The Shadow Dreams

4 CHARLOTTE MILLER

4 CHARLOTTE MILLER

October 4

Restoration of the old Victorian house was going well, but the stress of the massive project was taking its toll. I needed a walk to clear my head.

The sun was bright, but the air was cool and brought the faint smell of fall; dead leaves with a hint of baking spice and cloves. The street was quiet except for the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees lining both sides of Old Post Road. Massive branches extended like hundreds of gnarled hands, their bony fingers reaching for each other across the narrow road. They were both haunting and beautiful. My white linen dress floated around me, effortlessly carried by the breeze, and for a moment I felt the weight of the world lifted from my shoulders. My bare legs bristled with goosebumps under the shade of the trees. I contemplated turning back to change into something warmer, but decided I had gone too far and would accept the minor discomfort. Besides, the house and I had seen enough of each other over the past few weeks. I was happy to take some space.

I rounded the corner onto Main Street. The large trees gave way to quaint little shops and restaurants with owners setting up for the day. There were people all around. I couldn’t help but notice all the strolling couples (mostly tourists) walking hand-in-hand, casually peering into store windows, sipping coffee and nibbling on scones. I had that with someone once. Ted was probably my last chance at marriage and motherhood, but after I had to shut down my practice in Dallas (a time when I needed his support the most), he left me for a younger woman and told me he wanted to be with someone with more stability in her life. He broke my heart, and I feared I would never find another man who would make me feel special or wanted ever again. I pushed the memory from my mind to avoid crying in public and continued on my way.

It wasn’t long before I got the uneasy feeling of being watched. I stopped in my tracks and looked around until I saw her. An old woman with a troubled look in her eyes stood in front of a coffee shop across the street. She was staring straight at me. Cars crossed the intersection and temporarily obstructed her view, but she remained unphased. Something about the way she looked was very unsettling. Then again, she was quite elderly. Maybe she needed some help.

“Hi there,” I said. As I waved at her, a white delivery truck pulled up to the stoplight in between us. I crossed the street, expecting to find her on the other side of the truck, but in the few seconds it took me to get there, she had disappeared. I didn’t think someone her age could move so quickly. Searching up and down Main, there was no sign of her. The only other place she could have gone was the coffee shop, so I stepped inside.

A bell on the door announced my entry. Everyone stopped what they were doing and glared at me. I scanned the crowd. The woman wasn’t there either. How strange.

Dressed all in black (including an apron with a name tag that read “Byron”), the young barista spoke as if he was running on his seventh cup of coffee already.

“Hi, and welcome to Brew House Café. What can I get for you this morn... ing?” He trailed off when his eyes met mine. A flicker of recognition flashed across his face, even though I had never seen this man in my life.

“Hello,” I said, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. I tried to be casual and ordered something. “Let me see...” I squinted at the over-sized chalk board mounted high behind the counter, the specials written in colorful block letters. “I would like a small dark-roast. Black, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Byron nodded and got to work immediately. He had the simple order ready within seconds and placed the cup on the counter, staring at it, silent and unmoving.

“Thank you. How much?”

“Oh yeah. Sorry. That will be two-fifty,” he said, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I handed him five dollars and tried to leave with my coffee. It was scalding hot, even with the cardboard sleeve wrapped around it. I would need to let it cool for a few minutes before I could carry it with me, so I looked for a seat inside. Scowling faces peered up from their tables. One couple was whispering back and forth, and I heard the woman giggle. Was the rear of my dress tucked into my underwear? I gave myself a quick check. All good. I had met none of these people and wondered what in the world was happening. An older man with kind eyes raised his coffee cup and hailed me over, so I made my way to him. His deeply creased face and hunched body led me to believe he spent many years doing physical labor.

“May I place my cup down on your table for a few moments, sir?” I asked. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Byron the barista wince and turn away, distracting himself with a mop in the back of the coffee bar.

“Yes, ma’am. Come. Have a seat.” He pulled out the chair next to him.

“Charlotte Miller.” I smiled and shook the man’s hand. “I just moved into the Victorian house on Old Post Road.”

“I’m Bruce Swanson and I know who ya are. Yer the woman livin' in the witch’s house.” He cleared his phlegm filled throat in a loud theatrical “A-hem,” that filled the entire room.

“Excuse me?” I recoiled. Did I hear him correctly?

“I said ya live in the witch’s house. The one on Old Post with the overgrown yard and busted up trim. The place shoulda been condemned,” he said matter-of-factly. I considered his words.

“Is that why people are staring at me?” I asked.

“It’s why I was starin’ at ya,” he said as he took a deep drink from his lukewarm cup.

“Fair enough. What do you mean by ‘witch’?” Surely he wasn’t talking about my grandmother, Ruth. Not that I knew anything about her.

“They didn’t tell ya when ya bought the place?” he mused. “They probably saw a city slicker like you coming from miles away.” He half laughed, half coughed, phlegm dislodging in his throat. He swallowed it down, and I attempted to hide my repulsion.

“No. No one told me anything.” I played dumb. “Who was the witch that lived there?” I smiled and leaned forward, using my body language to encourage him to keep going. It was a practical tool to get patients to open up and share, but it was useful in day-to-day conversation as well.

“Bah!” He threw a hand in the air. “You don’t wanna hear about that.”

“Oh, come now. I bet you know a lot about this town. Surely there is something you can tell me about that old house.” I blew on the surface of the hot lava that was my coffee, never breaking eye contact with my new friend.

“Persistent!” He started coughing again, slapping his knee to soothe himself through it. “Alright, then. But once I tell ya...” He shook his head like he was trying to convince himself not to proceed. I leaned in a bit more and waited for him to continue talking. He started up again with a long sigh. “There was a woman that lived there. She moved inta the place sometime in the forties. She was ‘bout your age back then, and she moved in alone, same as you.” Bruce was too focused on remembering what he could about the woman to notice the smile fade from my face. How did he know I was alone? And how dare he? But as badly as I wanted to defend myself (and all single women over forty), I decided it was more important to learn what I could, so I swallowed my pride and forced a polite grin.

“Her name started with an R. Rachel? No. Ruby? No. Ruth! Her name was Ruth. She mostly kept to ‘erself and toiled around in the garden. One day she met a man who put a baby in ‘er belly and that man was called off to war. He was shot dead out there and never returned home to see his lil’ girl.

When that poor woman learned the news of ‘er baby’s daddy, she went a little crazy and became a shut-in. She sent the baby to live with ‘er brother and ‘is wife and mourned the man the rest of ‘er life. She wore black every day, and she let ‘er hair and fingernails grow long. The kids ridin’ bikes past ‘er house would see ‘er sweepin’ ‘er porch and call her a witch, but she never paid them no attention.” He cleared his throat and took another sip of coffee.

“That must have been horrible for her,” I said. Bruce raised a wrinkled index finger at me to let me know there was more. He closed his glassy eyes for a time, as if he was working to locate the rest of the story deep within his memories.

“As the years passed, folks around town saw less and less of Ruth, but that didn’t stop ‘em from pointin’ at ‘er house. Any time somethin’ went wrong in or around Monroe, people joked that the witch must’a done it. If there was a thunderstorm, or some freezin’ weather, that was all Ruth-the-witch’s doin’. People didn’t actually believe it, though. At least not in the beginnin’. It wasn’t ‘til the late fifties that folks started suspectin’ she was up to somethin’.

It started out with someone’s pet gone missin’. I can’t remember if it was a cat er a dog. It don’t matter now, I suppose, but people started noticin’ new flowers bloomin’ in Ruth’s garden. Every time someone reported a missin’ pet, a new flower bed would pop up on Ruth’s lawn. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe the woman was a genuine witch. Who knows what a wicked woman does with ‘er free time? All anyone knew was that those animals never came home. Add another ten years and the real rumors started ta’ fly.” Bruce’s eyes were watery, but alive now. He had my full attention.

“It was the summer of 1968 when a little boy wandered away from his front yard. Henry, I think ‘is name was. The boy was three or four years old and ‘is eight-year-old sister was supposed to be watchin’ ‘im while they played outside. Well, th’ boy went missin’. It was all over the news. Police searched all of Monroe and eventually all of Morson county. They went door-ta-door, searchin’ backyards and people’s homes, includin’ Ruth’s house. After a few days went by, they was worried the boy wandered inta the lake. They sent divers to search the water, but they came up with nothin’. The boy’d vanished without a trace. The town was devastated by the loss. We all knew each other and looked out for one ‘nother back then, ya know?” Bruce said, dabbing at his eyes.

“So they never found the boy?” I knew the question was unnecessary, but I wanted Bruce to continue. “What did his disappearance have to do with Ruth? You said the police searched all the homes and came up empty-handed.” I took a small sip from my cup. The coffee had finally cooled to a tolerable temperature, but I wasn’t ready to leave.

“Sure, the cops found nothin’ at Ruth’s house, but everyone noticed one glarin’ change to that old woman’s yard. A rosebush! A big, stinkin’ rose bush right out there for all ta see.” He nodded as if he had just cracked the case himself.

“A rosebush,” I repeated.

“Yes, ma’am. A rosebush. That’s what sealed the old woman’s reputation in this town. After that, no one dared go near ‘er place. Parents warned their children about ‘er. Grown folks were afraid of ‘er. Wouldn’t even cross the street in front of ‘er house lest they be struck dead by some evil force. No one visited ‘er. Not even her brother with ‘er daughter, but she kept ‘erself busy in that garden, which was always neat ’n tidy. When people started noticin’ the garden had gone ta hell, a neighbor called the police to check in on ‘er. She’d been dead for weeks when they found ‘er,” Bruce said.

“Oh, no.” I cupped my hands to my mouth. Poor Ruth, alone in a town that didn’t accept her. And for what? For planting a rosebush?

“I’m sorry, Miss. If you hadn’t realized, this place is just crawlin’ with history. Ghosts ‘round every corner, ya know?” Bruce rubbed the back of his neck.

“It’s all right,” I said. I didn’t want to hear any more about the house or the misery my estranged grandmother suffered while living there.

“After that, the house just sat and rotted. People said the witch left the house to ‘er brother, but ‘e never came down to take it over, clean it out, or sell it or nothin’. It just fell apart for years ‘n years. And now you’re here. Fix’n the old thing up. Now I don’t know ya and I ain’t one to get inta people’s business, but lemme give ya some free advice...” He leaned in close. “If I was a nice look’n lady like you, I’d cut my losses and leave that place. Go find a man ta’ take care of ya’ and build a life someplace else. You don’t need that bad juju ‘round you.” He nodded and downed the last bit of coffee in his cup before standing up and patting me on the back. “Ya know, if I was a couple years younger, heh, heh...” Bruce’s giggle turned into a coughing fit that followed him as he walked out of the shop.

By now, all the rubber-neckers had moved on with their own conversations, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My house didn’t have “bad juju”. Especially not after all the repairs. In fact, the room (originally designated as the den) at the front of the house would be converted into a place of healing. After all, I had just gotten approval from the zoning commission to establish a new practice there. I was finally ready to put what happened in the past behind me.