The Ghosts of a Forgotten Town Part 1

We were eating at the back of the diner when it all started.

And by “diner,” I mean the six tables in the back of the grocer’s. You can even shop, pay for your ingredients, and hand them off to the cook, and she’ll whip something up for you. It’s a nice change from your own cooking, or your Ma’s cooking. Or, in the McAllister’s case, your Da’s cooking.

I’m the middle-ish kid. Small town, middle of nowhere, founded in the eighteen hundreds, rather self sufficient. Surrounded by farms, they come into town to sell their produce. Each house has a plot out back, or front. I think they used to be called “truck patches,” you know, a second veggie patch. First is for family and canning, the second is to sell to others.

No, don’t bother. You’ve never heard of it. No one has, except the ones who live here, and the ones that have left. We don’t make the map. Any map. Google thinks we’re a phantom. Others think we’re Brigadoon. No, we’re just in the middle of nowhere. No visitors, outside the occasional very, very, lost person. Some stay, and marry in. But not many.

Anyways, I had just turned fourteen. Ma was sick of cooking, and I said I don’t mind eating at the diner if it relieves her mind. She deserves a break now and again, after keeping up with all eight of us. I have two older brothers, two younger sisters, and two younger brothers. No, I’m not a second Mama, nor am I an unpaid babysitter. Ma is Ma, and she’s the one who keeps us all in line. I help with farm chores, and I’m learning cooking. Ma is amazing as a cook, and just the threat of not having one of her meals keeps us on the side of good behavior.

The neighbors, of course, tried the free babysitter trick a time or two, and Ma shut that down real fast. Ma is nobody’s fool, and raised us to be the same.

My older brothers are out in the world somewhere. We know about it, of course; we have TV’s and internet and suchlike. We just don’t use it much when we’re busy with all the chores. There’s a lot to farming, even when you don’t have acres and acres. That’s good food you’re coaxing out of the ground, and everything that eats it wants a piece before you can harvest. I don’t blame any of them, but the ones that are edible, well, Ma makes them taste good in the pot.

Even the grasshoppers. Please don’t ask. That was a bad year.

Well, like I said, I just turned fourteen. Not an adult, but not a kid neither. In between. Some townfolk were making a fuss at me, asking me who I wanted to start dating. Others were pawing at me, petting me, saying I’m just a baby. I was annoyed by both sets, and asked Ma to keep them all away, before I risked a week without her suppers in setting them all straight. She agreed, and I don’t know what was said, but they backed off. So annoying.

I know they were looking at me to stay. Get married, settle down, start a family. All the town’s kids for ten years before me left at their majority, why shouldn’t I? The ones who left went to college, got jobs, married others, and didn’t come back ‘cept for holidays. They also told the younger set that there was always a room open, in case they needed some help in getting used to life outside a town that time forgot. I know my brothers took them up on it, as did all four sons of the grocery owner.

He was extremely unhappy, I could tell. From my table in the back corner I was watching him and the shoppers in the shopping part of the store. Direct line descendant of one of the town founders, but really, who here isn’t? But this is one of the original buildings, on the original map, original blah blah blah. He expected at least one son to swallow his claptrap, and it didn’t work. So there he sits, at the counter, bickering about prices that we can easily check online. And it’s not like we don’t have our own supplies, but sometimes it’s rather nice to have some extras. Food fripperies, Ma calls ‘em. It’s not like anyone here has a lemon tree, or chocolate tree, in their backyard.

His wife is the cook in the diner. She’s good. Not Ma’s level, but like I said, sometimes it’s nice to have a change of cooking. I don’t mind. Ma will make it up to us, no doubt, because she always feels guilty about it. I wish she wouldn’t, but that’s just Ma.

We were chatting as a family, people were chatting with the grocer (excuse me, Shop Owner), I was relaxing and enjoying my sandwich. We don’t do many cold cuts in our family, much too expensive for seven hungry people, and ruffled potato chips as a treat, when I heard a voice yelling over the others.

I looked around. I didn’t see anyone. But heard it again, though no one else reacted.

Hm. I scarfed my sandwich, and my pile of chips, and asked to be excused to wander the shelves.

Every time I heard an outburst, I got closer to the noise. The outbursts were timed so that when people were speaking to the grocer, he would respond, and there would be an outburst, like a refutation. And would be completely ignored. Quite strange.

The place isn’t all that big, so it didn’t take much time before I turned the aisle that I knew the sound was coming from-

And it was empty.

But then the grocer responded kindly to Mrs. Pendleton, and the air erupted near me: “How dare you cheat my poor wife out of her money!”

Involuntarily, I said, “What?”

A voice aside my ear gasped. “You can hear me? You can?”

“Of course. Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I’m Old Man Whitman, remember? This blasted town buried me at the end of last year. I died right here, screaming at that monster behind the counter. I borrowed money from him to send my kid to the city, and I was paying it back regular, just like we agreed to! And then that, that, chiseler! He starts telling my wife that I owe hunnerds, and all I still owed was fifteen dollars! Fifteen dollars! He’s been bleeding her dry, the swine!”

“Does that mean you’re a ghost?”

“Yes! So much for eternal rest! This is where I died, and I can’t move on till that swine over there stops putting my wife in an early grave! She never deserves that!”

Now, sure, you’re thinking that I should be reacting different, but really, I grew up on ghost stories, fairy tales, tall tales, and scary campfire chats. I was only fourteen, so this seemed to me, a part of growing up. Adults keep secrets, right? I just figured this was one of them. But why would the others ignore his plea for help?

“Don’t believe me, right, young lady? Well, ask him about the secret book he’s hiding under that shelf of his, in a hidden compartment! Pop it out, have a look, you’ll see!”

I was having trouble thinking, but one thing swam to the surface. My Ma, she’s a terrible gossip, her one big flaw. If it happens in town, she’s got to know it, and fast. “Wait. You didn’t die here, you were found over by the stream. Ma said so. No one knew if you did yourself a mischief, but we gave you a Christian burial anyways, just to be sure.”

“Nope, that swine dragged my body outta here and down there, to take off the curse. Ask him where my watch is! It wasn’t on me, was it? ‘Cause it’s in his pocket!”

What am I supposed to do? Who would even believe me?

And then the widow walked in to do some shopping. I could see the grocer’s eyes light up.

I made a quick decision.

I stood up tall, and at my loudest pitch, said, “What’s that you say, Old Man Whitman? You didn’t die down at the stream? You died here, instead?”

Absolute silence.

“Oh, the grocer’s a chiseler, you say? Stole your watch, and dragged your body to the river, so that no one would know? Lied to Officer Shilling, said you never saw him that day?”

“That’s a lie!” hissed the grocer.

“Oh, so what’s in your pocket? I see a gold chain sticking out. What else have you stolen, and from whom?”

Widow Whitman was made of pretty stern stuff. She got over her shock pretty quick, and darted to the grocer, shoving the basket at him to throw him off. In the shuffle, he caught the basket and the cabbage, but she shoved her hand into his pocket – and came up with the grand prize.

“You lying, sniveling, thief!” she snarled. Her husband’s watch, a carved and enameled beauty that the whole town knew on sight, was dangling from her fingers.

“He’s also been chiseling you out of your money, Miz Widow. Your husband only owed him fifteen more dollars, and Grocer there kept insisting it was more. The old man had a stroke, right here, and died.”

“Ha! I can prove that’s a lie!” Grocer reached under the bench, and pulled up a thick ledger. He thumped it on the shelf. “See? Right here! She still owes me hunnerds! Hunnerds!”

“Wrong ledger, you thieving wretch!” a voice thundered beside me. This time, I saw two people flinch at the sound. Hunh.

I sniffed at a face red as the beets in the bin beside me. “Anyone can forge a ledger. Now bring out the real one.”

“What?”

“What?” A higher voice, from back near my family. The cook, Missus Grocer, came stomping over. “Heathcliff, is this true? I’ve heard whispers about your overcharging over the years, but you kept swearing it was all lies to ruin our good family name. Now a missing watch appears in your pocket. All four of our children left the town, and won’t come back, after having an argument with you, and now none of them are talking to me neither. There’s more money in the bank, than I can account for. What are you not telling me, husband?”

Grocer froze. Beside me, a voice whispered, “The real ledger! Read it!”

So I cleared my throat. “Ma’am.” She turned to me. “The real ledger’s in a hidden box, somewhere under that shelf. Move your chiseling husband, and I’m sure you’ll find it.”

“Really.” She turned to her husband, who finally looked scared. Of her. “Heathcliff, move.” He hesitated, and she narrowed her eyes. “Move.”

He scuttled, and she bent behind the counter. Tap tap tappa tappa klunk. “Well.” She reappeared, with a different ledger.

Heathcliff turned to run, but someone must have gotten our only officer. He was standing in the doorway, and he looked very unhappy. “Heathcliff Smythe, you’ll be spending the night in my basement, and subjected to my wife’s special cooking, given to those under suspicion of the law. And I’ll have a word with the banker, and I’ll take that ledger, thank you ma’am.” It was passed over. “Widow Whitman, you hold onto that watch good and tight now, and I’ll get everyone’s statements later. For now, let me get this fellow settled.” He wrapped a muscled arm around Grocer, and practically dragged him out.

Widow Whitman came over to me. “Is it true, my husband’s here?”

“I’m right here, Clara. I’m sorry, I love you, but I gotta go.”

I repeated his words, which had strangely gotten echo-y, like he was traveling in a tunnel. She whispered “I love you,” and I thought it was too late, but I heard a faint “I love you too,” before I heard nothing. And I told her as such. She was crying, but she smiled at me, and turned to go.

My family came over, faces strange with all sorts of emotions. Ma almost went to hug me, but her arm dropped to her side. “Ah, Lizbeth, you have a gift, but oh how I wish you didn’t, most gifts are hard to bear. You have an old one. A hard one. I wouldn’t wish that on any of my kids. Ach, so young.”

Da said nothing, but went over to Grocer’s wife to pay for our meal. She shook her head. “Nah, your money’s no good here,” she muttered. “And grab yourselves a basket each, and fill up. And take them home. I’m done. All of you, grab a basket, fill up. I ain’t takin’ no more money from anyone tonight.”

And we did. If mine was filled with more chocolate and potato chips than it should have, well, I hoped no one would begrudge me. Widow Whitman was cackling as she went for the expensive things, and I don’t blame her one whit. Pardon the pun.

Others were gathering for their turn at the free things as we left. Word was also spreading, and some families split – one to go shopping, and one to have a quiet talk with Officer Shilling to discuss their own possible overcharging. I felt sorry for them, and glanced up at my Da. Did he go into debt for my brothers?

Da must’ve seen my look, because he smiled. “No, daughter mine, I’m not in the second ledger. My boys know how to use that newfangled laptop they bought, and applied for things like scholarsheeps and grants. Why their sheep have to be bettern’ ourn, I’ve no idea, but it pays for their learning. We’re good.”

Whew. I was relieved.

But why did I feel like a storm was brewing, and this wasn’t the end at all?