When They Fade (11 page)

“We should move on,” Parker says. He gets up and stretches his nonaching muscles. “There's still a ways to go.”

I can't help but think he's right about that, on more levels than one.

Scott's wrong about Sunday night being quiet. From the moment she walks in the door, it's a steady stream of customers. Most of them look like students, with books spread out across tables and laptops open to Word documents full of notes or reference sites. Several look like they've laid claim to their spots and are refusing to move until midterms are over. Their study areas are covered with empty dessert dishes and half-drunk espressos.

Scott takes her order and promises to come over as soon as he has time. It doesn't happen. Caffeine-needy folks keep coming through the doors, and poor Scott, stuck on his own, can barely handle them all. It takes at least two hours before the crowd begins to thin out.

Tatum waits patiently in the corner, surfing the Internet, avoiding Facebook, and doing lots of “research.” There are thousands of websites dedicated to ghost stories. Like Scott said, it's not just ghosts that fit the haunting bill. Poltergeists, banshees, and paranormal readings are in hot demand too. Want to talk to your loved one and find out answers from the great beyond? Talk to a spiritual medium for an outlandish amount of money. To Tatum, a lot of the real-life stories read more like crazed conspiracy theories. She finds a forum section for a haunting website and gets hopeful, but that changes quickly when she discovers it's mostly a bunch of people fighting over the best ways to record nighttime sounds or the best way to trap a ghost so you can take pictures. After several threads on how to tell if your house is being haunted, she begins to think most people are idiots. She finishes reading the comments from a woman who believes the ghost of a hamster possesses her dog, then closes her laptop and shakes her head. Of all the stories she read tonight, not a single one is similar to her own experience. Although plenty of people claim to have seen a ghost or, in a few cases, felt an icy-cold presence, no one has ever talked to one. Mostly they just seem to want to outdo each other on the Internet by bragging about who has seen or believed more.

“Hey.”

She looks up and Scott is right in front of her. “Hey.”

“We're closing. Do you want to stick around for a bit? I've got something for you. Sorry I couldn't stop by earlier. It's crazy.” He points to a disheveled guy packing up his laptop and lowers his voice. “I thought I'd have to call the police on that guy. He nearly had a fit when I told him we're closing. I think he's downed enough coffee and Red Bull tonight to kill a large animal.”

“That's okay,” she says. “And yeah, I can stick around.”

“Cool.”

She waits as he ushers people out the door. The disheveled guy loudly demands the names and addresses of other coffee shops in the area. He then gives Tatum a death look as he heads to his car. She opens her computer and notices it's already nine thirty. Traffic shouldn't be too bad going home, but she's going to be late. For a moment she contemplates texting Mom to let her know, but then Scott reappears with a photo album in his hands. It's thick and stuffed with all sorts of papers.

“So I asked my grandma about your ghost,” he says. “The girl named Molly. And yeah, she knew exactly what I was talking about. It was a murder thing back in the seventies. Big-time serial killer caught in Hannah. Apparently Granny was fascinated by it when she was younger. She even saved all the newspaper clippings.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Nope.” Scott drops the album in front of her. “I guess her friend's father owned the land where they found the girl's body. Granny said she got to see it. The area where she was dumped, I mean—not the actual body. Granny collects all sorts of clippings. She's got an entire guest room filled with stuff. It took us nearly all afternoon to find it. But I managed to convince her to loan it to you for a few days.”

“Wow, thank you.”

“So you think this might be your ghost?”

Tatum holds on tightly to the photo album, almost too nervous to open it. “I don't know. I hope so.”

“Even if it isn't, you should still be able to come up with enough for a story. I read some of the articles. The girl. Her name was Molly Bellamy. Horrible death. Ample ghost-story material there.”

“This is incredible,” Tatum says. She opens the album and begins flipping through it. The first few clippings are of no interest, just local stuff, but by the tenth page she finds the headline. A front-page article dated May 1970. There are two large black-and-white pictures included. The first one is a farmer's field just off Frog Road. A group of small, blurred people move through the mucky acre, obviously police on the scene of the grisly murder. The second picture is one you'd find in a high school yearbook. A girl with long brown hair, smiling at the camera, wearing a peasant blouse and a beaded necklace.

Molly.

There's no mistaking it. This is the girl Tatum talked to. The reality hits her like a brick wall. She's real. Molly's
real.
Even though Tatum has seen her twice now, there's been a small part of her determined to believe she's losing her mind. But seeing this article confirms it. Tatum isn't crazy. She's really been communicating with a ghost.

How insanely amazing is that?

Tatum's hands begin to shake slightly from the excitement. If Scott notices, hopefully he'll think it's because of the three cups of coffee she consumed in the past two hours. Just in case there's potential for her and Scott to be friends, she doesn't need him thinking she's some sort of crazed Goth girl obsessed with death.

“I'm going to close up the shop,” Scott says. “Feel free to stick around and read them. Shouldn't take me long. Half an hour, tops.”

“Sure,” she says. “Thanks again.”

He wanders off, and she can hear the clinking of metal as he cleans up around the espresso machine.

Trying hard to suppress a grin, Tatum reads the first article. It's from the
Washington Post
on May 7, 1970.

The body found Monday in a shallow grave in Hannah, Washington, was positively identified yesterday as that of one sixteen-year-old Molly Bellamy from Dixby, North Carolina. Molly had been reported missing by the people she was traveling with when she failed to return home from a shopping excursion.

The police have no suspects, but are currently going through leads. Anyone with information should contact the local police department.

There's a bunch more to the article. The farmer who found the body is named. The cause of death isn't determined, but Tatum thinks it might have been too gruesome to talk about in the paper. Things were a lot tamer back in those days, or so her nana reminds her whenever she comes over and they see something violent on TV. Of course, Nana also has issues about girls who wear skirts shorter than knee-length and put on makeup. Thankfully Tatum doesn't see Nana often.

She goes on to the next
Washington Post
article. This one talks about how the police have been searching the farmer's field looking for more evidence. They've been putting in endless hours trying to find a lead. The body has been released and sent back to North Carolina, where Molly is to be buried in a plot beside her grandparents. There's another picture of Molly. She's sitting beside a young guy with blond hair the exact same length as hers. He has his arm draped casually across her shoulder. She holds up her hand to block the sunlight while she grins at the camera. The glint of a small diamond ring is on her finger. Tatum instantly recognizes the ring. Molly still wears it.

The caption beneath states it's the last known picture taken of Molly. She died a week later.

Tatum frowns. This can't be right. It goes against everything she's been led to believe all this time. If Molly's body was reclaimed and given a proper burial, why is she haunting? Why hasn't she crossed over or whatever it is ghosts are supposed to do? There's got to be something Tatum's missing. A reason right under her nose.

Tatum reads on. The next article is from October 16, 1971.

Walter Morris, dubbed the Commune Killer, was found guilty yesterday of first-degree murder in the 1970 torture death of Molly Bellamy, a sixteen-year-old from Dixby, North Carolina. Morris was the self-appointed leader of a traveling commune that had no fixed address and had moved across the USA several times over the past five years. Bellamy had joined the group back in 1969 after meeting them at the Woodstock music festival in Bethel, New York. She became engaged to Julian Lapointe, another commune member, a few months later.

Since his arrest one year ago, Morris has been linked to the deaths of six other young girls from across the country, and he is believed to be connected with at least fifteen more. Trial dates have been set for three more cases in Ohio, Tennessee, and Florida. If found guilty, he could face the death penalty under Florida state law.

There's a picture here. Tatum pulls it closer, trying to pick out the expressions in the grainy, faded paper. Walter Morris seated in the middle of a courtroom. His long white hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he's wearing a prison uniform. He looks exactly the way she might have pictured an older hippie in the 1970s. Not that Tatum's an expert, but she went through a Beatles phase a few years ago and ended up downloading a ton of music from that era. She didn't listen to much of it—she found it old and boring—and she was mortified when her dad started singing along to Bob Dylan.

But she remembers looking at some of the album covers and news articles from back then. There was a lot of long hair. And beards. Walter Morris looks exactly like he belonged. And his face isn't that of a monster. His eyes are bright and friendly. His face suggests a friend's father, the kind of person you could talk to politely and never worry about.

He doesn't look like a killer at all.

Tatum looks at the picture again, this time noticing the people in the courtroom behind Walter. In the front row is a group of people who might have been part of the commune Molly traveled with. The expressions on their faces are full of grief. But one person really stands out. A young man, maybe a year or two older than Molly, wears a secondhand suit that's too large for him. Is this Julian? She narrows her eyes, squinting at the creased paper. She goes back to the earlier article, the one with the photo of Molly and the young man. Yes, it's the same guy. Molly's fiancé.

He's very handsome. Long blond hair falls across his shoulders. A slim build. The kind of guy Tatum would probably check out twice. He appears to be looking away from the camera, his eyes sad and longing. He's holding the hand of an older woman beside him. She glares straight into the back of Walter's head, looking as if she wants nothing more but to kill him herself.

“Is that your killer?”

Tatum jumps up in surprise. She didn't hear Scott come back to the table. He's removed his apron and is wearing a jacket. Tatum looks at her computer clock. Half an hour's already passed. It's time to go home.

“Yeah,” she says.

“So does this mean you have enough to write your story?”

“I guess so,” she says. “It's weird, though. I've done a ton of research on ghosts, and this story doesn't add up.”

“Really?” Scott sits down on the chair across from her and picks up the first article. “What's wrong with it?”

“She has no reason to be a ghost. Her body was found. Her killer went to jail. Aren't ghosts supposed to have unfinished business? Every website I look at says that's the reason why they don't pass over. Something to do about being unable to enter heaven if your soul isn't completely at peace.”

“Dunno,” Scott says. “That sounds a bit vague. Wouldn't you think anyone who died young wouldn't be peaceful? I'd like to think I'd be angry if I get hit by a car on the way home.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“Maybe she tripped on her shoelace on the way to the white light.”

“Or got lost.”

“Had to stop and ask for directions?”

Tatum giggles. “Can you get heaven on GPS?”

Scott picks up the newspaper article and studies Molly's picture. His casual smile fades away. “She was really pretty. What a shame.”

“She was engaged,” Tatum says quickly. For some reason her stomach tightens when Scott mentions Molly's looks. Is she jealous? Come on. Of a ghost? What a ridiculous idea.

“Maybe that's her unfinished business,” Scott says. “She's got to come back to get married. Wait, wasn't there already a movie about that? One with Johnny Depp?”

“It's possible,” Tatum says. “Or maybe they got the wrong guy. No, that can't be it.” She thinks about what Molly said to her. She mentioned Walter specifically as the person who did the deed.

“So do you really believe this stuff?” Scott asks. “Ghosts and unfinished business. Or is this just your writerly curiosity coming out?”

Tatum pauses. She knows she should laugh and say she finds the concept of ghosts to be completely stupid. Everyone knows there are no such things. But there's something in the way Scott is looking at her that makes her want to tell the truth. Well, not all the truth.

“Yeah, I guess I am a bit of a believer,” she says.

Scott smiles. “Then I should tell you I totally lied.”

“What do you mean?”

“About my grandma. Remember I said she was all interested in this stuff because it was her friend's farm? I lied. What if I told you that she claims she actually met Molly's ghost in person?”

Tatum nearly drops the cold cup of coffee that's halfway up to her lips. “But what about all these articles? They're all from the seventies.”

Scott smiles. “She got them from her neighbor a few years ago. He was some sort of hoarder. Had an entire bedroom full of papers from all over the place. Magazines. Books. She kept a bunch of them and found all this stuff.”

Tatum leans closer. She's practically on the edge of her seat. She's gone beyond trying to look cool and collected to impress Scott. Her excitement must be contagious because he can't stop grinning.