So with that noble resolve, I joined her. "I'm sorry I abandoned you so abruptly last night."
She pulled her hood closer around her face and did not look into my face. "You were . . . shimmering."
"I found I was unable to continue my story."
"Oh." Her expression fell. "I had hoped you would tell me what happened to you. And her. Your love. Did she ever know what happened to you?"
"No one knew. Not her. Not my family."
"You died?"
"I was murdered."
"How . . . ? Why . . . ?" Her distress gave me a real comfort.
No one had ever asked me my story. Most people had never seen me. The ones who did . . . had their own problems. How to tell this girl, sheltered by her family, by school, by time, about the difficult days of the thirties when I grew up? To me, she was a child. A lovely child, bright with promise, but a child nevertheless. How to make her understand without scarring her? I picked my words carefully. "It was the beginning of the war, but more than that, it was the end of the Great Depression. People had starved. Men had been unable to support their families. They had run away from the shame. They had killed themselves — a coward's way out, but sometimes fear can last too long and all the world is dark and hopeless. Children were orphaned. Women — daughters and wives — were left alone to fend for themselves. They were prey to bad men who roamed the country, shysters and opportunists who saw them as targets."
"Heartbreaking times," Areila said.
"Yes. After I finished training, I got my orders. I would be fighting the war in Europe. I had ten days free before I was due to ship out. I took the fastest way home I could find, via freighter to Port Angeles." He had been so close. "But we ran into a winter storm and we had to dock in Virtue Falls. The crew intended to spend the night in the harbor's safety, get a warm meal and a dry bed. I told them I had no time to wait, that I would try to hitch a ride to Port Angeles. They wished me luck and told me if I wasn't able to get a ride, to return to the dock and they would gladly take me to my destination."
"That was so nice!" She smiled.
That womanly smile steadied me, prepared me to tell her of the remembered horror ahead. "At that time, civilians would do anything to help a soldier going off to war."
"As it should be."
"I came into town. Right away, I found a ride, a trucker heading to Port Angeles with a load of lumber. While I waited, he bought me a hot meal and when I asked, told me I had time to purchase some flowers. My darling loved flowers, and I dreamed of how I would kneel before her and beg her forgiveness."
Areila's eyes widened and she shrank back. "Are you okay?"
I realized my sorrow, the regret of a restless, doomed spirit, rang in my voice. Prudently I moderated my tone. "I am fine." For someone who is dead. "The events I recall do try my very soul."
She started to stand. "Do you not want to . . . ?"
"No, please!" I extended my hand.
She stared at it, reached to grasp it.
I snatched it away. "No. I forgot."
She repeated my earlier words. "You can't grasp or touch."
"Never. Much to my regret." And to the regret of those murdered women.
As if it was armor, Areila tightened her raincoat. She seated herself again and prompted, "Did you find your darling's flowers?"
"I did, in a little greenhouse outside of town. When the lady knew what I wanted, she gladly gave all her late blossoms to me."
"Because civilians would do anything to help a soldier going off to war," Areila repeated.
"It was evening as I returned to the harbor. I hurried; I had to hurry to catch my ride. But I saw a young woman living on the beach, facing the winter storms alone, fishing and hunting, barely surviving. A man attacked her. I saw it. A man with a knife. I had no weapon. I had to get to my love." If I could have cried tears, I would have. "But I couldn't let him murder that woman, that stranger. I ran at him, waving and shouting. I meant to frighten him away. Instead he killed me. Then he killed her."
Areila put her fist to her mouth.
I continued, "He stripped me of my uniform, cut my face to ribbons, left me in my underwear, made it appear she and I had murdered each other. No one in Virtue Falls knew any difference. In their eyes, we were vagrants and they buried us in this cemetery in paupers' graves." I thought about what Areila had told me earlier — that all the graves had been moved except mine. "I have never seen the murdered woman's spirit . . . I suppose her body is no longer here."
"No. I suppose not." Areila pushed her hair off her forehead. "My God. What a tale of murder and injustice. I wish I could help. How can I help?"
The concern was sincere, the offer genuine.
"You have helped. You allowed me to tell my story."
"That's not helping. That's listening."
Although she rated her listening as nothing, it had value to me, this soul that had been too long alone. "Perhaps you'll pray for me to be released from my purgatory, and pray that sometime, somewhere I will be reunited with my love."
"I'll pray for you both. What was your love's name?"
During the telling of my story, I had not sensed the gathering darkness. But suddenly it was there, skulking closer. Closer.
Areila was in danger.
I leaned into her face, closer than I had been to any human being for decades. "Death stalks the park tonight."
She bent back. "What?" Then, "Are you okay?"
I didn't have time to explain. She had to leave. Immediately! I allowed my voice to rise to maniacal proportions. "Leave. Run. Escape now. Now!"
She stood as if my demand jerked her on strings like a puppet. "What's wrong? What will you do to me if I stay?"
She thought it was me, that somehow I would hurt her.
There wasn't much time.
I stood. I threw my arms above my head. I shouted. "Leave. Leave now!"
Dread contorted Areila's face. She turned and ran as fast as she could to the end of the walk. She disappeared toward town.
The killer stepped forward, his face crumpled with frustration and rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "You interfered. How dare you? You can try, but you are not allowed to interfere. You are not allowed to deprive me of my victims. Go. Go now! You have no place here!"
I wanted to deny him, to say I had every right to save the girl. But his words held the power of blood lust unsated, of hate that devoured, of madness that fed on slaughter.
Like leaves before the winter wind an anger-driven gust of wind blew me away.
I was banished. Gone and yet somehow . . . not released.
The Virtue Falls Library
Thursday night
When the door to the library opened, Kateri looked up from the quilting frame to see Areila Leon walk in looking disheveled, confused and excited.
The chatter died.
Areila hesitated, as women were wont to do when confronted by almost a dozen inquiring gazes, and studiously wiped her feet on the mat.
Lacey barked and danced over, eager to welcome the newcomer and at the same time surreptitiously inspect Areila with her instinctive doggie judgment of character.
Areila knelt beside the soft, girly, blond cocker spaniel and rubbed her ears.
Lacey sniffed and when she was satisfied, leaned against Areila's hip.
The verdict: Areila was a friend.
Kateri put down her needle — she was more than glad for an excuse to quit — and waved. "Areila! Come in and join us."
Areila gave the dog a final pat, hung her yellow puffy coat on the coat rack, and advanced to stand at Mrs. Golobovitch's shoulder.
Tonight they had a diverse and interesting crowd. Areila should know Rainbow Breezewing, the waitress from the Oceanview Café. And she probably knew Sheriff Jacobsen's foster mother, Mrs. Margaret Smith, the ninety-plus year old proprietor of the Virtue Falls Resort. Sheriff Jacobsen's wife, Elizabeth Banner Jacobsen was there,
looking uncomfortable — her pregnancy had been fraught with difficulties and she had come to distract herself from her ill health. They had Bette Abrahamson, Gladys McKissick and Rosa Sage, who had driven in together from the county, Emma Royalty, an electrician from Berk Moore's construction crew, Lillie and Tora Keidel, sisters and best friends, and Frances Branyon Salak whose mother lived with her. Frances would do anything for a night away from the old biddy.
Mary Lees was missing. Again.
Kateri ignored the sinking feeling that gave her and told Areila, "Mrs. Golobovitch is the county quilting champion and she's supervising as we piece squares of worn old wedding gowns together. We're going to sell this quilt to raise money for homeless mothers and children."
"Wow." Areila stared agog at the patches of off-white silk, pure-white lace and ornate sparkling beads, then looked around at the old concrete block building. "That's beautiful. I didn't realize you did stuff like this in a library."
"The library is closed tonight, so rather than let the building sit idle, we do this," Kateri said.
Mrs. Golobovitch's elderly good nature hid a wealth of insight. "Kateri got the project rolling. I think she likes the conviviality of the group more than the work."
Kateri smiled and confessed nothing, but dangled her fingers close to the floor.
Lacey arrived at once, let Kateri scratch her head, and flopped at her feet.
Areila looked meaningfully at Kateri. "I came to ask a question. A weird question."
"Must be a woo-woo question." Rainbow sounded as serious as a funeral.
The women tittered.
Kateri bent a stern look at all of them. "It is. Areila is researching the ghost in the park."
Rainbow paused, her quilting needle held high above the fabric. "I thought she was a geology intern?"
Following Kateri's lead, Areila improvised, "I am, but at this time of the year, there's a limited amount of field work available and a lot of keyboard input. I have to do something to keep my mind entertained."
"Have a seat, dearie." Margaret Smith scooted to one side; Elizabeth scooted to the other. "We can help. We know all the stories."
Areila pulled a chair over into the gap. "Does the ghost ever do anyone harm?"
Her question startled Kateri, and she looked more closely at Areila.
Areila's cheeks were flushed, her gray eyes were wide and she looked as if she'd run all the way from the park.
Maybe she had.
Margaret said, "I never heard of the park ghost doing anything but floating around looking sad. And I ought to know — I'm the oldest one here. "
Kateri was concerned. "Areila, why would you ask that?"
"In my research, I came across a story that he . . . warns people to leave the park in a rather forceful manner. Like with howling and bugged out eyes." Areila clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. "I was wondering if he has crazy episodes and does poltergeist-type stuff."
"I've never heard that." Emma continued to stitch as she talked. "I know when people start having sightings, that's an omen."
"What kind of omen?" Areila asked.
Rainbow leaned back and folded her arms. "Bad things are happening around town."
"Like disappearances?" Bette looked significantly at the place where Mary Lees usually sat.
"Her husband killed her." Lillie spoke with absolute certainty.
"Now, Lillie, we don't know that," her sister said.
"No one's seen her for over a week," Lillie answered.
"Her books are overdue," Kateri told them. "Her books are never overdue."
"Garik said that this morning Donald Lees reported that Mary was missing." Elizabeth rubbed her back. "He told Garik she went out grocery shopping one evening and never came home."
"He's lying," Lillie said. She and Mary had been best friends in high school and she was fierce in her anger at Mary's abusive husband. "He beat her all the time. All you have to do is find where he buried the body."
"Donald told Garik he thought she'd run away. He said he waited for her every night for a week with the belt." Margaret's Irish eyes flashed as she gave her report.
"Donald told Garik when he went looking for her, he found her grocery pull cart in the woods half buried under pine needles," Elizabeth said.
"Oh, right. You know why she had that thing? 'Cause he wouldn't let her drive 'cause he was afraid she'd leave him. Leaving him was more than he deserved." Lillie kept talking, fast and fierce, but she blinked away tears. "She should have taken a baseball bat to him. Before he killed her. That bastard killed her."
"Mary would never have hurt him. You know that better than anybody," Tora said. "She prayed for his soul every day."
"Garik said Donald is a bastard and an abuser." Elizabeth sighed. "But that doesn't mean in his own twisted way he doesn't love her. Garik said Donald seems genuinely worried."
"Worried he's going to get caught," Lillie muttered.
Rainbow wrapped her arms around Mrs. Golobovitch and Emma Royalty. "Group hug."
Areila looked startled to be included. Then she sort of smiled and Kateri thought her opinion of the weird folks in Virtue Falls had taken a leap.
When the quilting crowd gave each other a last embrace and resumed their sewing, Areila said, "If the ghost is a bad omen . . . is there anything else unusual happening around town?"
Bette stuck her needle back and forth through the quilt, speaking rapidly. "Apparently that guy who lives in the park, Cleardale, is in the hospital. I heard from Sheila who used to work at the Honor Mountain Memory Care Facility and has now moved to work at the mental ward . . . that Cleardale is really off this time, babbling about the talking ghost, the girl that glowed and the dark, cold place in the park."
"That's . . . creepy." Rainbow shoved her red, white and blue hair out of her eyes. "Do you ever wonder how much of it is true?"
"Sure," Bette said. "But I think it's more likely his meds aren't working well."
"I don't like the dark, cold place in the park." Areila stared into space. "I feel it. It's there."
Lillie and Tora exchanged sideways glances, now clearing wondering if she was a little nuts.
Rainbow, of course, saw nothing wrong with Areila's insight; she leaned forward and stared at Areila. "Have you checked it out?"
"I should. But it's winter. It's spooky." Areila shivered and looked around at her new friends. "So no one knows who the ghost in the park is? Where he comes from?"
Everyone looked to Margaret for the answer. "No one at all," she said.
"Hm." Areila stood. "I think I might have a theory."
Eugene Park
The finale
After I was banished, Areila came through the park every day for two weeks looking for me. When she called, I couldn't respond. I wanted to . . . I wanted to tell her to run.
He was stalking her.
But I had broken the rules, whatever rules there were, and I was imprisoned in that dark corner of the park, mute, invisible, while blood seeped through the soil and smothered me with grief.
Then Areila disappeared. She was gone for over a week, and I was glad.
If only she had stayed away . . .
On a gray day in the late afternoon I heard her making her way across the park toward the corner that led into the woods — the corner where darkness dwells. I wanted to shout at her no! But I wasn't there. Not really. I was nothing more than a scent on the air, a shadow you catch out of the corner of your eye that disappears when you face it. I was merely waiting . . . waiting for another dose of horror and helplessness.
I didn't want it to be her horror.
I could not stand it to be my helplessness.
She left the sidewalk, crunched across old leaves and fallen pine needles to stand at the soft, recently disturbed mound of dirt. The witch hazel was blooming — the shrubs were always the first to vanquish winter — and as she removed her knit cap, the yellow blossoms
framed her head. She was young, pretty, unwary — and I was afraid for her. She held a shovel in one hand; she planted it firmly in the dirt. "Frank Vincent Montgomery, I don't know if you can hear me, but I wanted to tell you — I figured out why I can see you. When you gave me your name, you gave me the clue I needed . . . Does the name Sofia mean anything to you?"
Yes! Yes! Sofia is my love! But I couldn't communicate. All the times I had haunted Eugene Park when I wanted to be elsewhere, listened to the crazy people, tried to stop the murders . . . and now, when I desperately longed to be beside the fountain or standing among the grand old cedars, I was not.
"Sofia was my great-grandmother." Areila waited again.
Of course! I should have known. I had compared Areila to Sofia in her spirit and her personality, but hadn't seen the resemblance between them.
Out of nowhere, a thought struck me. Maybe . . . maybe because Areila resembled me.
That one night Sofia and I shared had been brief and in the end, bitter. Foolish man and careless lover that I am, it never occurred to me she would bear my child.
Areila said aloud what I was thinking. "You're my great-grandfather! That's the connection between us. I know it is!"
If I could have cried tears, I would have cried tears of joy — and of fear.
"Before I told you my suspicions, I wanted some proof. So I called my great-aunt Bea. Aunt Busybody the family calls her. She's a nice lady. Really. But she loves to gossip. I asked her about her sister's mother-in-law, pried really, and she spilled the whole story. She said Grandma Sofia married my great-grandfather, an older man, Facundo Baptista, a widower who already had four kids, and moved to the Yakima Valley. My grandfather was the first child born, six months after they got married, and Aunt Bea said Sofia insisted on naming him Frank Vincent. How about that!" As she told her story, Areila's eyes sparkled. She gestured, waved the shovel, pointed up at the treetops, down at the ground.