Chapter Twenty-Seven Ashley
TWENTY-SEVEN ASHLEY
It was dusk by the time they got to the cemetery.
“We better hurry. We’re not going to be able to find much in the dark,” Ashley said as they entered through the front gates.
“There’s still some light. And we can use our phones,” Malcolm said.
It was about the only thing their phones would be any good for, with no Wi-Fi or cell service out here.
Behind the cemetery, the woods began.
She remembered Josephine’s words, spoken in an eerie, hushed voice:
They say that he lives in the woods outside of town.
They walked down the narrow dirt lane that bisected the cemetery and found themselves at the center, next to a dried-up fountain featuring an angel with a cracked face and a broken wing.
“You doing okay?” Mal asked.
“Fine,” Ash said.
“You seemed pretty on edge back at Josephine’s. You practically ran out of there.”
“I’m okay,” she said, her eyes on the woods, which were already dark and full of shadows that seemed to stretch, bend, and lengthen; to move on their own as the light shifted.
“That was a creepy little doll,” Mal said. “And the story that went with it…”
“It was weird that she said she never met Mom, right?” she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. “I mean, if Mom really did come to Boone’s Ferry, it seems like that house would have been one of the first places she visited.”
“Well”—Ash’s mind spun—“maybe she did. Maybe she went and knocked on the door and Josephine wasn’t home. Or was out in the garden or something. Or—”
“Let’s not get too caught up in retracing every step she took. I think that’s just going to stress you out.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine, Mal, I swear. It was just… hearing about that creepy legend, the way she said ‘horsefeathers’ just like Gram, all those little doll faces looking at us.”
Malcolm laughed. “I thought the dolls were kinda cool. It’s a really sweet tribute, actually, having a doll for each person who’s died.” He was quiet a second, then said, “You know, I bet if we got her on Etsy or maybe built a website for her, she could make some money selling those dolls.”
“Um… dolls modeled after dead people?”
“Not necessarily, just regular little clothespin dolls, you know? People are really into that whole Americana folk art thing. We could sell them at the bed-and-breakfast, have a whole page devoted to them on our website—”
“Mal?”
“Yeah?”
“I admire your vision for this bed-and-breakfast, but can we just put a pin in the idea for right now? Focus on what we’re doing here. Trying to find our great-grandparents’ headstones. Frankie’s too. Any other family.”
It felt good to have a mission. The same mission she knew her mom would have had when she’d been here.
If she’d been here.
“Right,” Mal said as he shone the light from his phone onto the path ahead of them, then used it to read the names and dates on the granite headstones. The stones cast shadows that seemed to move, tilting and writhing.
Ashley looked up toward the woods.
In the distance, a twig snapped.
Probably nothing. A squirrel maybe.
Her brother noticed her jump a little. “You wanna come back tomorrow?” he asked, voice slightly mocking.
He’d always teased her for being so easily scared when they were kids.
He loved to torture her with ghost stories, plastic spiders in her bed, jump-scaring her whenever he got the chance.
He was obsessed with horror movies and would dare her to watch them with him, and Ashley, not wanting to seem like a scaredy-cat to her younger brother, always said yes.
“We will. But let’s take one quick look around tonight.”
He nodded. “Looks like the oldest ones are back at this end.” Mal was leaning down to make out the writing on the old worn stones.
“Here’s one from 1894… 1899.” He moved away from the fountain toward the back of the cemetery, reading the stones along the roadway.
Then he wandered off to the left among the grave markers.
Toward the woods. Ash followed him, but stayed on the path.
She bit her tongue to keep from crying out: Don’t go down there! Stay where it’s safe.
The woods were full dark now. She sensed a stirring in them, a slight movement that was more than just the wind rustling the leaves; more than just the squirrels heading to their hollowed-out dens for the night.
“Here we go,” he called. “These are from the fall and winter of 1918.”
He moved farther toward the woods. “Wow! Every grave back here is from March of 1919. There’s a lot of them, Ash. Come take a look.”
She could see the light from his phone glowing, held up in front of the headstones so he could read the names and dates.
She wanted to see, really she did, but her feet wouldn’t move. Try as she might to go forward, she stayed where she was, feet firmly planted. She imagined she was like one of the trees at the edge of the woods: strong, well-rooted. Nothing was going to budge her.
“I don’t see any Endicotts. What was our great-grandmother’s maiden name?”
“I—I’m not sure.” Ash’s heartbeat picked up, her breaths becoming short and shallow.
Trying to ground herself, she thought about what Mal had asked.
She had no idea. Had never asked. She was sure her mother must have told her when she went down the genealogy rabbit hole, but Ash hadn’t really been listening.
Hadn’t taken any interest and was just waiting for her mother to predictably lose interest in the project too, leave the family tree half empty, abandoned.
Now, unless there was something in those papers in the trunk Gram had hidden, Ashley might never know her great-grandmother’s maiden name.
It was all gone. She’d have to rely on Josephine and her little dolls.
“Oh, wait, here it is. Look!” He shone the light from his phone on the front of a granite stone:
DR. THOMAS ENDICOTT
HUSBAND AND FATHER
JULY 9, 1879–MARCH 16, 1919
REST IN PEACE
“And look, right beside him—Margaret Endicott! She lived until 1962!” Mal read. “ ‘Beloved wife and mother.’ ”
Ashley’s feet finally moved before she could think about it; she felt herself being pulled toward the stones of her ancestors, drifting through the cemetery like a ghost. She stood in front of them, looking down at the names, at Thomas and Margaret Endicott’s final resting places, side by side.
Malcolm continued moving toward the back of the cemetery, shining his light on the stones. “I don’t see Frankie O’Massey’s stone. No O’Masseys at all so far.”
Ashley stayed where she was, staring at the stones of her great-grandparents, her head whirling with all the things Gram had kept from her, all the things she should have asked her mother and didn’t.
“Ash, come over here. You’ve gotta see this!”
Dear God, what had he found? Why did he keep getting closer to those woods?
She imagined going back there, Malcolm jumping out from behind a headstone just for fun to see how loud she’d scream.
Then she imagined something else jumping out at both of them. A life-sized version of the terrible little knackerman doll.
“What is it?” She tried to keep her voice level, totally calm.
“I’m not sure.” He was all the way at the edge of the cemetery, where the woods began. He bent down and she could hardly see him. “It’s a grave, but with just a plain stone marking it. But there’s all this stuff.”
She didn’t like that she couldn’t really see him, so she willed her feet to move closer.
“Stuff?” Ashley used her phone’s flashlight as she picked her way carefully between the rows of stones to where her brother was crouched. “What kind of stuff?”
“Flowers. Candy. There’s even a bottle of rum here!”
Relief poured through her. It was not a sacrificed animal, dead body, or pentagram burned into the earth. It was just some offerings family members had left for a loved one who’d passed. She’d seen it in other cemeteries. Not so strange at all.
Ashley got to Malcolm, shone the light from her phone on the plain rectangular upright stone that marked the grave.
It was smooth and worn, made from dark granite.
And without a single mark etched into it.
Beneath the stone were uncountable gifts: dried and fresh flowers, coins, cigarettes, a stained china cup of coffee, a bottle of liquor.
Folded neatly on the top was a piece of pink paper.
“What’s this?” Ashley said, reaching for the paper, unfolding it. It was a note written in neat, careful cursive. She read it out loud:
I am so sorry for what happened last night.
Sorry that I didn’t believe.
But I believe now.
Please don’t punish my family for what I did.
I have something that’s yours. I can give it back to you.
Please don’t be mad.
Sincerely,
Mini Fitzpatrick
P.S. I know a secret about you. A secret no one else has figured out. Can you guess what it is?
Another stick cracked in the woods just in front of them. Ash looked in time to see movement.
“Who’s there?” Ashley called, voice strangled-sounding, as she pointed the weak light of her phone at the trees.
She saw a glint of white.
The pale skull of a horse, dark hollow eyes watching?
She held back a scream.
But no, it was only a pale face ducking back out of sight behind a large tree trunk.
“I see you!” Ashley called out. “I know you’re there!”
Malcolm was looking at the trees. “Are you sure—” he began.
“Of course I’m sure!” she snapped. Ashley was sick and tired of being doubted, of this insinuation that she was imagining things just because she’d once gone full-on I-see-dead-people-batshit-bonkers. But that was in the past; why couldn’t Malcolm understand that?
Except in the lawyer’s office on Friday.
Then maybe again, this afternoon outside of the pub. And once more, on Main Street just before they went into Josephine’s.
But, damn it, this was real. There was someone hiding behind that tree.
“There’s someone back there, Mal, hiding, right now! They’ve been watching us this whole time!”
She kept her pathetic little phone flashlight focused on the wide tree trunk. “Come out where we can see you!”
Then there was movement from the shadows. A figure stepped out—small and quivering.
“See,” Ashley said to her brother. She moved forward, training her light on the figure, and saw a miserable-looking little girl.
She had dark hair held back with a headband and large almond-shaped eyes, and wore jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt.
Her face was so pale Ashley half wondered if she was seeing a ghost. But she didn’t believe in ghosts.
And she knew this girl. Recognized that face.
It was the girl who’d been sitting in the upstairs window of the house with the red horse head painted crudely on the door.
The girl was holding something, clinging to it. Ashley saw that it was a large, plastic toy horse.
“Well, hello there,” Malcolm said, voice syrupy-sweet in that way grown-ups sometimes talk to kids. “What’s your name?” Her brother might be able to charm old ladies, but he was just plain goofy with kids.
The girl toed at the ground with her sneaker, clutched the toy horse tighter. She clearly knew better than to talk to strangers.
“Mini,” the girl said, taking a step back, still not making eye contact.
“Mini Fitzpatrick?” Ash asked, still holding the pink folded note.
The girl gave a sheepish nod.
“Nice to meet you, Mini,” Malcolm said. “I’m Malcolm. The lady shining the light in your eyes is my sister, Ashley.”
“Sorry,” Ash said, lowering her phone.
“What are you doing out here in the dark, Mini?” Mal said.
She didn’t respond.
“Did you come to leave this note?” Ashley asked.
“Please,” Mini said. “No one can know I was here. I’m not supposed to leave my house. That’s the rule. But I snuck out.”
“We won’t tell anyone, Mini,” Mal said. “I promise.”
The girl’s eyes darted past Ash and Malcolm, scanning the cemetery, like she was looking for someone else. “It’s dark now,” Mini said. “We should go. We shouldn’t be here. It isn’t safe.”
“Mini,” Ash said, gesturing at the rectangular black stone surrounded by gifts. “Whose grave is this?”
“His,” Mini said softly.
“Whose?” Ash asked.
“The knackerman’s.” And with that, Mini took off running.
“Mini!” Ash called, starting to follow her into the dense stand of trees, but she knew it was useless.
The woods were too thick, the girl too fast and sure of her way.
As she turned to go back, her eye caught on something: the girl had dropped her toy horse.
Ash picked it up, and swore that, for half a second, she felt the hard plastic animal flinch.