Chapter Two #2
“No, it’s not a scam. I have long brown hair, I’m cooking, and,” she slides the toaster back into the cupboard, “look… I cleaned. You want to ramble on about trucks while I pretend to give a damn, or are we good to start the ghost hunt?”
Why is this snarky little attitude amusing me? “So, you were never looking for marriage?” I poke at the fire again, adjusting the logs as they spark and roll.
“I mean, someday I’d like to get married,” her gaze widens, “to an emotional man who wants real love and kids.”
I roll my eyes. “Emotional man? Something tells me you’ll never find that.”
“What are you talking about?” she snaps. “There are plenty of men out there who want real, fulfilling relationships.”
“And I bet he’s a yoga instructor who cries during sunsets.”
She shakes her head as she plates dinner. “Better than a man who thinks emotional depth is knowing the difference between diesel and unleaded.”
I can’t help but smile at that one. “Hey, knowing your fuel types is a survival skill. Emotional depth won’t help when your truck’s coughing on the side of I-70.”
I sit at the small oak table overlooking the forest as she settles the plates into place. I nod, raising my glass as I say, “Let’s toast to Sunset Steve and his downward dog of vulnerability.”
Rolling her eyes, she digs her fork in without a word, humming as the first bite slides past her lips. “Ugh, I was so hungry.”
This close, I can’t help but notice the unique shade of hazel her eyes are. I think there’s a fleck of yellow in them too. A pop of color I shouldn’t be noticing. I glance back at my plate. “You cook a lot?”
“Hell no.” She shakes her head and twists her hair onto the opposite shoulder.
“I’m a bit out of practice, though I cooked all the time for my dad.
My mom died when I was younger, so for the most part, life was just about my dad and I.
He worked these really long hours as a lineman.
You know how it is up here, always something going on with the poles. ”
The fork is halfway to my mouth, but I freeze. “Yeah. I, ugh, I used to work up there myself before I started up at the sawmill. What year was your dad up in the trees?”
“Umm, maybe like eight years ago. He had been working there for fifteen years… until he wasn’t.” She laughs nervously and stabs into another bite of pasta.
My heart stops because I know what’s coming next. “What do you mean?”
“He died. I was sixteen. There was a storm.”
My heart stops, and so does everything else. There’s no air in the room, no circulation. I’m not speaking, and I don’t know how I’ll form a word around her again.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, hoping there was more than one death up on the poles that year. “What, ugh, what was your dad’s name?”
“Mason Churchhill. Did you know him?”
The room spins, and suddenly I’m in darkness. It’s the same place I was in when the call came in. The one telling me about my buddy’s accident.
Fuck! This mail-order bride turned ghost hunter is his little girl! Why the fuck did I mess with the perfectly quiet life I was having?
I scan her over. The dark hair, the straight nose, the almond shape of her eyes. I see it now. She’s for sure Mason’s daughter.
Fuck!
“Your parents were close friends of mine back in the day.”
“Oh.” She clears her throat and stabs into the pasta again. “Well, that’s weird.”
It gets weirder, but I don’t share that information. Not sure there’s a need. She’s leaving the second this storm passes.
I clear my throat and push the plate slightly forward as I search for a topic unrelated to her dad. “So… ghost hunting, huh? That a real job or just a hobby?”
She perks up instantly, like I’ve handed her a microphone. “It’s real enough. I also do odd jobs around town, but that’s just until the blog takes off.”
I nod, praying this shift in conversation sticks. “You ever find anything?”
Leaning in, her gaze sharpens as she says, “Depends. You ever feel anything?”
“So,” I shake my head, “you’re saying you don’t?”
“So far my blog is a whole lot of speculation.” She twists her fork around in her food. “I did catch one cold spot at the diner last year. Right by booth seven. It was the middle of July, and I swear the air dropped ten degrees. No air-conditioning vent, no draft, just… cold.”
There’s a pause as she looks out the window and into the setting sun.
“I think it’s the ghost of this family that was passing through in the late 1800s.
Their journal is in the library downtown.
It’s written in this looping script that’s pretty hard to read unless you squint.
It talks about these strange lights in the woods, a missing kid, and this storm that came out of nowhere.
I’ve been trying to cross-reference the names with the old census records. It’s pretty interesting stuff.”
“So, you’re a historian.”
“No,” her tone lowers, “I’m a ghost hunter.”
“But so far you’ve seen no ghosts.”
She rolls her eyes and scoops another bite of pasta like I’m the one being ridiculous. “You don’t have to see a ghost to know it’s there. That’s such a man thing. If it doesn’t punch you in the face, it must not exist. Why’d you even ask if you weren’t interested?”
“Oh, I’m interested. Mostly in how you make a career out of chasing invisible things.” I realize after the words spill that I’m being an asshole.
With a playful flick, her fork is aimed in my direction. “Says the guy chopping wood in the middle of nowhere and calling it a life.”
I huff like a child who didn’t just start this fight. “A hell of a lot better than it is down there in town. People these days are insane.”
“Be real.” She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing up the breasts I shouldn’t be noticing. “It’s not the people you’re avoiding. It’s reality.”
“Isn’t that what your little ghost hunting thing is? You avoiding anything real?”
She pushes her plate away, not dramatically, but with enough force to make the fork clink against the ceramic. Her shoulders tense, her voice clipped as she says, “Okay, great. This has been super enlightening. Which room’s mine for the night?”
I glance up, my jaw set. I didn’t mean to shut her out, but my body beat me to it. Like muscle memory, every part of me went on autopilot.
“There’s a spare room down the hall,” I mutter, nodding toward the back of the cabin. “Second door on the left. Sheets are clean.”
She stands, grabs her plate, and heads for the sink without another word. The storm outside roars louder, like it’s trying to drown out whatever just shifted between us.
I watch her go, the fire crackling behind me. Maybe I owe some sort of kindness to her father. Maybe I should apologize, keep her safe, and walk the land with her while she fills her little notebook with stories.
Trouble is, I’m not sure she’s ready for what’s out there.