Ghosts and Reporters
1218 Words
Dinner with Dot
Mae came down the stairs to the sound of silverware.
The dining room lights were dimmed. Two tall candles burned at the center of the table, white wax already dripping down the holders. China plates. Folded napkins. A single glass of red wine poured, untouched, at Dot's seat.
The road sat perfectly carved. No steam. No smell. Everything plated like it had been waiting.
Dot looked up as Mae entered, already seated, already composed.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. "Before it gets cold."
Mae sat.
The first few bites passed in silence. Forks clicking softly. The grandfather clock ticking in the other room. The clink of Dot's bracelet when she reached for her water.
Finally: "How's work?"
Mae chewed. "Busy."
Dot nodded. "Still writing for that—what is it? Chronicle?"
"Right. The one with the lawsuits."
Mae gave a small smile. "That narrows it down."
Dot didn't laugh. She dabbed the corner of her mouth with the napkin. "You always did like picking fights."
Mae waited a beat. Then: "They found Amanda's truck."
The knife paused—just for a second. Then resumed.
Dot's tone didn't change. "That poor family. I suppose now they'll have answers."
"Or more questions."
"I wouldn't know," Dot said lightly. "I think we should focus on the living."
Mae looked at her across the table. Candlelight softened the lines in Dot's face, but it couldn't erase them. Every expression carved into her skin had been held too long.
"She was my friend."
Dot reached for her wine. "You had so many friends back then."
Mae didn't answer. Just took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
The silence stretched.
Dot spoke again, quieter. "Some things are too sad to keep alive."
"Murder's not sad," Mae said. "It's a crime."
Dot's eyes didn't move from her plate. "Always so sure of your tragedies. It's unbecoming."
Mae stared at the last bite on her plate. Picked up her knife. Sliced through it clean.
She cleared her dish, stood, and walked it to the sink without a word.
At the doorway, she paused.
"You always hated talking about ghosts."
Dot didn't look up.
She swirled the wine but didn't drink.
Mae left the room.
***
The Archive Search
The Ashwood Public Library smelled like paper and floor wax.
Mae stood at the front desk, waiting. A faint radio playing behind the counter—something soft and instrumental. After a minute, the librarian emerged from a back room with a key on a green ribbon and a bored expression.
"Archives are in the basement. Room to the right. Don't move anything you don't need to."
Mae nodded. "I'll be quick."
The staircase creaked. The air cooled as she descended—concrete steps, dim lights, the silence thicker down here. The door to the archive room stuck at the bottom. She shoved it open with one shoulder.
Inside: shelves stacked high with boxes and brittle manila folders. Steel filing cabinets, some labeled in peeling handwriting. One old microfilm reader blinked in the corner, dead.
The microfilm reader blinked, then dimmed out completely. Like everything else meant to remember these girls.
Mae flipped the light switch. Half the bulbs sputtered to life.
Dust hung in the air like old breath.
She set her bag down, pulled on gloves from the side table, and began.
The files weren't organized by much more than year and guesswork. She pulled a box labeled "2000-2005" and hauled it onto the nearest table. Inside: news clippings, handwritten notes, copies of incident reports. Most yellowed. Some damp at the edges.
She began to read.
***
MISSING GIRL: ASHWOOD TEEN DISAPPEARS FROM FAIR
July 18, 2004
Amanda Doyle, 17, was reported missing late Saturday after failing to return home from the Ashwood County Fair...
Authorities say no foul play is suspected.
"We believe Amanda is likely a runaway," said Sheriff Hank Delaney. "There's no evidence of anything else at this time."
Mae underlined it with her pen.
Likely a runaway.
The words landed like a shrug.
She flipped to the next item. A copy of the original report. Typed, single page. No mention of the argument Amanda had with her boyfriend that night. No reference to the missing bracelet—silver, with a blue stone—Amanda never took off.
Mae remembered the last time she'd seen it off: swim practice, ninth grade. Amanda had kept it in her shoe.
She never would've left it behind.
At the bottom:
Follow-up: N/A
Mae sat back for a second. Ran a hand through her hair.
Sloppy. Or deliberate.
She pulled another file.
Melissa Grace Tillman – missing, 1993. Disappeared during fair week. Last seen near the livestock barns. A witness noted seeing her near the Ferris wheel around dusk. Witness name: Julia L. Ferris.
Next page: no interview transcript. No follow-up report.
Julia L. Ferris: no contact info listed.
Stamped in red across the bottom:
CLOSED – NO SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
Mae kept flipping. The rhythm of paper, the scratch of pen on notebook. She built the bones of a timeline. Names. Dates. Locations. A pattern began to take shape—slow, jagged, incomplete. Girls who vanished during fair week. Always the last night. Always near closing time.
One girl's name—Cara W. Bell, 1989—was spelled two different ways on the same report. A second report listed her as Claire W. Bell, age 15. The handwriting on the forms didn't match.
No correction. No cross-reference.
She jotted a note.
The reports contradicted each other—sloppy on the surface. But they all followed the same rhythm. Too neat. Too quiet.
She shut the final folder. The room settled back into stillness.
Then her phone buzzed on the table.
Editor – 7:44 p.m.
Any leads?
Mae typed back without hesitation.
More questions than answers.
***
Amanda's Houses
Mae didn't mean to drive by.
It was just on the way. Left turn off Broad, two blocks down. The Doyle house sat near the corner—same address, same porch swing, same pale siding that hadn't seen paint in years.
She slowed as she approached. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to look.
The porch light was on.
The yard had gone soft around the edges. Grass a little too long. Weeds curling up along the foundation. One of the shutters hung crooked above the living room window.
Through the glass, Mae saw Amanda's mother.
She was seated in an armchair, the glow of the television flickering against her face. A plate on her lap. She didn't move. Just stared forward, hands still, back straight.
The same posture Mae remembered from choir nights. PTA meeting. Sunday dinners. A woman who once wore pearls and perfume. Now lit by static.
The house had once been loud. Girls shouting through screen doors. Music bleeding from upstairs speakers. Whispered stories under blankets—crushes, secrets, plans to leave Ashwood the second they turned eighteen.
"I'd rather sleep in the Ferris wheel cart than rot here," Amanda once said, flicking her lighter like punctuation.
The porch looked empty now. The swing unmoved. A jack-o-lantern from last fall still sagged by the step, half-collaped and caving in on itself.
Mae didn't slow. Didn't speed up.
In the rearview mirror, the porch light blinked out.
***
- Writer
