1
The January sun warms my shoulders and arms as I haul the wheelbarrow of old hay out to the compost area and dump it. The weather has been cold and rainy for most of the month, but this day is a harbinger of spring. I love nothing better than being in the barn working, unless it’s riding horses with Coleman, wild and free, across the cotton fields. Today, though, is a workday. Musty old hay out—clean space for the bales of the first spring cutting.
I’m humming “Wayfaring Stranger” as I work. My mind slips away to one of my great aunts on the Baker side, Nellie Calhoun. She loved my mama more than life itself, and when my mother was killed, it took the life out of Nellie, too. She was an exemplary person and a great lover of spirituals. She’d taught me the words to “Wayfaring Stranger.”
I let my mind wander the corridors of memory. There are many ghosts at Dahlia House. Mostly good, but a few ringers. I can see Nellie standing on the backdoor steps, waving me to come inside as she used to do whenever she visited. I wave back at her, just to be sociable.
“She cuts a fine figure of a woman.”
The male voice so close to me it almost gives me whiplash as I whirl to see who’s talking. The dark-haired gentleman is not of my reality. He wears a black frock coat, broadcloth in fabric, and a stock. His dark, fine hair is in need of a cut. Wide, expressive eyes, beneath a broad forehead, study me with keen interest. He is a handsome man possessed of elegant bearing, though he is slight in stature.
“You can see Aunt Nellie?” I ask. Not an unreasonable question.
“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”
I am no literature whiz, but I recognize the Poe quote. He was a favorite of Aunt Nellie, and she would often perform a rendition of “Annabel Lee” for me, creating a delicious ambience of horror. She loved the minor key of life and had given me the same taste for it. Mama had often teased me about singing dirges that Aunt Nellie taught me, not to mention my penchant for ghost stories. Which was a good thing since I now live with my very own haint, who is in the middle of deviling me right this red-hot minute.
“Jitty, why are you pretending to be Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Your great-aunt Nellie sure loved that man.”
“So you can see her?”
“Sure. She and Uncle Lyle Crabtree are here quite often. They look out for you. Aunt Loulane, too. Though most of the time you give her the vapors by your conduct.”
I open my mouth to object, but then Aunt Nellie waves again and I wave back. She’s gone in a blink.
I check out Jitty’s natty attire—from the frock coat and silk vest to the silk ascot. She appears as a young man, before the blue tinge of death has touched him. Romanticism almost leaks from his pores.
“Nice outfit. Can’t wait to see you swelter in the summer heat.” I can’t help myself. Jitty brings out the brat in me.
“… But why will you say that I am mad?” she asks, and it’s a line I can’t place. Yet.
“If you wear all those hot clothes in August, you’ll be barking mad.”
She gives a playful “ruff-ruff” and turns to walk away.
“Don’t leave angry,” I tell her, amazed that I’ve managed to get one over on her. In fact, I want her to stay. The barn is clean, the horses graze at the back end of the far field, and I’m in the mood for some company. Coleman is in Jackson at a sheriff’s convention. “Hey, Jitty,” I call after her, revealing how much I want her company.
She whips around and her Poe smile, though melancholy, is a joy to behold. “What conversational topics strike your fancy?”
“How about the dangers of being haunted?” Poe is probably the best writer I can ask that question. “Am I courting madness because I talk with you?”
“I don’t advise talking with all spirits. Unrelenting melancholy can destroy any chance of happiness.”
“Edgar, may I call you that?”
Jitty nods.
“What did you really die of?” Poe’s cause of death has been hotly debated for decades. He was a young man when he died, only forty. Some thought he’d been bitten by a rabid cat or fox, poisoned, or that his fondness for drink and drugs killed him. The list of possibilities was long.
Poe smiles. “Bad company. The source of many a young man’s death.”
I won’t argue with a writer I so greatly admire. “I wish you’d written more.”
“Thank you.” He performs a courtly little bow, and when he stands upright he transforms again into Jitty. The face softens and rounds; the eyes shift from nearly black to amber brown, the smile is now full and generous.
“If you’re going to hang out with me, lend a hand with that manure fork,” I say, motioning to her to spread the hay over the compost.
“You’re full of sh—”
I stop her with a “Hush. Proper ladies don’t use those words.” I turn away to keep from laughing.
“No proper lady would be caught dead with you for company. Libby raised a heathen child. Aunt Loulane did her best to tame you, but she was outgunned in the stubborn department.”
“How did this devolve into a criticism of my character?” I ask. Somehow Jitty always switches it around so I’m the one in the wrong.
“I’m just talented that way.” Jitty smirks, spouts a line of iambic pentameter, and flashes into nothingness. I am alone, standing beside the compost with the manure fork in my hand, wondering what just happened.
* * *
My muscles moaned a little as I settled on the front porch with a Lynchburg Lemonade to close out the evening. The lovely winter weather had seduced me into work that would leave me sore for a couple of days, but a deep sense of satisfaction at my accomplishments filled me.
I recognized the big silver car that rolled slowly down my driveway. Tammy Odom, known professionally as Madame Tomeeka, drove the Lincoln land cruiser because she said it was the last luxury sedan made in America—a 2011 model. The car was old, but she was always quick to point out that though her mpg was ghastly, she wasn’t behind the wheel very often.
Tammy, a high school chum from back in the day, parked at the front steps and got out. I could tell she was agitato as she came up the steps.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Tammy had the gift of second sight and a lot of other sixth-sense abilities. When she spoke, I paid attention.
“My dreams are driving me crazy, Sarah Booth. I need help.”
“Sure.” I didn’t know what I could do about dreams, but I was willing to try. “Have a seat and I’ll get you a lemonade with a little kick to it.” I put words to action and hurried to the kitchen. I returned a moment later with her drink. She took it and gulped a swallow.
“Tell me the dream,” I suggested.
Tammy bit her lip and frowned. “It’s awful. I am sound asleep in my bed in my house, and I begin to hear this steady pounding. Thud, thud, thud. Like a ticking clock, but only not as crisp. More … internal.” She looked down the driveway to collect herself. “I know I’m dreaming, so I wake up and I’m still hearing it. It’s terrifying. It’s coming from somewhere inside my home.”
I could see that noises would be disconcerting, but “terrifying” sounded a little too dramatic, and Tammy was never overly dramatic. “You’re hearing a thudding sound. Like someone hammering?”
She shook her head.
“Like equipment working?”
Again, she shook her head, her expression even more concerned.
“Like the wind banging a shutter?”
She caught my gaze and held it with hers. “Like the deep, steady beat of a heart. It gets louder and louder and I feel it in my chest and my bones and the bottoms of my feet when I stand up. It’s the sound of a human heart beating and begging to be heard.”
Pluto jumped on the porch and landed with a thud. Tammy and I both lurched forward in our chairs. I almost spilled my drink. “Dang it!” I looked at the black cat and pointed my finger. “Enough of that!”
Pluto sauntered past me to hop in Tammy’s lap. Cats don’t take correction well at all. Mostly, they ignore any attempt to massage their behavior.
“Leave the cat be,” Tammy said. She had a soft spot for Pluto and the rest of the Dahlia House critters, including Coleman.
“What else happens in the dream?” Tammy’s dreams, or visions, were multilayered and open to numerous interpretations. Almost without exception they were precognitive warnings of something to come.
“I can feel the beating under the house, and blood begins to seep up between the floorboards. It rises past my ankles, then up to my knees. The redness of it vibrates with the thud of the heartbeat. I go to the bathroom and the tub is overflowing with blood.”
It was a frightening dream, I had to agree. “What does it mean, Tammy?”
“Something bad is coming.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
She drained her glass and set it on the wicker table between us. “I don’t know any more than that. It scares me. Normally the dreams scare me for others, but this time … it just seems to be a message for me or someone I hold very dear.”
“How’s Dahlia doing?” I asked. Tammy named her daughter after my family home, and I loved her girl like the godmother I was.
“She’s fine. Loving life on the road with her husband’s band. They’re playin’ in Texas now but will swing back through here next month.”
“She’s a fine person.” Tammy had been so young when her daughter was born. Too young. And the conception hadn’t been voluntary, but Tammy had never considered not having her baby. As young and terrified as she’d been, she’d held on to the knowledge that she could love and support her baby without a partner. Because Tammy had love and support, she’d turned a crime into a gift, and Dahlia was her reward. I was glad to know her daughter—and precious granddaughter—would soon be on the scene. That always perked Tammy right up.
“Tammy, what do you think your dream means?” She was always better at interpretation than I was.
“I don’t know. I can only tell you that I haven’t often been as disturbed by a dream as I was by this one.
Jitty’s words came back to me. “Those who dream by day…” I had to ask. “Did you dream this last night?”
“No, I took a nap late this morning and that’s when I had the dream.” Tammy looked a little bit unsettled.
“I may have a lead on looking into this.” It was a long shot, but I knew what I had to do.
“Tell me and I’ll help.”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “This one is on me, Tammy. Let me do some legwork and I’ll call you. I promise.”
She touched the corner of my smile with a finger. “You are up to something.”
“No.” I denied it with a shake of my head. “I just may have some information that will explain this dream. That’s all. But I want to check before I send you down the wrong path.”
“You’re being mighty cagey about all of this.”
I was tempted to tell her my sudden inspiration, but I didn’t. I’d learned, from Coleman, that verification was the calling card of the true professional. “I’ll be in touch. Would you like another libation?”
“I need to finish up some chores, so I’ll pass on the drink.” She stood up from the rocking chair and walked to the edge of the porch. “This is such a beautiful place, Sarah Booth. After Aunt Loulane died, it was so sad. You were in New York City and no one was here to love the house. It was almost as if it was mourning, too. Now you’re here and life is coming back.”
“You have a fanciful imagination.”
“Do I?” She smiled that secret smile that had drawn me to her when we were schoolkids. Tammy always seemed to know things.
Copyright © 2023 by Carolyn Haines