Amateur Hour

Not five minutes after Tuck dropped her off, the gas man arrived, and together they found Lisa’s tank. Of course, it was in plain sight, above ground behind the Sunday school building.

“Of course, now I have to figure out how to light the stove,” Lisa remarked, as he stowed the hose, on the back of his truck.

“Oh, I can show you how to do that, if you want,” he said. “It’s really simple.”

“I’d appreciate that. If I don’t master that, I’ll have to get an electric stove, to replace it.”

“You’ll love gas. Just turn the fire down or up, and the heat goes down or up, without waiting for an electric burner to transition.”

As it turned out, he was right. After showing her how to light a burner, he stood by and watched her do it for herself a couple of times.

“Looks like I can cook dinner, tonight,” Lisa remarked, very pleased with herself.

“Yes, ma’am. You have a good afternoon, now.” He smiled at her, and saw himself out.

Lisa sank into the rocker she had bought from one of the local secondhand stores. Living here was a roller coaster, she reflected. Scares, in the morning; lunch with deputies; and triumphs over appliances, in the afternoon.

“And things that go bump, in the night,” she reminded herself. She pondered her conversation with Tuck. Why was he so close mouthed, when it came to the church? She guessed he had some affection for it, if he was baptized here, went to services, here. It was hard to get a read on what he felt, yet he didn’t seem to be trying to actively run her off. He appeared to be doling out information on what he considered to be a “need to know” basis.

Part of her resented this. At the same time, she supposed the information was available, if she wanted to dig for it. These days, it was as simple as a Google search. Now, did she want to search for it? She wasn’t at all sure about that. Was what happened this morning a one-off? Had it been real, or had she imagined it? Did she need a paranormalist, or a brain surgeon? Maybe a shrink, she thought.

Lisa shook her head, and decided that she would leave it lie, unless something else happened. No sense in setting herself up to see spooks hiding in every corner. She didn’t think she was any kind of “sensitive”. She was, however, imaginative, and she had learned long ago not to overfeed that beast. Liam had done that enough, when they were growing up, with his tall tales.

She missed her brother, she realized. How he would love the notion of her haunted church! If he were here, now, he’d be setting up camp in that basement, just to see what would happen, at the proverbial witching hour. Liam wasn’t afraid of Jack shit.

On impulse, she picked up her phone and pulled up her contacts list. She selected the video call option. Liam answered, in the middle of the second ring.

“Brother Liam! Shirking, today?” she asked, with a grin.

“Class field trip,” he said, pulling the phone away from his face, to pan around to show a knot of middle schoolers gathered around a diorama with a saber-toothed tiger who was facing off against an alligator. He brought the phone back to show himself, again. “You’ve looked better, Lis. When was the last time you cleaned the dust bunnies out of your hair?”

Lisa brought her hand up, and took a swipe at her hair. Sure enough, a good sized clot of dust came away, on her fingers.

“Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “I went out to lunch, like this!”

Liam’s baritone laugh was music to her ears, even if it was at her expense.

“So, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you, in a month.”

“Just wanted to hear your voice, and see if you were as goofy looking as the last time I saw you. Are you trying to grow a beard?”

“I am, thank you, and it’s doing quite well.” Liam stroked his heavy stubble, with his left hand.

“Hmph… Just what every redhead needs—more red hair.”

“Exactly. You’re just jealous.”

Lisa chuckled, but he was right. She had always envied his dramatic auburn locks. Her own had always been straight and dark brown.

“So, I take it you’ve started working on your old church, and that’s why you’re such a mess,” Liam continued.

“I’m starting to wonder if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew,” Lisa admitted. “It looks like a good breeze would knock it down, and if I could get the Pied Piper’s number, I’d have him on speed dial. I did learn how to light a gas stove today, though.”

“Well, you’re one up on me, then. I’d just have an electric range brought in.”

“Now, what fun would that be?”

“Are you having fun?” his smile lingered, but Liam’s eyes were serious.

“I adopted a dog,” she offered. “I’m to pick him up, tomorrow.”

“Now, that’s nice. You should have a pet. Any idea what you’re going to call him?”

“They gave him “Gilligan”, at the shelter. I’m thinking Gil or Gillie, for short.”

“What is he going to be protecting you from? I know you have no use for ankle sharks.”

“You’re right, about that. He’s a Lab, sort of.”

“And? You wouldn’t rush into the responsibility of a dog, with so much on your plate, unless you thought you needed a dog.”

“It’s nothing. Some loud noises, at night. I don’t really get the willies at every little thing, but the house is kind of in a remote location.”

“It’s not nice to lie to your big brother,” he observed.

“My big brother, by about ten minutes. Do give me the benefit of your vastly greater experience, O Wise One.”

“Okay– If there’s one thing I’m an expert on, it’s Lisa Miles. Put that in your proverbial pipe, and smoke it. C’mon, Lis. It’s not like you to make a distress call, then withhold information.”

“Who said it was a distress call? Can’t I just want to chat with my brother?”

“If that was all it was, you’d have waited until later in the evening.”

Well, he had her, there. Damn him, anyway.

“I think the church is haunted,” she heard herself say.

“That’s what I thought, when you sent me the pics,” he replied, in such a factual tone, that she could only stare at him.

“And, you didn’t say anything!”

“Would it have made a difference? I’m not even talking about exciting your stubbornness. Just on a practical level– It’s precisely the kind of place you were looking for; something with an ambiance that could be themed, for your bookstore. Deep down, you like history as much as I do, and that’s definitely a spot with history.”

“I haven’t even scratched the surface of that, yet,” she confirmed, then went on to detail what she had been told by Tuck, earlier. She glossed over the manifestation in the basement, making it a “mist”. Liam listened, with no hint of skepticism on his face.

“Well,” he said, when she was finished. So, are you scared?”

“I’m more scared of falling through a floor, or of having something fall on me, to be honest. The haunting thing makes me a little bit wary, but I think I’ll sleep, tonight.”

“Some people live more or less comfortably with ghosts. Did you get the sense that this mist wanted to hurt you?”

“I think… I think they just wanted me to know they were there. I say ‘they’, because there were three of them. At this point, I feel more like I’m being pranked by them, than anything else.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t escalate, I imagine you’ll be fine. Still, I want you to keep me updated, okay? They say the dead can’t hurt the living, and that’s true. But some ghosts aren’t quite dead. This mist is probably just a residual.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about ghosts, for a history teacher,” Lisa noted, with a some amusement.

“Ghosts are part of history, too,” he shrugged. “Do you have any idea how many have been sighted on the battlefield of Gettysburg, alone? Hell, I saw weird things, when I visited, in ’93. So, I read a little, and picked up a few factoids.”

“So, what is a residual?” she challenged him.

“It’s pretty much what it sounds like. It’s the kind of spirit that’s on a loop, not communicating much, except for its presence, and a traumatic moment in its life. Usually the last moment. It’s incomplete, with no real intention or consciousness.” There was, in his tone, the addition of “Smartass”, at the end of his last sentence. “I don’t believe it can hurt you,” he added, as if he’d heard his tone, too.

“So, it’s just there, like stains on old linoleum.”

“Just like that, yeah. What you need to be on the lookout for, is anything that can manipulate objects. Those have the potential to be dangerous. Beware of anything that seems to have a good throwing arm,” he joked.

Lisa chuckled. “I will,” she said.

“And stay in touch, Lis—I mean it. Call me at least once a week. If you don’t, you’ll find some Deputy Dawg at your door, doing a wellness check.”

“Deputy Dawg is actually Tucker Rawlings,” she replied. At his inquisitive look, she went on to explain the how and why of Tuck’s first visit.

“Not even there, a week, and already known to local law enforcement.”

“What can I say? It’s a gift. We can’t all be squeaky clean developers of young minds.”

“Ouch! And, on that note, I’ve got to go. Time to get the little heathens back on the bus. Love you, girl.”

“Love you, too. Bye, for now.”

“Bye.”

Lisa felt better, when she hung up. Talking with Liam almost always had a bracing effect, on her. Not the least of this came from the fact that he seemed to believe her, without reservation. As, she reflected, she would have believed him, had their roles been reversed. Just having someone she could talk to plainly, lifted a weight off her.

BANG!

She wasn’t asleep, this time, when she heard the sound. It was exactly like the report of a shotgun, and sounded like it had gone off right next to her ear. The book she had been reading left her hand, and sailed across bedroom. She didn’t hear it thump against the wall, as her ears were still ringing. Her initial fear passed immediately into anger, and she flung back the comforter and sheet, erupting from the bed.

“That is enough!” she shouted. “I will call an exorcist! I’ve called everybody else, in the county. If I can get rid of rats, I can get rid of you, too.”

The second report, nearly as loud, but not as sharp, mocked her. It sounded as if it had come from the front of the house. Heedless of any danger, Lisa flew down the hall and through the kitchen to stand, bewildered, in the living room. There was an odd scent here. It reminded Lisa of firecrackers. More slowly, she walked to the small bedroom, and flipped on the light. There was a bleeding man against the wall, his gun still nearby. Both were gone, before she could scream. She had inhaled the air, to do so, and now she held it, until the blood pounded in her ears.

She finally released the breath, still staring at the spot where he had been. There was no sign of anything there. Even the cordite smell had vanished. Except… Except, there was a trace of him, wasn’t there? Where the blood had been pooling, next to the wall, there was the faintest of brownish stains, on the floor.

Lisa felt sick, and for a moment she thought she might lose her dinner. Some deep breaths quelled the nausea, and for good measure, she stepped outside. The air was biting and clear tonight. She drank in the scent of the pine forest that bordered two sides of the property, and wondered just what the hell she was going to do.

An owl hooted nearby, asking its question, for the ages. “Who? Who, Who?” The question was taken up by a small chorus owls.

“Good question, guys,” she muttered. She didn’t really want to go back in, but her cold, bare feet did. Reluctantly, she stepped back inside.

The light was still on, in the small bedroom. She went to the doorway, to turn it off, not knowing what she might see, and not wanting to see anything more than the few boxes and the folding table that should be there. And, that was all she found. Even the stain on the floor seemed much paler, than it had been. She doubted she would have noticed it, in fact, had it not been for the apparition.

Had there even been an apparition? Lisa remembered something similar happening, when she was about eight years old. On opening her bedroom door to go to the bathroom, Mom had been standing right outside it, as if ready to enter. In a literal blink, she had been gone, just like this manifestation. When Lisa had passed her parents’ room, she could hear both her mother’s quiet breathing, and her father’s soft snores.

Maybe her imagination was getting the better of her, though the sounds had been real enough. Hadn’t they?

A night of fitful sleep found her still in bed at 9 am. There had been no more disturbances, or at least no more that had not been solely in Lisa’s overactive mind. She winced, when her feet made contact with the cold floor, and made a mental note to buy some slippers. In the end, though, she wanted some kind of carpet on this floor. She found the shoes she wore in the chipped shower, and slipped them on.

Coffee had never taken so long to brew. Lisa presumed this was because it was from a well that had gotten icy cold, overnight. Worth it, though, not to have to be on a heavily chlorinated city water system. When the coffee was brewed, it tasted good, at least.

She sat at her kitchen table to enjoy it, and turned on her laptop. The website for the local library said that it was already open. She’d have plenty of time to check it out, before she went to collect her new housemate, at 1 pm.

By 10:30, she was dressed and out the door. At 11:01, she was strolling into the library, having only gotten lost once, on the way. It was a large, modern building, and she took heart from that—the reference section should be big and well stocked. She feared the church would be a needle in a haystack. Maybe a large needle, but a needle, nonetheless.

There was an old fashioned card catalog, but Lisa intuited that she might have more luck with the computerized version. This time of the day, there were plenty of carrels and computers available. She selected one, sat down, and pulled out her pocket-sized notebook and a pen.

She had been wrong about the church being a needle. It took her ten minutes to find fifty references, to the place. Of course, many of those were probably passing mentions that would be of little use. Lisa refined her search, adding “1850-1865” to her search line. She hit the jackpot on information, but the information appeared to be periodicals, on microfiche. She blew out a dismayed exhalation. Who still used ‘fiche? She dreaded plowing through it—microfiche always gave her a headache. Notebook in hand, she rose and walked over to the desk. It was manned by a perky twenty-something who was eager to help her out.

Almost before she knew it, Lisa was seated before a microfiche reader, with a dozen little rolls in their canisters, on a plastic tray. Lisa started with the earliest, first. There were a few articles on doings at St. Brigid’s. Religious celebrations, weddings, funerals, church picnics—the kind of thing one would expect. The one unexpected thing she found, was an actual photo of the original log building, roughly hewn, yet somehow new-looking. The shot was taken from the buggy trail in front—what was now SR 97.

She could see why people had been interred all over the place. The early church had been on an acre of land, surrounded on all sides by dense pine woods. It would have made sense, she guessed, to exploit the cleared land, before tackling the forest, for more space. In the photo, the church was centered in the front of the property, with the graveyard, presumably, to the rear. There was only one other building on the site. Lisa glimpsed the two-seater outhouse, off to one side, as far from the church as it could be placed and still be convenient.

As she continued her search, the only interesting thing she found was that the church had been razed, for safety reasons, in 1860. After ten years worth of scrolling through the local paper, her eyes were beginning to feel the strain, and she felt the warning signs of a pending headache. She fished around in her bag for the pill box she always carried, opened it, extracted a couple of Tylenol, and went to the water cooler. She gulped them down, and returned to her seat.

In 1861, the church had been rededicated, and with that article, there was a new photo. This one had people in it. The rector and his wife posed in front of the church, on the open narthex, with some of the town bigwigs. The new building was fine, smooth lumber, painted white, with a proper steeple. Even the outhouse had been rebuilt, and painted to match. To the doors, a sunburst had been added for the men; a quarter moon, for the ladies.

“Getting fancy, now,” Lisa observed, in a murmur.

She decided to skip several rolls of microfiche film. It was getting late, and she had places to be. Going straight for the money, she picked the roll marked ‘Bainbridge Trib. 1863’ from the tray, and fed it into the machine.

She found what she was looking for, in an edition from April of that year.

“Union Soldiers Perish in Church Fire”, the headline trumpeted. Below it was a picture of what was left of the church—mainly ash—still smoldering. She could make out the gaping, blackened maw of the basement, and the circle of blackened ground extending out from the building, almost to the edges of the pines, on the left and right sides of the plot. In the background, the graves were plainly visible.

The article was mostly factual, except for the speculation that the botched firing was meant to be a distraction for Union troop movements on the ferry, which had been a hotly contested point, for both sides. Less objective, were some of the comments from the firefighters and others who had seen the blaze.

“I reckon them old boys got what they deserved,” one man had said.

“It’s a damned shame—about the church,” another observed.

“It [the church] was a labor of love,” one woman was quoted. “I can’t believe it’s gone.”

“Yessir, it was hot,” one man said, of the fire, “but not as hot as hell,” he nodded, spitting a stream of tobacco toward the cellar.

There was more of the same. Evidently, the editor of the paper had insisted on some degree of objectivity from his reporters, but had no hesitation about giving free rein with regard to the comments of bystanders. Lisa was a Republican, but she had to admit that burning down a church, as a mere battle tactic, was very dirty pool. It hadn’t even been effective. The article was placed just above another, which stated that Nathan Bedford Forrest and another General, Phillip Roddey had taken the fight to the Union that day, across the river at Town Creek.

Lisa stretched in her chair, and yawned. It was nearly 12:45. She would really have to shag ass, to get to the shelter, and she doubted she’d be on the dot, even so. She needed a coffee, to help get rid of the dull ache in her head. She supposed she could scoot into the nearest Mickey D’s, for a cup to drink, while she drove. She made quick work of tidying up after herself, and returned the tray to the front desk, smiling her thanks to the twenty-something, and headed out to her car.

As she got in, her glance took in the doggie seat belt, in the back seat, and she smiled, feeling a little excited. She would enter the shelter with a 25 lb bag of food, and exit with her new dog.

The coffee helped with the headache, as she knew it would. By the time she reached the shelter, it was barely there, anymore. She shouldered the bag of food, and marched inside. The young man at the desk smiled, and his smile widened a bit, when he saw her donation.

“Please tell me you’re leaving the food, and taking a dog,” he joked.

“I certainly am,” Lisa grinned back. “Sorry I’m late.”

“There’s no late, while we’re still open,” was his cheerful response. “Did we give your pup a name?”

“Yes. Gilligan.”

“Good choice. He’s a really nice dog. I’ll have him brought out.”

“Oh! The leash—I left it in the car,” Lisa realized.

“Plenty of time to get it. It’ll take a few minutes for him to get out here.”

“Thanks!” Lisa turned and trotted out to her vehicle, and grabbed the leash and harness, from the front seat. She still had to wait a couple of minutes, before Gilligan appeared, with a volunteer. Lisa laughed, at the sight of him. It was impossible to tell whether he was wagging his tail, or if his tail was wagging him, he was that excited.

“Hey there, Buddy,” Lisa said, kneeling to pet him. The vicious guard dog scoured her face with his tongue, and snuffled her left ear, tickling it. Finally, he subsided into the doggie version of a hug, pressing his head against her neck and shoulder.

“Oh, he really does not want to go home with you,” the volunteer joked.

“No, but he’ll adjust,” Lisa smiled up at her. “Speaking of adjusting,” she held up the harness.

“Sure, we can fit this to him.”

As it turned out, the harness didn’t need adjusting, at all, though the volunteer slid her fingers under its various straps, to ensure that it wasn’t too tight, anywhere.

“Well, he’s all yours, now,” she said, when she was satisfied. “Thank you, for the food donation, by the way,” she added, nodding toward the bag. Every bite helps.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It just seemed like the thing to do.”

“Well, you two have fun. All we ask is that, if you can’t keep him, for some reason, please bring him back here. We’re a no-kill facility, and we hate to see animals go where they might be put down.”

“I will, but he looks like a keeper, to me. Are you a keeper, Gil?”

The dog chuffed, and looked at her adoringly.

At the car, Gilligan could barely contain himself long enough for Lisa to open the door. He leaped into the back seat, nimble as any goat, and submitted to being belted in, when she was able to corral him and distract him from some intense sniffing. True, he did bonk her a couple of times, with his big head, but her headache was entirely gone, by then.

“You ready?” she asked him, over her shoulder, once she was behind the wheel.

Gilligan gave her a soft woof, as an affirmative. Lisa smiled and started the car.