Clara

23

I started my war on the ghosts by escaping them. It was the only logical thing to do. It might not eradicate the vermin that had so rudely invaded my home, but at least it would provide me with some respite.

Or that had been the plan, anyway.

A few days after Cecilia’s unfortunate return—when I had realized that she wouldn’t just vanish on her own—I got in my car and drove down the hill. There, I parked the station wagon by the side of the road and unwrapped a cucumber sandwich from my lunch. After looking right and left several times, deciding there was no dead lady in sight, I tentatively lifted the sandwich to my lips and was just about to bite down when the slap came, sending the food flying straight across the passenger seat and onto the dusty window. Cucumber slices flew everywhere, and the bread landed on the upholstery, buttered side down.

I wasn’t immediately discouraged, though, as I had anticipated some resistance. I started the car and drove again. I didn’t stop until I was halfway into town. There was an abandoned house there, dilapidated and falling apart, and I parked my car in the yard. Then I unwrapped the second sandwich I had brought, in the hopes that I was so far away from Crescent Hill that the dead couldn’t reach me there. Sadly, it didn’t go any better, and soon I was scraping cucumber off the windshield. This time she even showed herself and sat there ramrod straight and grim-faced in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead into the wall of the derelict building.

“Damn you, Cecilia,” I said as I put the car in reverse and left the abandoned house. “Is that what you want?” I pointed at the building. “Do you want me to go away and leave Crescent Hill to rot? I honestly thought you had more sense than that.”

By the time I was back on the road, Cecilia’s ghost was gone.

I didn’t drive back home, though, but continued into town. There I visited a diner I had driven past many times but never seen the inside of. It had a small staff of tired-looking women in blue uniforms waiting on a drab-looking clientele seated at wooden tables with red-checked tablecloths and ketchup bottles. The air was infused with the scent of old grease. I walked up to the wooden counter and ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, which happened to be a bacon cheeseburger. The sad-looking young thing behind the counter gave me a puzzled look, but if that was because I looked out of place in there, or merely because I looked distraught, was honestly hard to say. Nevertheless, she took my order, and I gingerly picked one of the tables, next to a family of four, who glared at me with disdain when I wiped down the seat with a napkin before slowly sitting down.

My food arrived soon after, and though the scent of meat and cheese made me uneasy, I told myself that this was merely an experiment, and if it should fail, at least I would know that nothing of value had gone to waste.

Thankfully there was some cutlery already laid out on the table, and—taking a deep breath—I lifted knife and fork and cut into the monstrosity before me. The little piece of hamburger and bread glistened with grease as I moved it toward my lips, and I had already opened my mouth—and could smell the cheddar cheese—when the slap came again out of nowhere, sending cheese, meat, and fork clattering to the floor. The family next to me rolled their eyes and the children openly laughed. The sad waitress frowned and took a step closer.

I threw down some money and left the establishment at once, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger.

My little act of rebellion had not turned out the way I’d hoped.

In the coming days, I repeated this adventure a couple of times—with just as discouraging results—and the true dread of the situation was slowly dawning on me. It wasn’t my house that was haunted; it was me.

I couldn’t escape Cecilia’s ghost—and perhaps that meant that I couldn’t escape Timmy’s either.

As soon as the realization struck me, I decided that I had to arm myself. Spring traps would clearly not work on these vermin, but I felt fairly certain that something would. I had never been a particularly spiritual person, but I had picked up enough to know that a priest could come in handy when something foul ran rampant in your home. So, on my next venture into town, I drove up to the little white-painted church in Ivory Springs and parked my car.

My plan had been to seek out the priest and—vaguely—describe what was going on. But just as I was about to exit the vehicle, I suddenly got cold feet, because what if the priest agreed to come to the house and then recognized the ghosts? It just wouldn’t do if he saw my husband wandering around on Crescent Hill with several ax wounds in his back. Timmy was supposed to have vanished with Ellie Anderson, and as far as anyone knew, he was still living the high life somewhere. It also would be hard to explain just why my former employer came back to refuse me food. Brushing it off as “the folly of the dead” might not be enough. And even if I found a different priest—one from a different town—what if the ghosts suddenly started talking? Just because they hadn’t so far didn’t mean that they wouldn’t. No, it was too much of a risk. I could absolutely not involve a priest. I started the car and drove away as fast as I could.

I stopped by the post office to pick up some sheet music I had ordered for Lily, and then I drove back to Crescent Hill at reckless speed. While I was driving, my mind kept churning, and I realized with increasing horror how this meant that acquiring help for my problem might not be easy at all. Because no matter who I brought in, if the ghosts decided to talk, I was toast.

There was only one open road left to take: I had to get rid of the vermin myself.