiously than the last. Eventually, he was pounding, which caused a neighbor to step outside and take a peek. Martin offered a friendly wave, and the neighbor smiled and pretended to need something on the porch.

  “Miss Peeple?” Martin called. He peered through the window and didn’t see any movement. Maybe he should break in, see what
he could find before she returned. Of course, that would be illegal … if he was caught.

  Martin squeezed his eyes shut to the tempting thought. It’s illegal even if you don’t get caught, he reminded himself. Still, something urged him and his heart raced at the thought. He’d never done anything illegal in his whole life!

  He looked around. The inactive street behind him seemed to nod in approval. “What am I doing?” he breathed, but went ahead and rattled the doorknob. To his surprise, it twisted, popping the door open. “Oh!” he cried, then quickly shut it. Sweat trickled down his temples.

  He turned his back against the door, his fingertips nearly clawing its wood. His head whipped back and forth as he scanned the streets for any sign of a potential witness. Only a cat here and there.

  Martin could hardly breathe. With one hand he clutched his chest. With the other he wiped his sweat. This was it! He could go in, find some clue about why Missy was sending him secret notes, and be out of there without a trace.

  He checked his watch. He would give himself five minutes. If he found nothing, he would leave.

  Reaching behind him, he opened the door and slid backward into the house, shutting the door quietly. He glanced out the window once before hurrying through the house. What he was looking for, he did not know. He decided there was really no need to tiptoe, though his paranoia nearly demanded it. Walking lightly across the room, he tried to take in everything at once. He wished the smoking gun would stand up and announce itself, but he knew he was probably going to have to sift through some drawers.

  In the kitchen, he opened one drawer, looked in it, decided there was nothing there, and closed it. He did this several more times before realizing a minute had passed because he was being so careful about everything.

  As he walked into the living room, a pungent mixture of stale mothballs and dust caused him to sneeze. Luckily, he had quite a petite sneeze, which had embarrassed him in high school but was now coming in pretty handy. Nobody was going to hear him.