Purgatory, West Virginia
December 13
Finn left Puck’s Diner and zipped his leather jacket; the temperature didn’t reflect the biting chill in the air. He could have sworn it was ten degrees colder than the forty-six degrees that flashed, alternating with the time, on the buzzing electronic sign above the bank. He heard a sound and stopped. It was just a few notes of a sad melody, familiar but strange. As he crossed the road, Finn spotted a boy sitting alone in the alcove of a store with a For Rent sign hanging in the window. The boy looked to be about nine or ten and was rearranging sticks on the concrete. No, not sticks; the boy had taken apart a pan flute and was rearranging the small pipes. When he had connected the pieces of varying lengths in the order he wanted, he held the instrument to his lips and blew a slow line down the small openings. The soulful notes vanished into the wind, and the boy returned to shuffling the pipes.
Finn squatted down next to the kid. “You know, you’re supposed to leave the flute like it is and move your mouth around. It’s a lot less work.”
The child stayed focused on his task. “But then it’s just notes. It’s not music.”
“Where’s your mom?”
The boy looked up then, and Finn was taken aback. He was younger than Finn had first thought. Maybe eight, with a mop of sandy blond hair, an angelic face, and forlorn hazel eyes.
“Don’t see how that’s your business.” The kid returned to his project.
Finn bottled his uncharacteristic concern. “Yeah, me neither.”
“So shove off,” the boy said without looking up.
Finn stood and continued to the pickup. The truck started like an old man getting up from a recliner, but after a couple of tries, the engine sputtered to life.
When he came to the big bend, he slowed and swerved around the bumps and potholes as best he could while looking out for Maybelle’s cottage and the lightning strike that marked the turnoff to his temporary housing. He needn’t have bothered scanning the roadside for either. A blind drunk could have spotted them.
This time, when he drove past, he paused on the shoulder to get a better look. Maybelle’s cottage was painted a bright sunflower yellow. Even with the snow on the ground, Finn could see the expansive garden that made up most of the front yard and the bare bushes that lined the walk. Smoke wisped from the stone chimney, and green painted flower boxes punctuated each window. All the place was missing was a witch baking cookies.
The truck bounced along the road until Finn slammed on the brakes. On the roadside was the mighty, centuries-old oak that had been struck on one side by a lightning bolt. The entire near side was black with burns and tar where someone had filled in the deep gash. The far side appeared healthy, with huge branches covering the gravel drive with a canopy. Finn stared at the majestic tree for a long moment, touching his fingers to his own scarred face.
He stepped on the gas and turned onto the path. The truck slid and lurched on the rocks and ice as the drive quickly turned to nothing more than two long ruts in the dirt. He followed the switchbacks higher and higher until he spied the structure in a clearing near the top of the low mountain. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.
The house really did look like a storybook illustration. It was a teal blue, the paint now faded and peeling. There was a round tower room at the corner and delicate scalloped wood trim across the porch. Finn tried to imagine the sagging window boxes filled with flowers and the porch swing re-secured. He could see Venable Moss’s efforts in every detail.
Finn clomped up the three steps to the porch. On a table by the broken swing, a whittling project sat abandoned. Half of an angel had been carved from the small piece of wood, one feathered wing tucked around her small body, the jackknife open next to it. Finn paused, seeing the door ajar. He pushed it open with his boot, resisting the urge to draw his Sig from the holster under his jacket, and took two steps into the main room. It was colder inside than out, the air misting as he blew out a breath. The one arched window had no glass and was sealed with functional shutters. There was one chair, a high-backed easy chair in a whimsical chintz that had faded to match the creamed-corn shade of the walls. The couch was covered with a canvas tarp, and a few framed photos dotted the mantle. Other than that, the room was empty: no carpet, no TV, no art on the walls.
A pit formed in his gut, the house tapping a well of sadness within him. The headache returned, a steady, stabbing ache behind his eye. Overcome with exhaustion, Finn sat on the couch without removing the canvas. He didn’t remember lying down or falling asleep, but he was on his back when he opened his eyes. Outside, the sun was disappearing behind the tree line.
Standing at the mantle, a man in overalls had his back to the room, examining the few remaining dust-covered photos. Finn sat up, fighting a wave of nausea and reaching for his Sig. The gun sat on the small end table, the magazine and chambered bullet removed.
Without turning, the man said, “I was wondering when you were going to wake up.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Finn demanded.
The man faced him, and Finn took in his thick frame, unkempt gray hair, and kind brown eyes. “Name’s Bud. I’m the mechanic. I could hear your truck from my cabin.” He gestured with his chin toward the back of the property. “Figured it needs some work. My nephew took over my garage in town when I got sidelined with a back injury. Now I just do the odd job here and there.”
The man, Bud, must have sensed Finn’s marginal relief because he continued, “What? Did you think I was robbin’ the place?”
Finn lifted a shoulder. “You just walk into other people’s houses and poke around?”
“Do you?” Bud shot back.
“I’m the hired help. I’m supposed to be here.”
Bud dismissed the comment and took in the peeling wallpaper and worn furnishings. “Nothin’ worth stealin’. When Venable passed, the girls went through the house and took what they wanted. Other than his office, which is locked up tight, there’s not much here. Hell, most folks are scared of the place anyway.” He chuckled. “Think it’s haunted.”
“Is it?” Finn asked.
“Haunted?” Bud laughed again. “I don’t know why Venable would hang around here after he kicked. He certainly didn’t seem too happy livin’ here when he was alive—at the end, that is. Course, maybe he had some unfinished business. Isn’t that why spirits hang around? Unfinished business?” Bud walked over to one of the tall narrow windows flanking the fireplace and looked out.
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Finn said.