New Voices 002

Stories by S. H. Marpel Ghost Hunters BY S. H. MARPEL IWELCOME TO THE WORLD of John Earl Stark. A wonder-filled world. Seriously. It was another gloomy night and there I was, out on the pasture with dungarees stuffed into mudboots, arms and chest inside my chore jacket, and head covered by ball cap. Somewhere there had been a calf bawling and wouldn’t shut up enough to let me sleep. The tall grass and brush was making my walk tough. A stumble now and then. At least my feet were staying dry and warm. But the odd tree branch would catch my hat or whip my face from out of the dark. I didn’t like tending cattle in the dark, but I’d forgotten any flashlight. My cedar staff in one of my leather-gloved hands was helping me find my way. The other was out in front to find those tree branches. A thick root caught my boot, and my staff only helped slow my fall instead of keeping any balance. Landing with my other hand out, and rolling to my shoulder kept my face out of the muddy ground. Knees were soaked through from cold mud instantly. And I was on my back where my long chore coat at least was keeping my butt and shoulders dry - for now. So I rolled back over to knees and hands, using the staff to get myself back upright. And saw the ghost. Typical lightish form, almost like thick smoke that was holding together somehow. “OK - who are you and what do you want?” I asked. And a typical moan came back to me. This one wasn’t going to cooperate. So I spoke again, “Look, you can talk. Use your English.” “Well, you don’t have to be snippy.” was the reply. “You saw me in the mud and you know it’s cold and wet out here. The only reason I’m out here and not in my warm, dry bed is because of some over-vocal calf. You didn’t have something to do with it?” A short of shrug seemed to take place in that form. Slowly it morphed into something that looked like a body. “Oh, sorry. Yes, that was me. Hope I didn’t cause it too much upset.” Another shrug. ”But I was told you could help me.” “Me, help you? How about coming during the day time? Maybe in dry weather?” I snipped back. “Again, my apologies. There just isn’t much time.” Now the face and body of the ghost showed. A younger girl, wearing a flowered sundress. “OK, back up. Tell me your name and we’ll see.” “I’m Amanda, or was. And I have to figure something out before they come and get me.” A tremble in her voice told her fear of whoever they were. “Amanda, relax a bit. Focus on what you have to figure out. What can you tell me about it?” “I don’t know if he loves me...” Her hands went up to her face and she started sobbing. Not knowing how to console a ghost physically, I was forced to use my wits. “Amanda. Listen to me. Focus on my voice. You’re here in the woods near a cow pasture. I’m here with you.” She quit sobbing and wiped the tears from her face, and sniffed. “That’s a good girl. Now, you love someone and want to figure out if he still loves you, right?” She nodded, her hands clasped in front of her chin, fingers interlocked. “What’s the last thing you remember?” “We were walking. I’d been writing in my diary and he surprised me. So we were walking back to the village. We stopped on a bridge over a creek. He got curious about the diary and tried to grab it from me. He finally got it and when I tried to get it back, I lost my balance and fell off the bridge.” She then started sobbing again, head in hands. “Amanda. Look at me. There you go. Now, what can you recall after that?” “I was looking down at my body in the creek and he had run down the bank to get it out of there, and then pulled it over to the bank and tried to push the water out of its lungs. But then he saw the blood on the back of my head and backed away. At that point he scrambled back up the bank and started running down the road away from me and the bridge. The last thing I remember is the diary laying open on the bridge by itself. I tried to pick it up and and couldn’t.” She was looking at me directly now, her grief was through, even though her teary eyes remained. “So, he was trying to save your life, even though he put himself at risk to get you?” Amanda nodded. “Meaning that you meant quite a lot to him.” She nodded again. “And his running away was probably to get some help for you?” She nodded and smiled. “Does that answer your question?” I asked. Amanda smiled. “Well, yes. I guess it does. Thanks.” She looked off into the distance and a light brightened her face, coming from somewhere. She turned back and smiled at me again. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.” Then she stepped toward whatever light she was looking at. And vanished. Then I woke up in my bed, completely dry. I sat up. Jacket was dry, hanging on the wall with my dungarees. Mud boots below them were also dry, no mud anywhere. My knees and feet were dry and warm under the blankets. I could use less dreams like that. And I’d forgotten to ask who sent her to me - or who was after her... III WAS JUST CLEANING up after breakfast when I met the two of them. Sure, they appeared like ghosts, but were something more. And when you don’t believe in ghosts that gives you a bit of a start. Or a bit of an edge. Well, it’s not that I didn’t believe in ghosts, I just believed in life more. To me, ghosts were just another part of life. But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Anyway, I was cleaning up after breakfast, A white Corelle plate, a ceramic mixing bowl, and cast-iron skillet. All I needed to prepare most meals. Meanwhile I was nursing a chipped white mug of coffee with two spoonfuls of honey in it. This remote, minimalist, 96 square foot tiny-home cabin had everything I claimed to own in it. Well, except for a 20-year-old dark blue pickup truck that sat outside it, the one that took me to town every week or so. Because the point was to write, and read, and write some more. No other distractions. All the writing I could do, when I wasn’t checking the livestock and their fences, part of the deal for living here on this remote farmstead. My needs were few. A Thoreau type of living. There I was, standing at the basin I used for a sink, and had just rinsed off the last of the dishes, setting them out to air dry on a folded flour-sack dish cloth. I’d already wiped out the skillet with a paper towel and set it to cool. It was then I heard the knock at my front door. I started at that. I don’t get many visitors and usually hear a car or truck drive up. Even with the heavy outside door shut (which it wasn’t) I should have heard an engine wind-down, the gravel smooching under the tires, the vehicle door open and shut. This visitor just showed up. Well, at least she knocked. A measured average female voice came after that knock. “Hello. Hope I didn’t startle you too bad. At least I waited until after breakfast.” “Excuse me, but who are you?” “Oh, sorry. Call me Sal. I’m just here to ask you some questions. No, I’m not selling anything, but hope you are the one we’ve been looking for.” I dried my hands on an old plaid wash towel and hung it on its wooden rung. Everything had a place around here. It had to. Not enough space to waste any. The sunshine of the early morning was just peeping up for the day. It came from behind her through the door and windows on the East wall. Backlighting her. I could only see her form, wearing some sort of jacket and pants. All the screen door allowed me to to see with the glare. “Hi Sal, I’m John. I’ll be out in a second.” I checked the room to make sure everything was back in place. The bed was made back into its usual couch. The tidied desk with the rolling swivel chair pushed in. The laptop, a legal pad, and pen were ready for use, as always. Otherwise, with my chore coat on its hook by the door, blue denim ball cap on top of it, and my boots below it, that was all this Thoreau cabin needed. All was as it should be, predictable. Simple. Like the life I’d led for the past few years. Until now. With a nice Spring day, it would be better to sit on the two chairs out front than invite a stranger into my tiny cabin. And I had two chairs outside. For one for a visitor, one for me, except on stormy days. And where was that dog? She should have been barking. Bertie, my Labrador mix was always alert and protective. She’d gone out when I had first gotten up. Should have been barking. “Coming out.” I announced to my visitor. (Didn’t want to hit her with the screen door, since it opened out.) Sal moved back and stepped off the narrow porch back onto the gravel drive, over to one side to allow me to push the aluminum screen door open. I saw why the dog wasn’t barking. That visitor was scratching the dog’s head, right behind the ears, and the lolling tongue told me they were new friends. By that, Bertie told me this stranger wasn’t one, or didn’t need to be. So I stuck out my hand. Sal grasped it with a firm grip and shook it. Her warm hands soft, and smallish compared to my calloused, oversized mitts that were made more for farming than typing. As she let go, I saw her jacket was part of a suit, and it matched her pants. An off-white, pin-striped with gold thread. Tailored to her trim form. Three matching off-white buttons, which left the jacket apart to show a white blouse that buttoned right up to her neck. Business attire. Not like me, who wore my usual blue, worn cotton dungarees, red cotton pocket t-shirt under a grey sweatshirt. Thick gray wool-blend socks. Her face was light-colored, surrounded by soft and curling blonde-streaked brunette hair, which fell just below her shoulders. A smile lit her face, which had no freckles or tan, but not so light to tell that she’d been inside all the time. And no wrinkles to say she’d been outside much, either. All this in a glance, something we writers practice, getting details fast. “Again, I’m sorry to come without notice, and hope I didn’t startle you too much.” She spoke again in that soothing tone, Not having to raise her voice. “No, I was just finishing up, so it was a good point. Here, have a seat.” I motioned to the solid wood chairs that sat on each side of the door of that small porch. Toward the one closest to her on the right. I took the other on the left. On an 8-foot porch, that left just enough room for the door to open in between. “How can I help you?” I asked. She smiled a perfect smile. “Funny you should phrase it that way. But that’s just like you. We need your help to correct a little problem. It’s about Death.” Death was both interesting and repelling at the same time. On a farm, you deal with Death as a constant companion, the constant stress to keep things as alive as you could all year round, but knowing the fact of dying was inevitable. Harvest was yearly, which meant living things died as scheduled. I asked, “How could I help you with Death? Not yours, I hope.” She smiled and looked out to the East, where the sun was higher now and gave a contrast to the long gravel drive up the hill. The grassy edges struggled to contain a pair of gravel driveway paths. Trees and shrubs started up a few yards from each side of that, just behind wooden fences built out of native oak poles laid up criss-crossed against steel t-bar posts. These fences snaked their way up the drive as a warning to cows they tried to hold in. We both enjoyed the view. Death seemed the furthest away possible on a nice day like today. Sal turned back towards me. “The problem you can help us solve doesn’t have to do with anything dying, the problems start with the ones that don’t want to fill their end of their bargain.”