Chapter 47
FORTY-SEVEN
Mystic Library
Tilly Higgins introduced herself to the librarian, Denise Wingate, a tall well-dressed woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties with a stylish bob. She looked nothing like the cliched version people pictured of a librarian when they heard the job title.
“I work for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and I’m researching this town and the local folklore, especially on Midnight Ridge,” Tilly said. “I’m hoping you have time to help me.”
“Actually, I haven’t been in town that long,” Denise said. “I can point you to some newspaper archives. But the person you really want to talk to is Ester Finch. She’s lived around here all her life and is the town historian.”
“That would be perfect,” Tilly said. “Is she here?”
“Yes, the library is like her second home. I’ll show you to her office.”
Tilly thanked her and followed the woman through a door and into an office piled high with books, notepads, a computer and old-fashioned metal file cabinets.
Unlike Denise, Ester was small and hunched over slightly, most likely from osteoporosis.
Her silver hair was swept into a low bun at the nape of her neck with thin strands hanging loose.
Wire-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose, her forehead wrinkled as she peered at a folder on her cluttered desk.
Tilly introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit.
“Yes, I’ve read some of your articles,” Ester said. “I really enjoyed the last one about the graveyard girls.”
“Thanks,” Tilly said. “That town was interesting and full of small-town secrets.” Secrets that were personal and painful for her. In fact, she never intended to return to Brambletown.
Tilly sank into the chair across from Ester’s desk. “The librarian mentioned that you’ve lived here all your life and that you’re the town historian. I’m interested in the history and folklore of the area.”
Ester’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Sure, I love talking about it.” She rose, poured two cups of coffee from the counter behind her desk, then handed one to Tilly. Ester cradled her own cup and blew on the coffee as she settled her bony body into her seat again.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation for accuracy in my story?” Tilly asked.
Ester shook her head. “No problem.” Ester tilted her head in thought. “What do you want to know, child?”
Tilly smiled. “Tell me about yourself and your family, Ester.”
Ester clicked her teeth. “Well, I grew up here, but my folks have long passed. I was married early on, but my husband ran off with the church secretary.” She tsked. “That was a long time ago and water under the bridge.”
“I’m sorry, Ester. That must have been difficult.”
Ester rubbed at an age spot on her hand. “At the time, yes, but the good Lord helped me through it and I’m proud to do that for others. That’s why I help lead the Believers. We’ve been holding prayer vigils for that missing girl.”
“You sound like a compassionate leader, Ester.” Tilly patted Ester’s arm. “Now tell me more about the town.”
“Well, from the time I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I hung out in my mama’s beauty shop. I swept up hair and such, so I heard a lot of gossip about the locals. Some of it was right juicy stuff.”
Tilly smiled at the gleam in the older woman’s eyes. “I’m sure it was. But I’m really interested in the local folklore about the area, especially about Midnight Ridge.”
Ester leaned closer. “Okay. The local church group holds prayer sessions there because they believe that the higher you are on the mountain, the closer you are to Jesus. Some insist that they can commune with their deceased loved ones and that they see their faces in the clouds. One woman claimed she saw her late husband’s face and that he whispered he’d been waiting on her.
She threw herself off the ridge later that night to be with him. ”
The image of that tragic incident made Tilly’s heart ache. “And she wasn’t the only one?” Tilly asked.
Ester shook her head, her bones creaking as she rolled her shoulders.
“A sector of that church broke off and decided to perform baptisms there. They knelt at the base of the ridge in the stream and dripped water over the heads of the sinners giving their life to God. Some believe that the ridge is sacred and although other religions think people who commit suicides aren’t let into the kingdom, these folks believe that if you’re saved there, then died there, you’ll instantly rise to heaven.
” Ester hesitated. “They call themselves the Believers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about them,” Tilly said. “And you’re one of them?”
“Sure enough am,” Ester said.
Tilly nodded. Some folklore began with religious undertones while others were based on rumors, superstitions, history, mythology and even astrology. Most was passed along by oral storytelling.
Ester fiddled with the collar of her blouse. “My granny was among the first ones to start the group.”
“But suicides increased over the years?” Tilly asked.
“For a while, yes. There were several in one generation. The popularity of it waned in the next generation. People in town were afraid it had started up again about twenty years ago when a woman was found dead at the ridge, but it turned out it was an isolated event and not suicide but murder.”
Tilly’s pulse jumped. “Really? What happened?”
“Apparently some crazy lady dragged her little boy out there and the father ran up and heard them screaming. He tried to intervene and grabbed his son but the woman fell over. The daddy has been in prison since.”
“Why did he go to prison?”
“He confessed to shoving his wife off the ridge.”
“What happened to the child?”
“Not sure. I think he went to a grandmother or relative or something.”
“Oh, that’s sad,” Tilly said softly. “Is it true that people hold vigils at the ridge to talk to their deceased loved ones?”
“Yes, in fact there’s several this week. We’re all praying for Minnie Benton and her poor little girl. I hope they find her.”
Tilly made a silent note of the upcoming vigil. It might be interesting to attend. Sometimes killers revisited the crime scene and took pleasure from watching the victims’ families suffer.