Ghost Stories

It was the rings of coffee cup stains on the table that was leaving Marcus with a deep sense of comfort and contentment. Something so insignificant, and even quite a bit uncleanly, reminded him that he had picked a great town to squander in for the time being.

He danced his fingers along the lines of the circle; it was slightly raised which meant it had probably been here a long time. Either unseen or just left to sit by a careless sixteen-year-old busboy. The spot being too little of a priority to scrub away when there were other tables to clean and other dollars lying on tables to scrape away.

Marcus looked up at Emily, his wife’s eyes looking out the window at the empty gravel parking lot. He hoped she was looking at the mountains beyond it, full of curiosity and even a bit of warranted fear for what lives in those burrowed trees. What creatures lie in those woods? How deep do go before you're lost? How dark does it get beneath the canopy of the trees at midnight?

But he could tell that her mind was somewhere else.

She was thinking about something, he knew. Mulling it over in her mind, contemplating choices and fantasizing scenarios. Emily had the innate ability to get lost so easily in her imagination at any place, under any circumstances. It was innocent - childlike almost, how easily she could drift away in the middle of a sentence to a place far away. Something he wished he could do so naturally.

She should have been the author. Not him.

It was because he couldn’t do this, that they were here in Lewisville, Kentucky.

Because he couldn’t think without silence and the right "mood," they had to go somewhere quiet and desolate. Such a writer thing to do, he tells himself.

But he needed to finish writing this book.

“Are you ready to leave?”

Emily’s voice brought his attention back to her. Her voice was the deep, raspy kind that everyone loved. The kind that felt like a warm drag of whiskey down your throat, that soft burn that doesn't hurt but you feel its every movement.

He peered into his empty coffee cup, “I think so. Unless you want another?” He nodded to her mug with her black-cherry colored lip stain on the rim.

She brushed a strand of her earth colored hair behind her ear while revealing a sheepish grin. “Well, I was thinking we should get back. . . to the place. You know, it’s that time.”

The place, he thought. She still couldn’t refer to it as home yet. At least not for now. How could he expect her to when every few years or so he was picking them up and moving them to another town or another city, to capture the essence of his next book.

Although, it is that time, he thought again. He could tell by the haughtiness of her tone that she wanted him. And his body’s responses to her flared. She was ovulating. He nearly forgot.

She has given him years of her life being his partner, his editor, his muse. All he wanted to give her now was a baby. Yet his body’s triggers settled as the grim reminder that with every time they tried, it has always ended in failure. But unlike him, she was hopeful. Optimistic.

He nodded, “Let’s get back then.”

_

The drive to their small cottage was long, but coming from Seattle to the backwoods of the Appalachia was an adjustment, he reminded himself. Instead of the high-rises they saw doublewides. It takes longer to get places. It's easier to get lost.

He could feel Emily’s anticipation. The soft caress of her fingers on his knee. The heat from her body.

Through the winding trail of the dirt road to their house, the depth of the woods was intimidating – claustrophobic even. The road was narrow and unkempt, the trees suffocating the car as it made its way up the hills.

The trees’ brush was so thick he could hardly make out if there were neighboring homes hidden inside. Their abode the only home visible from the road.

The cottage was set upon a hill, the driveway was littered with small potholes from rain and years of no attention. Its shabby exterior boasted decades of wear and accidents waiting to happen. The roof looked as if it could cave in at any moment, but that was something he was planning on having fixed soon anyway. Each displaced shingle he spotted gave him another ounce of anxiety about Emily living under its roof.

But she insisted that this was going to be the place they would reside in for the next year. Despite it not being home to her yet, she saw its potential. After blueprints and contractors and renovations, it would be their winter cottage to escape to with her and the baby. The property surrounding it was too magical, too quiet, too “good to pass up.”

When Marcus looked at it, he only saw the countless checks he would have to write to people that would trudge dirt in the halls and cause loud noise above him that would make it unbearable to write in the silence he so sought after. But this was Emily’s wish, and her ability to see things beyond his hesitations was one of her most charming and alluring gifts.

He had to stick to the plan. Finish this book – while barely surviving on the last book’s tragic royalties – so the next book will pay for their forever home. Marcus’s advance for his novel was smaller than he liked – due to the lack of success from his last, says his agent – but with the supplement from the former’s royalties, they should be fine to fix up the old, money-pit cabin before they completely run out of money.

Emily playfully ran to the front door and for a moment he felt his stomach sink. How does her light never run out? How does she always harbor such hope?

She could survive another miscarriage, but Marcus wasn’t sure he could.

He followed her inside but felt a penetrating presence of someone behind him. He stood still for a moment, attempting to fidget the keys between his fingers as a make-shift weapon.

Marcus whipped around but only saw their car parked in the driveway.

Emily's head followed. "What was that about? Did you see something?"

He was startled, but shrugged. "No, no I thought I heard something. An animal. That's all."

There. There it is. This feeling of fear, of adrenaline, of uncertainty that he needed to capture in his writing. He had to hold on to this feeling, try to put it into words to frighten a reader.

The one thing he didn’t tell Emily was that he also chose this place for a reason aside from the quietness.

It was for its mystique. The strange, uncharted territory that lay behind their home.

The dark, deep, chilling woods.

The Appalachian Mountains can be an unnerving place for travelers, and even for locals. This was to be the setting for his horror novel.

He entered the house and heard Emily shout from their bedroom. He stepped in and his eyes shifted to her strong legs elongated on their bed. She lay bare on the olive-colored covers, her soft browned skin a lovely complement.

An instinctual and overpowering urge to touch her came over him, and he gently laid on top of her warm and ready body. He quivered as she took hold of his ear with her teeth, then stroked the side of his neck with her velvety tongue.

She wanted him badly. But his mind was too occupied. Too distracted.

“Emily,” he whispered in her hair, and she quickly began unbuttoning his trousers and kissing his neck. He began to extract himself off of her while slowly brushing his lips against her collarbone.

“I’m sorry, Em,” he whispered to her.

Lost in her desire she shook her head and grasped him in the palm of her hand and he let out a muffled sound. He could feel her questioning stare, an unspoken, “Sure you are.”

But he rolled onto his back and released himself from her hands, “I can’t sweetheart.”

She lifted herself onto his chest, her brown eyes like a hound’s seeking the answer in his own eyes.

“I need to write. I have an idea I really need to get down.”

She sighed and he felt the whole weight of her collapse into the bed, yanking the blanket at the edge to cover her bare chest.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s okay. I’ll read or take a nap, I guess.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice and wrapped a hand around her neck to bring her to his lips. “Tonight.”

She nodded through his kiss. “Tonight.”

He stood and buttoned his trousers as she nestled herself under the covers and hoped that his refusal didn’t diminish her mood. But she grabbed a book from her bedside table and smiled at him tenderly as he left the room to grab his writing notebook.

His writing process was unconventional. At least that’s what the students at his writing workshops made him believe. The workshops were the bane of his existence, but helped him and Emily float while waiting for his book’s advancements. They always left him feeling tired instead of energized, and doubtful when he should have felt confident.

He always began writing in a notebook, then would transcribe thereafter on his laptop. This process to the students was archaic and incredulous.

“Doesn’t your hand get tired from writing?”

“Don’t you know you’re losing time by doing this?

“How can you even read your handwriting?”

“Did you know we live in the 21st century?”

All the questions he didn’t care to consider and didn’t care to answer. Writing in his notebook allowed him the freedom to travel without the distractions of the internet or a dying battery.

“I’m going to take a walk Em!” he shouted as he stuffed his fountain pen and a vial of ink in his pocket.

He heard a muffled “okay” from her and walked outside to begin his journey into the woods with a notebook, red masking tape, and his rushing thoughts.

Peace, he thought to himself, peace and quiet and mystique.

He walked behind the cottage and tried to find the least trodden looking path to take, and decided that it was no use because no one had bothered this property for years. He chuckled to himself at the memory of Emily saying “one would need a scythe in order to walk back here,” and thought he should probably carry one next time.

The ground was soft under his boots but no mud caked on the soles, though the extremities of the trees hung low and he was constantly pulling leaves away from his face.

Five minutes in the depth of the trees he ripped a piece of red tape and placed it on the trunk of a large tree to mark his way back. It was only eleven in the morning but the woods were silent. He couldn’t hear the songs of birds or the chirping of bugs or even the stick-cracking sounds of animals walking along the cool earth. He felt completely alone.

Every five minutes or so he would place another red-taped marker on a tree, hoping that eventually he would find a sort of small clearing where he could sit and write but it had been nearly thirty minutes of nothing. The woods, more like a jungle than a forest, felt alive. He could feel the energy in the air but no life of the animals inside it. He checked his watch.

11:31 a.m.

He walked for another fifteen minutes, then stopped dead in his tracks.

A tree with red tape stared directly back at him. How the hell did I walk in a circle? he thought to himself.

“This is impossible,” he muttered to the woods.

He inspected the tape to check it was in fact his tape and not another lone traveler in the woods. But yes, it was the crisp red guide that he left nearly forty-five minutes ago.

Unnerved, he continued his journey into the woods but found no other red-taped guides. He was beginning to feel worried. He looked at his watch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The watch had stopped at 11:31 a.m.

It’s time to go, he thought.

But something in his mind told him to go just a little bit further. He tried to fight it, but his gut knew he was almost in reach of what he was searching for. He had to keep going.. He was almost there.

Where that place was, he wasn’t quite sure. But he could feel it.

Just as he remembered he had forgotten to mark the trees he had just passed with his red tape, he stopped in his tracks. He heard a dog bark.

His next few steps were calculated. Was this a wolf? Were there wolves in the Appalachians? Did he stumble upon a neighbor’s property? Did they have weapons? Is he trespassing? He didn’t quite know.

He peeked his eyes through the leaves and took careful steps into the unknown.

A deep sense of relief flowed through him.

It was a gray, shaggy haired mutt prancing through a graveyard.

By the look of the headstones, the place was historic. Steel-colored stones lined scattered rows in the circular clearing. Three walking paths were on the north side of the property like spokes on a wheel. There were roughly thirty graves and the smallest church-looking building he’d ever seen nestled in the middle. He didn’t even know churches could be that small, perhaps twelve by fourteen feet. He wanted to look inside. See how many pews, if any, were housed in the small structure.

His thoughts were racing until the wild dog came and brushed against his legs.

“Oh, hi there, buddy.”

He knelt down and scratched the hound behind its ear as its tail happily thumped against the ground.

“Are you all alone here?” he asked the dog, who seemed to be enjoying the attention.

“Not quite.”

Marcus heard a distant, grave voice and snapped upright.

An elderly man in disheveled clothes stood a few yards ahead of him, monstrous in height, with a wooden shovel.

I’m going to be killed, Marcus thought. This man is going to kill me.

He quickly began scheming all the ways he could escape this stranger. He was much smaller in height, but it probably meant he was much quicker. He was still a few yards away from the man so he also had the advantage of getting a head start.

“No need to fright, hmph,” the man said as he began walking to Marcus. “Come’er Amon.” The scraggly looking dog – Amon – jogged joyfully to his master.

“I’m sorry sir,” Marcus started, “I was just walking through the woods behind my house and I’ll be making my way back.”

The man shrugged, “Mmm, well. It ain’t my way to tell yous what to do sir. You can go on and stay if yous want. Ain’t gon’ to bother nobody.” A muffled laugh came out of him. His accent was thick as his body but Marcus could see the lines of age etched against the old man’s skin.

Marcus’s worries began to settle. “Do you live here?” He instantly regretted the question. It wasn’t his place to ask and he needed to get out of here. He couldn’t admit to the man that he was lost.

The man kept walking without looking back to Marcus, “Mhm, yous could say that I’spose.”

Amon leapt behind his owner, chasing whatever imaginary bird or creature he saw flying in the air.

The man put the shovel on the side of the church and began walking to Marcus. His height became more surreal, more immense. Marcus, at six-foot, was no match for this man at what he guessed was nearly seven-feet tall.

“M’names John Ray. I’m the gravedigger. I watch ova the cemetery here,” he points to the dog frolicking between the headstones, “that’s Amon. He’sm good boy. Means no harm to ya.” John Ray’s burly hand extended towards him.

Marcus shook it, feeling the dirt whittled in the cracks of his palm.

“Marcus. Marcus Scott. I’m ah, I’m a writer. Moved here with. . . ah, moved here about two weeks ago.”

He didn’t want to tell him about Emily. He couldn’t risk her safety.

John Ray nodded, but with an inquisitive look.

“Mm, you lost, Mr. Scott?”

Was this a threat? Marcus thought. Is he trying to intimidate me?

“Ah no, no not at all. Like I said, I uh live not too far from here. Just taking a walk.”

John Ray looked at the notebook cradled in Marcus’s arm and nodded. “Not too many people come here on theys own. Well,” he paused and motioned to the nearest headstone, “by theys own will.” He chuckled again and began walking back to the church.

“Is this a, uh, private cemetery?” Marcus asked.

John Ray turned back and lifted his brow as in question.

“Does a family own this? Or is this Lewisville’s local cemetery?”

“Ah,” he said, “it’s Lewisville’s, I’spose.” John Ray continued to walk away.

“Do you live here?” Marcus blurted out.

John Ray knelt behind a headstone and plucked a dandelion in silence. He walked back to Marcus. “Mm, I guess so.”

“Well, John Ray, it was a pleasure. I’m going to head back home now so it was nice chatting with you.” Marcus turned on his heel but then stopped as he heard John Ray yell something over his shoulder.

“What was that?” Marcus asked.

John Ray steadily walked towards him, “I says, this is for Emily. Theys tells me she needs it and to please give it to her. Theys know if you don’t.” He extended the dandelion for Marcus to take.

Stunned, Marcus wanted to flee. How did he know about Emily? Who is he talking about?

John Ray didn’t move. His massive hand was holding the delicate flower so gently.

Reluctantly, Marcus took it.

“Do you. . .” he started, “have you met my wife?”

John Ray shook his head, “No I’s haven’t. But theys says she needs this so make sure yous gives it to her. She needs to make a tea outs’t it. Theys says she’ll know what to do.”

Marcus nods suspiciously, but at the same time, his fears of John Ray begin to diminish for an unknown reason. His gut, the thing that took him here, said it was okay. He was safe.

Amon barked and John Ray smiled.

“Well Mr. Marcus, yous best get to going. Theys says I’m to be back. Take the most eastern walking trail back to yous house. It’ll getcha back, theys promise.”

The direction makes no sense, but again his gut did not fight it.

“Um,” he begins, “thank you John Ray. I’ll uh, I’ll tell Emily you gave this to me.”

John Ray shook his head, “No needs. Have a good day, Mr. Marcus.” He walked to the church and called Amon who happily followed.

Marcus hastily walked to the directed trail, uneasy but with the confidence that John Ray was telling the truth and truly – Marcus had no other choice. The way to the cemetery made no logical sense.

The trail was more forest-like and he heard the songs of birds and chirps of crickets beneath the underbelly of the trees. He didn’t realize how dark the sky above was getting, and quickened his pace, eagerly checking for his watch to begin to work again.

After twenty minutes, he saw the dim glow of the light from his porch through the leaves. The excitement and relief that he was home calmed his nerves. He nearly ran out of the trail and once he reached the edge of his property, he saw that his watch began to tick again. But this time, it was 6:07 p.m..

The lights were on in the house and he ran inside to see Emily perched on a stool in the kitchen.

“That was a long walk. I was nervous you wouldn’t be home before dark,” she nodded to a dish on the counter. “Dinner’s ready, too.”

He threw his notebook on the carpet and ran to wrap her in his arms. He kissed her passionately and her body was tense due to the surprise, but relaxed in his embrace. Her legs wrapped around him and he led her to the bedroom.

For what felt like hours later, they found themselves laying on the bedroom floor.

“Did we deep-clean the carpet in the bedroom?” she giggled to him.

Their naked bodies were tangled on the pink shag, careless of the mess of clothes thrown on the floor.

“I don’t even want to know what kind of dirt we are laying in,” he joked to her.

She smiled and rested her head on his chest.

“I almost forgot.” Marcus stood and stalked nakedly around the room looking for his trousers. “Here. This is for you.”

“A dandelion? How did you guess I’ve been craving some homemade dandelion tea? I think I’ll brew a pot in the morning.”

He smiled and planted a soft kiss on her cheek as she stuck the yellow flower delicately behind her ear.

_

They laid together on the floor until their eyes closed, and then the days that followed began to jumble together into weeks, and the weeks were full of writing and love making to his sweet Emily.

Then the thoughts of John Ray and Amon started to slowly leave his mind, until he and Emily decided to have breakfast on the last Sunday of the month. Emily came from the bathroom in tears as he hurried her to leave so they could miss the church rush.

“Em, what’s wrong?” He ushered her to sit down.

With trembling lips she uttered, “Marcus, we’re going to have a baby.”

Emily’s brown eyes were radiant with love, and he felt a tender warmth begin to swell in his body. This time it was going to happen. This time was different. And she could feel it, too.

The drive to town felt quick, and Emily’s hand was holding his the entire drive. She began to refer to the cottage as “home,” and talked about what color they’ll paint the baby’s room.

At the diner, they sat in the same booth as before. The waitress they had weeks ago decided to chat with them for the first time, curious as to their arrival in Lewisville.

“My husband is a writer,” Emily answered. “He’s finishing his novel.”

The penciled eyebrows of the waitress lifted, “That so? What kinda’ story is it?”

“A horror novel,” Marcus said.

The waitress muffled something under her breath, “Y’all did a good job of picking the place to write that kinda book, then.”

“What do you mean?” Emily asked.

“Just scary up in the woods. Y’all best to not go up in there alone.”

“Actually,” Marcus shifted his weight in the booth, “I did go up there about a month ago. Found the old cemetery.”

Both the waitress and Emily gave him startled looks.

“There ain’t no cemetery up in them woods, sir.”

Marcus shook his head, “Yes there is. I met the gravedigger, John Ray. He even had a dog with him.”

The waitress huffed, rudely. “Well, I guess all writers are good storytellers, huh.” She walked away spitefully and Marcus and Emily sat there confused.

“What do you think she meant by that, Marcus?”

“I think she called me a liar.”

They ate their food in silence and began to forget about the strangeness of the waitress until she came back to their table with a picture frame in hand.

“You said you went up in them woods and met a man named John Ray?” she asked crudely.

“Yes,” Marcus nodded.

The waitress handed him the picture frame and Emily leaned over the table to see.

It was a black and white image of John Ray and Amon.

“Yes! This is the man and the dog I met a few weeks ago.”

The waitress rolled her eyes. “Did you see the date, sir? At the bottom?”

John Ray Lewis and His Dog, 1848

“That’s John Ray Lewis. He founded Lewisville,” she snapped the frame from his hands. “Best keep those ghost stories for your books.”