Small Town Ghosts Read online

  Small Town Ghosts

  Small Town Ghosts

  Kevin Johnson

  Kevin Johnson

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2022 Kevin Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner,

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  To request permissions, contact the author at [email protected].

  Paperback: 979-8-9861486-0-1

  Ebook: 979-8-9861486-1-8

  Library of Congress Number: TXu 2-313-914

  First paperback edition June 2022.

  Foreword

  The following is a modern-day fairy tale inspired by the small town where I grew up. A few pieces of the story were influenced by events from my childhood, a few by events from my adulthood, but mostly it’s a fabrication.

  In my mind, many — but not all — of the actors playing the characters within are people I know, or know of, but that doesn’t mean they are the same as the part they play. It just means I see them as movie stars playing a role. Anything more than general similarities is unintentional.

  Also in my mind, the locations are — or sometimes were — real places, though I have changed the names and taken great liberties with most. If you’re from there, maybe you will recognize a few. Most importantly, the story is fiction. Keep that in mind and don’t go looking for buried treasure.

  1

  Mike liked the smell of the grocery store at night. Although, if he stopped to think about it, maybe it wasn’t the smell but more the fact that it was still and quiet, with only the occasional shopper passing by, offering a smile or a nod.

  And maybe quiet wasn’t the right word. Music played from somewhere overhead, bouncing off every harshly lit surface, while refrigeration units hummed in unison. But it was a kind of quiet, the sort where there was no chatter, no activity, no getting stuck in a conversation with someone he barely knew. Occasionally, a song would catch his attention, evoke an old memory, but mostly it was just background noise.

  And maybe night wasn’t the right word, either. The time was just after 8pm, but it was the heart of summer and daylight would be clinging to the small town until a few minutes after nine. Even if Mike stayed until the store closed, he would still be home before dark.

  And home definitely wasn’t the right word. It was a house and that was all.

  Whatever the case, he needed bread, so he pulled a loaf from the shelf. There was meaning in the color of the twist tie, one he couldn’t recall for certain, but he thought it indicated the day the bread was baked, and therefore, how fresh it would be. Lacking the details, he went with the tried-and-true method of giving it a squeeze, then dropped it into the handbasket that was hooked over his left arm.

  He always used the handbasket. His frequent trips in for a few items at a time eliminated the need for a cart. There was, of course, the added bonus that the handbasket never had a bad wheel, never sent him struggling through the store while people stared as he went clacking by, trying to hold a straight line.

  Carts were the worst.

  On the same aisle, he grabbed a jar of extra chunky peanut butter and wandered to the dairy section for a gallon of milk. Next stop was the cereal aisle, where he faced his toughest decision of the day. Cocoa Pebbles, or something grown-up?

  He left the aisle with the largest box of Cocoa Pebbles available.

  At the checkout, it was business as usual. A single lane was open, manned by the same bored-looking monotone teenage girl that was there most evenings. The only difference was a surprisingly long line of two people. For the hour, it was a sizable crowd.

  As he joined the line, the woman in front of him turned to grab a tube of ChapStick from the impulse rack. He recognized her immediately and almost dropped his groceries.

  When she glanced at him, he smiled and nodded. She returned the gesture.

  As long as it had been and as unexpected as it was, there was no denying who he was seeing. His first instinct was to remain quiet, let the moment pass by and disappear forever.

  Sadly, he had never been good at following his instincts. And besides, there was no way she would remember him.

  He took a deep breath and said, “Excuse me.”

  The woman half-turned.

  “Hi,” he said, “aren’t you Kayla Warner?”

  She half-smiled and nodded. “I am.”

  “I thought so. We went to high school together.”

  She studied his face, trying to place him.

  “I’m sure you won’t remember me,” he added. “I was a few years behind you. Two, actually. We didn’t know each other.”

  The person in line ahead of them, an older lady, paused as she was paying for her groceries, eyed them, and went back to counting out coins to match the total of her purchase.

  “You must have a good memory,” Kayla said. “I’m not certain I can recall everyone from my own class, small as it was, let alone any others.”

  She seemed friendly enough, considering she was being chatted up in line at the grocery store.

  “It comes and goes,” Mike said.

  The lady in front of them finished paying and walked away, followed by the bag boy pushing her cart jammed full of groceries.

  “Did you find everything all right?” Monotone Checkout Girl asked as she lowered the front gate of Kayla’s cart and began scanning items.

  “Yes, thank you,” Kayla replied, then turned back to Mike. “Do you still live here in town?”

  “Recently moved back. Temporarily.” He winced. Adding that one word changed everything, made it sound like he had fallen on hard times and had returned home to regroup, get his life in order.

  The fact that it was true made it worse.

  “What about you?” he asked, though he knew the answer. She had disappeared after graduation, off to whatever the world held for her. He hadn’t seen her since.

  “I’m just in town for a short while.”

  “Visiting family and friends?”

  She shook her head. “My mom passed away.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She smiled a warm and sad smile and said, “Thanks.”

  “That’ll be 71.67,” Monotone Checkout Girl said.

  Kayla dug in her purse, pulled out cash and handed it over.

  The voice in Mike’s head told him to stop where he was and let the conversation wrap up, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Do you mind if ask when the funeral is?”

  “It was three weeks ago. This is my second trip back to go through her things and figure out what to do with the house.”

  “I see. Well, I’m truly sorry to hear that. It must be tough.”

  She nodded as she held out her hand for her change, then dropped the money into her purse.

  “Nice meeting you,” she said.

  “You, too. Good luck with everything.”

  “Thanks.” She turned and walked away, pushing her cart because the bag boy had yet to return. Mike watched her go for a moment, awed by what just happened. Not in a thousand years could he have imagined their paths crossing again. And yet, there she went. She had changed so little that he could practically see the homecoming queen crown still on her head.

  “Hi, Mr. Ellerton. Did you find everything all right?” Monotone Checkout Girl asked.

  Mike sat his handbasket on the conveyer. “You have to stop calling me that.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Ellerton,” she replied, her tone unwavering.

  “It makes me sound old, which I’m not.”

  She stopped what she was doing and stared at him, face blank, for three full seconds
, then resumed scanning.

  Mike sighed. “So, how’s class going?”

  “Fine. I’ve got a test tomorrow. I hate algebra.”

  “You and me both.”

  “You’ve got a test tomorrow, too?”

  “No, I meant I hate —” He realized she was messing with him. “Never mind.”

  After his items were rung up and paid for, he walked out into the warm evening air. A silver SUV sat one spot over from his Jeep, the back hatch raised. The rest of the lot was empty.

  As he approached, the hatch closed and Kayla pushed her empty basket into view. They glanced at each other and nodded as she passed by.

  As Mike unlocked his own door and dropped the single bag onto the passenger seat, he heard a noise. When he looked back, Kayla was struggling to get the front wheels of the cart up on the curb.

  “I got it,” he said, jogging over and lifting the cart onto the sidewalk. “I’ll take it in.”

  She smiled and let go. “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Have a good evening.” He guided the cart back into the store, docking it with the rest. When he came out, he was surprised to see her still there. He was more surprised when she took a step toward him.

  “Hey, do you happen to know a good place to grab a bite to eat at this hour?”

  Mike glanced at his watch. 8:39.

  “I do,” he said. “Cane's is open until ten tonight, if you like barbecue.”

  The late day light glowed gold around her, and Mike had to remind himself not to stare.

  “I think I’ve seen that. Isn’t it across from where the radio station used to be?”

  The radio station. Mike had forgotten about that. He smiled at the memory. “KJON, 93 point… something,” he said.

  “Five, maybe?” She tilted her head as she tried to recall. “It’s been so long, I can’t remember.”

  “Me either. But, you’re right. That’s where it’s at.”

  “Sounds good. I’ve been eating too much fast food lately. Thanks for the recommendation.”

  “You’re welcome. And you won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

  “I’m sure I won’t. Thanks again.” She turned to leave but stopped. “Hey, I know this sounds a little strange, but would you like to join me?”

  Holy crap, he thought.

  “If you’re not busy,” she added.

  He tried his best to remain calm. “I’m not busy at all.”

  “Great. I always feel awkward sitting in a restaurant alone.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Shall we meet there in, say, 20 minutes? Is that enough time?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  She climbed into her SUV while Mike managed to get into his Jeep without soiling himself. He waited until she was gone before moving.

  ----

  The house had been built at some point in the ‘30s. It had since been renovated, but even that had taken place decades earlier. For all its lack of modern design, Mike had to admit it carried a certain charm in the daylight. With its high ceilings and real wood floors that were scuffed and worn, and its ornate banister and staircase railing that wobbled as the stairs creaked, it had what people called character.

  He was sold on it right away, but that had more to do with the low rent and it being the only worthwhile place in town. Everything else available had been a step down. A large step. And the location was good. It sat tucked away behind the courthouse in the center of town, just off the main road, on the edge of an older neighborhood that wasn’t fancy but was clean and quiet.

  If he had toured the place when dark, he might not have been so quick to move in. The charm had disappeared after sundown. The first thing he had noticed was the lighting. The old fixtures and low wattage bulbs were nowhere near adequate, leaving the many nooks and crannies dark with shadows that always seemed to be moving. He knew it was in his head, just a figment of his imagination, but it was unsettling nonetheless.

  And that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was the creaking. Throughout the night, the house would groan and sigh. At times, a series of creaks would occur that gave Mike the impression of someone walking across the floor. And it was always coming from somewhere in the house that he wasn’t. When he was downstairs, the sounds would come from upstairs and vice versa. Or it would come from another room. There was never a good clear creaking where he happened to be, unless he was moving, in which case there was plenty.

  Early on, the nights had freaked him out to the point that he slept very little and had left a light on. He kept telling himself to quit being ridiculous, that all old houses made noises, but it didn’t help. He had spent the previous 15 years in a house that he and his ex-wife had built that never made a sound, so he wasn’t used to the cacophony. Several weeks passed before he slept with the lights off, and that only after he had picked up a cheap nightlight at the dollar store and plugged it in across the room. There were nights he would still leave the hallway light on, but mostly he was getting accustomed to the place and its creepiness. Mostly.

  After putting away the groceries, he stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The drive from the store to the house was barely two minutes, and putting away the few items he had bought killed three more. Five down, fifteen to go.

  For a moment, he felt strange. Something was off. He realized this was the first time in a long while that he was looking forward to something. He had been walking through each day numb for so long, he could scarcely recall having ever felt the sensation at all.

  Five minutes later, he gave up waiting and left.

  ----

  A haze of smoke hung in the air inside Cane's. It was always there, not thick, but enough to notice. It came in through the backdoor, blowing in from the smoker that sat behind the restaurant.

  Mike had eaten there plenty since moving back. It was the only place in town open past nine and, like the grocery store, it kept him distracted at the time of day when things went from bad to worse.

  The waiting area was small with only a handful of seats. One of those seats, pulled over into the corner by itself, was taken by an older gentleman, bent over an electric guitar, playing blues riffs, and lost in a world only he was seeing. He was a fixture there, mostly on weekends, but sometimes showing up on a random weeknight. When he sat down and slowly removed his guitar from its case and plugged it in, the staff would turn off the music that was broadcast in his stead. He would test the strings, the volume, the tuning, then would sink into the chair and start playing. He never played anything loud or fast. It was always clean and slow, a melancholy type of blues that filled the room all the way up to the high ceilings with a certain aura that was hard to place. Whatever it was, Mike wallowed in it.

  Cane's was in one of a row of buildings in the old downtown, built sometime near the turn of the century. It had been a clothing store long ago, then stood empty for years before Cane's moved in, remodeling the old structure and breathing new life into it, but the old charm remained.

  The front door, glass and wood and painted a deep, rich, red, opened. Mike glanced up from the floor, pulling his focus from the notes as Kayla stepped into the room. Her white dress, the same she had been wearing in the grocery store, contrasted with her tanned skin in a way that made it hard not to stare. The dress was somewhere between the playful, summer dress of a young girl, and the elegant sophistication of a woman. It wasn’t just the dress that seemed to straddle a line between two contrasting worlds, it was everything about her. Her hair, her smile, the way she carried herself. In all of those things, Mike swore he could see the uncertainty of youth and the confidence of age, swirling together.

  He stood and waved.

  “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” she said.

  He shook his head and thought it best not to tell her he would have gladly waited the entire night. “I just got here a few minutes ago.”

  The hostess, a young, dark-haired girl na
med Lindsay, appeared from the dining room. “Two?” she asked Mike, a hint of surprise on her face.

  “Yes, please.”

  She grabbed two menus and two bundles of silverware from behind a small counter. “Right this way.”

  Mike gestured for Kayla to go ahead of him. He made a point of not staring as he followed.

  The dining room was a large, open space that sat between the waiting area and the kitchen. Only two tables were occupied, one by a younger couple, and one by a family with two kids. It seemed late to have the kids out eating, but who was Mike to criticize.

  Lindsay led them to a small table for two halfway back and along the wall.

  “What can I get you to drink?” she asked Kayla.

  “I’ll have water.”

  She looked at Mike. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please,” he said with a smile.

  She laid the menus on the table. “Be right back.”

  “The usual?” Kayla asked. “I take it you come here often.”

  “Way more than I should.”

  Though he had every dish memorized and already knew what he wanted, Mike picked up a menu and opened it, studying the pages without seeing anything on them as he tried to process what was happening to him.

  “How often do you make it back here to visit?” he asked.

  “Not often. When I came in for the funeral, it was the first time I had been here in almost ten years.”

  “Wow. Why so long?”

  She picked up the remaining menu and ignored his question. “So, what’s good?”

  Mike took the hint, filed it away.

  “Everything. And I’m not just saying that. I think I’ve been through the entire menu in the last few months.”

  “The last few months? You weren’t kidding when you said you come here more than you should.” She scanned the menu a moment longer before laying it aside. “At the grocery store, you said you had recently moved back. How long ago was that?”

  Mike tried counting backwards in his head, but the days had been blurring together for a while now. Time was becoming an abstract idea, something he could no longer measure with any accuracy.