Her attention was drawn to something black and red lying in the road. Her headlights flashed off it. Her nose wrinkled at the sharp, pungent smell of a skunk. She swerved around the dead animal and sped up.
Eventually, Maria found some roadside signs for the Ghost Walk. Simple and crude—block letters and crooked arrows spray-painted onto cheap plywood: GHOST WALK—3 MILES. Following them, she turned onto another winding road, then off the road and into a massive field. The terrain was bumpy. She bounced up and down in the seat. Her teeth clacked together.
“Jesus…”
Fragile wisps of fog swirled in her headlight beams. A paunchy man with a flashlight appeared, waving her in and directing her to the parking area. Maria smiled and nodded, indicating that she understood. Then she realized that he probably couldn’t see her in the dark, so she waved her hand instead.
There were about a dozen other cars parked in the field. Maria turned off her headlights and got out of the car. The man with the flashlight approached, smiling. As he drew closer, she was able to make out more details. He was in his late thirties or early forties. A few days’ worth of whis kers covered his pale face. His red flannel shirt fit tightly over a middle-aged gut. He also wore a hunting jacket, dirty jeans, and a Mack Truck ball cap. Thin, brown hair jutted out from beneath the hat’s brim.
“Howdy,” he said, pointing the flashlight at the ground. “You the lady from the paper?”
Nodding, Maria stuck out her hand. “I sure am. Hi. Maria Nasr.”
“Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand.
“You must be Ken Ripple?”
“Sorry, no. I’m his friend, Terry Klein. I’m sort of a second-in-command here, I guess.”
“Oh. Where’s Mr. Ripple?”
“He’ll be along in a minute. Rudy Snyder, the Winters town fire chief, wanted to inspect some things real quick. He showed up late. Said this was the only time he could do it, and we can’t open up without his blessing.”
“I see.”
“So Ken’s with him. He sent me up here to make sure you knew. Shouldn’t be too long.”
“Okay.” Maria quickly recovered from her initial surprise. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook and pen. “Well, while we’re waiting, since you’re involved with the construction here, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about the Ghost Walk?”
“I think you’d better wait for Ken. No offense.”
“None taken. They were just general questions, really. What you think of Ken’s idea and things like that. What people can expect. You know, a chance to talk it up?”
“Sure, but no thanks. Like I said, you’d better wait for Ken. He’ll do the talking.”
Maria decided to try changing the conversation. “Do you happen to know if the staff photographer from the newspaper showed up? He was supposed to take some pictures to accompany the feature article.”
“Yeah, he was here earlier. Took some shots of Ken and a few of the volunteers. Then he walked the trail and took a bunch more. You ask me, he took too many. No way they’ll use all those photographs. Seems like a waste of film—and money.”
“I guess you don’t care much for the media?”
“Not really.” His whiskered cheeks turned red. “I’m sorry. Does it show?”
Maria grinned. “Just a little.”
“Sorry about that.” Terry shrugged. “It just seems to me like they’re doing our country a disservice. You know? CNN or FOX News, it’s all the same bullshit. None of them really report on anything that matters anymore. There’s no news on the news. They just give screen time to a bunch of talking heads who only further whatever agenda is important to them. They let these clowns in Washington dictate the news, rather than going out and finding it.”
“Actually, I agree with you. Cable news services are businesses, and these days advertising dollars and ratings come first. But what about the newspapers?”
Terry laughed. “Shit. Who has time to read the paper these days? I’m lucky if I get a chance to read American Rifleman from cover to cover every month. I don’t bother with the newspapers anymore. Nobody does.”
Maria was speechless. Part of her wanted to laugh and another part wanted to scream in frustration.
“And besides,” Terry continued, “you guys are a business, too. You’ve got advertisers, just like the networks. Instead of ratings, you have to worry about circulation.”
“Perhaps. But I’d like to think we try to do better.”
Still chuckling, Terry said, “I’ll go and fetch Ken for you. I’d call his cell, but the coverage is shit down there in the woods. You okay waiting here by yourself?”
“Sure. It’s not Halloween yet. I’ll be fine.” She grinned.
Terry turned and walked away. Maria leaned against the hood of her car and watched him leave. Despite his jovial, engaging tone, he looked exhausted. His shoulders slumped and his head hung low. She wondered how many hours a day the organizers were putting in on the Ghost Walk.
After he was gone, she looked around, studying her surroundings. The field was large and could probably hold hundreds of cars on opening night. Two large trailers sat in one corner of the field. She guessed that was where they stored their tools and supplies at night. The woods were a long distance away—she couldn’t tell how far for sure in the dark. Maybe the length of a football field. Possibly farther. The tree line was nothing more than a wall of thick, gnarled shadows—skeletal black fingers reaching for the night sky. Their tops swayed slightly in the breeze. She heard dry leaves rustling, even from this distance. Then an owl screeched. It sounded like a screaming woman—just like it had on a special about owls she’d seen on Animal Planet. The cry chilled her. It sounded far more terrible in real life. She idly wondered if owls ever attacked humans. She didn’t think so, but wouldn’t it just be her luck if this one did?
Maria waited, cold, restless and bored. She flipped the hood of her blue sweatshirt over her head and fought to keep from shivering. It was getting chillier with each passing minute. She tried to be patient, tried to fight back her annoyance, but it was hard to do. She wanted to get this article wrapped up and turned in, so she could focus on the book, instead. It was all she’d thought about that afternoon. A true-crime publisher would flip over it. The story was something different, something unlike the usual serial killers and crimes of passion they normally focused on.
A few volunteers walked by her, nodding with polite indifference, but none of them stopped to talk. Instead, they got into their cars and drove away. Maria noticed that all of them had the same weary gait as Klein. The field emptied of vehicles, leaving only four, including hers. She assumed the others belonged to Terry, the fire marshal, and Ken Ripple.
The owl shrieked again, and Maria jumped, banging her leg on the car.
“Go on,” she hollered. “Scat! Get out of here.”
She was glad, at moments like this, that her parents didn’t ask her much about her career as a freelancer. Although they had never said it out loud, Maria knew that they were disappointed with her. They’d expected far more for their daughter than the hardscrabble life of a freelance writer. They wanted her to marry someone successful—a good American Muslim—and move back to Paramus and have an important career as a journalist and give them lots of grandchildren. If they could see her now, standing in a field in the backwoods of Pennsylvania, jumping at owls, what would they say?