The Ghosts of a Forgotten Town Part 3

The townsfolk were whispering.

No surprise, really. What else is there to do, but peer and pry into everyone else’s affairs?

You know that part about a prophet not being accepted in their own town? I was feeling that in my bones. Small wonder that Jesus Himself gave them one chance, then walked out when they tried to stone him. He never went back, neither. Think about that. It’s a part that pastors tend to ignore, ‘cause you certainly don’t hear much about that from the pulpit.

No one wanted to talk to me. Sarah and Myrnie told me they didn’t want to be with me anymore, ‘cause the boys ignored them when I was there. And with Myrnie trying to catch Davey’s eye, and him looking at me and my “good hips” (oh, puh-leeze!), well, it was uncomfortable all around.

The adults didn’t want me around, either. Ma still thought of me as a little girl, and no one messes with Ma. Half the time I think that’s why both my older brothers took off at their majority, to avoid our well-meaning, but occasionally overbearing, mother. The other adults felt the same. They knew the age of majority had risen in the outside world, but old habits are hard to change.

But I can lurk with the best of ‘em.

I knew people weren’t sleeping well. I wasn’t either, but the dreams were vague. Something coming that would wipe out the town. Well, there’s lots that can happen to take out a town, right? You can’t prepare for everything, so I prepared for nothing.

I had a job to do. Find the ghosts, and put them to rest.

Should be easy, right?

With my brothers gone, I didn’t know where to get my ghost stories.

I didn’t pay attention when they were telling me tall tales, because who can take their brothers seriously? And I wasn’t going to walk up and down the town, listening for disembodied voices.

Well, that left two possible choices.

I went to the library first.

Yes, we have one. How do you think I’ve got my larning? Our school teacher only teaches to eighth grade, figuring, we’re for the fields, or baby making, when we reach majority. At fourteen. Ain’t living in the past something else?

The librarian, Miss Lattiner, was more than intrigued with separating real from imaginary ghost stories. She was delighted to sit me down and learn about my experiences “from the horse’s mouth,” as she put it. She must’ve gotten something out of it, because she made interesting noises at parts of the story that I didn’t expect to get a reaction.

“So, young lady, that’s quite a double feat in a short amount of time. Let me do some rummaging, and talk to the town’s historian. Michael may have some thoughts on the subject. But there’s one thing you can likely do now, one strange anomaly.”

“Yes?”

“My friend Flossie lives out on the old McShannon farm, you know the place? About an hour’s walk on the old trade path, on the southern side of the stream. Ah, never mind – come tomorrow, around ten in the morning, I’ll close the library and go with you. You’ll need context.”

Miss Lattiner is all about context.

Off we went, with enough of Ma’s chicken salad sandwiches in my hamper to feed half the town. I don’t understand – there will only be three of us for lunch, I think.

I don’t leave town much. I know there are a double handful of farms surrounding us, and though most of their families are distantly related to me, I’m used to seeing them all when they come in. You know, holidays, grocery days, that sort of thing.

What surprised me, was all the green.

So much green.

Wheat fields. Corn fields. Squash, potatoes. Alfalfa.

Some grape vines. We’re a small hick town; we’re not barbarians.

I heard Missus… uhh, come to think of it, I don’t know who lives on the McShannon farm now. I know some of the Founder’s names have vanished over the years, it’s inevitable, when a family tends towards the female persuasion in their children. I’m putting it kindly. I know my own family lost a name or two along the line. What’s the big deal? Kids are kids, right? Take the blessings the Lord gives you, and stop breeding idiot boys that like to run around and scare horses ‘till a cart gets dropped on them. Funny, none of those stupid boys have ghosts hanging around, no matter what the horses are trying to tell ya.

Anyways, the lady of the house was humming in the garden.

I was surprised when Miss Lattiner marched past the garden, mounted the porch steps, and knocked on the door. I was even more surprised when the door was answered promptly, like she was waiting inside. And her hands were clean. Did she have time to wash her hands?

And I thought humming in a garden meant you could pay a casual visit?

“Land sakes, Lottie, what a pleasant surprise! And hello my dear, I’m sorry, could we re-acquaint our friendship? Your name seems to have slipped my mind.”

“Flossie, this is Lizbeth Netherton, central to all the goings-on in town recently. Lizbeth, this is Flossie McDermott. She inherited the farm when she out-lived her husband, who had previously married the last McShannon girl, who died in childbirth.”

“Yes, Lizbeth! I’d heard of you, but couldn’t pick you out of a lineup. But such red hair! I can identify you now, unless your siblings are the same?”

“The family joke is the milkman’s my real father, but the joke’s on them – the milkman’s blonde. Ma says we’ve always thrown a redhead or two, but I happened to get it in double spades.”

“Wear it proudly, young one, we should be proud of our features, without becoming vain. Do not let anyone make you smaller than you are, especially that-” she suddenly shut her lips, turned a few shades red.

Miss Lattiner also had firm lips, and looked like she didn’t wish to speak.

There was a snort by my ear, and I jumped a little. “What they’re not saying is, they’re an item, they took up with each other after Nevin died, the shameless hussies! How dare they spit on my son's memory like that!”

The ladies saw me jump, my face change. “She’s here, isn’t she.” It was not a question.

I chose to answer the disembodied accusation. “Miss Lattiner is a model citizen, very helpful and kind, and has never gone after children – unlike the previous teacher, Miss Britch (who lived up to her name), and Danny Fellinger and his gang, who would go after little kids, and do bad things. Did anyone stand up to them, till it was way too late? Sure, they finally got paddled so bad they never moved right again, but all the kids had grown up or left by then. They’re not coming back, neither. That’s what kills a town – good people doing nothing, while badness is allowed to do its thing. And all we heard was lip service, from the parents shrugging and saying ‘boys will be boys,’ to the pastor blathering about the kingdom of Heaven. If girls decided they were done with men after doing their duty and having some kids, what’s the harm?”

“Well said,” murmured Miss Lattiner, and Flossie nodded approval.

There was silence. Where did the ghost go?

“I you can’t find her in here, she’s likely sulking out in the garden.”

“I did hear humming out there when we got here, was that her?”

“Of a certainty. I haven’t been out there since daybreak, when I cut some mint tea.”

“Would you excuse me, please?” Flossie pointed towards the kitchen, and I let myself out by the side door.

Someone was sobbing.

I wasn’t in a mood to be kind, because no one hurts Miss Lattiner. But I kept my temper, a bit. “Ma’am, I may be young, but one thing that my Ma drilled into me, is that people are usually mean because they’re scared, or angry, or both. When it comes to this thing, I’m betting you’re just mad ‘cause you were forced to give up your sweetheart, and you’re mad they’re allowed to live their lives the way you wanted. But you’re the ghost stuck here. You could have been free for years and years. To be with whoever you want. What keeps you here?”

The sobbing didn’t stop. “Winnie wouldn’t want me! I’m old! I’m ugly! I’m bitter! All the things I promised her I would never be, and I hated my children! Popped out kid after kid, hated them all, didn’t cry when one or two died, why should I? That many less ties to my husband, and sure he didn’t beat me, but he didn’t care. Raising children was women’s work, so strap a kid to your hip while cooking, and keeping house, and doing mountains of laundry and don’t lift a finger when anyone’s sick but wait on him hand and foot if he got so much as a sniffle! Where was my break? Where was my fun? Where was my life, worth living?”

I didn’t even know her name. “Ma’am, I’m not unsympathetic. But even after death, you’re still stuck here. Not your husband, not your sweetheart. You don’t have a life, but you certainly have an afterlife. Why don’t you go and enjoy it?”

I heard sniffles, a mumbled “I even promised her roses, and I didn’t bring ‘em, and now I can’t even touch ‘em, I couldn’t raise kids but I could grow roses, simple needs, just soil and sun and rain…”

I had a small thought. “Wait here, I have an idea.”

I heard a muttered “Where would I go?” as I rushed inside. Flossie and Lottie looked a bit startled, but I tried my best to explain what was going on. And if Flossie had some pruning shears? And some spirit oil?

Flossie stared at me, eyes wide. “Land sakes! I’ve never done anything to those roses, ‘cept deadhead em! I’ll put daffodils, lilies, and lilacs on the table, but never thought to put roses!”

I went outside with a pair of wicked-sharp shears, and a wide cup of spirit oil.

Flossie followed with a nice pottery vase, and Lottie came to watch. Because who wouldn’t?

“Ma’am? Are you here?”

“Can’t leave.” A sigh, followed by “What’s all that for?”

“We’re gonna try a thing, but I need your help. You can’t cut roses, but I can. If I do, will you show me exactly where to cut? And can you see if there are ghost roses, where I cut?”

“Hunh. Well, I… Well. Interesting. Sure, I can do that.”

“Great.” I dipped the shears in spirit oil, let the drops slide off the tip. “Which shall I take first, and where?”

“Always take a joint or two with you. See that big red one, right in front of you? Count three leaf clusters down, between those two wicked thorns.” I pointed with the shears, confirmed I had the right bloom. “One, two, three, those thorns?”

“Yes indeed, slide the blade between them, and snip quick.” A click-snip, and I was cradling a thorny rose gently. As I swung it into the vase, I heard a gasp, and the branch swayed in no wind. “I got it! I got it!”

“Wow, all right! Shall we try another? Which shall I try next?”

“Can we get some pink ones? Pink is – er, was – her favorite.” I shuffled around the red rose bush, to a pink climber, a spray that was up to the roof. Some directions, and a snip later, and a shaking, and another squeal as the success registered.

Our rose vase held a baker’s dozen when the ghost sighed. “Thank you kindly, little lady. I am eternally grateful, which I hope means something. Tell Flossie I’m sorry for calling her names. I was an awful mother-in-law, and there’s no getting around that. I hope I can do better now.” And her voice got all echo-y, and I heard her call, “Winnie! There you are! Look, I brought you roses!”

And she was gone.

I sighed, and told the ladies what I heard as we lunched. Flossie shook her head. “Meghan McDermott, aye, she was a right royal terror of a mother-in-law when she was alive. Now I kind of know why. Doesn’t excuse her behavior, but does explain it a bit. I hope she can be happy, and now Lottie and I can have time for ourselves! My nephews run the farm, and they don’t care one whit what I do within my home. And now that a certain ghost won’t rattle our tea cups, Lottie, please visit more often.”

And she fixed me with a strange eye. “And if you’re looking for more ghosts to settle, look to the church. Hunt for the grave of a certain Herbert Stewart. A royal name, yes? But not a name connected with this town, so why is it here? But beware that pastor, child. He is not right in the head, and he doesn’t practice what he preaches. It is a sad thing when a man loses his calling, and I think ours has.”

Lottie shook her head, her face like a bitter lemon. “I do not like him. And you are an adult, you do not have to be polite. Not any more. ‘Ware him, and be careful. But if I go with you, he won’t say a word. He knows what I think of him.”

I sighed. More work.

I carried a vase of roses home, with instructions on how to slip and pot them. Ma would be thrilled to finally get her mitts on some roses for the garden, and these strains were older that the hybrids that died in our soil. The Alba and Apothecary strains went right back to the Medieval era.

The Alba blooms dusted my hair with pollen, as if to agree with me.