Dead Willow (21 page)

Jess watched, bewildered, as the woman unbuttoned her frilly blouse, and then her skirt, and then her boots, and then …

Soon the thing … the woman, stood before Jess, sharing her nakedness, and her vulnerability. The woman held up her finger, the one that Jess had cut on the rusty gate, and in the dim firelight Jess could see that it was perfect. The flames flickered off of the side of her perfect face, and Jess knew that it would be perfect forever.

“So, this is it? You live on as me and I … I disappear into the soil?”

“You don’t understand, sweetie,” said the other Jess. Their mom was the only one who had ever called her ‘sweetie’.

“What the soil is given willingly, the soil gives back. You could be with us, be part of us.” The woman’s eyes beckoned with every word.

Jess felt the fear, still out there, prowling.

“And I could never leave?”

The other Jess curled her hand into Jess’, and it was warm and inviting, like a twin.

“You’ll never want to leave,” she told Jess excitedly.

No fear, just a warm bed in the soil. Jess probably would have taken the deal, even without the promise of eternal life.

She led them on a path through the soil, between the stones, to an empty patch of dirt that would be their place. Jess saw Eunice in the distance, walking off into the dark with her fire-stick. It shrank to a pinpoint of light, and then it was gone.

The other Jess turned to face her and put her hands on Jess’ arms, rubbing them up and down, warming her prickly skin. Then, she pulled Jess close and drew her arms around her. Jess fell into her and rested her head on her shoulders. The other Jess whispered into her ear.

“Soon, you will wonder why you were so afraid.”

Jess’ mouth was near the woman’s neck, but she found she had no desire to bite.

The storm pelted rain off of Jameson’s
Chevy Blazer
like a hand-held shower massage. He wondered if Noah had ever dealt with something like this. No wonder he built a big-ass boat.

His poor wipers were going to have a stroke if it didn’t let up soon. He had been at this since 6:00 A.M., his fingers wrapped white-knuckle around the wheel, squinting through the windshield at all the blurry headlights headed his way. The asshole up ahead of him didn’t have his lights on, keeping Jameson on the edge of his faux-leather seat. Apparently, this idiot thought he was impervious to chrome and steel. Jameson could only pray that one day that theory would be tested.

He had been driving in this downpour for six hours, which meant that this ‘Willow Tree’ should be coming up any minute now. Of course, the
Google
maps were a bit vague as to the exact location, and his GPS refused to acknowledge its existence. He finally compromised by inputting “Jackson” as his destination. He knew that somewhere between here and there he would have to pass through this enigma, so he kept his lights and his eyes on.

There had been a lot of time to think during the long, slow grind from Chicago. A couple of thoughts had prodded him to turn around and head back to the city, and he had almost listened to them. But, his goddamn gut wouldn’t let him.

Jess had not answered her phone in over a week.

Granted, Jess had always had a spotty attendance sheet. It did not help that she worked a job that did not require her to clock-in. Her alarm was the sun shining in through her bedroom window. Jameson had taken down her blackout curtains on more than one occasion.

Blackouts.

That was another issue which had Jameson in a knot. Jess had lost time before. A day, sometimes two, if her recollections could be relied upon. He had witnessed her waking up and checking the calendar on her phone to orient herself. If he asked her what day it was, she’d say it was ‘beer-day’ or ‘party-o’clock’.

This wouldn’t be his first ride to the rescue. His GPS knew the way to
Union Jacks
and
Steeley’s Pub
without being told. Taxis had dumped her off on his doorstep often enough to get frequent-rider miles. Her friends had even made a pact not to let her drive drunk, but they were often too hammered to make that distinction.

And yet, Jess had shown some improvement these last few months. She had taken to tossing her keys into the fishbowls behind the bars of whatever watering hole she and her friends were frequenting. She accepted his invitation to dinner at the house with Marci and Brody more often now, rather than choosing to ‘party ‘till she puked’.

When Jess had told him she was going to a town called Willow Tree, he googled Jackson county. He did not mention to her that it turned out to be a dry county. He hoped that a few days away from the allure of alcohol might help clear her head. And if not, well … if there was booze to be found in Willow Tree, Jess’ nose would lead her right to it.

Jameson kept one eye peeled for signs announcing an approaching town, but all he got were speed limit signs and chewing tobacco billboards. The cows and pigs were all in their barns, demonstrating a common sense for staying out of the rain that he evidently did not possess. The endless dotted white line of the highway tried to lull him to sleep and he found himself contemplating the second event that had triggered his trip through the rural Hell that was Ohio.

Jess’
Chevy Cavalier
was reported abandoned by the BMV.

Technically, it was Jameson’s car, licensed and registered to him by the state of Illinois. But, it had sat in his garage for the last eighteen months while the oil got thick and the tires deflated. At Marci’s insistence, he took it to
JiffyLube
and
Tire Barn
and then presented it to Jess on her birthday last year. When he saw her eyes well-up, he knew they had done the right thing.

Now, it sat in a garage in Jackson. State Police had spotted it on the side of an access road about a quarter mile off of State Road 35. The officers had popped the door with a slim-
jim, put it in neutral and had it towed to
Gus’ Garage
. The Bureau of Motor Vehicles had happily sent an email informing him that his car had been towed, and would he please pony-up $147 and the vehicle would be released into his custody. He didn’t give a shit about that car, but Jess did. She would never have abandoned it; of that he was sure.

A speed limit sign blurred by and he was pretty sure it said ‘Reduced Speed Ahead’. That meant he was coming up on a town of some kind. Maybe it was just a Mayberry, with one traffic light and a drunk named Otis. If it was, Jameson would stop and ask Otis where Willow Tree was, and God help him if he was too gassed to answer.

The next sign was ‘Speed Limit 40’ and Mr. No-Lights had finally turned off. As Jameson looked down the road ahead, he realized that most every car had apparently taken a turn at some point, leaving his
Blazer
the only car on the road. He wasn’t sure if this was a lucky break or a bad omen, but he’d take it. He kept his left eye out the window, marking the center line, and eased up off the gas a little. The speed limit was now 30.

It came up on his right, and he almost missed it - a wooden sign suspended between two wood posts. It had been painted about fifty years ago judging by the look of the peeling paint and rotten holes in the wood. Birds had used it to pe
ck on and shit on. The image was faded and barely recognizable, some kind of tree with big, droopy branches and the words ‘Willow Tree’.

You didn’t see a sign like that much anymore. Now it was all sheet metal green and white reflective lettering. But, back in the day, people took pride in their towns, They would letter a big, sappy slogan welcoming people to “the best little city in the world!”. They would put the population of the town right there under the name, letting people know that they were a booming metropolis.

This sign had the word ‘Population’, but some asshole had scratched out the number of inhabitants and had scrawled a sloppy ‘zero’. Everybody’s a comedian.

When Jameson hit the outskirts of the town proper he saw it. It had been obscured by the foliage that had lined the highway for the last few miles. The leafy corridor that had sheltered him from the worst of the blustery winds gradually fell away until the landscape was barren of tree and shrub. Inside this boundary, there was only one scrap of foliage, but it was a beauty!

It towered into the sky for what might have been a hundred feet, its enormous boughs stretched out over half the county. Jameson had never fancied himself a naturalist, his knowledge of trees limited to the potted-ficus variety. But, even a professional arborist would have to marvel at this monstrosity.

Its
viney leaves hung down off its branches, forming a lush, green bubble that seemed to float just above the ground. It could have been an alien spacecraft or a green moon come down to roost. It was a
Wonder of the World
right here in southern Ohio.

He hoped that Jess had gotten some pictures if it.

“Welcome to the
Rusty Gate
. Do you have a reservation with us?”

Jameson pulled back the hood of his windbreaker and water cascaded down his back, dripping all over the tan carpet. Rain droplets clung to his forehead and cheeks which he brushed away with his hand and snapped off onto the floor. He wanted to shake like a wet dog, but he thought better of it.

He surveyed the rustic decor and the costumed staff, and he wondered which rabbit hole he had stepped in today. The warmth radiating from the huge, stone hearth was a balm to his tired soul, and the scent of real wood burning was unmistakable. Who does wood fireplaces anymore? Apparently, this place.

So, this is where it all began. He wondered if Jess had found her ghost in this place. She said she didn’t believe in all this paranormal prattle, but he knew that, deep down, she wanted to meet the supernatural. The idea that this life was all you got worked a nerve in Jess that she wouldn’t admit to having. Jameson could see the frustration grind away at her every time she debunked … and then faked another story. A little piece of her was left on the page. For all her agnostic affect, he knew she still gripped a glimmer of hope.

Jameson was more pragmatic about things; show him a ghost and he’d shake its hand. But, until then, he wasn’t going to set out another plate at the dinner table.

“Sir?” asked the young lady patiently.

“I’m sorry,” said Jameson, shivering a bit. “Um, no, I don’t have a reservation. I’m looking for a friend of mine. She was staying here last week, but I’ve since lost touch with her. I was hoping you could tell me if she was still here. Her name is Jess Granger.”

The young lady in the lacy, blue bonnet flinched. Jameson had seen it before when people who knew something they weren’t supposed to know were asked if they knew it. The woman’s eyes darted around nervously as she tried to manufacture a response that wouldn’t get her in trouble with her higher-ups. Jameson could feel his rusty investigative instincts coiling to strike. But, his quarry would prove to be more elusive.

“Um … let me go check with my supervisor. Just a moment.” She slipped behind the oak paneled wall before he could form his next thought, leaving Jameson with a mouthful of questions.

As his frustration simmered to a boil, a woman, whom Jameson could only describe as … sturdy, appeared in the doorway. She was decked out in the requisite period costume, but instead of a bonnet, she wore her hair in a severe bun at the back of her head, covered in some kind of black spider-webbing. This woman didn’t look like someone who had been caught speechless, ever. She exuded a smug confidence that he found disturbing.

The woman slithered up to the front desk and Jameson felt himself taking a step back.

“Yes, Mr. … Landry, is it? My name is Eunice Pembry. I am the proprietor of the
Rusty Gate
.”

He was caught with his chin down. “Um … yes … call me Jameson. It … um … seems my reputation has preceded me.”

The woman broke out a disregarding grin. “Just idle gossip, nothing more. Miss Granger had mentioned you in passing. How may I be of service?”

‘In passing’? That was a tough phrase to swallow. He would have thought he rated more than an honorable mention.

“Do you know where Miss Granger is now?” he asked cautiously.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, and she did not blink.

Jameson blew out an exasperated breath. He was about to kick this cat and mouse game in the nuts!

“Ms. Pembry … I left my patience back on State Road 35, and I have no desire to do this dance. Jess has not responded to a text, or a phone call in over a week, and now her car has been reported abandoned. If necessary, I am prepared to call the police in Jackson and report her missing, and report your inn as her last known location. What’s your pleasure, Ms. Pembry?”

Eunice Pembry glared at him as if she were facing the Devil himself, and Jameson would happily accept that moniker if it meant getting the lead out of her ass. The tension hung like a toxic cloud in the air between them until finally, and with what he was certain was considerable pain, Eunice
did
blink.

“Have a seat, Mr. Landry. Miss Granger will be with you momentarily.”

Then, she disappeared in a fiery column of smoke. At least, that was how it seemed to Jameson. The way she glided about made her seem like a villain from a
Disney
movie. One of the old-school villains, like Maleficent from
Sleeping Beauty
. He imagined Eunice Pembry with a pair of twisted horns on her head, and he smiled for the first time that day.

Jameson stepped to the hearth and basked in the warmth of the flickering fire, feeling his rain-soaked underwear begin to dehumidify. The eerie quiet was unsettling, especially in such a public place. He knew there had been a festival in town; there were still remnants of banners and food stands littering Main Street. Looks like Jameson had missed the celebration by about a week. Now, the place was like a ghost town. Jess would love the irony.

Maybe that’s when it had happened, whatever was keeping Jess from communicating with the outside world.

Maybe the ghosts in this village were less of the supernatural variety, and more of the psychopathic variety. He recalled an old movie,
Motel Hell
, where the owners of a rundown, old motel were grinding up their guests and feeding them to the townsfolk. He kept an eye over his shoulder for a maniac with a chainsaw who wanted to sell him sausage.

It was ridiculous, of course. The idea that Jess may have been ground up into hamburger patties was a scary scenario. But, scarier still was the thought that Jess had gone off the reservation and did not want to be found.

She may have found herself a story and gone underground to get it. Or, she may have found a bottle of
Maker’s Mark
and crawled inside.

It was the not knowing that had brought him here, and if Eunice Pembry were to be believed and Jess walked in through that doorway, then Jameson had the hot seat all ready for her.