"Where is the library?" Roland asked me.
I snorted. "You never dined near there?"
He smiled. "The library is not one to find people loitering at night."
I nodded across the busy street. "It's that way two blocks down and across the park. We can get there-" Roland shoved me against the brick wall of the building to our right.
I saw something knick the wall opposite us. One quick glance in the direction we came told me Ginsleh had escaped the apologizing mothers. He stood at the other end of the alley with his gun pointed at us and a sneer on his lips.
Roland grabbed my hand and pulled me into the crowds on the street. The throngs of costumed candy-eaters and their haggled parents made for good shields, but weren't thick enough to hide us.
"We must lose him," Roland whispered to me.
"Did somebody turn on a fog machine?" I heard someone ask.
I looked in that direction and my eyes widened. "I think we have another problem."
Roland followed my gaze and frowned. At the far end of the street on the edge of the festivities was a giant wall of fog that stretched above the rooftops of the buildings. I didn't need three guesses to know what, or who, made that cloud bank. Roland looked to our left and frowned.
"We must decide quickly which one is the worst," he told me.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Ginsleh make his way through the crowds after us. I turned back to Roland and the wall in front of us.
"Great. Stuck between a spook and a hard bullet. . ." I muttered.
Our situation got a little more complicated when one of the people in charge of the event strode up to the wall of fog. He tapped the mist and his hand went into the whitness. The man turned to the crowd with a frown on his lips.
"Does anybody know who did-" A white tendril whipped out and grabbed him. The arm pulled him into the depths of the bank.
And that's when everyone decided they had somewhere else they needed to be, and they needed to run there. Men and women emitted high-pitched screams and ran in all directions. Parents picked up their kids and joined the stampede. The panicked people swallowed Ginsleh in their madness and pulled him down the street away from us.
Roland kept a firm hold on my hand and navigated us across the stream of chaos and to the other side of the street. We stumbled into an alley and looked back at the terrifying scene. The mist floated forward and tendrils shot out and dragged people into the void.
"You think they're going to be all right?" I asked him.
"We are her target," he reminded me. "So long as they don't pose a threat or use to her then she will not harm them."
"And if we don't find anything at the library?" I wondered.
He pursed his lips. "Then we can't be sure she won't change the status quo."
I glanced down at the glowing box in my hands and pursed my lips together. "Then let's hurry up and see if we can't find out more about this spook."
I grabbed Roland's hand and pulled him down the alley to the next block. There was just the park beyond that and then the library.
"Can we be sure the library is open on Halloween and this late?" Roland asked me.
"If Drummond's still working there then it'd be open for the end of the world," I quipped.
"'Drummond?'" Roland repeated.
I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the park and the library beyond it. "Less air, more footwork," I encouraged him.
Roland and I sprinted across the park and up the tall stone stairs that led up to the heavy double doors. We raced through the doors and stepped on the brakes. The floors were waxed wood and we slid the ten yards across them to the front counter. Behind us were tables with computers, and beyond those were long bookcases filled with books. The library had two floors, and the second was an open balcony. It was a point of pride for the community that we had such a fine library. I only hoped there would be enough community left to have pride. The library was empty except for us and the woman behind the desk. Everyone else was too busy running for their ever-loving lives.
I slammed the soul box on the desk and looked at the small woman behind the desk.
"We need every newspaper clipping you have on the Lady Violet ghost!" I yelled.
The librarian behind the desk was a stereotype of the typical middle-aged spinster librarian. She had a beaked nose atop which sat a pair of thick spectacles. Her graying hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her eyes were in a constant state of narrowness. Her thin frame was cloaked in a flowered dress with a high, white collar. She was Librarian Drummond, and she was not happy.
"You're going to have to tell me more than that, and please don't shout," she snapped.
I tamped down the urge to inform her about the imminent doom of the town. "It happened in the fifties," I told her.
"Everything prior to 1970 was put onto microfilm," she informed us.
"May we view those?" Roland spoke up.
Drummond smiled at him and bowed her head. "You may." She walked around the desk and gave me an ugly side-glance. "This way, please, and please be quiet."
She led us towards the back wall where stood a rickety old table and a couple of old school chairs. On the table was a large, old screen with wheels beneath it and on its side. Beside the screen on the table sat a rickety old shelving case with cubby holes. Each hole contained a small reel of what looked like film.
Drummond took a seat in front of the screen. Roland and I stood on either side of her with me close to the rack of reels. Drummond turned to me with her narrowed eyes.
"You mentioned the Lady Violet ghost?" Drummond asked me.
"Yeah. We wanted to know if there was anything to the stories about an accident," I explained.
She pressed her spectacles against her nose and pursed her lips. "Of course there was an accident. I remember it very clearly."
"Do you recall the date?" Roland asked her.
Drummond glanced between us and her eyes narrowed so much I couldn't tell if she really had them open. "If this is some sort of Halloween dare or prank then I must ask you to leave."
I glanced over my shoulder at the tall windows across the library. The far-off lights of the downtown festival flickered, and I caught a glimpse of mist that slid between the buildings and towards the library.
"Believe me, I wish this was a joke," I replied as I turned my attention back to her. "But we really do want to know about her."
Drummond sighed and pulled out one of the reels. "Very well, but I don't believe for a second that ghosts are real. I want you to know that."
If she didn't hurry we'd have a newly conformed believer on our hands. Drummond placed the reel inside the machine on one of the wheels. She wound out a bit of the film and attached it beneath a piece of glass that looked like a science slide. The machine was clicked on and a light from beneath the slide illuminated the film and projected it onto the screen.
"Now let me see. It was some time in August, if I remember. . ." she muttered as she turned the dial on the side of the machine. The reel spun and the film passed across the across the bottom of the screen to the top. "Ah-ha!" She stopped the wheel and leaned back. "There you are."
Roland and I leaned forward and read the contents.
A tragic accident occurred last Saturday night when locals Mr. Francis Truman and his fiance Miss Violet Knick were found in Mr. Truman's overturned vehicle off Highway 12. Early reports indicate the recent rain had made road conditions unsafe and Mr. Truman lost control of the vehicle. The car rolled several times before coming to a stop near Vine Road. Mr. Truman was killed instantly, but Miss Knick lingered for a day before she, too, succumbed to her injuries.
Funerals will be held separately at the behest of Miss Knick's family. Both will be buried at Portham Cemetery in their respective family plots.
There was a picture of the vehicle, but not of the two people.
"See? Just a simple, tragic accident," Drummond commented. She made an horrific car accident sound like someone h
ad stubbed their toe.
I glanced at Roland. "So what's the plan now?"
CHAPTER 8
"Are there any pictures of the deceased? Or any further information on where they were buried in the cemetery?" Roland asked her.
She scrolled up and down, and shook her head. "That's it. Back in those days everyone knew everyone else, so detailed information like family plots was deemed a waste of space."
I leaned towards the screen and the necklace from Frank dangled down and dragged across the wheels. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my way, and my arm knocked into the rack. The reels shook, and some of them rattled off their shelves and onto the floor.
"Be careful!" the librarian scolded in her not-library voice.
I stooped and snatched at the rolls that tried to roll away. The necklace was against me at every snatch. It swung like a heavy pendulum in front of my face. The flower on the end knocked against one of the reels and knocked that one underneath a nearby table where it collided with a leg of the table. I stood, grabbed the flower and glared at it.
"You're not helping," I growled.
"Misty, we don't have time to waste," Roland reminded me. Another reminder was the distant sound of screaming. It didn't sound as distant as before.
"Thanks, Frank. . ." I grumbled as I walked over and knelt beside the table.
I snatched the reel from the floor and noticed some of the microfilm stuck out of the case. The contents were tiny and without color, but I could make out a picture and some print words. I frowned and squinted. There was something familiar about that figure.
I hurried back to Roland and , and stuck the reel in front of the screen.
"We need to see this one," I told her.
She frowned at me and pressed her glasses against her pointed nose. "What do you say?"
"Now," I growled.
Drummond started back, but grabbed the reel and switched them. Roland looked at me over her head, and I shrugged. Drummond shifted through the first few pages and I saw it was a reel of very early newspapers. I leaned forward and studied the old columns and advertisements for men's non-electric shavers.
"What's the dates on these?" I asked her.
Drummond looked at the reel. "When the town was founded. 1910 through 1920," she told us.
I didn't see the picture on the screen. "Keep scrolling."
She frowned, but did as I ordered and scrolled the film. The headlines and columns flew by with flashes of hand-drawn and stamped pictures. I whipped my hand out as something white flashed by.
"That's it!" I yelled. The picture in front of us was the ghost who'd spent the entire night giving us exercise.
Drummond stopped scrolling and whipped her head to me. "Will you please be quiet!"
"Not when the fate of the entire town depends on it!" I argued.
"What are you babbling about?" she snapped.
Roland leaned forward and studied the picture. "This is Lady Violet?" he asked the librarian.
She turned and frowned at him. "Of course not. This picture is far too old to be Lady Violet, and this woman looks nothing like what I remember of her."
There was a small column with the picture, and a caption under the photo. I tried to make out the words, but they were too small. "Can we zoom in?" I questioned her.
"You are unbearable," Drummond scolded as she leaned forward and squinted. "Besides, I can read it just fine. It says 'Longtime resident Squire Benjamin Johnson was struck with tragedy last Thursday night when his wife of five years, young Violet Jezebel Johnson, was struck by lightning. She had gone out late to collect eggs due to a servant's illness, and was cut down in the yard in the prime of life. She left behind no one but her grieving husband.'"
"No wonder she's as mad as a wet hen," I quipped. Roland and Drummond turned to me with frowns, and I held up my hands. "I know, bad joke. What else does it say?"
Drummond returned her attention to "'She was duly buried in the Portham Cemetery. Mr. Johnson has informed us of his intentions to sell the home he and his wife shared near Vine Road, and to move to a neighboring farm.'" Drummond leaned away. "And that's it."
I glanced at Roland. "Looks like we've been blaming the wrong Violet."
"So it seems," he agreed.
"Now we know where she's buried what do we do?" I asked him.
He furrowed his brow. "I have some recollection that a spirit might find rest if it is escorted to its grave."
My eyes lit up and I pounded my fist into my other palm. "That's right! Frank said some ghosts just want to go where they're buried so they can take the eternal dirt nap!"
Drummond glanced between us and scooted her chair back. She stood and moved away from us. "I don't know what this is about, but I think you two need to leave."
I glanced behind her and felt the color drain from my face. "Do you have a car?" I asked Drummond.
She glared at me. "Of course I do."
"Just checking." I grabbed Roland's hand and pulled him towards the rear door of the library.
"That's the emergency exit!" Drummond scolded me.
We stopped at the emergency exit and I nodded at the front door. "I think this is a great time to use it."
Drummond looked at where I pointed and her mouth fell open. The front doors and windows were awash in the glow from Lady Violet Johnson's ghostly mist. It pressed against the front wall and slid inside via the drafty windows.
Roland and I fled out the rear door and an alarm sounded. That was Drummond screaming. I didn't look back to see what happened.
There was a small parking lot in back of the library, and the sole car was the one that belonged to Drummond. She owned a station wagon that was older than me and may have exceeded Roland's age. We raced over to door driver's door and tried it. Locked.
"Allow me," Roland offered as he pulled me aside. He slammed his hand through the glass and unlocked the door from the inside.
"Do you have to worry about fingerprints?" I asked him.
"I have no file anywhere," he pointed out.
"Good point." I glanced through the open door at the car design and my face fell. "You know how to drive a stick?"
"Fortunately, I do."
"Good. You're the driver."
Roland slipped into the driver's seat and unlocked the passenger door. I hopped in with the soul box aglow on my lap. The light brightened, and I looked at the emergency door. Mist steamed out from between the door and the frame and floated down the short flight of narrow steps towards us.
Roland had his head beneath the dashboard under the wheel.
"Roland, I know it's a good time to pray, but we really need to-" I jumped when the car roared to life.
He lifted his head, put the car into reverse, and slammed on the gas. The car jumped backwards and just out of reach of the mist and its tendrils. Roland spun the wheel and the car turned likewise until we faced the road. He changed gears, punched the gas, and we sped down the road to safety.
I clutched my heart in one hand and the box in the other.
"If this keeps up I'm going to need one of those plots in the cemetery," I quipped.
Roland looked in the rear-view mirror and frowned. "Fortunately, it is keeping up."
I spun around in my seat and looked behind us. The mist sped over the road after us, and I saw an outline of a very angry ghost at the front.
"Can't we go faster?" I asked him.
"We can, but we wish for her to follow us to the cemetery," he pointed out.
I slid into my seat and glanced at him. "You know where the cemetery is?" I asked him.
He grinned and pressed harder on the gas. "I am an undead."
I snorted and looked straight ahead. "I fell into that grave hole."
We flew over the road almost as well as Roland flew, and in a few minutes arrived at Portham Cemetery. The graveyard was the oldest one in town, and it looked it. Two large oak trees stood as silent sentinels on either side of the gated entrance. The grounds was on one of the tallest
hills around the town, and was spotted with ancient trees whose long branches hung low over the graves. Tall tombstones were topped by weeping angels, huge effigies of the deceased, and small cherubs. A few mausoleums sat here and there with their stone doors sealed shut for all eternity, or until some idiot kid decided to pry them open. The whole place was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence with spikes atop each slim bar of black metal.
Roland slammed on the brakes and the car slid to a stop at the pair of huge metal gates. The mist was just behind us. We rushed out, and Roland took hold and flew us over the gates and into the cemetery. I looked up the hill and the countless rows of graves.
"It's like looking for a coffin splinter in a grass-stack," I quipped.
"We must try," he insisted.
"Fine, but don't tell me we're going to split up," I told him.
He smiled and grabbed my hand. "Never," he promised.
We rushed up the hill just as the ghost floated through the bars of the fence and gates. Roland looked from left to right at the tombstones, and I squinted hard to try to read them. The dim light of the waning moon didn't help. We hurried past one of the many trees with the low branches, and somehow the necklace from Frank swung up and caught on a limb. Roland pulled me forward and I was nearly strangled.
"Necklace!" I choked out as I tried to get the chain untangled.
Lady Violet flew up the hill and closed the distance between us to ten yards. Roland turned around and grabbed the branch. He snapped it off, yanked the chain from the broken branch, and pulled me to the right along that row of graves. We were near the top of the hill, and I noticed the headstones were more weather-worn than the others we'd passed.
The chain again tried to kill me as it bounced up and whacked me in the face. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. Roland swung me into his arms and tried to flee, but the mist caught up and surrounded us. We were trapped.
CHAPTER 9
I clutched the glowing soul box tight in my hands as Violet stepped out of her misty self. Her human form was only partially transparent and her eyes held an almost human light if they hadn't been so red with anger.
"I have had quite enough of this chase," she growled. She held her hand out to me. "Give me the soul or I will destroy you, Breather."
I clutched the box closer to myself and stuck my tongue out at her. "I know you are, but what am I?"