“I guarantee he took one look at you and decided you weren’t going to get a permit to flush the toilet, let alone remove a cistern.”
“Mr. Dietz is a public servant. He can’t deny me based on frivolous logic.”
“Mr. Dietz is a public tyrant. He’ll make your life so miserable, you’ll wish you were the one buried in the cistern.”
I stopped breathing. Did Lloyd think there was someone under the concrete in my basement?
He shifted his feet. “I don’t mean to say there’s a body in your cistern. I was just giving you fair warning. Don’t go after the permit. Box in the cistern and forget about it. Let it lie.”
My skin crept with déjà vu.
Let it lie. I’d heard those words before; three simple words that always rousted the rebel in me.
The cistern didn’t have a chance.
9
Good old Lloyd stomped off without pounding one nail.
Get the permit and remove the cistern or wall the thing in were the only two options the man would entertain. My idea to sneak the big rocks out disguised as trash only served to hasten my star contractor’s departure. Apparently, Martin Dietz gave no quarter to code violators, and Lloyd wasn’t about to suffer the tyrant’s wrath.
Moratorium declared, I slunk off to start work on the back staircase. I peeled, primed, and papered until the narrow passage looked like it belonged in the twenty-first century. Then I pried and pounded until the steps were squeak-free.
By the time the big fall holiday arrived a few days later, I had worked off my frustration over the uncooperative Lloyd and was ready to enjoy the occasion.
I was just tucking the final section of my costume masterpiece into place when the doorbell rang and the first little voices of the night wafted into the kitchen.
“Trick or treat!”
I dumped pencils and stickers into a bowl and headed to the front door to let the rascals help themselves. I smiled on the way through the dining room. I’d survived my first weeks in the new neighborhood.
But though my gray matter was intact, my house still looked as if it were a creepy old asylum. Even if things weren’t moving as quickly as I hoped, I nevertheless felt satisfied when I reviewed my progress.
I glanced around the vestibule before opening the door. Utterly perfect. I’d painted the walls a creamy off-white and rubbed the natural oak woodwork until it shone. An ornate Victorian three-bulb fixture gave off a welcoming light.
I pulled open the door and stifled a giggle. A waist-high pirate pointed a plastic sword in my direction. Next to him, a dainty princess held up her sack in expectation.
“What are you supposed to be? A mummy?” the pirate asked.
“I’m Lazarus,” I answered. I secured a stray white strip wrapped around my head.
“Who’s Lazarus?”
“He’s a guy from the Bible. Jesus raised him from the dead. Lazarus, come forth!” I said, lurching sideways in my best imitation of the newly risen friend of Christ.
Three summers of Vacation Bible School when I was a kid were the entirety of my religious training. I’d gleaned enough to know there was a God. And I couldn’t have survived to adulthood if I hadn’t held on to the hope that Jesus really existed. Sadly, a few years in the church I attended as a teen with my grandmother were enough to sour my attitude toward organized religion and keep me from wanting to know more. Now at least I browsed the Bible, even if I didn’t always understand it.
Across from me, the chaperone forced a smile. “Kids, pick out a treat. We have a lot more houses to go.”
I smiled back through the wadding that covered my face. The pirate rested on his sword. “There’s no candy in here and stickers are for babies.”
“Jason!” The mother swatted at him. “Mind your manners.”
“How about a pencil?” I asked, almost wishing I’d conformed to the tooth-rotting Halloween tradition. “Here’s one with 3-D lettering.”
I handed the little thug his prize, and he toyed with the image for a moment.
“Cool.” The pencil went into his pillowcase. Then he pushed back his patch and looked up at me. “Brandon says your house is haunted.”
“Jason!” His mother grabbed at his shoulder and half dragged him off the porch. “Thank you!”
The princess ran after them into the night.
I sagged against the doorway.
Haunted? Perhaps.
There was always the possibility that my house was inhabited by the restless spirit of some murder victim. But what were the chances, really? Other than a vague glance over my shoulder now and then, I hadn’t given the ghost another thought. Nor had the apparition shown itself again. True, I hadn’t been in the basement since the day of my “vision,” and neither had anyone else. Lloyd had fed me one excuse after another for not getting to the job downstairs.
Most likely, what I’d seen was a result of my own guilty conscience projecting an image from my past onto the concrete, hoping I’d face up to my deeds.
Nah. Too Freud.
I watched through the storm door as another group of trick-or-treaters came up the sidewalk, wearing costumes that stood the test of time.
The five oversized kids gave their call in unison, then edged in toward the bowl. Hands hovered, then halted.
I definitely should have capitulated and gone with the standard sweets.
“Pencils?” the vampire asked through his fangs.
A vein in my neck throbbed. “Here. Try this one. It’s 3-D.”
He twisted it in his fingers. “Is it legal to pass this stuff out on Halloween?”
I lost my cool. “Aren’t you a little too old to be trick-or-treating? You’re lucky I let you stick your fingers in the bowl.”
“Sorry,” he moped, dropping a pencil into his bag. He backed off to make room for his friends.
A white-sheeted teen peered over my shoulder into the house.
“Have you seen it yet?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly.
“Seen what?” I turned to look behind me.
“The ghost.”
A prickle crept up my scalp and raised the hair beneath the strips of cloth wound around my head.
Tish, Tish. I could almost hear a voice calling me, rising from the concrete, curving up the basement steps, seeping under the door and floating to my place in the vestibule.
Behind me, the kid let out a snort. “I’m just playing with you, lady. I’m the ghost. Get it? Man, you look like you thought your house was haunted or something.”
There was laughter. The bowl jostled in my hands. Then the porch was empty.
I clutched the Tupperware to my chest. Tears welled up and one of those big lumps stuck in my throat.
Life didn’t seem right anymore. I’d managed well enough in my other neighborhoods. Lonely, but content. I had felt, or maybe just hoped, that a change was coming with this move to Rawlings. But things were worse here. Now, even the kids taunted me.
I dabbed at a nasal drip with a dangling bandage.
In my side vision, a dark figure moved across the lawn toward the porch. Probably another rude kid looking for a handout.
It was David.
My face burned beneath my wraps as I tried to find a place to hide. I absolutely could not let him see me looking like the victim of some toilet paper prank.
“Hello,” he called from grass glistening in the light from the porch. “Is that you under all that tissue?”
There was no hiding now.
“Hi.” I tried to put a smile in my voice. “I’m just getting into the holiday.”
He sprang up the steps. “Are you The Mummy?”
I cleared my throat, trying to get the lump down to a manageable size before I croaked like a frog.
“Yeah. The Mummy.”
As soon as I said it, I felt like crawling into a tomb somewhere. Apparently my courage had escaped out the front door at the arrival of my adorable neighbor.
I gripped the Tupperware like a life preserver.
“What’s in the bowl?”
He was probably hoping for a candy bar too.