Ghost Walk (9 page)

“You’re a ray of fucking sunshine, Rudy. You know that?”

“That’s why you love me.”

“Any other words of wisdom you want to lay on us, Captain Obvious?”

“Your face is about as ugly as Terry’s ass.”

Ken blinked. “Nothing’s that ugly.”

Chuckling, the three men began hiking back up the trail. They were almost to the out house attraction when they heard a woman’s scream. It pierced the night, echoing through the trees. Startled, Ken dropped his flashlight. They halted, glancing around in confusion while Ken fumbled for the light.

“What the hell was that?” Rudy gasped.

“That reporter,” Terry said. “It’s got to be her. Maybe she’s hurt.”

“Come on!”

Ken dashed up the trail, his footsteps pounding in the darkness. Terry and the fire chief ran after him. Another scream rang out.

“Hello,” Ken shouted. “We’re coming!”

“Miss Nasr?” Terry cried. “Is that you? Sound off!”

Wincing, Rudy stayed silent and concentrated on breathing. He reminded himself for the hundredth time since turning forty that he needed to get in shape.

As the three men charged forward, the screams abruptly stopped.

“Who’s there?” A woman’s voice.

“It’s Ken Ripple. I’ve got Terry Klein and Rudy Snyder with me. Is that you, Miss Nasr?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“There’s someone hiding in this fucking out house! He ducked back inside.”

Ken and Terry glanced at each other. Terry snickered.

“It works,” Ken whispered. Then he called out to Maria, “It’s okay, Miss Nasr. Just stay where you are. It’s a dummy. You triggered it when you walked by.”

“
What?
”

“Oh, shit,” Terry muttered. “She sounds pissed off. Hope she’s not the suing type. Last thing we need is a bullshit lawsuit.”

“It’s a Ghost Walk,” Ken said. “What the hell does she expect?”

Rudy nodded in agreement. “It
is
supposed to be scary.”

They reached Maria a moment later. She stood just off the path, amidst heavy undergrowth. She stepped out onto the trail as they approached.

“You okay?” Ken asked.

Maria turned away from his flashlight beam, shielding her eyes. “You mind not shining that thing in my face?”

“Sorry.” Ken switched his flashlight off. “I’m Ken Ripple. This is Rudy Snyder, Winterstown’s fire chief. And you’ve already met Terry.”

Maria nodded at Rudy and Terry and shook hands with Ken.

“Nice to meet you—finally. What the hell just happened?”

“Well, you see Miss Nasr—”

“Maria. Please.”

“Okay, Maria. There’s a pressure switch buried just under the path. When people step on it, the switch sends a signal to the out house. The door flies open and a dummy jumps out. Then it resets again.”

“You were our first victim,” Terry joked. “Scared you good, huh?”

Maria glared at him. Then her expression softened.

“If you want me to be honest, I think I may have peed my pants a little. And I broke my flashlight. Dropped it when the dummy popped out.”

Ken grinned. “Can I use that as an endorsement?”

“That depends. Are you still going to let me interview you tonight?”

“After making you wait and then scaring you? Sure. I haven’t eaten since lunch. You hungry?”

Maria arched an eyebrow. “I could eat. I spent most of the day doing research.”

“How about we conduct the interview at the Round the Clock Diner? My treat.”

“Mr. Ripple, you’ve got a deal.”

“Call me Ken. Please.”

Maria smiled.

The four walked out of the woods together. The darkness closed behind them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Levi’s body remained on the ground, lying hidden between the Dumpsters behind the grocery store. The stick was still clutched in his hands, touching his nose and groin. The rest of him, his astral self, soared above the parking lot, rocketing higher with each passing second.

When he was eight years old, Levi had ignored his father’s warnings and climbed to the top of the family grain silo. He’d done it to show his brother, Matthew, and their friend, Elias, that he wasn’t afraid. But he had been. Levi had stopped halfway up the ladder, unable to proceed and too terrified to climb back down. He’d remained there, whimpering, clinging to the iron rungs, his eyes squeezed shut, until his father climbed up and rescued him.

He looked down now and remembered that day. All of his old fears came rushing up to meet him.

Levi screamed soundlessly.

The ground got farther away.

Get control
…

He focused, forcing himself to halt, rather than fly. His speedy ascent stopped. Gently, slowly, he glided downward until he was hovering just over Columbia’s roofs and treetops. He looked in all directions, seeking the girl and trying not to focus on the ground. He noticed signs of her passing—dogs barking, children crying in their beds, birds fallen from tree limbs—but not the girl herself. Willing himself forward, Levi followed the carnage left in her wake. Distracted, he floated higher again. If he didn’t focus on staying anchored when he flew, he’d continue to rise. To stay tethered to his body, he needed to concentrate.

The cross of Christ be with me; the cross of Christ overcomes
all water and every fire and all heights
.

He risked another glance below, and immediately regretted it. His butt puckered and his stomach fluttered.

So far up
…

Levi was always amazed at the sensations during flight. He was nothing more than an astral projection. He didn’t have a stomach right now, but he felt it just the same. Felt the fear making it clench. He didn’t have eyes or a nose or ears. They remained behind with the rest of his body. And yet, the senses remained; sight, smell, and hearing still functioned in this psychic form, sharper than they were in his physical body. Levi didn’t know how or why. The only person who could have explained it to him satisfactorily was his father, and Amos had passed away long before Levi attempted his first flight. He was sure there were other folks who had theories. New-Agers. But nothing annoyed Levi more than New Age mystics, except for maybe Evangelicals. Both were hypocrites and cons—wolves dressed in sheep’s clothing. Part of the problem disguised as the solution. So Levi had never sought out help from the crystal-worshipping, herbal supplement crowd. Not that they would have welcomed him anyway. Even among the fringe, Levi was alone.

Still on the girl’s trail, Levi picked up speed. He tried to ignore his fear of heights and focused instead on tracking his quarry. He swooped over more homes and apartments and quickly reached the waterfront. The area was dominated by a large, desolate-looking furniture factory. Like the rest of the town, the building had seen better days. Once the center of industry, it now appeared tired and run-down. Bucolic, just like the rest of Columbia’s citizens.

Beyond the factory lay the Susquehanna River, broad and swift and glittering in the moonlight. Its waters ran cold and deep, a little over half a mile wide. Twin bridges crossed the span. On the far shore were the ruins of a Civil War–era ferry crossing.

Levi’s attention was drawn to the center of the waterway. A patch of darkness spread out across the river’s surface, halfway between the Lancaster County shoreline and York County on the other side. In its center was the girl, like a rotten spot inside a cancerous tumor. The darkness was blacker than the night around it, engulfing everything in its path. It flowed from the girl like mist. The tendrils formed a cloud around her, extending from her body almost five feet in each direction. Her aura was brighter, now that he viewed it from his astral form. The darkness pulsed like a living thing as she swam across the river with jerky, spasmodic strokes. Levi watched her movements, convinced that this was further evidence of something supernatural. Even athletes tired when crossing the expanse. Many had drowned in this section over the years. And yet, the girl showed no signs of tiring.

Where are you going? And more importantly, who are
you? What’s your name?

Levi drifted over the water, gradually slowing down again so that he could keep a safe distance and avoid detection. At the same time, he flew higher, lifting himself out of easy range in case the entity became aware of his presence and launched an attack.

Lord
, he prayed,
I am your servant and your sword. Guide
my hand tonight as if it were your own. Though my methods
might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy glory
.

He glanced down again, rather than ahead. The river seemed so far below. From this height, the water’s surface shined like glass. Moonlight flickered off the waves. The girl was a dark smudge.

And
, he continued,
if you’re so inclined, Lord, please
don’t let me fall
…

Maria took another sip of coffee.

“So you don’t believe in any of it at all? You don’t think Nelson LeHorn’s ghost still haunts the hollow?”

Her digital voice recorder lay between them on the tabletop, recording the conversation. Ken had seemed nervous of it at first, speaking in halting, self-aware sentences. But gradually, he’d relaxed, forgetting about the device altogether. The leftover remnants of their late dinner covered the rest of the table. Ken had ordered a hamburger and fries. Maria had ordered a grilled chicken salad. The waitress had done a good job of keeping their coffee cups filled.

Ken was apologetic at first, determined to make up for delaying their interview, and for the bad scare Maria had suffered. In return, Maria had remained clinical and distant, seeking only the facts. But as the evening went on, they both warmed to each other. Maria found Ken to be genuine and friendly. He liked her determined attitude and her playful sense of sarcasm. She’d been interviewing him for the last half hour, learning about the Ghost Walk, his deceased wife, and more.

Despite the late hour, the diner was crowded. Long-haul truckers sat at the front counter, reading newspapers and magazines or talking to each other. A group of boisterous college students occupied a large booth, playing an apparently high-stakes game of
Magic: The Gathering
. Even though it wasn’t yet Halloween, several of them were in costume. An elderly couple sat at a corner table, ignoring the others around them, sharing the comfortable silence that only longtime partners seemed to enjoy. A younger couple sat nearby, engaged in the type of small talk and forced conversation that indicated a first date. The sleepy-eyed waitress moved among them all, lost in her own thoughts, only coming out of her reverie long enough to ask if anyone would like dessert.

“No,” Ken answered Maria’s question. “Not really. I mean, some weird things have happened there over the years. There’s no denying that. Folks have died. But that was from accidents or stupidity, mostly. Not because of ghosts or demons or shit like that. Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to curse.”

“That’s okay,” Maria said. “I can edit that out. So you don’t believe any of it?”

“Nope.”

“What about Patricia LeHorn’s murder? What do you think contributed to that?”

“Simple. Nelson LeHorn was a nut job. Just because he believed he was a witch, that doesn’t necessarily make him one. He murdered his wife because he was crazy, not because she’d actually slept with the devil.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Ken smiled. “Don’t tell me you believe this stuff?”

Maria shrugged. “Not really. But it’s my job to keep an open mind, right? Reporters are supposed to be analytical. Explore all options and find the truth.”

“If you say so. I don’t know. I never met a reporter before. I thought you were just writing up a little article on the Ghost Walk.”

“I am. But everyone in York County knows about LeHorn’s Hollow. And people love a good ghost story. It wouldn’t be much of an article if we didn’t mention this. I mean, that’s the whole reason you based your operation in those woods, right? To be near the hollow?”

“True.” Ken glanced down at the recorder and cleared his throat. “Well, you asked how I know LeHorn was crazy. It wasn’t a big secret or anything. My dad used to know him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, back in the seventies and eighties. Before he…you know.”

Maria nodded in encouragement.

“My dad was a beekeeper,” Ken said. “Well, actually, he worked at the paper mill, like everybody else did back in the day. But in his spare time, he kept honeybees.”

“I grew up in New Jersey,” Maria interrupted. “Was the paper mill the county’s main employer?”

“Didn’t think you were from around here,” Ken said. “Your accent gives you away.”

“I have an accent?”

“Sure. Not a bad thing. I figured you for New York or New Jersey. Like a girl from a Springsteen song, you know?”

He paused, smiling. After a moment, Maria smiled back. She felt her cheeks flush.

What the hell’s wrong with me
, she thought.
He’s, like,
twice my age
.

She stared into Ken’s soft, brown eyes. Even when he smiled, a great sadness seemed to cling to him.

Poor guy
. Maria looked away.
I’m just feeling sorry for
him. That’s all. Need to keep my mind on work
.

“Dude,” one of the college students shouted at his friend. “You can’t un-tap that card this turn!”

His friend turned a few cards and then slammed another one down on the table. “Take that, bitch. Twenty points of damage and you can’t fucking block it! That’s game.”

Everyone in the restaurant glanced at them in annoyance. The waitress walked over and asked the students to keep it down.

“In the seventies,” Ken said, turning back to Maria, “pretty much everybody in York County worked at one of five places. We had the Caterpillar and Harley Davidson plants in York. There was Borg-Warner over in West York, who made stuff for the military—tanks and half-tracks and bomb shelters. All kinds of shit. And then there was the paper mill in Spring Grove and the foundry out in Hanover. That was it, unless you were a farmer or an auto mechanic. But by the mid-eighties, right around the time I graduated from high school, Caterpillar and Borg-Warner had closed down, the paper mill was in the middle of a yearlong strike, and Harley and the foundry had both downsized. But yeah, my dad worked in the paper mill, and in his spare time he tended to his beehives. During the strike, when he wasn’t on the picket line with his union buddies, he was fooling around with his bees. He had hives all over the place. In orchards and on neighbor’s farms. Anywhere somebody would let him. I think he had over forty of them during his busiest year. Every autumn, he’d harvest the honeycomb, extract the honey, and then sell it to the local grocery stores and farmer’s markets. Had his own label on the jars and everything. ‘Ripple’s Apiaries.’ He made a nice little secondary income. I bet if he was still doing it today, he’d make a lot more, what with everybody into all that organic shit.”

“I’m sure. But what does this have to do with Nelson LeHorn?”

“LeHorn had bees, too. More than my dad ever did. Occasionally, my father would go over to LeHorn’s farm and buy beehive materials from him. Frames. Parts for his extracting drum. Smokers. Protective clothing. Stuff like that. It was easier and cheaper to get them from LeHorn than through mail order.”

Maria signaled the waitress, indicating another refill. “So did he ever see LeHorn do any powwow?”

“No. My old man didn’t believe in that stuff. But he did say several times that LeHorn was crazy. I remember this one time, these little microscopic mites got into Dad’s beehives. Killed several of his queens—just destroyed whole hives, you know? My dad asked LeHorn what he should do and LeHorn drew some kind of weird symbol and told Dad to paint it on each hive. It was supposed to keep the mites out.”

They stopped talking while the waitress refilled their mugs.

“Did your father do it?” Maria asked after they were alone again.

Ken chuckled. “No. He bought some pesticide. And that did the trick. When I asked him why he didn’t use the powwow doctor’s method, Dad said, ‘I’d be a damn fool to go drawing that nonsense on my beehives. The boys down at the American Legion would have never let me live it down. Old LeHorn is nuttier than your grandma’s fruitcake.’ And he was right. Another one of my dad’s friends was cutting down a Christmas tree near the hollow. Back on the pulpwood company’s land. He damn near cut his finger off. LeHorn came across him as he was walking out. The old guy told him not to go to the hospital—said he could stop the bleeding by ‘laying on of the hands’ or something like that.”

“Faith healing,” Maria said. “Did your father’s friend take him up on the offer?”

“Shit, no. He ran to his car and got the hell out of there.”

Maria snickered, then laughed. Smiling, Ken dumped a container of cream into his fresh cup of coffee. Maria composed herself and asked the next question.

“So, will your attraction feature anything based off the LeHorn legend?”

“Not directly, no. At least, nothing about the murders or anything like that. LeHorn’s kids are still alive. That just wouldn’t be right, capitalizing off their mother’s death or their father’s mental illness. There are enough weird stories connected to the hollow without getting into the LeHorn stuff. Bigfoot. Demons. The Goat Man. Native American spirits. We can do stuff featuring them.”

“What about the more recent murders; the witch cult and the mystery writer?”

“Adam Senft?” Ken shook his head. “No. Again, it wouldn’t be right to capitalize off something like that. Like I told you earlier, this whole thing is to honor Deena’s memory. What she stood for. Her strength. She wouldn’t want me using other people’s misfortunes like that.”