The Ghosts of a Forgotten Town Part 4

“I thought I would find you here.”

I snorted, which wasn’t difficult in a neglected graveyard. Lots of dust. “Nonsense. You were hiding, as usual.”

“Mind your manners, girl, I’m still the pastor here.”

“You are nothing. You are a coward who hides behind an altar.” I wish he would leave me alone. I had a grave to find, and Pastor Blowhard was in his pontificating state.

He inhaled, as if to increase his social stature on volume alone, when a new voice entered our chat. “Do it, you scrawny excuse for a bantam rooster, and you will regret it.”

I turned. He did not, but he exhaled with extreme force. I quirked an eyebrow.

“That’s right, you little turd. You can hear me, and you fear what I can do. Now tell her the truth. It will set you free, you know.”

My voice was flat. “You can hear them, too.”

“And he can see us. But will he lift a finger to help you? No, he will not. He’s still licking his wounds from being a failure. You are doing what he didn’t have the courage to do. He is leaving you to do it all alone. This was his job, and he decided it was too haaaaard.”

Finally, a reaction. The pastor spun and snarled at a spot near where I heard the voice coming from. “Do you know how hard it was, to try to get people to believe me?” he hissed.

A snort, this time from thin air. “Do you know how hard it was, for a girl, unmarried, to speak up, in this community? Yet she did it. And she has gotten better results than you ever did. I can count the number of souls she’s saved. You are now an adult, and have a pulpit. How many souls have you saved, spouting that nonsense every week?”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

The voice turned to me, and was kinder. “No one's buried in that grave, child. There's just a tombstone; the ground is undisturbed. Come inside. We don’t hang out in the graveyard, such a depressing place. Especially since Himself won’t even take care of it, like he’s supposed to. We harass him in the church itself. Much more comfortable. Cool and shady. Pick a pew, we’ll have a talk.”

I glared at the pastor, who was trying hard to look like a pile of wilted lettuce. Then I spun around, and stomped into the sanctuary.

As promised, it was cool. I could hear whisper-soft creaks of ancient wood as they settled around me.

“How many are you? And how do I help?”

“Aye, little lass, you have more spirit than most men in this town. We used to be stronger than this, this twaddle.”

“There are six of us here, but you don’t have to worry about any of us. I built this church when me and my brothers founded Hidden Hollow. I know, we were an arrogant bunch. Thought of ourselves as the Greek gods, divvying up the world between us.

“The elder of us fancied himself after Zeus, and started the businesses, gathered others of like mind to add themselves to Main Street’s shops. Me, being the spare, took to religion and the things beyond death. The youngest was strong, and with no Poseidon-like bodies of water, took to farming, changing the courses of the rivulets of water from the mountains to feed his fields.

“That’s the crap you’re taught on Founder’s Day, civic pride, hurrah, fireworks, and all that. Here’s what you’re not taught:

“I was already getting flashes of the future when we decided this was a good place to settle. The more trees I felled and planed, the sharper the future came into focus. As a man of the cloth, gone through seminary and some missionary work, I despaired – this wasn’t what I was taught!

“I went through the motions. I preached what I was taught. I taught my successor, the most religious kid in town. And yet, at each funeral, each death, I saw the bridge, and the people calling on the far side. Eventually, I noticed the ones stuck on this side of the divide.

“Including my brothers. I had to bury both of them before me.

“And they’re still stuck on this side of the divide. I hear them calling for me, all the time. If I stop speaking, in the silence of this hallowed space, you can hear them.”

There was a breath, a pause. And I could hear them, frantically screaming for their brother.

“So. I prayed. No good. In desperation, I sought out the remnants of the great Indian nation we pushed into the foothills. Eventually, their shaman met me.

“He laughed. He didn’t mock me, but he did mock my perception. He said that this is my religion, it’s the basis of all religion, but that nearly two thousand years of human lenses distorts the picture. That listening to those who propagate the distortion makes it worse. That passing it on makes it worse. Strip down to reality, and the truth is plain. I just didn’t want to see. And that living on blood-stained land, so recently spilled, widens the divide, but clears the distortion. He said many things that I can clearly remember, but still don’t understand.

“So, when it was my turn to die, I stayed. The new pastor prayed over my shell, and the shaman came, and he burned sage at my coffin. For clarity, he whispered.

Most pass right over the bridge, listening to the calls of the heart that draw us over the divide. But some have no courage, or do not trust, and stay. The longer you stay, the harder it is to even see the path through the cave, to the ledge on the far side. Most go, but some remain. I try to collect them here, to wait.”

“Wait… for what?”

“We don’t know. But it’s amusing, to heckle these milquetoast pastors, and what they think they know.”

“I heard that!”

“You’ve heard it all, you absolute fecal matter unit, and still you mouth nonsense from your platform.”

Harsh breathing, but quiet.

“So why was I sent here, to look for a grave, of a person who never existed? How does that happen in a town that runs on gossip?”

“Because the treasure hunt you’ve been sent to accomplish should have never gone on this long. Seven generations from founding, and now the world closes in. When that happens, most won’t be able to handle the changes. This place was never meant to be our own personal Brigadoon, yet here we are.”

“Whose job was it, then? I’d like to spit on a grave or two.”

“Five, more like. Each generation was given a prophet, and each one buckled under societal pressure. Pastor Coward back there is the sixth. You’re the seventh. The first girl-child, like the Powers That Be decided on one final throw of the dice.”

“Excuse me a minute.” I very, very quietly, slid out of the pew, tiptoed towards the pulpit, where I knew the blowhard was hiding. His ass was temptingly close, since he was pressing his ear to a crack on the far side of his false shield.

I kicked that hiney hard.

He yelped, fell over, hit his head on the side of the box. I went back to my pew amidst ghostly howls of laughter.

One of the voices settled, followed by the others. “Hubert Stewart never existed, but the prophecies foresaw someone rising up from the tide of change that hovers over us. You, perhaps? We don’t know. But we who have lived too long know all time is running short. We feel a giant wave hovering over us, ready to crash. Before it does, certain things must be tidied. You seem to be our last chance, Lizbeth. No pressure, of course.”

“Naturally.” I sighed. “Why me?”

“It could have been anyone, really. You aren’t the only one of your age with a special gift, but you’re the one who listened when the voices started. You made decisions based on what you knew, and spoke up under pressure. The others could have; they were there too. But they are ignoring all the signs. Fear, mostly. You’ve never cared about ridicule. Your father would never beat you for defying the town. You survived to the cusp of adulthood. So many factors.

“But now you know, child, and I don’t think you wish to go back to ignorance.”

“I suppose not.” I sighed. “What now?”

“Back into town. What we figure is this: the count of lost souls is likely in the fifteen to twenty range. You took care of three so far, and we’re six. I think, if you wander a bit, eavesdrop on the townsfolk as they talk, you’ll hear tales of more. Fear stirs up a lot of muddy history, like walking in a stream. Follow the flow, and you’ll find the voices.”

“And maybe you can convince a useless pastor to find his spine, and polish it up a bit. It needs shining.”

I could hear a bloodthirsty grin, one I couldn’t see. “Indeed, youngling. It may be time to play dirty.”