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Being grounded during summer, according to Rachel’s mother, usually means spending the duration of one’s punishment slaving away in the library, either cataloging new titles or shelving returned books. Sometimes, if Rachel’s deemed reformed after whatever bad behavior landed her in trouble in the first place, she’s allowed to read children’s books to the kids who came for Story Time. Other times, particularly if her mother is in a bad mood, Rachel is sent to the archives located in the dingy basement—otherwise known as The Literary Graveyard—where she has to capture the old library cards’ information into the updated electronic library system.
Rachel expects things to play out as they normally do in these situations—getting dragged out of bed at seven o’clock to accompany her mother to the library—but this time she wakes up without assistance. She rolls over and sees her digital alarm clock blinking 08:04 AM. Shocked, Rachel shoots upright on her bed.
“Mom?” she calls out.
When nobody answers, she climbs out of bed and cautiously makes her way to the partially open bedroom door. Rachel sticks her head out and looks around the empty hallway, half hoping her mother will rush into view, still getting dressed because they both overslept. Nothing stirs.
Rachel steps outside her room and treads softly toward the staircase landing. She leans over the crooked wooden banister and peers to the foyer, glimpsing the front door from the corner of her eye.
The quiet is deafening; the loneliness is palpable.
She swallows hard, blinking away the heartache threatening to spill onto her cheeks.
Rachel makes her way to her mother’s bedroom, finding the door slightly ajar. She pushes it open and finds the floral white and red bedcover pulled tightly across the mattress. The matching curtains are still shut against the struggling sun, which barely brightens the overcast morning. The wardrobe doors are spread wide, and even from her angle, Rachel notices the shelves’ bareness. She walks deeper into the room and spies those ugly dresses her mother has been wearing lately. They hang together in solitude, taking up so little space yet unmistakably all-consuming. Khaki, ochre, dove-gray, gunmetal, black, the dresses are pushed to one side of the wardrobe with their matching pairs of sensible shoes lined up beside one another at the bottom.
The pieces of clothing that assert the real Jenny Cleary’s personality are missing—leather pants, skinny jeans, flower-patterned blouses, and statement pajamas, all gone. Even the lilac cocktail dress, the one her mother only ever wore when they went to visit her father’s grave, is gone.
Rachel walks over to the dressing table, where her mother’s jewelry box stands. She carefully opens the lid to peer inside and sighs in relief. Every family heirloom her mother occasionally wears, every piece of jewelry her father ever bought, is still neatly stored within. She closes the lid and steps back, searching the room for anything else out of sorts.
Apart from the vacant bedside table, where a stack of smutty romance novels usually make their home, nothing else seems wrong. Yet everything feels off. It’s almost as if her mother, the mother Rachel loves no matter how tenuous things are between them, is slowly disappearing.
She makes her way back to her bedroom, back to where her phone sits on the nightstand, and dials her mother’s number. The phone rings for a while before the familiar voice answers.
A single word slips out of Rachel’s mouth, tinny and childlike. “Mommy?”
“Yes, dear?” her mother says, almost sounding inconvenienced by the intruding call.
“Where are you?”
“At work. Why?” A hint of concern laces her voice, mixed with something else Rachel can’t quite put her finger on. “Is everything all right, Rach?”
“You said I was grounded,” Rachel says, picking and scratching at her thumbnail’s cuticle.
The silence is full of confusion, pregnant with doubt.
“I don’t recall grounding you.”
“So, just to be clear, you’re telling me that I’m not grounded?” Rachel asks, not entirely sure if she should be happy or concerned over having her sentence reduced to time served. Concern, however, seems like the appropriate response to the news. Her mother isn’t the type of person who simply forgets about manners. In fact, as fun and carefree as Jenny Cleary used to be at times, she never waived a single opportunity to teach Rachel the importance of responsibility, consequences, and good behavior.
“Are you feeling okay, sweetie? You’re not making any sense,” her mother says. “Should I come home or—?”
“No, no. I’m fine,” Rachel quickly replies. “I probably just had a bad dream or something. Never mind. Have a nice day, all right?”
“Okay, you too.”
“Hey, Mom, before you go. What did you do with the lilac dress? The one Daddy bought you just before he died?”
“Oh, I donated it to Goodwill, along with some other clothes which were taking up space.” The nonchalance in her mother’s voice is staggering.
“Are you serious? You said I could have it one day. I was going to wear that dress to prom.”
“Yes, well, I’ve been doing some soul searching lately and I’m just not that person anymore. Speaking of which, we should tackle your closet next. I mean, how can we expect the world to respect us if we don’t respect ourselves enough to cover up, right? Anyway, let’s talk about it tonight.”
The call ends abruptly, without the customary ‘I love you’, which her mother always insists on delivering at the end of a phone conversation.
Rachel sits down on her bed, spent, staring at her cell phone’s blank screen and wondering if she’s somehow lost her mind over the past few days. Plausible as the insanity theory sounds, it doesn’t explain her mother’s inexplicable personality change. That dress was more than just a dress—it’s the last gift her mother ever received from her father.
She remembers how her dad had pored over the internet, searching for the perfect present to commemorate their tenth anniversary. How many hours had he spent calling shops across the country to find that special something-something to show his undying devotion? Her father didn’t go out in search of a dress per se; he’d essentially been looking at jewelry prior to the daddy-daughter outing one spring morning. But when Rachel, only eight years old at the time, spotted the dress hanging in the storefront window at Alice’s Vintage Emporium, they both instantly knew not even diamonds would top it. They were right. Her mother’s expression when she received the lilac dress, packaged in a white embossed box and tied with a periwinkle-colored ribbon, was one of pure joy.
Doesn’t this dress just scream: ‘I am Jenny Cleary?’
Up until now, the sentimental value alone made it a priceless garment in the Cleary household. Not to mention the actual monetary worth of the dress—an authentic 1950s silk dress with a brocaded bodice, in mint condition—could bring in a small fortune on eBay.
The dress was one of a kind, like her mom used to be, and now they were both gone.
Rachel wipes a tear away from her cheek as she sets the phone down beside her. She sits for a few more minutes, pushing away her emotions. Composed, Rachel stands and goes to the closet to pick out the day’s clothes. There are, after all, more crucial matters to attend to than a damn dress and a body-snatched mother. No matter how selfish she wants to be, those things are trivial in comparison to finding the missing children.
Twenty minutes later, Rachel finds herself knocking on Mrs. Crenshaw’s door, already formulating an excuse to see Dougal—apparently her only ally in this battle against an entity that shouldn’t exist outside of folklore. The front door opens, and the old woman appears—lips taut, frown lines prominent, eyes saying she’s none too happy to have Rachel on her doorstep.
The reason Rachel has concocted for her visit flees from her mind and all she can do is um and ah as Mrs. Crenshaw chastises her with a mere glare.
“He’s not here,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, somehow figuring out the purpose of Rachel’s visit through the muddled words. Her voice is calm and soft, the quiet before a storm. “I got him a job at Farrow & Sons for the summer. The boy’s good with his hands, I hear, particularly with machinery. He’s off fixing a tractor on the Kempner Farm with Joe Farrow. It’s always best to keep troublemakers’ minds off trouble, away from temptation, you understand?”
“Mrs. Crenshaw, it wasn’t Dougal’s fault. I became curious about why nobody ever goes into the forest, and he didn’t want me to go in there by myself.”
“For seventeen years you hardly glimpse at the forest, but as soon as he comes along you go off on an adventure without giving it a second thought.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Oh?” she interrupts, unconvinced. “Look, if Joe doesn’t work him half to death today, and if he’s still able to walk across the road to see you, I’ll tell him you were here.”
Rachel nods in understanding, whispers her thanks, and turns to leave.
Behind her, Mrs. Crenshaw sighs loudly. “What’s the matter, Rachel? You didn’t rush over here to test my patience, I’m sure.”
She turns back to look at the woman, the closest she’s ever had to a grandmother, and says, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Mrs. Crenshaw opens the door wide and takes a step back, allowing her to enter. “Try me,” she says.
Rachel enters the house and makes her way into the living room. A pair of tawny-colored armchairs, both covered in granny-square crocheted afghans, sit across from an outdated television. The boxy relic with its bunny-ear aerial should be in a science and technology museum, but Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t want to get rid of it. She always says her TV is more reliable “out here” than some fancy wall-mounted flat-screen, although Rachel doesn’t recall their television ever giving them problems. The taupe-colored sofa, where mismatched patches are displayed like badges of honor, sits against the wall across from the large window overlooking the street. A threadbare carpet with a strange pattern covers the hardwood floor. Rachel knows this living room almost as well as her own bedroom.
Meanwhile, she considers the ramifications of telling Mrs. Crenshaw everything. A prolonged vacation at the Hawthorne Memorial Wellness Center, a mental institution established by a rich businessman back in the 1970s to hide his killer son from the authorities, seems like the most probable outcome. Maybe her mother would be merciful and send her off to a holistic retreat for troubled teens? Doubtful, but a girl can hope. There is a slim chance that Mrs. Crenshaw will believe her, in which case Rachel would have two allies to help her find the missing children. Is it worth the risk?
She selects the most believable piece of the story to share with Mrs. Crenshaw, particularly the part about her mother acting stranger than usual and allows the story of how they got to this point to pour out of her. Bottled up feelings are released in the process; all the angst and disappointment and confusion. Mrs. Crenshaw listens, her face unchanging as the torrent of words and emotions is released. Rachel sucks in a deep breath as she comes to the end of the weird tale, and realizes she was speaking so fast that half of what she said probably didn’t make much sense.
“All right.” Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t appear like she’s ready to call in professionals to force Rachel out of her house, so that’s a good sign. “I did notice some ... things, like the absences and evasiveness, but I had no idea it was this bad. How long did you say this has been going on?” she asks.
“The worst of it’s been going on for about a year now,” Rachel says, running her hand over one of the patches on the armrest. “I’d like to blame Sheriff Carter for Mom’s weird behavior, but the truth is she was acting dodgy before he started coming around. What do I do?”
“First off, you don’t do anything,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, sitting forward in her favorite armchair. “Adults don’t tend to listen to children, even if children are more perceptive. If you confront your mother while she’s in a bad place, the issues you’ve raised will only be brushed aside and the tension between you will escalate. Let me speak to her.”
“You’d do that?”
Mrs. Crenshaw raises one of her eyebrows, her way of saying, “Duh.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Crenshaw.”
Mrs. Crenshaw sits back again, and says, “Your mother isn’t the only adult who’s been afflicted with this strange behavior. Iris Pearson looked rather bland at church yesterday—gray seems to be all the rage with those uppity peacocks lately. I was more concerned over Andy Rawson, though. He was running his mouth about a woman’s place while we were heading out of church and there were quite a few menfolk who seemed interested in his Old Testament views.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head. “I’ll have to look into this before a mass hysteria of some kind takes hold of the entire town.”
“Like the one back in 1811?” Rachel blurts out. Mrs. Crenshaw tilts her head, the corner of her lip pulling upward. “I’ve been going through Dad’s old journals. He said something about a mass hysteria in 1811, revolving around Shadow Grove’s farming methods through the ages. Talk about bland.”
“Your dad was smart enough to hide the truth in plain sight. Honestly, how many people would be interested in reading a journal about farming methods?” Mrs. Crenshaw inhales deeply. “The mass hysteria in 1811 wasn’t exactly a mass hysteria. It was more like an epidemic of grief that set over into fear, similar to the Salem Witch Trials. Of course, nobody got burned at the stake in Shadow Grove, but it was heading that way fast. If I recall correctly, the townsfolk went after the mayor of the time. They dragged him out of his house, tied him to a donkey, paraded him down Main Road, and then strung him up in front of Town Hall. The ravens pecked at his decaying corpse for weeks.”
“Geez,” Rachel says. “For what? Why were they so afraid?”
Mrs. Crenshaw shrugs. “Hell if I know. Change, maybe? Unlike your father, mine never searched for the root cause of a problem from years gone by. He just liked to tell me the stories,” she explains. “That tidbit is a tad too grim to make it into the official history of Shadow Grove, by the way, but ...”
“But?” she asks when Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t continue.
“You’re friends with the Pearson boy, aren’t you?”
Rachel shrugs, muttering, “Meh.”
“Well, are you up for a recon mission?” she asks. Rachel sits quietly, then nods. Mrs. Crenshaw scoots to the edge of her seat, leans forward, and says in a conspirator’s whisper, “Only a few people have access to the town council’s archive—a couple of Shadow Grove’s founding families. If you want to get more information about what’s happening—unedited history that’s been redacted from public record—you could ask Greg to take you there. It may save some time with your research; it may even have some information your father couldn’t get his hands on.”
Rachel averts her eyes to the carpet, fumbling with her hands. She wonders if her mother is capable of senseless violence now that she’s developed a Hyde-personality. The absolutely that pops into her head, answering her unasked question, doesn’t sit well with her. Infiltrating the Pearson house and using Greg to gain access to an archive Rachel hadn’t known existed until now is Mrs. Crenshaw’s way of pushing her in the right direction, helping her come to the bottom of the mysteries plaguing Shadow Grove. If Rachel’s assumptions are correct, the archive could contain knowledge to help her mother return to a semblance of her old self and may even shed some light on the Night Weaver’s location. The problem, she realizes, is that Greg isn’t stupid enough to fall for pretty lies or hollow threats. They’re far too similar and much too competitive not to recognize each other’s usual tricks.
“While you’re in the Pearson household, you should also check to see if Iris is behaving oddly,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, interrupting Rachel’s thoughts.
She needs a solid plan if she wants to convince Greg—a plan so simple he wouldn’t expect her of anything untoward. If she goes to him and starts making demands, he’d never allow her into the archive.
Rachel grins as an idea takes shape in her mind. “It won’t hurt to try, right? Not if it’s for the greater good.” She stands, ready to follow the new lead to the end. “Let’s see if I’m lucky enough to pull this off. Do you have any other hints or tips?”
“Keep that umbrella of yours within reach,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, her tone conveying a serious, secretive advisement rather than a general suggestion. “It may rain later on.”
Rachel frowns, purses her lips, and nods. “Noted. Anything else?”
Mrs. Crenshaw makes a show of thinking as she reclines in her armchair. “Nothing comes to mind right now, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”
