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Elizabeth Massie

The February Special Guest Story is

by Elizabeth Massie

Please feel free to visit Elizabeth HERE

Elizabeth Massie

SISTER. SHHH…
by Elizabeth Massie

Charity did not look back. She did not slow down. Her thin white sneakers, meant for sandy pathways and wooden floors, were savaged on the rock-strewn, hard-packed earth. Her yellow dress tangled her legs and threatened to throw her onto her face.

The heat of the desert was cooling quickly, the sun reduced to an orange smear atop the mountains to the west. The sky was starless and the color of water in a deep well. Charity did her best to keep pace with her sister-wife, who was several yards ahead, but Fawn was older by a year and taller by nearly a foot.

Though she could not hear anything but her own footfalls and raspy, desperate breaths, she was sure the Prophet had roused a posse and they were thundering along behind in the darkness, truck tires biting the ground, dogs and correction rods at the ready.

Heavenly Father, help me! God, please do not curse me! “Fawn!”

Fawn did not look back. She did not answer.

The Prophet and his men would catch them and take them to task, dragging them by their hair to show others what happened to backsliders, claiming any punishments they received at the hands of the elders were mild compared to their punishments in hell were they to escape to live among the Outsiders.

Charity’s foot caught a stone and she fell, wailing, and came up with her mouth and hands embedded with grit. She scrambled up a small cactus-covered slope and skidded down the other side. The small Bible she’d pocketed before running thumped her hip, reminding her it was there, reminding her of the vows she was breaking, the chance she was taking, and the hope she might be protected, anyway. Up ahead, Fawn’s pink dress flapped like the wing of a terrified bird.

It was forbidden for girls to leave Gloryville. Females were to remain at home in the protection of God and the Fellowship. They were not to travel, nor to even speculate as to what lay beyond the borders of their holy, isolated town. They were to be submissive daughters and brides and mothers. They were to do as they were told, to surrender their bodies and souls to the men in their lives – their shepherds – who had spiritual and bodily charge over them.

“Fawn!”

Fawn called back, “Come on!”

An engine revved far behind in the blackness. They were coming. Charity glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but the outlines of boulders and brambles and the quarter moon, hovering like a cat’s eye in the near-black sky.

The engine sound faded, disappeared. Maybe it was thunder, Charity thought. A storm coming in over the desert.

Baring her teeth, she pushed on. Her heart hammered, her lungs drew in and out like bellows against a fire.

Then Fawn slowed. She bent over, clutching her knees, wheezing, spitting blood. Charity reached her and grabbed her arm.

“Are you all right?”

Fawn nodded.

“No, really!”

“I bit my tongue.”

“Oh!”

Fawn glanced up; her eyes were creased at the edges, terrified, flashing white in the faint moonlight. But she nodded again. “I’m all right.”

“We should rest. Somewhere. We can hide.”

“They’ll catch us, certainly. But Flinton isn’t too far, I don’t think. Just a mile, maybe.”

Mile? I can’t run another mile!

“Can you run with me? Can you be free with me?”

Can I, God? Will You hate me for leaving Gloryville? Will You punish me forever?

Charity whispered, “Yes.” Fawn took her hand and they ran, into the blackness, zigzagging across the Arizona desert, heading for Flinton. Heading for freedom.

Flinton had a reputation for sin. Whoring. Gambling. Murders. Loud music, televisions, and a movie theater that showed films glorifying violence and sex. People dressed in clothes that revealed shoulders, midriffs, and bare thighs. Children running without supervision. Women out of their homes unescorted, drinking with each other and with men into the wee hours of the nights. Charity had heard all these things in passing, whispered stories that skittered through the sanctified compound of Gloryville like thorny tumbleweeds on a foul breeze.

The men of Gloryville went to Flinton to trade, sell, and buy. It was the closest Outsider town. It had stores and banks. And so they went. But they always stamped their boots clean of Flinton’s foul dirt before they re-entered their own town.

And though Charity had dreamed of escape as she lay trembling on her cot at night, she could not reconcile her longing with the fact that the only place to run to would be Flinton.

It was Fawn who first spoke the dangerous words. She had sneaked to Charity’s bedside on the morning before the rest of the household was awake, knelt and whispered, “I’m, going to run away, dearest. Come with me.”

Charity had pulled her pillow over her head, pretending to be asleep. Fawn had poked her in the shoulder and whispered again, “Friday. After prayer meeting. We can pretend to go looking for Pips.”

Charity whispered into the pillow, “Why would we look for Pips? He’s a faithful dog. He would never leave Rufus.”

“We can hide him, tie him up so he looks to be missing. That will give us the time we need before anyone wonders where we are.”

Charity was silent, though her heart pounded so hard the cot shook beneath her.

“All right? Charity? Please? I don’t want to go alone. We’ll be safer together. And I don’t want to leave you behind. You’re the only person who loves me.”

Charity felt herself nod. Fawn slipped away, back to her room, a whisper of slippers on bare floor. And Charity slept none at all until dawn, trying to breathe, staring at the wall, thinking of the dangers in Flinton, seeing images of Satan and the Prophet glaring at her, one with eyes of blazing orange, the other with eyes of ice-cold blue, wrangling over her soul.

But she wanted to leave as much as she wanted to live. And life in Gloryville had become unbearable.

Over the days that followed, Charity fought hard to keep from letting the rest of the family notice her nervousness. She was certain the fear of the impending escape was obvious, etched to her cheeks and mouth like the scars cut into Fawn’s shoulders from the beating Rufus gave her when she resisted him on their wedding night. Yet, as the fourth and youngest wife of Elder Rufus Via, Charity was overlooked most of the time, her ranking in the expansive family just a little higher than that of Pips.

Charity had married Rufus, a smelly fifty-eight-year-old goat farmer, brother to the Prophet though a lesser church elder himself, thirteen months prior on her fourteenth birthday. She had looked forward to the marriage and the assurance of a place in the highest realm of heaven for obeying the expectations of her sex. She thought she knew what would be expected of her, having grown up in a family with three sister-wives and nineteen children. But her own father, a carpenter who worked hard and said little, was quite different from Rufus Via, who didn’t work very hard and said quite a bit. Rufus stomped and yelled, then would disappear for several days, expecting not only the housework to be done but all the farm work, as well. If it wasn’t done, or done to his liking, there was hell to pay.

The first two sister-wives, Prudence and Faith, were humble women, busy with their babies, and with little time to help Charity adjust. They assigned the youngest sister-wife the most tedious chores, as was to be expected. Laundry. Scrubbing the floors. Mucking goat pens. Gathering eggs. Cleaning the dishes. Changing the diapers of their growing brood – eleven and counting, as all of the other sister-wives, including Fawn now, were expecting. Fawn, however, had taken Charity under her wing. The two girls had known each other before the marriages, had lived in adjacent homes. They’d played together when there was time to play. They’d sat near each other during the long church services that all Gloryville residents were required to attend in the windowless chapel in the center of town. Occasionally they dared pass notes back and forth, snickering silently over which boys were cute or which woman had a hole in her stockings or a bug in her hair.

So when Charity wed Rufus, Fawn was quick to give her advice on how best to submit to Rufus when he wanted her and how best to stay out of his way when he didn’t.

“He wants to make you scream when he takes you,” she said. “If you are silent, he thinks you aren’t paying attention. If you lie still, he thinks you are in contempt of him. It’s best to writhe and scream and call out to God. He may spank you with a belt, or make you do things with your mouth. Oh, Charity, just say yes to it all. Then he will be done his business more quickly and will leave you alone.”

And so Charity screamed. She writhed. She prayed she would never have his child. She prayed he would die then she prayed she would die. Then she prayed God would forgive her for her prayers. She didn’t really want to die. She wanted to be gone, gone far from the man and his brutal hands and body.

She peeled carrots and potatoes. She washed. She minded the others’ babies. She bent over in the shed when Rufus found her there. She bore his beatings when he came to her and found she was in the midst of her unclean days. She endured his curses when she did not conceive.

And she cried on her cot in the pantry behind the kitchen. How could she stand this for another sixty years? If this was God’s plan, then God was as cold and cruel as Rufus. Maybe Satan would be kinder. He certainly couldn’t be much worse.

According to the whispered rumors, Satan lived in Flinton. The road to Flinton was likely the road to hell.

And it was also the road to freedom.

*****

They reached the outskirts of Flinton and stumbled along the shoulder of the road, at a walk now, panting, sweating. Charity’s hair had long since fallen free of its pins and lay like a tangled brown shawl about her shoulders. Each time a vehicle whizzed past, they shuddered and prayed it was not the Prophet. Each set of receding taillights looked like glowing devil’s eyes, daring them to follow. Along the roadside were flat-roofed houses, tangled chain link fences behind which dogs snarled and howled. They passed an abandoned building with rusted gas pumps and trailers set like litter carelessly tossed, their porch lights winking. Inside, there was loud and rowdy laughter. Charity could not help but weep. Her feet were hot with blood, her face hot with dread. There was nothing left in her body but the agony of the escape, nothing left in her heart but the fear of what lay ahead.

“Sister, shhh,” said Fawn. She leaned close and nuzzled Charity’s cheek. “It will be all right. We just get into town, find a telephone, and call the authorities. We tell them we are runaways from Gloryville and that we need help.”

“How do you know they’ll help us? How do you know they won’t just send us back to Rufus?”

“I’ve heard tell that laws of the Outsiders forbid men to marry girls our age. They believe it’s criminal for men to beat their wives.”

“Whose laws? Not God’s laws, surely! God’s laws are above the laws of man!”

“No, no! God doesn’t want us beaten…”

“But if we disobey we should be beaten!”

“You’re tired, Charity. Shhh, now. You want to be away as I want to. Trust me. We’ll be all right. I have some coins in my pocket that I took from Rufus’ dresser. We just need to find a phone, we just need to…”

And in that moment, there was a rumbling on the road, a roaring from behind, a dark growl bearing down on them, and Charity turned just in time to see a truck without its headlights on aiming at them, swelling in the darkness like an enraged monster. She felt the heat of the machine before it struck her, knocking her up from the shoulder and out into the sand. And then darkness covered darkness and everything flew away.

*****

“Careless, Rufus,” said a man’s voice. The sound cut through Charity’s brain and she flinched. “Knew you took chances but never thought you’d be so careless.”

Even with her face pressed into a mattress, she knew the men who were with her. Her husband. The Prophet. She could feel the sticky crust of the sheet, could smell stale sex in the fabric. In a room next door, there was muffled music, talking, laughter.

Fawn, where are you?

“Damn women,” said Rufus. He huffed and hawked, and it sounded like he spit on the floor. “What gets in to them, you know? What makes them think they can run?”

There was a moment of silence. The Prophet was likely pondering the question. Then he said, “Satan grabs a few of them and off they go. Think something’s better out here.”

“Out here? In Flinton? Ha!”

“Seems so.”

“Bitches.”

“I won’t have those words, Rufus. You’re an elder and…”

“I am who I am and have always been that. Don’t get high and mighty with me, Walter. I know you and I’ve heard your babblings ever since I was born.”

“The past is past, brother. I’ve put up with your shenanigans for much too long. You coming to Flinton once a month for your floozies and your drink! Staying away for days, leaving your wives and children while you did God knows what with unholy women! I should have corrected you earlier, should have not allowed you to take four wives, should have…”

“Should have what, Walter? Used the law of placing against me? Or hauled me to the front of the body during worship to dress me down? Or would you have my blood atonement? Oh, I have shenanigans, all right. I come to Flinton for my fun, but I keep it away from Gloryville. I never sully our holy town. I never sully your holy name.”

“Rufus! Enough.”

“Enough? For who? For me? For you? Let me tell you, Prophet, should you share what I do on my own time with the flock, I will tell them of your own sins. I will tell them of the boys you have sent away from Gloryville when they reached the age. You claimed they were listening to rock music, or were caught smoking. Off they went, banished! And I have no problem with that. We’ve not enough girls as it is for all the men to marry their required three. Yet what no one knows but you, me, and God is that you had your way with all the boys before you set them adrift. You blessed them with your lust, rammed them into the wall of your private prayer closet, left them limping, bloody, and torn.”

“Rufus!”

“I tell the truth, brother. Shall I share that truth with the body of believers? Shall I tell the congregation?”

There was a sharp slapping sound and a grunt. Then a tussle and thud. Charity tried to turn over but her body screamed with the attempt.

“Hold! I think she’s awake.”

“You’re no prophet, Prophet! You’re as full of sin as the rest of the world!”

“I said hold! Stop it! She’s awake, Rufus. Take care now.”

“More care than your driving?”

“Not another word from you.”

The bed sank and squealed. A beefy hand took hold of Charity’s chin, and turned it around. “Open your eyes!” It was Rufus. Charity tried to look but could not find the energy. Though the mattress was no longer sinking, she felt herself continuing on without it, spinning, floating downward toward a soft sound of crying. A faint sound of scratching…

“I said open your eyes! You’re going to listen to me, and listen well. You got yourself in trouble, girl. You’re hurt and we’ve got a doctor coming to look at you. He’ll… I said open your eyes. Now!” A flattened palm slammed against her cheek, though she only knew it from the sound. There was no feeling of pain. Something warm spread out around the base of her gown. She thought she had wet herself, but couldn’t be sure and didn’t really care because…

“Damn it, Walter, help me get her to sit up.”

…because her body was fading away, draining like water down into hot sand, down toward the piteous crying, the scratching...

“Listen to me!”

…and all was going soft, softer…

“Sit up!”

….until all was calm.

All was dark.

*****

She opened her eyes to the dark, musty confines of a closet. A slice of light pooled through the crack beneath the door. Scents of pine shavings, cigarette butts, and body odor stung her nose. She worked her shoulders, her neck, stretching against a stiffness that didn’t want to be loosened.

“Uh,” she grunted, and then snapped her jaws shut. If they knew she was awake again, they would…

What? What will they do?

She tipped her head, listening through the door.

Are they still here? Did they tell the doctor not to come? Did they leave me to suffer alone?

There was no sound beyond the closet door.

Slowly she looked around. Against the back wall was a folded ironing board with the words, “Property of West End Motel, Flinton, Arizona” stenciled into the grimy fabric. A handful of wire hangers dangled on the rod above. Dead flies lay on the floor beside the dried husk of a scorpion. Little spatters of sand sparkled dimly in the carpeting.

She waited.

She closed her eyes.

Somewhere nearby she heard soft crying and a sound of scratching. She tried to speak, to ask who it was, but her voice was nothing more than cool breath on hot air.

She waited.

The motel room door was unlocked. Someone came in, pulling something with wheels that rattled.

Who is it? Rufus? The Prophet? What do they have planned for me? Is it Fawn, here to help me?

A vacuum cleaner turned on and ran back and forth for a few minutes, the sound of water running in the bathroom, then the door opening, closing again. 

Where are Rufus and the Prophet? How long have I been here?

She tried to open the door but her hands were too weak to work. Up on her knees, she leaned her weight against the door and shook the knob, but it did not turn.

“Help me!” she cried, but no one heard her, and no one came to help.

And so she closed her eyes and waited.

*****

She came around when she heard the motel room door opening again. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy and certain, one light and shuffling.

Rufus? Are you back? Who is with you? It doesn’t sound like the Prophet. Why are you leaving me here? Please let me out!

Voices. One man, one woman.

The man sounded young. He said, “Lay here, Julie And don’t you worry a bit. I’ll be right back.”

The bedsprings squealed. She groaned, then said, “Don’t fucking leave me, Bob.”

“I got to. You wait here. I’ll get help and everything will be okay.”

“I don’t feel okay!”

“Just cut it out. Don’t panic. Jeez.”

“I hurt! Damn you for doing this to me!”

“You did this to you, too, don’t forget!”

“My stomach hurts so bad, Bob!”

“Yeah, and the sooner I get out of here the sooner I’ll be back. Here’s my cell. In case…”

“In case what? I want to order a pizza? Owwww!

“Damn it, Julie! I’m leaving!”

“Fine! Get the hell out of here.”

“Get some sleep.”

She groaned and cried out, “Fuck that! I hate you!”

The door opened, shut. Charity angled her head, listening. The woman on the bed was panting, sucking air through her teeth.

“Hello?” Charity called, but the woman did not hear her. The panting grew louder, more anxious. Then, weeping, moaning, cursing. Then the panting grew softer, slower.

Then silence.

Charity tried the door but was still unable to open it.

So she waited.

*****

The man came back. He coughed, called Julie’s name, then said, “Ah, shit.” He left, slamming the door. The door rattled on its hinges.

Charity waited. Then she said, “Hello?”

There was a long pause, then a tremulous, “Hello” in return.

Charity’s heart leapt.

“Julie?”

“Yes, who are you?”

“Charity. I’m in the closet. I can’t open the door from in here. Can you help me?”

Julie was silent, then said, “I don’t know. Let me try.”

A whisper-soft movement across the rug outside the closet. Then, “I can’t seem to grasp the handle. What’s wrong with me?”

“I think you’re hurt. I heard you and that man. Bob. You were angry, and you were in a lot of pain.”

“I was?” There was a pause. “Yes, I was. Bob left me, didn’t he? The bastard!”

“Are you still hurt?”

“Ah...no, I don’t think so.”

“What was the matter?”

“He’d made me have an abortion. He gets me pregnant, then takes me to some fly-by-night asshole friend of his who claims to be a nurse and can do it, no cost. No cost? Too good to be true, I tell Bob. He says the guy owes him for something or other. So I figure, I don’t want a kid, anyway, and the guy’s got a medical degree. Or nursing degree. Whatever.”

“Oh.”

“But then I start cramping, and bleeding like crazy. He brings me here to this shit-bag motel ‘cause he doesn’t want to take me home to my place, or to my Mom’s or, Lord forbid, to his Mom’s, ‘cause you know fuckin’ Moms, how they can get.”

“I suppose.”

“I tell him, you took me to some butcher to save a hundred bucks? He says it’ll be okay. He says he’ll go get some real help. Gives me his cell phone. Why didn’t he call 911? I’ll tell you why, ‘cause he wanted to skip town and leave me alone to…”

There was a long, dry silence.

“To what?” asked Charity.

“Like he wanted to skip town and leave me to die or something.”

“I’m so sorry, Julie.”

“What are you doing in that closet, anyway?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Via.”

“I don’t know no Vias in Flinton.”

“I’m not from Flinton.”

“Out-of-towner, huh? In for a one-night stand? Get dumped by your man, too?”  

Dumped by my man. I guess that’s what happened. Knocked down by his truck and left here until he decides to come back.

Charity hesitated, then, “I’m from Gloryville.”

Julie laughed abruptly. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? That creepy place with all the polygamist fundamentalists? Where the women wear those prairie dresses and puff their hair up high?”

“Yes.”

“You running from there? Running away?”

“I was…” Fawn! Wait! What happened to Fawn? “I was running from there, yes! He was after me, Rufus and the Prophet!” Her words picked up speed as she remembered the truck on the dark road, the impact of the metal on her legs, landing in the sand. “Julie, you have to get me out of here. If they come back they’ll take me home. I can’t go home! Oh, my God, I think they killed Fawn!”

“What? Who’s Fawn?”

“Get me out, please!”

“I can’t! The doorknob won’t turn. I can’t seem to get it with my fingers.”

“Try again!”

“I can’t!”

“They could be back any minute!”

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”

“Shhh!” Charity held up her hand to silence Julie, as if the other girl could see her.

“Shh, what?”

“Listen. Do you hear that? Scratching? And somebody crying? Really soft, though, but don’t you hear it?”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not in here. Maybe out where you are?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Just listen.”

“I am listening! Damn, but I’m sick of people telling me what to do!”

“Sorry.”

Then Julie said, “Yeah, I do hear it. Maybe it’s in the other room, you think? Or the TV?”

“I’ve heard it before. It’s the same sound over and over.”

“Maybe somebody’s renting the same porn film.”

“Oh. Some of that S and M shit.”

“What’s that? S and M?”

“Never mind. You’re from Gloryville, so how would you even know? Wait. Your name’s Charity?”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny.”

“Why?”

“Did you know that other Charity? The one that ran away from Gloryville, I dunno, six years ago?”

Charity frowned and put her hand to her mouth. “Who was that? I don’t remember. There are a couple Charities in Gloryville.”

“Girl about fourteen-fifteen. It was in the news. Found her…shit, it was in this same motel. In a closet. She was dead, all banged up. Said it looked like she’d been hit by a car or something.”

“No…”

“Never found out who did it, I don’t think. Went out to that Gloryville, talked to some folks. Seems she ran off. Musta gotten hooked up with some bad sorts who ran her down then hid her.”

“No.”

“One of the cops said she looked like she was real pretty once, in that little yellow dress and all that brown hair and a little squashed Bible in her pocket. He even cried a little on the TV. Now for a cop to cry, who’s gonna forget that?”

No.

“I think the people in Gloryville said another girl ran off with her, one a little bit older, but they never did find that one. You remember the Charity I’m talking about?”

I am her.

“Do you?”

Oh my God, I am her!

She’d heard about ghosts. Some of her brothers talked about them privately, when they were choring outdoors. She’d overheard them, talking and giggling nervously. Ghosts were leftovers from dead people. They were stuck on earth for some reason. They came out at night and shook windows and rattled doors. They could pass through solid walls and scare you to death if you looked at them. They had magic numbers they used to their advantage. Thirteen. Seven. Three. Each had a purpose that Charity did not stay to hear, because at that point her mother was calling her.

“Hey, Charity?”

Slowly, she stood, held her hands in front of her, and placed them on the closet door. Am I a ghost, then? Is that what has happened? Did I die here? Has it been six years?

Her palms flattened against the splintery wood. She felt the wood grow cold at her touch, and then she pushed against it. Leaned into it. And it gave way. She tumbled forward though the door and out into the room.

Julie leapt to her feet, her eyes huge. “Oh shit oh shit!” Her blonde hair was grimy and limp, her jeans were soaked in blood down to her knees.

Charity straightened and stared at her hands. They looked the same to her. She flexed them. They felt the same but for the chill.

Julie backed toward the bed. “Get away from me,” she snarled.

“I… I won’t hurt you,” said Charity. “I never hurt anyone in my life.”

“Get away!”

Charity took a step forward, wanting to console Julie, for she saw in the girl the fear and terror that she knew had been on her own face when Rufus came at her with his correction rod or belt. And in that moment saw herself in the mirror.

She screamed.

Gone was the recognizable, sunburned face, the small shoulders, the slim body, and the yellow dress. Her dress was torn away at the waist, revealing ravaged undergarments. The ragged remnants of cloth were covered in black streaks and blackened blood. Her body was mangled, one arm bent with a bone protruding, her legs flayed along the shins and thighs. Her face was purpled and her jaw could be seen through a hole in her cheek.

Charity fell to her knees, clutched the remaining clots of hair on her head, and sobbed. And somewhere nearby came the sound of someone else crying softly, accompanying by a persistent scratching, clawing.

*****

“We’re both dead, then,” said Julie. She sat on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her brows knit, her lip trembling.

“Yes. I died at the hands of Rufus and the Prophet. You died at the hands of the nurse your boyfriend recommended you go to.”

“So we’re ghosts.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to be a ghost. What do we do now?”

Charity sat on the chair at the desk. She could not feel the seat beneath her. She ran her fingers along the buttons of the phone but could not push them. She and Julie had tried several times to leave the room, only to find they were unable to step outside through the door. “I don’t know. Have you read about ghosts?” 

Julie shrugged. “Some. Not much. We have unfinished business. I guess since we both got murdered, in our own ways.”

“I guess so.”

“How long have I been dead, I wonder? I would call the front desk and ask the date but we can’t dial, can we?”

“I can’t. Maybe you can. I’ve heard tell ghosts can move things sometimes.”

Julie crawled off the bed and went to the desk. She lifted the receiver and gave Charity a look of surprise. She pushed the O on the dial pad. A moment later, a voice said, “Yes?”

Julie said, “What is today?”

“Hello? Is someone there?”

“Yes, I want to know the date.”

“Hello? Hello? Who is there in room 6? No one’s been in that room for weeks!”

“Please, I just want to know today’s date.”

“I’m coming down there, whoever you are! Intruders! Pranksters!” There was a click. Julie put the receiver down. “She couldn’t hear me. She’s coming to the room. Are we supposed to spook her?”

“Do you think we should?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably an okay lady, just worried is all.”

“Then let’s leave her alone.”

Julie and Charity went into the closet. The woman from the front desk entered the room just moments later, and they could hear her grunting as she knelt to look under the bed, peeked in the bathoom. Then she opened the closet door. They held still as she stared right through them. Then she muttered, “Must be crossed wires. Must be last night’s storm.” She went out. Julie went back to the bed. Charity went back to sit at the desk.

“Are we stuck here? Forever?” asked Julie. “Do we have to haunt the place where we died?”       

“Maybe. I don’t know. I wish I did. My brothers knew a bit about ghosts. I should have paid closer attention. Oh, I hope Fawn has gone on to heaven! I don’t want her wandering in the desert, all alone!”

“Shhh, listen,” said Julie.

There was the soft crying again, beneath them. The sound of scratching, clawing.

“What do you think that is?” Julie asked.

Charity shook her head. “It’s what I’ve been hearing off and on. I thought it might be a dog beneath the motel, scampered there out of the sun, maybe.”

“No, it’s a human sound.”

They both listened. Whimpering, scraping. Under the floor.

Charity knelt on the rug. She put her face to the floor. “Who are you?”     

More weeping, louder now. More scratching.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

A soft, tiny voice, “Help.”

“How can I help you?”

“Help.”

Instinctively, Charity put her hand to the floor, through the floor into the crawl space, and felt about. Her fingers brushed against some fine, soft hair, and she gasped.

“What is it?” asked Julie.

“I don’t know.” Her fingers traced the hair, down to a soft jaw line, a small chest, and bony shoulder. She felt about and grasped an arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Wait.”

She pulled. Slowly, carefully, drawing her hand back up out of the floor, ready to let go of the arm should it refuse to move through with her. But it didn’t. The body came through, huffing, shuddering.

It was a small boy, no more than five. He had raven-black hair and brown eyes. He was dressed only in a pair of short pants. His feet were bare. There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and his chest appeared sunken, and dirt and small bits of gravel was embedded in places along his skin.

“Hi, there,” said Charity. “What’s your name?”

He sniffed and rubbed his nose. It was then Charity saw the nubs of his fingers. He had been digging, clawing, and had worn them clear to the bone.

“Honey,” said Charity. “We won’t hurt you. What is your name?’

He looked at Julie, then back at Charity, not seeming terrified by their appearances. He said, “Nantan.”

“Is that an Apache name?”

He nodded.

“How did you get down there under the motel?”

The boy shrugged.

“How long have you been down there?”

The boy’s face drew up and he began to cry again. His words were broken, desperate, “He threw me in the hole. Covered me up. Said I was nothing but trouble!”

“What man?”

“The man that built this place.”

God…and how old is this motel? Thirty years, maybe?

Charity tried to hug him but there was little of substance to hold. Nonetheless, she remained there on her knees, her arms encircling the boy, trying her best to replicate what had been easy in life.

Then Julie said, “Would he sleep? Could we put him to bed? Perhaps he would at least rest?”

“We can try.”

Charity sat back on her heels and held out her hand to Nantan. He took it. Julie grasped his other hand.

And they all felt it. A strange and sudden surge between them, a blue, undulating energy that took their dead hearts and set them pounding.

Julie almost let go but Charity said, “No, don’t! Don’t let go!”

“Why?”

“Just don’t, please. Let’s get up together.”

“Why?”

“Please?”

“I guess,” said Julie.

The three of them stood then, a young woman, a girl, and a little boy. Charity’s brothers had said there were magic numbers ghosts used to their advantage. One was three. And here they were, three ghosts, holding hands. There was something special there. There was power.

She led Julie and Nantan to the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Julie.

“Trying something.” Charity closed her eyes, thought about Fawn, dead, her body God only knew where now. Perhaps her spirit lingered on the outskirts of Flinton, not knowing what happened or what to do about it all.

“Come with me,” said Charity. “And don’t let go of each other, okay?”

“Okay,” said Julie.

Nantan nodded.

She pushed through the door. The others came with her, sliding silently out onto the uneven concrete walk then across the night-darkened parking lot.

Yes! Yes!

Together, they could go where they needed to go. Together, they would take care of the business each needed to take care of. They had all the time in the world to figure it out and get it done.

You will be avenged, sister. I may see you again. I may not. But you will be avenged. You will be freed!

Flinton wasn’t so much hell as hellish. Not so much owned by the devil as bedeviled by humans and their cruelties. Charity led the others down the road, heading westward through the shadows, casting none of their own. She imagined herself shaking the town’s foul soil from her feet.

And as the sliver moon rose over the desert and dogs barked behind chain link fences, she smiled her first smile in years, savoring the expressions she would see on the faces of Rufus and the Prophet when she took them to task back in Gloryville.

Elizabeth Massie is a Bram Stoker Award- and Scribe Award-winning author of horror novels, short horror fiction, media tie-ins, mainstream fiction, historical novels, and nonfiction. Most recent works include short stories in the anthologies Vampires Don’t Sparkle, Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women, and Shadow Masters, zombie novel Desper Hollow (Apex Books), a new middle grade horror series, Ameri-Scares, which has launched with the first four novels - Virginia: Valley of Secrets, New York: Rips and Wrinkles, California: From the Pit, and Maryland: Terror in the Harbor (Crossroad Press), and an historical horror novel, Hell Gate (DarkFuse). Massie the creator of the Skeeryvilletown slew of cartoon zombies, monsters, and other bizarre misfits. In her spare time she manages Hand to Hand Vision, a Facebook-based fundraising project she founded to help others during these tough economic times. Massie lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and shares life and abode with the talented illustrator/artist Cortney Skinner. She can be reached through her website: www.elizabethmassie.com or through Facebook.

Desper Hollow

Hell Gate

Sineater

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sineater Desper Hollow