True Believer - Nicholas Sparks

[Dalyia]

I enjoyed this book, but it's not going to be a favorite. I have always enjoyed Sparks' tragedies (in particular MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE). TRUE BELIEVER was a well-written novel, but it lacks the "oomph" that is characteristic of his stories. The most enjoyable part of this story was the mystery behind the ghosts, but I in particular enjoyed the characters that filled the pages. Sparks always does a good job with the characters that grace the pages of his novels, and while the plot itself may lack something, TRUE BELIEVER is worth the read for any Sparks fan
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[Dalyia]

True Believer

True BelieverTrue Believer

True BelieverOneJeremy Marsh sat with the rest of the live studio audience, feeling unusually conspicuous. He was one of only half a dozen men in attendance on that mid-December afternoon. He’d dressed in black, of course, and with his dark wavy hair, light blue eyes, and fashionable stubble, he looked every bit the New Yorker that he was. While studying the guest onstage, he managed to surreptitiously watch the attractive blonde three rows up. His profession often demanded effective multitasking. He was an investigative journalist in pursuit of a story, and the blonde was just another member of the audience; still, the professional observer in him couldn’t help noticing how attractive she looked in her halter top and jeans. Journalistically speaking, that is.Clearing his mind, he tried to focus his attention on the guest again. This guy was beyond ridiculous. In the glare of television lights, Jeremy thought the spirit guide looked constipated as he claimed to hear voices from beyond the grave. He had assumed a false intimacy, acting as if he were everyone’s brother or best friend, and it seemed that the vast majority of the awestruck audience—including the attractive blonde and the woman the guest was addressing—considered him a gift from heaven itself. Which made sense, Jeremy thought, since that was always where the lost loved ones ended up. Spirits from beyond the grave were always surrounded by bright angelic light and enveloped in an aura of peace and tranquillity. Never once had Jeremy heard of a spirit guide channeling from the other, hotter place. A lost loved one never mentioned that he was being roasted on a spit or boiled in a cauldron of motor oil, for instance. But Jeremy knew he was being cynical. And besides, he had to admit, it was a pretty good show. Timothy Clausen was good—far better than most of the quacks Jeremy had written about over the years.“I know it’s hard,” Clausen said into the microphone, “but Frank is telling you that it’s time to let him go now.”The woman he was addressing with oh-so-much empathy looked as if she was about to faint. Fiftyish, she wore a green-striped blouse, her curly red hair sprouting and spiraling in every direction. Her hands were clasped so tightly at chest level that her fingers were white from the pressure.Clausen paused and brought his hand to his forehead, drawing once more on “the world beyond,” as he put it. In the silence, the crowd collectively leaned forward in their seats. Everyone knew what was coming next; this was the third audience member Clausen had chosen today. Not surprisingly, Clausen was the only featured guest on the popular talk show.“Do you remember the letter he sent you?” Clausen asked. “Before he died?”The woman gasped. The crewman beside her held the microphone even closer so that everyone watching on television would be able to hear her clearly.“Yes, but how could you know about—?” she stammered.Clausen didn’t let her finish. “Do you remember what it said?” he asked.“Yes,” the woman croaked.Clausen nodded, as if he’d read the letter himself. “It was about forgiveness, wasn’t it?”On the couch, the hostess of the show, the most popular afternoon talk show in America, swiveled her gaze from Clausen to the woman and back again. She looked both amazed and satisfied. Spirit guides were always good for ratings.As the woman in the audience nodded, Jeremy noticed mascara beginning to stream down her cheeks. The cameras zoomed in to show it more clearly. Daytime television at its dramatic best.“But how could you . . . ?” the woman repeated.“He was talking about your sister, too,” Clausen murmured. “Not just himself.”The woman stared at Clausen transfixed.“Your sister Ellen,” Clausen added, and with that revelation, the woman finally let loose a raspy cry. Tears burst forth like an automated sprinkler. Clausen—tan and trim in his black suit with nary a hair out of place—continued to nod like one of those bobbing dogs you stick on your dashboard. The audience gazed at the woman in utter silence.“Frank left something else for you, didn’t he? Something from your past.”In spite of the hot studio lights, the woman actually seemed to pale. In the corner of the set, beyond the general viewing area, Jeremy saw the producer rotating an upraised finger in a helicopter pattern. It was getting close to the commercial break. Clausen glanced almost imperceptibly in that direction. No one but Jeremy seemed to notice, and he often wondered why viewers never questioned how channeling from the spirit world could be timed so perfectly to fit with commercial breaks.Clausen went on. “That no one else could know about. A key of some sort, is that right?”The sobs continued as the woman nodded.“You never thought he’d save it, did you?”Okay, here’s the clincher, Jeremy thought. Another true believer on the way.“It’s from the hotel where you stayed on your honeymoon. He put it there so that when you found it, you would remember the happy times you spent together. He doesn’t want you to remember him with pain, because he loves you.”“Ooohhhhhhh . . . ,” the woman cried.Or something like that. A moan perhaps. From where he was sitting Jeremy couldn’t be certain, because the cry was interrupted by sudden, enthusiastic applause. All at once, the microphone was pulled away. Cameras zoomed out. Her moment in the sun completed, the woman from the audience collapsed in her seat. On cue, the hostess stood from the couch and faced the camera.“Remember that what you’re seeing is real. None of these people have ever met with Timothy Clausen.” She smiled. “We’ll be back with one more reading after this.”More applause as the show broke for commercials, and Jeremy leaned back in his seat.As an investigative journalist known for his interest in science, he’d made a career out of writing about people like this. Most of the time, he enjoyed what he did and took pride in his work as a valuable public service, in a profession so special as to have its rights enumerated in the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America. For his regular column in Scientific American, he’d interviewed Nobel laureates, explained the theories of Stephen Hawking and Einstein in lay terms, and had once been credited with sparking the groundswell of public opinion that led the FDA to remove a dangerous antidepressant from the market. He’d written extensively about the Cassini project, the faulty mirror on the lens of the Hubble spacecraft, and had been one of the first to publicly decry the Utah cold fusion experiment as a fraud.Unfortunately, as impressive as it sounded, his column didn’t pay much. It was the freelance work that paid most of his bills, and like all freelancers, he was always hustling to come up with stories that would interest magazine or newspaper editors. His niche had broadened to include “anything unusual,” and in the past fifteen years, he’d researched and investigated psychics, spirit guides, faith healers, and mediums. He’d exposed frauds, hoaxes, and forgeries. He’d visited haunted houses, searched for mystical creatures, and hunted for the origins of urban legends. Skeptical by nature, he also had the rare ability to explain difficult scientific concepts in a way the average reader could understand, and his articles had appeared in hundreds of newspapers and magazines around the world. Scientific debunking, he felt, was both noble and important, even if the public didn’t always appreciate it. Frequently, the mail he received after publishing his freelance articles was peppered with words like “idiot,” “moron,” and his personal favorite, “government flunky.”Investigative journalism, he’d come to learn, was a thankless business.Reflecting on this with a frown, he observed the audience chatting eagerly, wondering who would be chosen next. Jeremy stole another glance at the blonde, who was examining her lipstick in a hand mirror.Jeremy already knew that the people chosen by Clausen weren’t officially part of the act, even though Clausen’s appearance was announced in advance and people had fought wildly for tickets to the show. Which meant, of course, that the audience was loaded with life-after-death believers. To them, Clausen was legitimate. How else could he know such personal things about strangers, unless he talked to spirits? But like any good magician who had his repertoire down pat, the illusion was still an illusion, and right before the show, Jeremy not only had figured out how he was pulling it off, but had the photographic evidence to prove it.Bringing down Clausen would be Jeremy’s biggest coup to date, and it served the guy right. Clausen was the worst kind of con man. And yet the pragmatic side of Jeremy also realized that this was the kind of story that rarely came along, and he wanted to make the most of it. Clausen, after all, was on the cusp of enormous celebrity, and in America, celebrity was all that mattered. Though he knew the odds were utterly improbable, he fantasized about what would happen if Clausen actually picked him next. He didn’t expect it; being chosen was akin to winning the trifecta at Santa Anita; and even if it didn’t happen, Jeremy knew he’d still have a quality story. But quality and extraordinary were often separated by simple twists of fate, and as the commercial break ended, he felt the slightest twinge of unjustified hope that somehow Clausen would zero in on him.And, as if God himself wasn’t exactly thrilled with what Clausen was doing, either, that was exactly what happened.Three weeks later, winter in Manhattan was bearing down hard. A front from Canada had moved in, dropping temperatures to nearly zero, and plumes of steam rose steadily from the sewer grates before settling over the icy sidewalks. Not that anyone seemed to mind. New York’s hardy citizens displayed their usual indifference to all things weather-related, and Friday nights were not to be wasted under any circumstance. People worked too hard during the week to waste an evening out, especially when there was reason to celebrate. Nate Johnson and Alvin Bernstein had already been celebrating for an hour, as had a couple of dozen friends and journalists—some from Scientific American—who’d assembled in Jeremy’s honor. Most were well into the buzz phase of the evening and enjoying themselves immensely, mostly because journalists tended to be budget-conscious and Nate was picking up the tab.Nate was Jeremy’s agent. Alvin, a freelance cameraman, was Jeremy’s best friend, and they’d gathered at the trendy bar on the Upper West Side to celebrate Jeremy’s appearance on ABC’s Primetime Live. Commercials for Primetime Live had been airing that week—most of them featuring Jeremy front and center and the promise of a major exposé—and interview requests were pouring into Nate’s office from around the country. Earlier that afternoon, People magazine had called, and an interview was scheduled for the following Monday morning.There hadn’t been enough time to organize a private room for the get-together, but no one seemed to mind. With its long granite bar and dramatic lighting, the packed facility was yuppieville. While the journalists from Scientific American tended to wear tweed sport jackets with pocket protectors and were crowded into one corner of the room discussing photons, most of the other patrons looked as if they’d dropped by after finishing up at work on Wall Street or Madison Avenue: Italian suit jackets slung over the backs of chairs, Hermès ties loosened, men who seemed to want to do nothing more than to scope out the women in attendance while flashing their Rolexes. Women straight from work in publishing and advertising were dressed in designer skirts and impossibly high heels, sipping flavored martinis while pretending to ignore the men. Jeremy himself had his eye on a tall redhead standing at the other end of the bar who appeared to be glancing his way. He wondered if she recognized him from the television ads, or whether she just wanted some company. She turned away, apparently uninterested, but then looked his way again. With her gaze lingering just a little longer this time, Jeremy raised his glass.“C’mon, Jeremy, pay attention,” Nate said, nudging him with his elbow. “You’re on TV! Don’t you want to see how you did?”Jeremy turned from the redhead. Glancing up at the screen, he saw himself sitting opposite Diane Sawyer. Strange, he thought, like being in two places at once. It still didn’t seem quite real. Nothing in the past three weeks had seemed real, despite his years in media.On-screen, Diane was describing him as “America’s most esteemed scientific journalist.” Not only had the story turned out to be everything he’d wanted, but Nate was even talking to Primetime Live about Jeremy doing regular stories for them with a possibility of additional features on Good Morning America. Though many journalists believed television was less important than other, more serious forms of reporting, it didn’t stop most of them from secretly viewing television as the Holy Grail, by which they meant big money. Despite the congratulations, envy was in the air, a sensation as foreign to Jeremy as space travel.After all, journalists of his stripe weren’t exactly at the top of the media pecking order—until today.“Did she just call you esteemed?” Alvin asked. “You write about Bigfoot and the legend of Atlantis!”“Shh,” Nate said, his eyes glued to the television. “I’m trying to hear this. It could be important for Jeremy’s career.” As Jeremy’s agent, Nate was forever promoting events that “could be important for Jeremy’s career,” for the simple reason that freelancing wasn’t all that lucrative. Years earlier, when Nate was starting out, Jeremy had pitched a book proposal, and they’d been working together ever since, simply because they’d become friends.“Whatever,” Alvin said, dismissing the scolding.Meanwhile, flickering on the screen behind Diane Sawyer and Jeremy were the final moments of Jeremy’s performance on the daytime television show, in which Jeremy had pretended to be a man grieving the boyhood death of his brother, a boy Clausen claimed to be channeling for Jeremy’s benefit.“He’s with me,” Clausen could be heard announcing. “He wants you to let him go, Thad.” The picture shifted to capture Jeremy’s rendition of an anguished guest, his face contorted. Clausen nodded in the background, either oozing sympathy or looking constipated, depending on the perspective.“Your mother never changed his room—the room you shared with him. She insisted that it be kept unchanged, and you still had to sleep there,” Clausen went on.“Yes,” Jeremy gasped.“But you were frightened in there, and in your anger, you took something of his, something very personal, and buried it in the backyard.”“Yes,” Jeremy managed again, as if too emotional to say more.“His retainer!”“Ooooohhhhhhhhh,” Jeremy cried, bringing his hands to his face.“He loves you, but you have to realize that he’s at peace now.

[Dalyia]

. He has no anger toward you . . .”“Ooooohhhhhhh!” Jeremy wailed again, contorting his face even more.In the bar, Nate watched the clips in silent concentration. Alvin, on the other hand, was laughing as he raised his beer high.“Give that man an Oscar!” he shouted.“It was rather impressive, wasn’t it?” Jeremy said, grinning.“I mean it, you two,” Nate said, not hiding his irritation. “Talk during the commercials.”“Whatever,” Alvin said again. “Whatever” had always been Alvin’s favorite word.On Primetime Live, the videotape faded to black and the camera focused on Diane Sawyer and Jeremy, sitting across from each other once again.“So nothing Timothy Clausen said was true?” Diane asked.“Not a thing,” Jeremy said. “As you already know, my name isn’t Thad, and while I do have five brothers, they’re all alive and well.”Diane held a pen over a pad of paper, as if she was about to take notes. “So how did Clausen do this?”“Well, Diane,” Jeremy began.In the bar, Alvin’s pierced eyebrow rose. He leaned toward Jeremy. “Did you just call her Diane? Like you’re friends?”“Could you please!” Nate said, growing more exasperated by the moment.On-screen, Jeremy was going on. “What Clausen does is simply a variation on what people have been doing for hundreds of years. First of all, he’s good at reading people, and he’s an expert at making vague, emotionally charged associations and responding to audience members’ cues.”“Yes, but he was so specific. Not only with you, but with the other guests. He had names. How does he do that?”Jeremy shrugged. “He heard me talking about my brother Marcus before the show. I simply made up an imaginary life andbroadcast it loud and clear.”“How did it actually reach Clausen’s ears?”“Con men like Clausen have been known to use a variety of tricks, including microphones and paid ‘listeners’ who circulate in the waiting area before the show. Before I was seated, I made sure to move around and strike up conversations with lots of audience members, watching to see if anyone exhibited unusual interest in my story. And sure enough, one man seemed particularly concerned.”Behind them, the videotape was replaced by an enlarged photograph that Jeremy had taken with a small camera hidden in his watch, a high-tech spy toy he’d promptly expensed to Scientific American. Jeremy loved high-tech toys almost as much as he loved expensing them to others.“What are we looking at here?” Diane asked.Jeremy pointed. “This man was mingling with the studio audience, posing as a visitor from Peoria. I took this photograph right before the show while we were talking. Zoom in further, please.”On-screen, the photograph was enlarged and Jeremy motioned toward it.“Do you see the small USA pin on his lapel? That’s not just for decoration. It’s actually a miniature transmitter that broadcasts to a recording device backstage.”Diane frowned. “How do you know this?”“Because,” Jeremy said, raising an eyebrow, “I happen to have one just like it.”On cue, Jeremy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out what appeared to be the same USA pin, attached to a long, threadlike wire and transmitter.“This particular model is manufactured in Israel”—Jeremy’s voice could be heard over the camera close-up of the gadget—“and it’s very high-end. I’ve heard it’s used by the CIA, but, of course, I can’t confirm that. What I can tell you is that the technology is very advanced—this little microphone can pick up conversations from across a noisy, crowded room and, with the right filtering systems, can even isolate them.”Diane inspected the pin with apparent fascination. “And you’re certain that this was indeed a microphone and not just a pin?”“Well, as you know, I’ve been looking into Clausen’s past for a long time now, and a week after the show, I managed to obtain some more photographs.”A new photograph flashed on the screen. Though a bit grainy, it was a picture of the same man who’d been wearing the USA pin.“This photo was taken in Florida, outside Clausen’s office. As you can see, the man is heading inside. His name is Rex Moore, and he’s actually an employee of Clausen’s. He’s worked with Clausen for two years.”“Ooohhhhh!” Alvin shouted, and the rest of the broadcast, which was winding down, anyway, was drowned out as others, jealous or not, joined in with hoots and hollers. The free booze had worked its magic, and Jeremy was deluged with congratulations after the show had ended.“You were fantastic,” Nate said. At forty-three, Nate was short and balding and had a tendency to wear suits that were just a bit too tight in the waist. No matter, the man was energy incarnate and, like most agents, positively buzzed with fervent optimism.“Thanks,” Jeremy said, downing the remainder of his beer.“This is going to be big for your career,” Nate went on. “It’s your ticket to a regular television gig. No more scrambling for lousy freelance magazine work, no more chasing UFO stories. I’ve always said that with your looks, you were made for TV.”“You have always said that,” Jeremy conceded with the eye-rolling manner of someone reciting an oft-given lecture.“I mean it. The producers from Primetime Live and GMA keep calling, talking about using you as a regular contributor on their shows. You know, ‘what this late-breaking science news means for you’ and all that. A big leap for a science reporter.”“I’m a journalist,” Jeremy sniffed, “not a reporter.”“Whatever,” Nate said, making a motion as if brushing away a fly. “Like I’ve always said, your looks are made for television.”“I’d have to say Nate’s right,” Alvin added with a wink. “I mean, how else could you be more popular than me with the ladies, despite having zero personality?” For years, Alvin and Jeremy had frequented bars together, trolling for dates.Jeremy laughed. Alvin Bernstein, whose name conjured up a clean-cut, bespectacled accountant—one of the countless professionals who wore Florsheim shoes and carried a briefcase to work— didn’t look like an Alvin Bernstein. As a teenager, he’d seen Eddie Murphy in Delirious and had decided to make the full-leather style his own, a wardrobe that horrified his Florsheim-wearing, briefcase-carrying father, Melvin. Fortunately, leather seemed to go well with his tattoos. Alvin considered tattoos to be a reflection of his unique aesthetic, and he was uniquely aesthetic on both his arms, right up to his shoulder blades. All of which complemented Alvin’s multiply pierced ears.“So are you still planning a trip down south to investigate that ghost story?” Nate pressed. Jeremy could fairly see the wheels clicking and clacking away in his brain. “After your interview with People, I mean.”Jeremy brushed his dark hair out of his eyes and signaled the bartender for another beer. “Yeah, I guess so. Primetime or no Primetime, I still have bills to pay, and I was thinking I could use this for my column.”“But you’ll be in contact, right? Not like when you went undercover with the Righteous and Holy?” He was referring to a six-thousand-word piece Jeremy had done for Vanity Fair about a religious cult; in that instance, Jeremy had essentially severed all communication for a period of three months.“I’ll be in contact,” Jeremy said. “This story isn’t like that. I should be out of there in less than a week. ‘Mysterious lights in the cemetery.’ No big deal.”“Hey, you need a cameraman by any chance?” Alvin piped in.Jeremy looked over at him. “Why? Do you want to go?”“Hell yeah. Head south for the winter, maybe meet me a nice southern belle while you pick up the tab. I hear the women down there will drive you crazy, but in a good way. It’ll be like an exotic vacation.”“Aren’t you supposed to be shooting something for Law & Order next week?”As strange as Alvin looked, his reputation was impeccable, and his services were usually in high demand.“Yeah, but I’ll be clear toward the end of the week,” Alvin said. “And look, if you’re serious about this television thing like Nate says you should be, it might be important to get some decent footage of these mysterious lights.”“That’s assuming there are even any lights to film.”“You do the advance work and let me know. I’ll keep my calendar open.”“Even if there are lights, it’s a small story,” Jeremy warned. “No one in television will be interested in it.”“Not last month, maybe,” Alvin said. “But after seeing you tonight, they’ll be interested. You know how it is in television—all those producers chasing their own tails, trying to find the next big thing. If GMA is suddenly hot to trot, then you know the Today show will be calling soon and Dateline will be knocking at the door. No producer wants to be left out. That’s how they get fired. The last thing they want to do is to have to explain to the executives why they missed the boat. Believe me—I work in television. I know these people.”“He’s right,” Nate said, interrupting them. “You never know what’ll happen next, and it might be a good idea to plan ahead. You had definite presence tonight. Don’t kid yourself. And if you can get some actual footage of the lights, it might be just the thing that GMA or Primetime needs to make their decision.”Jeremy squinted at his agent. “You serious about this? It’s a nothing story. The reason I decided to do it at all was because I needed a break after Clausen. That story took four months of my life.”“And look what it got you,” Nate said, putting a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “This may be a fluff piece, but with sensational footage and a good backstory, who knows what television will think?”Jeremy was silent for a moment before finally shrugging. “Fine,” he said. He glanced at Alvin. “I’m leaving on Tuesday. See if you can get there by next Friday. I’ll call you before then with the details.”Alvin reached for his beer and took a drink. “Well, golly,” he said, mimicking Gomer Pyle, “I’m off to the land of grits and chitlins. And I promise my bill won’t be too high.”Jeremy laughed. “You ever been down south?”“Nope. You?”“I’ve visited New Orleans and Atlanta,” Jeremy admitted. “But those are cities, and cities are pretty much the same everywhere. For this story, we’re heading to the real South. It’s a little town in North Carolina, a place called Boone Creek. You should see the town’s Web site. It talks about the azaleas and dogwoods that bloom in April, and proudly displays a picture of the town’s most prominent citizen. A guy named Norwood Jefferson.”“Who?” Alvin asked.“A politician. He served in the North Carolina State Senate from 1907 to 1916.”“Who cares?”“Exactly,” Jeremy said with a nod. Glancing across the bar, he noticed with disappointment that the redhead was gone.“Where is this place exactly?”“Right between the middle of nowhere and ‘where are we exactly?’ I’m staying at a place called Greenleaf Cottages, which the Chamber of Commerce describes as scenic and rustic yet modern. Whatever that means.”Alvin laughed. “Sounds like an adventure.”“Don’t worry about it. You’ll fit right in down there, I’m sure.”“You think so?”Jeremy noted the leather, tattoos, and piercings.“Oh, absolutely,” Jeremy said. “They’ll probably want to adoptyou.”

[Dalyia]

True BelieverTwoOn Tuesday, the day after his interview with People magazine, Jeremy arrived in North Carolina. It was just past noon; when he left New York, it had been sleeting and gray, with more snow expected. Here, with an expanse of blue skies stretched out above him, winter seemed a long way off.According to the map that he’d picked up in the airport gift shop, Boone Creek was in Pamlico County, a hundred miles southeast of Raleigh and—if the drive was any indication—about a zillion miles from what he considered civilization. On either side of him, the landscape was flat and sparse and about as exciting as pancake batter. Farms were separated by thin strands of loblolly pines, and given the sparse traffic, it was everything Jeremy could do to keep from flooring the accelerator out of sheer boredom.But it wasn’t all bad, he had to admit. Well, the actual driving part, anyway. The slight vibration of the wheel, the revving of the engine, and the feeling of acceleration were known to increase adrenaline production, especially in men (he’d once written a column about it). Life in the city made owning a car superfluous, however, and he’d never been able to justify the expense. Instead, he was transported from place to place in crowded subways or whiplash-inducing taxicabs. Travel in the city was noisy, hectic, and, depending on the cabdriver, sometimes life-threatening, but as a born and bred New Yorker, he’d long since come to accept it as just another exciting aspect of living in the place he called home.His thoughts drifted to his ex-wife. Maria, he reflected, would have loved a drive like this. In the early years of their marriage, they would rent a car and drive to the mountains or the beach, sometimes spending hours on the road. She’d been a publicist at Elle magazine when they’d met at a publishing party. When he asked if she’d like to join him at a nearby coffee shop, he had no idea she would end up being the only woman he ever loved. At first, he thought he’d made a mistake in asking her out, simply because they seemed to have nothing in common. She was feisty and emotional, but later, when he kissed her outside her apartment, he was entranced.He eventually came to appreciate her fiery personality, her unerring instincts about people, and the way she seemed to embrace all of him without judgment, good and bad. A year later, they were married in the church, surrounded by friends and family. He was twenty-six, not yet a columnist for Scientific American but steadily building his reputation, and they could barely afford the small apartment they rented in Brooklyn. To his mind, it was young-and-struggling marital bliss. To her mind, he eventually suspected, their marriage was strong in theory but constructed on a shaky foundation. In the beginning, the problem was simple: while her job kept her in the city, Jeremy traveled, pursuing the big story wherever it might be. He was often gone for weeks at a time, and while she’d assured him that she could handle it, she must have realized during his absences that she couldn’t. Just after their second anniversary, as he readied himself for yet another trip, Maria sat down beside him on the bed. Clasping her hands together, she raised her brown eyes to meet his.“This isn’t working,” she said simply, letting the words hang for a moment. “You’re never home anymore and it isn’t fair to me. It isn’t fair to us.”“You want me to quit?” he asked, feeling a small bubble of panic rise in him.“No, not quit. But maybe you can find something local. Like at the Times. Or the Post. Or the Daily News.”“It’s not going to be like this forever,” he pleaded. “It’s only for a little while.”“That’s what you said six months ago,” she said. “It’s never going to change.”Looking back, Jeremy knew he should have taken it as the warning that it was, but at the time, he had a story to write, this one concerning Los Alamos. She wore an uncertain smile as he kissed her good-bye, and he thought about her expression briefly as he sat on the plane, but when he returned, she seemed herself again and they spent the weekend curled up in bed. She began to talk about having a baby, and despite the nervousness he felt, he was thrilled at the thought. He assumed he’d been forgiven, but the protective armor of their relationship had been chipped, and imperceptible cracks appeared with every additional absence. The final split came a year later, a month after a visit to a doctor on the Upper East Side, one who presented them with a future that neither of them had ever envisioned. Far more than his traveling, the visit foretold the end of their relationship, and even Jeremy knew it.“I can’t stay,” she’d told him afterward. “I want to, and part of me will always love you, but I can’t.”She didn’t need to say more, and in the quiet, self-pitying moments after the divorce, he sometimes questioned whether she’d ever really loved him. They could have made it, he told himself. But in the end, he understood intuitively why she had left, and he harbored no ill will against her. He even spoke to her on the phone now and then, though he couldn’t bring himself to attend her marriage three years later to an attorney who lived in Chappaqua.The divorce had become final seven years ago, and to be honest, it was the only truly sad thing ever to have happened to him. Not many people could say that, he knew. He’d never been seriously injured, he had an active social life, and he’d emerged from childhood without the sort of psychological trauma that seemed to afflict so many of his age. His brothers and their wives, his parents, and even his grandparents—all four in their nineties—were healthy. They were close, too: a couple of weekends a month, the ever-growing clan would gather at his parents’, who still lived in the house in Queens where Jeremy had grown up. He had seventeen nieces and nephews, and though he sometimes felt out of place at family functions, since he was a bachelor again in a family of happily married people, his brothers were respectful enough not to probe the reasons behind the divorce.And he’d gotten over it. For the most part, anyway. Sometimes, on drives like this, he would feel a pang of yearning for what might have been, but that was rare now, and the divorce hadn’t soured him on women in general.A couple of years back, Jeremy had followed a study about whether the perception of beauty was the product of cultural norms or genetics. For the study, attractive women and less attractive women were asked to hold infants, and the length of eye contact between the women and the infants was compared. The study had shown a direct correlation between beauty and eye contact: the infants stared longer at the attractive women, suggesting that people’s perceptions of beauty were instinctive. The study was given prominent play in Newsweek and Time.He’d wanted to write a column criticizing the study, partly because it omitted what he felt were some important qualifications. Exterior beauty might catch someone’s eye right away—he knew he was just as susceptible as the next guy to a supermodel’s appeal—but he’d always found intelligence and passion to be far more attractive and influential over time. Those traits took more than an instant to decipher, and beauty had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Beauty might prevail in the very short term, but in the medium and longer terms, cultural norms—primarily those values and norms influenced by family—were more important. His editor, however, canned the idea as “too subjective” and suggested he write something about the excessive use of antibiotics in chicken feed, which had the potential to turn streptococcus into the next bubonic plague. Which made sense, Jeremy noted with chagrin: the editor was a vegetarian, and his wife was both gorgeous and about as bright as an Alaskan winter sky.Editors. He’d long ago concluded that most of them were hypocrites. But, as in most professions, he supposed, hypocrites tended to be both passionate and politically savvy—in other words, corporate survivors—which meant they were the ones who not only doled out assignments but ended up paying the expenses.But maybe, as Nate had suggested, he’d be out of that racket soon. Well, not completely out of it. Alvin was probably right in saying that television producers were no different from editors, but television paid a living wage, which meant he’d be able to pick and choose his projects, instead of having to hustle all the time. Maria had been right to challenge his workload so long ago. In fifteen years, his workload hadn’t changed a bit. Oh, the stories might be higher profile, or he might have an easier time placing his freelance pieces because of the relationships he’d built over the years, but neither of those things changed the essential challenge of always coming up with something new and original. He still had to produce a dozen columns for Scientific American, at least one or two major investigations, and another fifteen or so smaller articles a year, some in keeping with the theme of the season. Is Christmas coming? Write a story about the real St. Nicholas, who was born in Turkey, became bishop of Myra, and was known for his generosity, love of children, and concern for sailors. Is it summer? How about a story about either (a) global warming and the undeniable 0.8-degree rise in temperature over the last one hundred years, which foretold Sahara-like consequences throughout the United States, or (b) how global warming might cause the next ice age and turn the United States into an icy tundra. Thanksgiving, on the other hand, was good for the truth about the Pilgrims’ lives, which wasn’t only about friendly dinners with Native Americans, but instead included the Salem witch hunts, smallpox epidemics, and a nasty tendency toward incest.Interviews with famous scientists and articles about various satellites or NASA projects were always respected and easy to place no matter what time of year, as were exposés about drugs (legal and illegal), sex, prostitution, gambling, liquor, court cases involving massive settlements, and anything, absolutely anything whatsoever, about the supernatural, most of which had little or nothing to do with science and more to do with quacks like Clausen.He had to admit the process wasn’t anything like he’d imagined a career in journalism would be. At Columbia—he was the only one of his brothers to attend college and became the first in his family ever to graduate, a fact his mother never ceased to point out to strangers—he’d double-majored in physics and chemistry, with the intention of becoming a professor. But a girlfriend who worked at the university paper convinced him to write a story—which relied heavily on the use of statistics— about the bias in SAT scores used in admission. When his article led to a number of student demonstrations, Jeremy realized he had a knack for writing. Still, his career choice didn’t change until his father was swindled by a bogus financial planner out of some $40,000, right before Jeremy graduated. With the family home in jeopardy—his father was a bus driver and worked for the Port Authority until retirement—Jeremy bypassed his graduation ceremony to track down the con man. Like a man possessed, he searched court and public records, interviewed associates of the swindler, and produced detailed notes.As fate would have it, the New York D.A.’s office had bigger fish to fry than a small-time scam artist, so Jeremy double-checked his sources, condensed his notes, and wrote the first exposé of his life. In the end, the house was saved, and New York magazine picked up the piece. The editor there convinced him that life in academia would lead nowhere and, with a subtle blend of flattery and rhetoric about chasing the big dream, suggested that Jeremy write a piece about Leffertex, an antidepressant that was currently undergoing stage III clinical trials and was the subject of intense media speculation.Jeremy took the suggestion, working two months on the story on his own dime. In the end, his article led the drugmaker to withdraw the drug from FDA consideration. After that, instead of heading to MIT for his master’s degree, he traveled to Scotland to follow along with scientists investigating the Loch Ness Monster, the first of his fluff pieces. There, he’d been present for the deathbed confession of a prominent surgeon who admitted that the photograph he’d taken of the monster in 1933—the photograph that brought the legend into the public eye—had been faked by him and a friend one Sunday afternoon as a practical joke.

[Dalyia]

. The rest, as they say, was history.Still, fifteen years of chasing stories was fifteen years of chasing stories, and what had he received in exchange? He was thirty-seven years old, single and living in a dingy one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, and heading to Boone Creek, North Carolina, to explain a case of mysterious lights in a cemetery.He shook his head, perplexed as always at the path his life had taken. The big dream. It was still out there, and he still had the passion to reach it. Only now, he’d begun to wonder if television would be his means.The story of the mysterious lights originated from a letter Jeremy had received a month earlier. When he’d read it, his first thought was that it would make a good Halloween story. Depending on the angle the story took, Southern Living or even Reader’s Digest might be interested for their October issue; if it ended up being more literary and narrative, maybe Harper’s or even the New Yorker. On the other hand, if the town was trying to cash in like Roswell, New Mexico, with UFOs, the story might be appropriate for one of the major southern newspapers, which might then further syndicate it. Or if he kept it short, he could use it in his column. His editor at Scientific American, despite the seriousness with which he regarded the contents of the magazine, was also intensely interested in increasing the number of subscribers and talked about it incessantly. He knew full well that the public loved a good ghost story. He might hem and haw while glancing at his wife’s picture and pretending to evaluate the merits, but he never passed up a story like this. Editors liked fluff as much as the next guy, since subscribers were the lifeblood of the business. And fluff, sad to say, was becoming a media staple.In the past, Jeremy had investigated seven different ghostly apparitions; four had ended up in his October column. Some had been fairly ordinary—spectral visions that no one could scientifically document—but three had involved poltergeists, supposedly mischievous spirits that actually move objects or damage the surroundings. According to paranormal investigators—an oxymoron if Jeremy had ever heard one—poltergeists were generally drawn to a particular person instead of a place. In each instance that Jeremy had investigated, including those that were well documented in the media, fraud had been the cause of the mysterious events.But the lights in Boone Creek were supposed to be different; apparently, they were predictable enough to enable the town to sponsor a Historic Homes and Haunted Cemetery Tour, during which, the brochure promised, people would see not only homes dating back to the mid-1700s but, weather permitting, “the anguished ancestors of our town on their nightly march between the netherworlds.”The brochure, complete with pictures of the tidy town and melodramatic statements, had been sent to him along with the letter. As he drove, Jeremy recalled the letter.Dear Mr. Marsh:My name is Doris McClellan, and two years ago, I read your story in Scientific American about the poltergeist haunting Brenton Manor in Newport, Rhode Island. I thought about writing to you back then, but for whatever reason, I didn’t. I suppose it just slipped my mind, but with the way things are going in my town these days, I reckoned that it’s high time to tell you about it.I don’t know if you’ve ever heard about the cemetery in Boone Creek, North Carolina, but legend has it that the cemetery is haunted by spirts of former slaves. In the winter—January through early February—blue lights seem to dance on the headstones whenever the fog rolls in. Some say they’re like strobe lights, others swear they’re the size of basketballs. I’ve seen them, too; to me, they look like sparkly disco balls. Anyway, last year, some folks from Duke University came to investigate; I think they were meteorologists or geologists or something. They, too, saw the lights, but they couldn’t explain them, and the local paper did a big story on the whole mystery. Maybe if you came down, you could make sense of what the lights really are.If you need more information, give me a call at Herbs, a restaurant here in town.The remainder of the letter offered further contact information, and afterward, he flipped through the brochure from the local Historical Society. He read captions describing the various homes on the upcoming tour, skimmed the information concerning the parade and barn dance on Friday night, and found himself raising an eyebrow at the announcement that, for the first time, a visit to the cemetery would be included in the tour on Saturday evening. On the back of the brochure—surrounded by what seemed to be hand-drawn pictures of Casper—were testimonials from people who’d seen the lights and an excerpt from what appeared to be an article in the local newspaper. In the center was a grainy photograph of a bright light in what might, or might not, have been the cemetery (the caption claimed it was).It wasn’t quite the Borely Rectory, a rambling “haunted” Victorian on the north bank of the Stour River in Essex, England, the most famous haunted house in history, where “sightings” included headless horsemen, weird organ chants, and ringing bells, but it was enough to pique his interest.After failing to find the article mentioned in the letter—there were no archives at the local newspaper’s Web site—he contacted various departments at Duke University and eventually found the original research project. It had been written by three graduate students, and though he had their names and phone numbers, he doubted there was any reason to call them. The research report had none of the detail he would have expected. Instead, the entire study had simply documented the existence of the lights and the fact that the students’ equipment was functioning properly, which barely scratched the surface of the information he needed. And besides, if he’d learned anything in the past fifteen years, it was to trust no one’s work but his own.See, that was the dirty secret about writing for magazines. While all journalists would claim to do their own research and most did some, they still relied heavily on opinions and half-truths that had been published in the past. Thus, they frequently made mistakes, usually small ones, sometimes whoppers. Every article in every magazine had errors, and two years ago, Jeremy had written a story about it, exposing the less laudable habits of his fellow professionals.His editor, however, had vetoed publishing it. And no other magazine seemed enthusiastic about the piece, either.He watched oak trees slide past the windows, wondering if he needed a career change, and he suddenly wished he’d researched the ghost story further. What if there were no lights? What if the letter writer was a quack? What if there wasn’t even much of a legend to build an article around? He shook his head. Worrying was pointless, and besides, it was too late now. He was already here, and Nate was busy working the New York phones.In the trunk, Jeremy had all the necessary items for ghost hunting (as disclosed in Ghost Busters for Real!, a book he’d originally bought as a joke after an evening of cocktails). He had a Polaroid camera, 35mm camera, four camcorders and tripods, audio recorder and microphones, microwave radiation detector, electromagnetic detector, compass, night-vision goggles, laptop computer, and other odds and ends.Had to do this right, after all. Ghostbusting wasn’t for amateurs.As might be expected, his editor had complained about the cost of the most recently purchased gizmos, which always seemed to be required in investigations like this. Technology was moving fast, and yesterday’s gizmos were the equivalent of stone tools and flint, Jeremy had explained to his editor, fantasizing about expensing the laser-beam-backpack thing that Bill Murray and Harold Ramis had used in Ghostbusters. He would love to have seen his editor’s expression with that one. As it was, the guy mowed through celery like a rabbit on amphetamines before finally signing off on the items. He sure would be pissed if the story ended up on television and not in the column.Grinning at the memory of his editor’s expression, Jeremy flipped through various stations—rock, hip-hop, country, gospel— before settling on a local talk show that was interviewing two flounder fishermen who spoke passionately about the need to decrease the weight at which the fish could be harvested. The announcer, who seemed inordinately interested in the topic, spoke with a heavy twang. Commercials advertised the gun and coin show at the Masonic Lodge in Grifton and the latest team changes in NASCAR.The traffic picked up near Greenville, and he looped around the downtown area near the campus of East Carolina University.He crossed the wide, brackish waters of the Pamlico River and turned onto a rural highway. The blacktop narrowed as it wound through the country, squeezed on both sides by barren winter fields, denser thickets of trees, and the occasional farmhouse. About thirty minutes later, he found himself approaching Boone Creek.After the first and only stoplight, the speed limit dropped to twenty-five miles an hour, and slowing the car, Jeremy took in the scene with dismay. In addition to the half dozen mobile homes perched haphazardly off the road and a couple of cross streets, the stretch of blacktop was dominated by two run-down gas stations and Leroy’s Tires. Leroy advertised his business with a sign atop a tower of used tires that would be considered a fire hazard in any other jurisdiction. Jeremy reached the other end of town in a minute, at which point the speed limit picked up again. He pulled the car over to the side of the road.Either the Chamber of Commerce had used photographs of some other town on its Web site or he’d missed something. He pulled over to check the map again, and according to this version of Rand McNally, he was in Boone Creek. He glanced in the rearview mirror wondering where on earth it was. The quiet, treelined streets. The blooming azaleas. The pretty women in dresses.As he was trying to figure it out, he saw a white church steeple peeking out above the tree line and decided to make his way down one of the cross streets he’d passed. After a serpentine curve, the surroundings suddenly changed, and he soon found himself driving through a town that may once have been gracious and picturesque, but now seemed to be dying of old age. Wraparound porches decorated with hanging flower pots and American flags couldn’t hide the peeling paint and mold just below the eaves. Yards were shaded by massive magnolia trees, but the neatly trimmed rhododendron bushes only partially hid cracked foundations. Still, it seemed friendly enough. A few elderly couples in sweaters who were sitting in rocking chairs on their porches waved at him as he passed by.It took more than a few waves before he realized they weren’t waving because they thought they’d recognized him, but because people here waved to everyone who drove by. Meandering from one road to the next, he eventually found the waterfront, recalling that the town had been developed at the confluence of Boone Creek and the Pamlico River. As he passed through the downtown area, which no doubt once constituted a thriving business district, he noted how the town seemed to be dying out. Dispersed among the vacant spaces and boarded-up windows were two antique shops, an old-fashioned diner, a tavern called Lookilu, and a barbershop. Most of the businesses had local-sounding names and looked as if they’d been in business for decades but were fighting a losing battle against extinction. The only evidence of modern life was the neon-colored T-shirts emblazoned with such slogans as I Survived the Ghosts in Boone Creek! that hung in the window of what was probably the rural, southern version of a department store.Herbs, where Doris McClellan worked, was easy enough to find. It was located near the end of the block in a restored turn-of-the-century peach-colored Victorian. Cars were parked out front and in the small gravel parking lot off to the side, and tables were visible beyond the curtained windows and on the wraparound porch. From what he could see, every table was occupied, and Jeremy decided that it might be better if he swung by to talk to Doris after the crowd had thinned out.He noted the location of the Chamber of Commerce, a small nondescript brick building set at the edge of town, and headed back toward the highway. Impulsively, he pulled into a gas station.After taking off his sunglasses, Jeremy rolled down the window. The gray-haired proprietor wore dingy coveralls and a Dale Earnhardt cap. He rose slowly and began strolling toward the car, gnawing on what Jeremy assumed to be chewing tobacco.“Can I hep ya?” His accent was unmistakably southern and his teeth were stained brown. His name tag read tully.Jeremy asked for directions to the cemetery, but instead of answering, the proprietor looked Jeremy over carefully.“Who passed?” he finally asked.Jeremy blinked. “Excuse me?”“Headin’ to a burial, ain’t ya?” the proprietor asked.“No. I just wanted to see the cemetery.”The man nodded. “Well, you look like you’re heading to a burial.”Jeremy glanced at his clothing: black jacket over a black turtleneck, black jeans, black Bruno Magli shoes. The man did have a point.“I guess I just like wearing black. Anyway, about the directions . . .”The owner pushed up the brim of his hat and spoke slowly. “I don’t like going to burials none. Make me think I ought to be heading to church more often to square things up before it’s too late. That ever happen to ya?”Jeremy wasn’t sure exactly what to say. It wasn’t a question he typically encountered, especially in response to a question about directions. “I don’t think so,” he finally ventured.The proprietor took a rag from his pocket and began to wipe the grease from his hands. “I take it you’re not from here. You got a funny accent.”“New York,” Jeremy clarified.“Heard of it, but ain’t never been there,” he said. He looked over the Taurus. “Is this your car?”“No, it’s a rental.”He nodded, saying nothing for a moment.“But anyway, about the cemetery,” Jeremy prodded. “Can you tell me how to get there?”“I s’pose. Which one ya lookin’ for?”“It’s called Cedar Creek?”The proprietor looked at him curiously. “Whatcha want to go out there for? Ain’t nothin’ for anyone to see there. There’s nicer cemeteries on the other side of town.”“Actually, I’m interested in just that one.”The man didn’t seem to hear him. “You got kin buried there?”“No.”“You one of them big-shot developers from up north? Maybethinking of building some condos or one o’ them malls on thatland out there?” Jeremy shook his head. “No. Actually, I’m a journalist.” “My wife likes them malls. Condos, too. Might be a good idea.” “Ah,” Jeremy said, wondering how long this was going to take.“I wish I could help, but it’s not my line of work.” “You need some gas?” he asked, moving toward the rear ofthe car. “No, thanks.” He was already unscrewing the cap. “Premium or regular?” Jeremy shifted in his seat, thinking the man could probably usethe business. “Regular, I guess.” After getting the gas going, the man took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair as he made his way back to the window. “You have any car trouble, don’t hesitate to swing by. I can fixboth kinds of cars, and do it for the right price, too.” “Both?” “Foreign and domestic,” he said. “Whaddya think I was talkin’about?” Without waiting for an answer, the man shook his head, asif Jeremy were a moron. “Name’s Tully, by the way. And you are?” “Jeremy Marsh.” “And you’re a urologist?” “A journalist.” “Don’t have any urologists in town. There’s a few in Greenville,though.” “Ah,” Jeremy said, not bothering to correct him. “But anyway, about the directions to Cedar Creek . . .”Tully rubbed his nose and glanced up the road before looking at Jeremy again. “Well, you ain’t going to see anything now. The ghosts don’t come out till nighttime, if that’s what you’re here for.”“Excuse me?”“The ghosts. If you ain’t got kin buried in the cemetery, then you must be here for the ghosts, right?”“You’ve heard about the ghosts?”“Of course, I have. Seen ’em with my own eyes. But if you want tickets, you’ll have to go to the Chamber of Commerce.”“You need tickets?”“Well, you just can’t walk right into someone’s home, can you?”It took a moment to follow the train of thought.“Oh, that’s right,” Jeremy said.

[Dalyia]

“The Historic Homes and Haunted Cemetery Tour, right?”Tully stared at Jeremy, as if he were the densest person ever to walk the face of the earth. “Well, of course, we’re talking about the tour,” he said. “Whaddya think I was talkin’ about?”“I’m not sure,” Jeremy said. “But the directions . . .”Tully shook his head. “Okay, okay,” he said, as if suddenly put out. He pointed toward town.“What you do is head back to downtown, then follow the main road north until you reach the turn about four miles from where the road used to dead-end. Turn west and keep going until you get to the fork, and follow the road that leads past Wilson Tanner’s place. Turn north again where the junked car used to be, go straight for a bit, and the cemetery’ll be right there.”Jeremy nodded. “Okay,” he said.“You sure you got it?”“Fork, Wilson Tanner’s place, junked car used to be,” he repeated robotically. “Thanks for your help.”“No problem. Glad to be of service. And that’ll be seven dollars and forty-nine cents.”“You take credit cards?”“No. Never liked them things. Don’t like the government knowing everything I’m doing. Ain’t no one else’s business.”“Well,” Jeremy said, reaching for his wallet, “it is a problem. I’ve heard the government has spies everywhere.”Tully nodded knowingly. “I bet it’s even worse for you doctor folks. Which reminds me . . .”Tully kept up a stready stream of talk for the next fifteen minutes. Jeremy learned about the vagaries of the weather, ridiculous government edicts, and how Wyatt—the other gas station owner— would gouge Jeremy if he ever went there for gas, since he fiddled with the calibration on the pumps as soon as the Unocal truck pulled away. But mainly, he heard about Tully’s trouble with his prostate, which made it necessary to get out of bed at least five times a night to go to the bathroom. He asked Jeremy’s opinion about that, being that he was a urologist. He also asked about Viagra.After he had replugged his cheek twice with chaw, another car pulled in on the other side of the pump, interrupting their talk. The driver popped his hood up, and Tully peered inside before wiggling some wires and spitting off to the side. Tully promised he could fix it, but being that he was so busy, the man would have to leave his car there for at least a week. The stranger seemed to expect this answer, and a moment later, they were talking about Mrs. Dungeness and the fact that a possum had ended up in her kitchen the night before and eaten from the fruit bowl.Jeremy used the opportunity to sneak away. He stopped at the department store to buy a map and a packet of postcards featuring the landmarks of Boone Creek, and before long, he was making his way along a winding road that led out of town. He magically found both the turn and the fork, but unfortunately missed Wilson Tanner’s place completely. With a bit of backtracking, he finally reached a narrow gravel lane almost hidden by the overgrowth of trees on either side.Making the turn, he bumped his way through various potholes until the forest began to thin. On the right, he passed a sign that noted he was nearing Riker’s Hill—site of a Civil War skirmish— and a few moments later, he pulled to a stop in front of the main gate at Cedar Creek Cemetery. Riker’s Hill towered in the background. Of course, “towered” was a relative term, since it seemed to be the only hill in this part of the state. Anything would have towered out here. The place was otherwise as flat as the flounders he’d heard about on the radio.Surrounded by brick columns and rusting wrought-iron fencing, Cedar Creek Cemetery was set into a slight valley, making it look as if it was slowly sinking. The grounds were shaded with scores of oaks that dripped with Spanish moss, but the massive magnolia tree in the center dominated everything. Roots spread from the trunk and protruded above the earth like arthritic fingers.Though the cemetery might have once been an orderly, peaceful resting place, it was now neglected. The dirt pathway beyond the main gate was rutted with deep rain grooves and carpeted with decaying leaves. The few patches of dormant grass seemed out of place. Fallen branches were propped here and there, and the undulating terrain reminded Jeremy of waves rolling toward shore. Tall weeds sprouted near the headstones, almost all of which appeared to be broken.Tully was right. It wasn’t much to look at. But for a haunted cemetery, it was perfect. Especially one that might end up on television. Jeremy smiled. The place looked like it had been designed in Hollywood.Jeremy stepped out of the car and stretched his legs before retrieving his camera from the trunk. The breeze was chilly, but it had none of the arctic bite of New York, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of pine and sweetgrass. Above him, cumulus clouds drifted across the sky and a lone hawk circled in the distance. Riker’s Hill was dotted with pines, and in the fields that spread out from the base, he saw an abandoned tobacco barn. Covered in kudzu with half the tin roof missing and one of the walls crumbling, it was tilting to the side, as if any uptick in the breeze would be enough to topple it over. Other than that, there was no sign of civilization.Jeremy heard the hinge groan as he pushed through the rusting main gate and wandered down the dirt pathway. He glanced at the headstones on either side of him, puzzled by their lack of markings until he realized that the original engravings had largely been erased by weather and the passage of time. The few he could make out dated from the late 1700s. Up ahead, a crypt looked as if it had been invaded. The roof and sides had toppled in, and just beyond that, another monument lay crumbled on the pathway. More damaged crypts and broken monuments followed. Jeremy saw no evidence of purposeful vandalism, only natural, if serious, decay. Nor did he see any evidence that anyone had been buried here within the last thirty years, which would explain why it looked abandoned.In the shade of the magnolia, he paused, wondering how the place would look on a foggy night. Probably spooky, which could prompt a person’s imagination to run wild. But if there were unexplained lights, where were they coming from? He guessed that the “ghosts” were simply reflected light turned into prisms by the water droplets in the fog, but there weren’t any streetlamps out here, nor was the cemetery lit. He saw no signs of any dwellings on Riker’s Hill that might have been responsible either. He supposed they could come from car headlights, yet he saw only the single road nearby, and people would have noticed the connection long ago.He’d have to get a good topographical map of the area, in addition to the street map he had just bought. Perhaps the local library would have one. In any case, he’d stop by the library to research the history of the cemetery and the town itself. He needed to know when the lights were first spotted; that might give him an idea as to their cause. Of course, he’d have to spend a couple of nights out here in spookyville as well, if the foggy weather was willing to cooperate.For a while, he walked around the cemetery taking photographs. These wouldn’t be for publication; they would serve as comparison points in case he came across earlier photographs of the cemetery. He wanted to see how it had changed over the years, and it might benefit him to know when—or why—the damage had occurred. He snapped a picture of the magnolia tree as well. It was easily the largest he’d ever seen. Its black trunk was wizened, and the low-hanging branches would have kept him and his brothers occupied for hours when they were boys. If it weren’t surrounded by dead people, that is.As he was flicking through the digital photos to make sure they were sufficient, he saw movement from the corner of his eye.Glancing up, he saw a woman walking toward him. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a light blue sweater that matched the canvas bag she was carrying, she had brown hair that lightly swept her shoulders. Her skin, with just a hint of olive, made makeup unnecessary, but it was the color of her eyes that caught him: from a distance, they appeared almost violet. Whoever she was, she’d parked her car directly behind his.For a moment, he wondered whether she was approaching him to ask him to leave. Maybe the cemetery was condemned and now off-limits. Then again, perhaps her visit here was simply a coincidence.She continued moving toward him.Come to think of it, a rather attractive coincidence. Jeremy straightened as he slipped the camera back into its case. He smiled broadly as she neared.“Well, hello there,” he said.At his comment, she slowed her gait slightly, as if she hadn’t noticed him. Her expression seemed almost amused, and he half expected her to stop. Instead, he thought he caught the sound of her laughter as she walked right by.With eyebrows raised in appreciation, Jeremy watched her go. She didn’t look back. Before he could stop himself, he took a step after her.“Hey!” he called out.Instead of stopping, she simply turned and continued walking backward, her head tilted inquisitively. Again, Jeremy saw the same amused expression.“You know, you really shouldn’t stare like that,” she called out. “Women like a man who knows how to be subtle.”She turned again, adjusted the canvas bag on her shoulder, and kept on going. In the distance, he heard her laugh again.Jeremy stood openmouthed, for once at a loss as to how to respond.Okay, so she wasn’t interested. No big deal. Still, most people would have at least said hello in response. Maybe it was a southern thing. Maybe guys hit on her all the time and she was tired of it. Or maybe she simply didn’t want to be interrupted while she did . . . did . . .Did what?See, that was the problem with journalism, he sighed. It made him too curious. Really, it was none of his business. And besides, he reminded himself, it’s a cemetery. She was probably here to visit the departed. People did that all the time, didn’t they?He wrinkled his brow. The only difference was that most cemeteries looked as if someone came by to mow the lawn now and then, while this one looked like San Francisco after the earthquake in 1906. He supposed he could have headed in her direction to see what she was up to, but he’d talked to enough women to realize that spying might come across as far more creepy than staring. And she didn’t seem to like his staring.Jeremy actively tried not to stare as she disappeared behind one of the oak trees, her canvas bag swinging with every graceful stride.It was only after she’d vanished that he was able to remind himself that pretty girls didn’t matter right now. He had a job to do and his future was on the line here. Money, fame, television, yadda yadda yadda. Okay, what next? He’d seen the cemetery . . . he might as well check out some of the surrounding area. Sort of get a feel for the place.He walked back to his car and hopped in, pleased that he hadn’t so much as glanced behind him to see if she was watching him. Two could play that game. Of course, that presupposed that she even cared what he was doing, and he was pretty sure she didn’t.A quick glance now from the driver’s seat proved him correct.He started the engine and accelerated slowly; as he moved farther away from the cemetery, he found it easier to let the woman’s image drift from his mind to the task at hand. He drove farther up the road to see if other roads—either gravel or paved—intersected it, and he kept his eye out for windmills or tin-roofed buildings, without luck. Nor did he find something as simple as a farmhouse.Turning the car around, he started back the way he had come, looking for a road that would lead him to the top of Riker’s Hill but finally giving up in frustration. As he neared the cemetery again, he found himself wondering who owned the fields surrounding it and if Riker’s Hill was public or private land. The county tax assessor’s office would have that information. The sharp-eyed journalist in him also happened to notice that the woman’s car was gone, which left him with a slight, though surprising, pang of disappointment, which passed as quickly as it had come.He checked his watch; it was a little after two, and he figured that the lunch rush at Herbs was probably ending. Might as well talk to Doris. Maybe she could shed some “light” on the subject.He smiled lamely to himself, wondering if the woman he’d seen at the cemetery would have laughed at that one.

[Dalyia]

True BelieverThreeOnly a few tables on the porch were still occupied when Jeremy reached Herbs. As he climbed the steps to the front door, conversations quieted and eyes drifted his way. Only the chewing continued, and Jeremy was reminded of the curious way cows looked at you when you approached the pasture fence. Jeremy nodded and waved, as he’d seen the old folks on the porches doing.He removed his sunglasses and pushed through the door. The small, square tables were spread through two main rooms on either side of the building, separated by a set of stairs. The peach walls were offset by white trim, giving the place a homey, country feel; toward the rear of the building, he caught a glimpse of the kitchen.Again, the same cowlike expressions from patrons as he passed. Conversations quieted. Eyes drifted. When he nodded and waved, eyes dropped and the murmur of conversation rose again. This waving thing, he thought, was kind of like having a magic wand.Jeremy stood fiddling with his sunglasses, hoping Doris was here, when one of the waitresses ambled out from the kitchen. In her late twenties or so, she was tall and reed-thin, with a sunny, open face.“Just take a seat anywhere, hon,” she chirped. “Be with you in a minute.”After making himself comfortable near a window, he watched the waitress approach. Her name tag said rachel. Jeremy thought about the name tag phenomenon in town. Did every worker have one? He wondered if it was some sort of rule. Like nodding and waving.“Can I get you something to drink, darlin’?”“Do you have cappuccino?” he ventured.“No, sorry. We have coffee, though.”Jeremy smiled. “Coffee will be fine.”“You got it. Menu’s on the table if you want something to eat.”“Actually, I was wondering if Doris McClellan was around.”“Oh, she’s in the back,” Rachel said, brightening. “Want me to get her?”“If you wouldn’t mind.”She smiled. “No problem at all, darlin’.”He watched her head toward the kitchen and push through the swinging doors. A moment later, a woman whom he assumed was Doris emerged. She was the opposite of Rachel: short and stout, with thinning white hair that was once blond, she was wearing an apron, but no name tag, over a flower-print blouse. She looked to be about sixty. Pausing at the table, she put her hands on her hips before breaking into a smile.“Well,” she said, drawing out the word into two syllables, “you must be Jeremy Marsh.”Jeremy blinked. “You know me?” he asked.“Of course. I just saw you on Primetime Live last Friday. I take it you got my letter.”“I did, thank you.”“And you’re here to write a story about the ghosts?”He raised his hands. “So it seems.”“Well, I’ll be.” Her accent made it sound like she was pronouncing the letters L-I-B. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”“I like to surprise people. Sometimes it makes it a little easier to obtain accurate information.”“L-I-B,” she said again. After the surprise had faded, she pulled out a chair. “Mind if I take a seat? I suppose you’re here to talk to me.”“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss if you’re supposed to be working.”She glanced over her shoulder and shouted, “Hey, Rachel, do you think the boss would mind if I took a seat? The man here wants to talk to me.”Rachel poked her head out from behind the swinging doors. Jeremy could see her holding a pot of coffee.“Nah, I don’t think the boss would mind at all,” Rachel responded. “She loves to talk. Especially when she’s with such a handsome fella.”Doris turned around. “See,” she said, and nodded. “No problem.”Jeremy smiled. “Seems like a nice place to work.”“It is.”“I take it that you’re the boss.”“Guilty as charged,” Doris answered. Her eyes flickered with satisfaction.“How long have you been in business?”“Almost thirty years now, open for breakfast and lunch. We were doing the healthy food thing long before it was popular, and we have the best omelets this side of Raleigh.” She leaned forward. “You hungry? You should try one of our sandwiches for lunch. It’s all fresh—we even make the bread daily. You look like you could use a bite, and from the looks of you . . .” She hesitated, looking him over. “I’ll bet you’d love the chicken pesto sandwich. It’s got sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and I came up with the pesto recipe myself.”“I’m not really that hungry.”Rachel approached with two cups of coffee.“Well, just to let you know . . . if I’m going to tell a story, I like to do it over a good meal. And I tend to take my time.”Jeremy surrendered. “The chicken pesto sandwich sounds fine.”Doris smiled. “Could you bring us a couple of the Albemarles, Rachel?”“Sure,” Rachel answered. She looked him over with an appreciative eye. “By the way, who’s your friend? Haven’t seen him around here before.”“This is Jeremy Marsh,” Doris answered. “He’s a famous journalist here to write a story about our fair town.”“Really?” Rachel said, looking interested.“Yes,” Jeremy answered.“Oh, thank goodness,” Rachel said with a wink. “For a second, I thought you’d just come from a funeral.”Jeremy blinked as Rachel moved away.Doris laughed at his expression. “Tully stopped in after you swung by for directions,” she explained. “I guess he figured I might have had something to do with you coming down, and he wanted to make sure. So anyway, he rehashed the entire conversation, and Rachel probably couldn’t resist. We all thought his comment was a hoot.”“Ah,” Jeremy said.Doris leaned forward. “I’ll bet he talked your ear off.”“A little.”“He was always a talker. He’d talk to a shoe box if no one else was around, and I swear I don’t know how his wife, Bonnie, put up with it for so long. But twelve years ago, she went deaf, and so now he talks to customers. It’s all a person can do to get out of there in less time it takes ice cubes to melt in winter. I even had to shoo him out of here today after he came by. Can’t get a speck of work done if he’s around.”Jeremy reached for his coffee. “His wife went deaf?”“I think the Good Lord realized she’d sacrificed enough. Bless her heart.”Jeremy laughed before taking a sip. “So why would he think you were the one who contacted me?”“Every time something unusual happens, I’m always to blame. Comes with the territory, I guess, being the town psychic and all.”Jeremy simply looked at her and Doris smiled.“I take it you don’t believe in psychics,” she remarked.“No, not really,” Jeremy admitted.Doris tugged at her apron. “Well, for the most part, I don’t, either. Most of them are kooks. But some people do have the gift.”“Then . . . you can read my mind?”“No, nothing like that,” Doris said, shaking her head. “At least most of the time, anyway. I have a pretty good intuition about people, but reading minds was more my mom’s thing. No one could hide a thing from her. She even knew what I planned on buying her for her birthdays, which took a lot of the fun out of it. But my gift is different. I’m a diviner. And I can also tell what sex a baby’s going to be before it’s born.”“I see.”Doris looked him over. “You don’t believe me.”“Well, let’s just say you are a diviner. That means you can find water and tell me where I should dig a well.”“Of course.”“And if I asked you to do a test, with scientific controls, under strict supervision . . .”“You could even be the one to supervise me, and if you had to rig me up like a Christmas tree to make sure I wasn’t cheating, I’d have no problem with that.”“I see,” Jeremy said, thinking of Uri Geller. Geller had been so confident of his powers of telekinesis that he’d gone on British television in 1973, where he’d appeared before scientists and a studio audience. When he balanced a spoon on his finger, both sides began to curve downward before the stupefied observers. Only later did it come out that he’d bent the spoon over and over before the show, producing metal fatigue.Doris seemed to know just what he was thinking.“Tell you what . . . you can test me anytime, in any way you’d like. But that’s not why you came. You want to hear about the ghosts, right?”“Sure,” Jeremy said, relieved to get straight into it. “Do you mind if I record this?”“Not at all.”Jeremy reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the small recorder. He set it between them and pressed the appropriate buttons. Doris took a sip of coffee before beginning.“Okay, the story goes back to the 1890s or thereabouts. Back then, this town was still segregated, and most of the Negroes lived out in a place called Watts Landing. There’s nothing left of the village these days because of Hazel, but back then—”“Excuse me . . . Hazel?”“The hurricane? Nineteen fifty-four. Hit the coast near the South Carolina border. It pretty much put most of Boone Creek underwater, and what was left of Watts Landing was washed away.”“Oh, right. Sorry. Go ahead.”“Anyway, like I was saying, you won’t find the village now, but back near the turn of the century, I guess about three hundred people lived there. Most of them were descended from the slaves that had come up from South Carolina during the War of Northern Aggression, or what you Yankees call the Civil War.”She winked and Jeremy smiled.“So Union Pacific came through to set the railroad lines, which, of course, was supposed to turn this place into a big cosmopolitan area. Or so they promised. And the line they proposed ran right through the Negro cemetery. Now, the leader of that town was a woman named Hettie Doubilet. She was from the Caribbean—I don’t know which island—but when she found out that they were supposed to dig up all the bodies and transfer them to another place, she got upset and tried to get the county to do something to have the route changed. But the folks that ran the county wouldn’t consider it. Wouldn’t even grant her the opportunity to make her case.”At that moment, Rachel arrived with the sandwiches. She set both plates on the table.“Try it,” Doris said. “You’re skin and bones, anyway.”Jeremy reached for his sandwich and took a bite. He raised his eyebrows and Doris smiled.“Better than anything you can find in New York, isn’t it?”“Without a doubt. My compliments to the chef.”She looked at him almost coquettishly. “You are a charmer, Mr. Marsh,” she said, and Jeremy was struck by the thought that in her youth, she must have broken a few hearts. She went on with her story, as if she’d never stopped.“Back then, a lot of folks were racist. Some of them still are, but they’re in the minority now. Being from the North, you probably think I’m lying about that, but I’m not.”“I believe you.”“No, you don’t. No one from the North believes it, but that’s beside the point. But going on with the story, Hettie Doubilet was enraged by the folks at the county, and legend has it that when they refused her entrance to the mayor’s office, she put a curse on us white folk. She said that if graves of her ancestors would be defiled, then ours would be defiled, too. The ancestors of her people would tread the earth in search of their original resting place and would trample through Cedar Creek on their journey, and that in the end, the whole cemetery would be swallowed whole. Of course, no one paid her any attention that day.”Doris took a bite of her sandwich. “And, well, to make a long story short, the Negroes moved the bodies one by one to another cemetery, the railroad went in, and after that, just as Hettie said, Cedar Creek Cemetery started going bad. Little things at first. A few headstones broken, things like that, like vandals were responsible. The county folks, thinking Hettie’s people were responsible, posted guards. But it kept happening, no matter how many guards they put out there. And over the years, it kept getting worse. You went there, right?”Jeremy nodded.“So you can see what’s happening. Looks like the place is sinking, right, just like Hettie said it would? Anyway, a few years later, the lights started to appear. And ever since then, folks have believed it was the slave spirits marching through.”“So they don’t use the cemetery anymore?”“No, the place was abandoned for good in the late 1970s, but even before that, most people opted to be buried in the other cemeteries around town because of what was happening to that one. The county owns it now, but they don’t take care of it. They haven’t for the last twenty years.”“Has anyone ever checked into why the cemetery seems to be sinking?”“I’m not certain, but I’m almost positive that someone has. A lot of powerful folks had ancestors buried in the cemetery, and the last thing they wanted was their grandpa’s tomb being broken up. I’m sure they wanted an explanation, and I’ve heard stories that some folks from Raleigh came to find out what was happening.”“You mean the students from Duke?”“Oh, no, not them, honey. They were just kids, and they were here last year. No, I’m talking way back. Maybe around the time the damage first started.”“But you don’t know what they learned.”“No. Sorry.” She paused, and her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “But I think I have a pretty good idea.”Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “And that is?”“Water,” she said simply.“Water?”“I’m a diviner, remember. I know where water is. And I’ll tell you straight up that that land is sinking because of the water underneath it. I know it for a fact.”“I see,” Jeremy said.Doris laughed. “You’re so cute, Mr. Marsh. Did you know that your face gets all serious-looking when someone tells you something you don’t want to believe?”“No. No one’s ever told me that.”“Well, it does. And I think it’s darling. My mom would have had a field day with you. You’re so easy to read.”“So what am I thinking?”Doris hesitated. “Well, like I said, my gifts are different than my mother’s. She could read you like a book. And besides, I don’t want to scare you.”“Go ahead. Scare me.”“All right,” she said. She took a long look at him. “Think of something I couldn’t possibly know. And remember, my gift isn’t reading minds. I just get . . . hints now and then, and only if they’re really strong feelings.”“All right,” Jeremy said, playing along. “You do realize, however, that you’re hedging yourself here.”“Oh, hush, now.” Doris reached for his hands. “Let me hold these, okay?”Jeremy nodded. “Sure.”“Now think of something personal I couldn’t possibly know.”“Okay.”She squeezed his hand. “Seriously. Right now you’re just playing with me.”“Fine,” he said, “I’ll think of something.”Jeremy closed his eyes. He thought of the reason Maria had finally left him, and for a long moment, Doris said nothing at all. Instead, she simply looked at him, as if trying to get him to say something.He’d been through this before. Countless times. He knew enough to say nothing, and when she remained silent, he knew he had her.

[Dalyia]

She suddenly jerked—unsurprising, Jeremy thought, since it went with the show—and immediately afterward, released his hands.Jeremy opened his eyes and looked at her.“And?”Doris was looking at him strangely. “Nothing,” she said.“Ah,” Jeremy added, “I guess it’s not in the cards today, huh?”“Like I said, I’m a diviner.” She smiled, almost as if in apology. “But I can definitely say that you’re not pregnant.”He chuckled. “I’d have to say that you’re right about that.”She smiled at him before glancing toward the table. She brought her eyes up again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was inappropriate.”“No big deal,” he said, meaning it.“No,” she insisted. She met his eyes and reached for his hand again. She squeezed it softly. “I’m very sorry.”Jeremy wasn’t quite sure how to react when she took his hand again, but he was struck by the compassion in her expression.And Jeremy had the unnerving feeling that she had guessed more about his personal history than she could possibly know.Psychic abilities, premonitions, and intuition are simply a product of the interplay among experience, common sense, and accumulated knowledge. Most people greatly underestimate the amount of information they learn in a lifetime, and the human brain is able to instantly correlate the information in a way that no other species—or machine—is capable of doing.The brain, however, learns to discard the vast majority of information it receives, since, for obvious reasons, it’s not critical to remember everything. Of course, some people have better memories than others, a fact that often displays itself in testing scenarios, and the ability to train memories is well documented. But even the worst of students remember 99.99 percent of everything they come across in life. Yet, it’s that 0.01 percent that most frequently distinguishes one person from the next. For some people, it manifests itself in the ability to memorize trivia, or excel as doctors, or accurately interpret financial data as a hedge-fund billionaire. For other people, it’s an ability to read others, and those people—with an innate ability to draw on memories, common sense, and experience and to codify it quickly and accurately—manifest an ability that strikes others as being supernatural.But what Doris did was . . . beyond that somehow, Jeremy thought. She knew. Or at least, that was Jeremy’s first inclination, until he retreated to the logical explanation of what had happened.And, in fact, nothing had really happened, he reminded himself. Doris hadn’t said anything; it was simply the way she looked at him that made him think she understood those unknowable things. And that belief was coming from him, not from Doris.Science held the real answers, but even so, she seemed like a nice person. And if she believed in her abilities, so what? To her, it probably did seem supernatural.Again, she seemed to read him almost immediately.“Well, I suppose I just confirmed that I’m nuts, huh?”“No, not really,” Jeremy said.She reached for her sandwich. “Well, anyway, since we’re supposed to be enjoying this fine meal, maybe it’s better if we just visited for a while. Is there anything I can tell you?”“Tell me about the town of Boone Creek,” he said.“Like what?”“Oh, anything, really. I figure that since I’m going to be here for a few days, I might as well know a little about the place.”They spent the next half hour discussing . . . well, not much of anything as far as Jeremy was concerned. Even more than Tully, Doris seemed to know everything that was going on in town. Not because of her supposed abilities—and she admitted as much— but because information passed through small towns like prune juice through an infant.Doris talked almost nonstop. He learned who was seeing whom, who was hard to work with and why, and the fact that the minister at the local Pentecostal Church was having an affair with one of his parishioners. Most important, according to Doris, at least, was that if his car happened to break down, he should never call Trevor’s Towing, since Trevor would probably be drunk, no matter what time of day.“The man is a menace on the roads,” Doris declared. “Everyone knows it, but because his father is the sheriff, no one ever does anything about it. But then, I suppose you shouldn’t be surprised. Sheriff Wanner has his own problems, what with his gambling debts.”“Ah,” Jeremy said in response, as if he were up on all the goings-on in town. “Makes sense.”For a moment, neither of them said anything. In the lull, he glanced at his watch.“I suppose you need to be going,” Doris said.He reached for the recorder and shut it off before sliding it back into his jacket. “Probably. I wanted to swing by the library before it closes to see what it has to offer.”“Well, lunch was on me. It’s not often that we have a famous visitor come by.”“A brief appearance on Primetime doesn’t make a person famous.”“I know that. But I was talking about your column.”“You’ve read it?”“Every month. My husband, bless his heart, used to tinker in the garage and he loved the magazine. And after he passed, I just didn’t have the heart to cancel the subscription. I sort of picked up where he left off. You’re a pretty smart fellow.”“Thanks,” he said.She stood from the table and began leading him from the restaurant. The remaining patrons, only a few now, looked up to watch them. It went without saying that they’d heard every word, and as soon as Jeremy and Doris had stepped outside, they began to murmur among themselves. This, everyone immediately decided, was exciting stuff.“Did she say he’d been on television?” one asked.“I think I’ve seen him on one of those talk shows.”“He’s definitely not a doctor,” added another. “I heard him talking about a magazine article.”“Wonder how Doris knows him. Did you happen to catch that?”“Well, he seemed nice enough.”“I just think he’s plain old dreamy,” offered Rachel.Meanwhile, Jeremy and Doris paused on the porch, unaware of the stir they’d caused inside.“I assume you’re staying at Greenleaf?” Doris inquired. When Jeremy nodded, she went on. “Do you know where they are? They’re kind of out in the backcountry.”“I have a map,” Jeremy said, trying to sound as if he’d been prepared all along. “I’m sure I can find it. But how about directions to the library?”“Sure,” Doris said, “that’s just around the corner.” She motioned up the road. “Do you see the brick building there? The one with the blue awnings?”Jeremy nodded.“Take a left and go through the next stop sign. At the first street after the stop sign, turn right. The library’s on the corner just up the way. It’s a big white building. Used to be the Middleton House, which belonged to Horace Middleton, before the county bought it.”“They didn’t build a new library?”“It’s a small town, Mr. Marsh, and besides, it’s plenty big. You’ll see.”Jeremy held out his hand. “Thank you. You’ve been great. And lunch was delicious.”“I do my best.”“Would you mind if I come back with more questions? You seem to have a pretty good handle on things.”“Anytime you want to talk, you just come by. I’m always available. But I will ask that you don’t write anything that makes us look like a bunch of bumpkins. A lot of people—me included— love this place.”“All I write is the truth.”“I know,” she said. “That’s why I contacted you. You have a trustworthy face, and I’m sure you’ll put the legend to bed once and for all in the way it should be done.”Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “You don’t think there are ghosts out at Cedar Creek?”“Oh, heavens no. I know there’s no spirits there. I’ve been saying that for years, but no one listens to me.”Jeremy looked at her curiously. “Then why did you ask me to come down?”“Because people don’t know what’s going on, and they’ll keep believing until they find an explanation. You see, ever since that article in the paper about the people from Duke, the mayor has been promoting the idea like crazy, and strangers have been coming from all over hoping to see the lights. To be honest, it’s causing a lot of problems—the place is already crumbling and the damage is getting worse.”She trailed off for a moment before continuing. “Of course, the sheriff won’t do anything about the teenagers who hang out there or the strangers who traipse through without a thought in their heads. He and the mayor are hunting buddies, and besides, nearly everyone around here except me thinks that promoting the ghosts is a good idea. Ever since the textile mill and the mine closed, the town’s been drying up, and I think they think of this idea as some sort of salvation.”Jeremy glanced toward his car, then back to Doris again, thinking about what she’d just said. It made perfect sense, but . . .“You do realize that you’re changing your story from what you wrote in the letter.”“No,” she said, “I’m not. All I said was that there were mysterious lights in the cemetery that were credited to an old legend, that most people think ghosts are involved, and that the kids from Duke couldn’t figure out what the lights really were. All that’s true. Read the letter again if you don’t believe me. I don’t lie, Mr. Marsh. I may not be perfect, but I don’t lie.”“So why do you want me to discredit the story?”“Because it’s not right,” she said easily, as if the answer was common sense. “People always traipsing through, tourists coming down to camp out—it’s just not very respectful for the departed, even if the cemetery is abandoned. The folks buried out there deserve to rest in peace. And combining it with something worthy like the Historic Homes Tour is just plain old wrong. But I’m a voice in the wilderness these days.”Jeremy thought about what she’d said as he pushed his hands into his pockets. “Can I be frank?” he asked.She nodded, and Jeremy shifted from one foot to the other. “If you believe your mom was a psychic, and that you can divine water and the sex of babies, it just seems . . .”When he trailed off, she stared at him.“Like I’d be the first to believe in ghosts?”Jeremy nodded.“Well, actually, I do. I just don’t believe they’re out there in the cemetery.”“Why not?”“Because I’ve been out there and I don’t feel the presence of spirits.”“So you can do that, too?”She shrugged without answering. “Can I be frank now?”“Sure.”“One day, you’re going to learn something that can’t be explained with science. And when that happens, your life’s going to change in ways you can’t imagine.”He smiled. “Is that a promise?”“Yes,” she said, “it is.” She paused, looking him in the eye. “And I have to say that I really enjoyed our lunch. It isn’t often that I have the company of such a charming young man. It almost makes me feel young again.”“I had a wonderful time, too.”He turned to leave. The clouds had drifted in while they’d been eating. The sky, while not ominous, looked as if winter wanted to settle in, and Jeremy tugged at his collar as he made his way to the car.“Mr. Marsh?” Doris called out from behind him.Jeremy turned. “Yes?”“Say hi to Lex for me.”“Lex?”“Yeah,” she said. “At the reference desk in the library. That’s who you should ask for.”Jeremy smiled. “Will do.”

[Dalyia]

True BelieverFourThe library turned out to be a massive Gothic structure, completely different from any other building in town. To Jeremy, it looked as if it had been plucked from a hillside in Romania and dropped in Boone Creek on a drunken dare.The building occupied most of the block, and its two stories were adorned with tall, narrow windows, a sharply angled roof, and an arched wooden front door, complete with oversize door knockers. Edgar Allan Poe would have loved the place, but despite the haunted house architecture, the townsfolk had done what they could to make it seem more inviting. The brick exterior—no doubt reddish brown at one point—had been painted white, black shutters had been put up to frame the windows, and beds of pansies lined the walkway out front and circled the flagpole. A friendly, carved sign with italicized gold script welcomed all to boone creek library. Still, the overall appearance was jarring. It was, Jeremy thought, kind of like visiting a rich kid’s elegant brownstone in the city, only to have the butler meet you at the door with balloons and a squirt gun.In the cheerfully lit, pale yellow foyer—at least the building was consistent in its inconsistency—sat an L-shaped desk, the long leg stretching to the rear of the building, where Jeremy saw a large glassed-in room devoted to children. To the left were the bathrooms, and to the right, beyond another glass wall, was what appeared to be the main area. Jeremy nodded and waved to the elderly woman behind the desk. She smiled and waved back before returning to the book she was reading. Jeremy pushed through the heavy glass doors to the main area, proud that he was getting the hang of the way things worked down here.In the main area, however, he felt a surge of disappointment. Beneath bright fluorescent lights were only six shelves of books, set relatively close together, in a room that wasn’t much larger than his apartment. In the nearest two corners were outdated computers, and off to the right was a sitting area that housed a small collection of periodicals. Four small tables were scattered throughout the room, and he saw only three people browsing the shelves, including one elderly man with a hearing aid who was stacking books on the shelves. Looking around, Jeremy had the sinking suspicion that he’d purchased more books in his lifetime than the library had.He made his way to the reference desk, but not surprisingly, there wasn’t anyone behind it. He paused at the desk, waiting for Lex. Turning around to lean against it, he figured that Lex must have been the white-haired man putting the books away, but the man didn’t make a move toward him.He glanced at his watch. Two minutes after that, he glanced at it again.Another two minutes later, after Jeremy had cleared his throat loudly, the man finally noticed him. Jeremy nodded and waved, making sure the man knew he needed help, but instead of moving toward him, the man waved and nodded before going back to stacking books. No doubt he was trying to stay ahead of the rush. Southern efficiency was legendary, Jeremy observed. Very impressive, this place.In the small, cluttered office on the upper floor of the library, she stared through the window. She’d known he would be coming.Doris had called the moment he left Herbs and told her about the man in black from New York City, who was here to write about the ghosts in the cemetery.She shook her head. Figures that he would have listened to Doris. Once she got an idea about something, she tended to be pretty persuasive, with few concerns about the possible backlash an article like this could cause. She’d read Mr. Marsh’s stories before and knew exactly how he operated. It wouldn’t be enough to prove that ghosts weren’t involved—and she had no doubt about that—but Mr. Marsh wouldn’t stop there. He’d interview people in his own charming way, get them to open up, and then he’d pick and choose before twisting the truth in whatever way he wanted. Once he was finished with the hatchet job that would pose as an article, people around the country would assume that everyone who lived here was gullible, foolish, and superstitious.Oh, no. She didn’t like the fact he was here at all.She closed her eyes, absently twirling strands of her dark hair between her fingers. The thing was, she didn’t like people traipsing through the cemetery, either. Doris was right: it was disrespectful, and ever since those kids from Duke came down and the article showed up in the paper, things had been getting out of hand. Why couldn’t it have just been kept quiet? Those lights had been around for decades, and though everyone knew about them, no one really cared. Sure, once in a while, a few people might head out to take a look—mostly those who’d been drinking at the Lookilu, or teenagers—but T-shirts? Coffee mugs? Cheesy postcards? Combining it with the Historic Homes Tour?She didn’t quite understand the whole reason behind the phenomenon. Why was it so important to increase tourism around here, anyway? Sure, the money was attractive, but people didn’t live in Boone Creek because they wanted to get rich. Well, most of them, anyway. There were always a few people out to make a buck, beginning first and foremost with the mayor. But she’d always believed that most people lived here for the same reason she did: because of the awe she felt when the setting sun turned the Pamlico River to a golden yellow ribbon, because she knew and trusted her neighbors, because people could let their kids run around at night without worrying that something bad would happen to them. In a world growing busier by the minute, Boone Creek was a town that hadn’t even attempted to keep up with the modern world, and that’s what made it special.That’s why she was here, after all. She loved everything about the town: the smell of pine and salt on early spring mornings, the sultry summer evenings that made her skin glisten, the fiery glow of autumn leaves. But most of all, she loved the people and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She trusted them, she talked to them, she liked them. Of course, a number of her friends hadn’t felt the same way, and after heading off to college, they’d never returned. She, too, had moved away for a while, but even then, she’d always known that she would come back; a good thing, it turned out, since she’d been worried about Doris’s health for the past two years. And she also knew she would be the librarian, just as her mother had been, in the hope of making the library something that would make the town proud.No, it wasn’t the most glamorous job, nor did it pay much. The library was a work in progress, but first impressions were deceptive. The bottom floor housed contemporary fiction only, while the top floor held classic fiction and nonfiction, additional titles by contemporary authors, and unique collections. She doubted whether Mr. Marsh even realized the library was dispersed through both stories, since the stairs were accessed in the rear of the building, near the children’s room. One of the drawbacks to having the library housed in a former residence was that the architecture wasn’t designed for public traffic. But the place suited her.Her office upstairs was almost always quiet, and it was close to her favorite part of the library. A small room next to hers contained the rare titles, books she’d accumulated through estate and garage sales, donations, and visits to bookstores and dealers throughout the state, a project her mother had started. She also had a growing collection of historic manuscripts and maps, some of which dated from before the Revolutionary War. This was her passion. She was always on the lookout for something special, and she wasn’t above using charm, guile, or simple pleading to get what she wanted. When that didn’t work, she stressed the tax deduction angle, and—because she had worked hard to cultivate contacts with tax and estate lawyers throughout the South—she often received items before other libraries even found out about them. While she didn’t have the resources of Duke, Wake Forest, or the University of North Carolina, her library was regarded as one of the best small libraries in the state, if not the country.And that’s how she viewed it now. Her library, like this was her town. And right now a stranger was waiting for her, a stranger who wanted to write a story that just might not be good for her people.Oh, she’d seen him drive up, all right. Seen him get out of the car and head around front. She’d shaken her head, recognizing the confident city swagger almost immediately. He was just another in a long line of people visiting from someplace more exotic, people who believed they had a deeper understanding of what the real world was like. People who claimed that life could be far more exciting, more fulfilling, if only you moved away. A few years ago, she’d fallen for someone who believed such things, and she refused to be taken in by such ideas again.A cardinal landed on the outside windowsill. She watched it, clearing her head, and then sighed. Okay, she decided, she should probably go talk to Mr. Marsh from New York. He was, after all, waiting for her. He’d come all this way, and southern hospitality— as well as her job—required her to help him find what he needed. More important, though, she might be able to keep an eye on him. She’d be able to filter the information in a way that he’d understand the good parts about living here, too.She smiled. Yes, she could handle Mr. Marsh. And besides, she had to admit that he was rather good-looking, even if he couldn’t be trusted.Jeremy Marsh looked almost bored.He was pacing one of the aisles, his arms crossed, glancing at the contemporary titles. Every now and then he frowned, as if wondering why he couldn’t find anything by Dickens, Chaucer, or Austen. If he asked about it, she wondered how he would react if she responded with “Who?” Knowing him—and she readily admitted she didn’t know him at all but was simply making an assumption here—he’d probably just stare at her all tongue-tied like he had when she saw him earlier in the cemetery. Men, she thought. Always predictable.She tugged at her sweater, procrastinating for one last moment before starting toward him. Keep it professional, she reminded herself, you’re on a mission here.“I suppose you’re looking for me,” she announced, forcing a tight smile.Jeremy glanced up at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, he seemed frozen in place. Then all at once he smiled as recognition set in. It seemed friendly enough—his dimple was cute—but the smile was a little too practiced and wasn’t enough to offset the confidence in his eyes.“You’re Lex?” he asked.“It’s short for ‘Lexie.’ Lexie Darnell. It’s what Doris calls me.”“You’re the librarian?”“When I’m not hanging out in cemeteries and ignoring staring men, I try to be.”“Well, I’ll be,” he said, trying to drawl the words like Doris had.She smiled and moved past him to straighten a few books on the shelf that he’d examined.“Your accent doesn’t cut it, Mr. Marsh,” she said. “You sound like you’re trying out letters for a crossword puzzle.”He laughed easily, unfazed by her comment. “You think so?” he asked.Definitely a ladies’ man, she thought.“I know so.” She continued straightening the books. “Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Marsh? I suppose you’re looking for information on the cemetery?”“My reputation precedes me.”“Doris called to tell me you were on the way.”“Ah,” he said. “I should have known. She’s an interesting woman.”“She’s my grandmother.”Jeremy’s eyebrows shot up. L-I-B, he thought, keeping it to himself this time. But wasn’t that interesting? “Did she tell you about our delightful lunch?” he asked.“I really didn’t ask.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noting that his dimple was the kind that made little kids want to poke their finger in it. Not that she cared one way or the other, of course. She finished with the books and faced him, keeping her tone steady. “Believe it or not, I’m fairly busy at the moment,” she asserted. “I’ve got a load of paperwork that I need to finish today. What type of information were you looking for?”He shrugged. “Anything that might help me with the history of the cemetery and the town. When the lights started. Any studies that have been done in the past. Any stories that mention the legends. Old maps. Information on Riker’s Hill and the topography. Historical records. Things like that.” He paused, studying those violet eyes again. They were really quite exotic. And here she was right next to him, instead of walking away.

[Dalyia]

He found that interesting, too.“I have to say, it’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning against the shelf beside her.She stared at him. “Excuse me?”“Seeing you at the cemetery and now here. Your grandmother’s letter, which brought me down here. It’s quite a coincidence,don’t you think?”“I can’t say I’ve given it much thought.”Jeremy was not to be deterred. He was seldom deterred, especially when things were interesting. “Well, since I’m not from around here, maybe you could tell me what people do for relaxation in these parts. I mean, is there a place to get some coffee? Or a bite to eat?” He paused. “Like maybe a little later, after you’re off?”Wondering if she’d heard him right, she blinked. “Are you asking me out?” she asked.“Only if you’re available.”“I think,” she said, regaining her composure, “I’ll have to pass. But thank you for the offer.”She held his gaze steady until he finally raised his hands.“Okay, fair enough,” he said, his tone easy. “But you can’t blame a guy for trying.” He smiled, the dimple flashing again. “Now, would it be possible to get started with the research? If you’re not too busy with the paperwork, I mean. I can always come back tomorrow if it’s more convenient.”“Is there anything you’d like to start with in particular?”“I was hoping I might read the article that appeared in the local paper. I haven’t had a chance yet. You wouldn’t happen to have it around here, would you?”She nodded. “It’ll probably be on the microfiche. We’ve been working with the paper for the last couple of years, so I shouldn’t have any trouble digging it up.”“Great,” he said. “And information about the town in general?”“It’s in the same place.”He glanced around for a moment, wondering where to go. She started toward the foyer.“This way, Mr. Marsh. You’ll find what you need is upstairs.”“There’s an upstairs?”She turned, speaking over her shoulder. “If you follow me, I promise to show you.”Jeremy had to step quickly to catch up with her. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”She opened the main door and hesitated. “Not at all,” she said, her expression unchanged.“Why were you in the cemetery today?”Instead of answering, she simply stared at him, her expression the same.“I mean, I was just wondering,” Jeremy continued. “I got the impression that few people head out there these days.”Still she said nothing, and in the silence, Jeremy grew curious, then finally uncomfortable.“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked.She smiled and, surprising him, winked before moving through the open doorway. “I said you could ask, Mr. Marsh. I didn’t say that I would answer.As she strode ahead of him, all Jeremy could do was stare. Oh, she was something, wasn’t she? Confident and beautiful and charming all at once, and that was after she’d shot down the idea of going on a date.Maybe Alvin had been right, he thought. Maybe there was something about southern belles that could drive a guy crazy.They made their way through the foyer, past the children’s reading room, and Lexie led him up the stairs. Pausing at the top, Jeremy looked around.L-I-B, he thought again.There was more to the place than just a few rickety shelves stocked with new books. A lot more. And lots of Gothic feeling, too, right down to the dusty smell and the private-library atmosphere. With oak-paneled walls, mahogany flooring, and burgundy curtains, the cavernous, open room stood in stark contrast to the area downstairs. Overstuffed chairs and imitation Tiffany lamps stood in corners. Along the far wall was a stone fireplace, with a painting hung above it, and the windows, narrow though they were, offered just enough sunlight to give the place an almost homey feel.“Now I understand,” Jeremy observed. “Downstairs was just the appetizer. This is where the real action is.”She nodded. “Most of our daily visitors come in for recent titles by authors they know, so I set up the area downstairs for their convenience. The room downstairs is small because it used to be our offices before we had it converted.”“Where are the offices now?”“Over there,” she said, pointing behind the far shelf. “Next to the rare-book room.”“Wow,” he said. “I’m impressed.”She smiled. “Come on—I’ll show you around first and tell you about the place.”For the next few minutes, they chatted as they meandered among the shelves. The home, he learned, had been built in 1874 by Horace Middleton, a captain who’d made his fortune shipping timber and tobacco. He’d built the home for his wife and seven children but, sadly, had never lived here. Right before completion, his wife passed away, and he decided to move with his family to Wilmington. The house was empty for years, then occupied by another family until the 1950s, when it was finally sold to the Historical Society, who later sold it to the county for use as the library.Jeremy listened intently as she talked. They walked slowly, Lexie interrupting her own story to point out some of her favorite books. She was, he soon came to learn, even more well read than he, especially in the classics, but it made sense, now that he thought about it. Why else would you become a librarian if you didn’t love books? As if knowing what he was thinking, she paused and motioned to a shelf plaque with her finger.“This section here is probably more up your alley, Mr. Marsh.”He glanced at the plaque and noted the words supernatural/ witchcraft. He slowed but didn’t stop, taking time only to note a few of the titles, including one about the prophecies of Michel de Nostredame. Nostradamus, as he’s commonly known, published one hundred exceptionally vague predictions in 1555 in a book called Centuries, the first of ten that he wrote in his lifetime. Of the thousand prophecies Nostradamus published, only fifty or so are still quoted today, making for a paltry 5 percent success rate.Jeremy pushed his hands into his pockets. “I could probably give you some good recommendations, if you’d like.”“By all means. I’m not too proud to admit I need help.”“You ever read this stuff?”“No. Frankly, I don’t find the topic all that interesting. I mean, I’ll thumb through these books when they come in, looking at the pictures and skimming some of the conclusions to see if they’re appropriate, but that’s about it.”“Good idea,” he said. “You’re probably better off that way.”“It’s amazing, though. There are some people in town who don’t want me to stock any books on these subjects. Especially the ones on witchcraft. They think they’re a bad influence on the young.”“They are. They’re all lies.”She smiled. “That may be true, but you’re missing the point. They want them removed because they believe that it’s really possible to conjure up evil and that kids who read this stuff might accidentally inspire Satan to run amok in our town.”Jeremy nodded. “Impressionable youth in the Bible Belt. Makes sense.”“Don’t quote me on that, though. You know we’re off the record here, right?”He raised his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”For a few moments, they walked in silence. The winter sun could barely pierce the grayish clouds, and Lexie paused in front of a few lamps to turn them on. A yellowish glow spread through the room. As she leaned over, he caught a flowery trace of the perfume she was wearing.Jeremy absently motioned toward the portrait above the fireplace. “Who’s this?”Lexie paused, following his gaze. “My mother,” she said.Jeremy looked at her questioningly, and Lexie drew a long breath.“After the original library burned to the ground in 1964, my mother took it upon herself to find a new building and begin a new collection, since everyone else in town had written off the idea as impossible. She was only twenty-two, but she spent years lobbying county and state officials for funds, she held bake sales, and she went door-to-door to the local businesses, pleading with them until they gave in and wrote a check. It took years, but she finally did it.”As she spoke, Jeremy found himself glancing from Lexie to the portrait and back again. There was, he thought, a resemblance, one that he should have noticed right away. Especially the eyes. While the violet color had struck him immediately, now that he was close, he noticed that Lexie’s had a touch of light blue around the rims that somehow reminded him of the color of kindness. Though the portrait had tried to capture the unusual color, it wasn’t close to the real thing.When Lexie finished with her story, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She seemed to do that a lot, he noticed. Probably a nervous habit. Which meant, of course, that he was making her nervous. He considered that a good sign.Jeremy cleared his throat. “She sounds like a fascinating woman,” he said. “I’d love to meet her.”Lexie’s smile flickered slightly, as if there was more to say, but instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I’ve rambled on long enough. You’re here to work and I’m keeping you from it.” She nodded toward the rare-book room. “I may as well show you where you’ll be cooped up for the next few days.”“You think it’ll take that long?”“You wanted historical references and the article, right? I’d love to tell you that all the information has been indexed, but it hasn’t. You have a bit of tedious research ahead of you.”“There aren’t that many books to peruse, are there?”“It’s not just books, although we have plenty of those you might find useful. My suspicion is that you’ll find some of the information you’re looking for in the diaries. I’ve made it a point to collect as many as I can from people who lived in the area, and there’s quite a collection now. I’ve even got a few dating back to the seventeenth century.”“You wouldn’t happen to have Hettie Doubilet’s, would you?”“No. But I do have a couple belonging to people who lived in Watts Landing, and even one by someone who viewed himself as an amateur historian on the local area. You can’t check them out of the library, though, and it’ll take some time to get through them. They’re barely legible.”“I can’t wait,” he said. “I live for tedious research.”She smiled. “I’d be willing to bet you’re quite good at it.”He gazed at her archly. “Oh, I am. I’m good at a lot of things.”“I have no doubt about that, Mr. Marsh.”“Jeremy,” he said. “Call me Jeremy.”She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”“Oh, it’s a great idea,” he said. “Trust me.”She snorted. Always on the make, this one. “It’s a tempting offer,” she said. “Really. And I’m flattered. But even so, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, Mr. Marsh.”Jeremy watched with amusement as she turned away, thinking that he’d met her type before. Women who used wit to keep men at a distance usually had a sharp edge to them, but somehow with her, it came across as almost . . . well, charming and good-natured. Maybe it was the accent. The way she sang her words, she could probably talk a cat into swimming across the river.No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t just the accent. Or her wit, which he enjoyed. Or even her startling eyes and the way she looked in her jeans. Okay, that was part of it, but there was more. It was . . . what? He didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t said much of anything about herself. She talked a lot about books and her mother, but he knew nothing else about her at all.He was here to write an article, but with a sudden sinking sensation, he realized that he’d rather spend the next few hours with Lexie. He wanted to walk with her through downtown Boone Creek or, better yet, dine with her in a romantic, out-of-the-way restaurant, where the two of them could be alone and get to know each other. She was mysterious, and he liked mysteries. Mysteries always led to surprises, and as he followed her toward the rare-book room, he couldn’t help but think that his trip down south had just become a lot more interesting.The rare-book room was small, probably a former bedroom, and was further divided by a low wooden wall that ran from one side of the room to the other. The walls had been painted desert beige, the trim was white, and the hardwood floor was scuffed but unwarped. Behind the wall were tall shelves of books; in one corner was a glass-topped case that looked like a treasure chest, with a television and VCR beside it, no doubt for tapes that referenced North Carolina’s history. Opposite the door was a window with an antique rolltop desk beneath it. A small table with a microfiche machine stood just off to Jeremy’s right, and Lexie motioned toward it. Going to the rolltop desk, she opened the bottom drawer, then returned with a small cardboard box.Setting the box on the desk, she riffled through the transparent plates and pulled one out. Leaning over him, she turned the machine on and slid the transparency in, moving it around until the article was front and center. Again, he caught a trace of her perfume, and a moment later, the article was in front of him.“You can start with this,” she said. “I’m going to spend a few minutes looking around to see if I can find some more material for you.”“That was fast,” he said.“It wasn’t that hard. I remembered the date of the article.”“Impressive.”“Not really. It appeared on my birthday.”“Twenty-six?”“Somewhere around there. Now, let me see what else I can find.”She turned and headed through the swinging doors again.“Twenty-five?” he called out.“Nice try, Mr. Marsh. But I’m not playing.”He laughed. This was definitely going to be an interesting week.Jeremy turned his attention to the article and began to read. It was written just the way he’d expected—heavy on hype and sensationalism, with enough haughtiness to suggest that everyone who lived in Boone Creek always knew the place was extra special.He learned very little that was new. The article covered the original legend, describing it in much the same way that Doris had, albeit with some minor variation. In the article, Hettie visited the county commissioners, not the mayor, and she was from Louisiana, not the Caribbean. What was interesting was that she supposedly passed the curse outside the doors of the town hall, which caused a riot, and she was brought to the jail. When the guards went to release her the following morning, they discovered that she’d vanished, as if into thin air. After that, the sheriff refused to try to arrest her again, because he feared that she would put a curse on his family as well. But all legends were like that: stories got passed around and altered slightly to make them more compelling. And he had to admit, the part about vanishing was interesting. He’d have to find out if she’d actually been arrested and if she’d really escaped.Jeremy glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Lexie yet.Looking back at the screen, he figured he might as well add to what Doris had told him about Boone Creek, and he moved the glass plate housing of the microfiche, watching as other articles popped into view. There was a week’s worth of news in a total of four pages—the paper came out every Tuesday—and he quickly learned what the town had to offer. It was scintillating to read, unless you wanted coverage of anything happening anywhere else in the world or anything that might even keep your eyes open. He read about a young man who landscaped the front of the VFW building to earn the right to be an Eagle Scout, a new dry cleaner opening on Main Street, and a recap of a town meeting where the top of the agenda was to decide whether or not to put a stop sign on Leary Point Road. Two days of front-page coverage were devoted to an automobile wreck, in which two local men had sustained minor injuries.He leaned back in his chair.So the town was just what he expected. Sleepy and quiet and special in the way that all small communities claimed to be, but nothing more than that. It was the kind of town that continued to exist more as a result of habit than any unique quality and would fade from existence in coming decades as the population aged. There was no future here, not long-term, anyway . . .“Reading about our exciting town?” she asked.He jumped, surprised he hadn’t heard her come up behind him and feeling strangely sad about the plight of things here. “I am. And it is exciting, I must admit. That Eagle Scout was something. Whew.”“Jimmie Telson,” she said. “He’s actually a great kid. Straight As and a pretty good basketball player. His dad died last year, but he’s still volunteering around town, even though he has a part-time job at Pete’s Pizza now. We’re proud of him.”“I’m sold on the kid.”She smiled, thinking, Sure you are. “Here,” she said, setting a stack of books beside him, “these should be enough to get you started.”He scanned the dozen or so titles. “I thought you said that I’d be better off using the diaries. All of these are general history.”“I know. But don’t you want to understand the period they were set in first?”He hesitated. “I suppose,” he admitted.“Good,” she said. She absently tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. “And I found a book of ghost stories that you might be interested in. There’s a chapter in there that discusses Cedar Creek.”“That’s great.”“Well, I’ll let you get started, then. I’ll be back in a while to see if there’s anything else you need.”“You’re not going to stay?”“No. Like I said earlier, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do. Now, you can stay in here, or you can sit at one of the tables in the main area. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remove the books from the floor. None of these particular books can be checked out.”“I wouldn’t dare,” he said.“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marsh, I really should go. And keep in mind that even though the library is open until seven, the rare-book room closes at five.”“Even for friends?”“No. I let them stay as long as they want.”“So I’ll see you at seven?”“No, Mr. Marsh. I’ll see you at five.”He laughed. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me stay late.”She raised her eyebrows without answering, then took a couple of steps toward the door.“Lexie?”She turned. “Yes?”“You’ve been a great help so far. Thank you.”She gave a lovely, unguarded smile. “You’re welcome.”Jeremy spent the next couple of hours perusing information on the town. He thumbed through the books one by one, lingering over the photographs and reading sections he thought appropriate.Most of the information covered the early history of the town, and he jotted what he thought were relevant notes on the pad beside him. Of course, he wasn’t sure what was relevant at this point; it was too early to tell, and thus his notes soon covered a couple of pages.He’d learned through experience that the best way to approach a story like this was to begin with what he knew, so . . . what did he know for certain? That the cemetery had been used for over a hundred years without any sightings of mysterious lights. That lights first appeared about a hundred years ago and occurred regularly, but only when it was foggy. That many people had seen them, which meant that the lights were unlikely to be simply a figment of the imagination. And, of course, that the cemetery was now sinking.So even after a couple of hours, he didn’t know much more than when he started. Like most mysteries, it was a puzzle with many disparate pieces. The legend, whether or not Hettie cursed the town, was essentially an attempt to link some pieces into an understandable form. But since the legend had as its basis something false, it meant that some pieces—whatever they were— were being either overlooked or ignored. And that meant, of course, that Lexie had been right. He had to read everything so he wouldn’t miss anything.No problem. This was the enjoyable part, actually. The search for the truth was often more fun than writing up the actual conclusion, and he found himself immersed in the subject. He learned that Boone Creek had been founded in 1729, making it one of the oldest towns in the state, and that for a long time, it was nothing more than a tiny trading village on the banks of the Pamlico River and Boone Creek. Later in the century, it became a minor port in the inland waterway system, and the use of steamboats in the mid1800s accelerated the town’s growth. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the railroad boom hit North Carolina, and forests were leveled while numerous quarries were dug. Again, the town was affected, due to its location as a gateway of sorts to the Outer Banks. After that, the town tended to boom and bust along with the economy of the rest of the state, though the population held steady after around 1930. In the most recent census,