Slow Dance in Purgatory(8)

Maggie hadn’t seen her uncle except for a handful of times, but she had known immediately that it was him. Roger Carlton had gotten quite portly in his old age; he drank too much, overate, and never got any exercise. Add in a surly disposition, an explosive temper, and a wasted life, and it hadn’t been a huge surprise that he’d succumbed to a massive heart attack at the age of 71.

The sighting only lasted a minute or two. He was just standing at the end of her bed, and she swallowed her scream, shoving her fist in her mouth and trying to make herself as small as possible. Roger didn’t react to her fear or raise his head at all. He held a large book in his palms and was reading intently, holding it close to his face as he peered out from under his ghostly specs. Then he was gone.

The next morning, she considered finding a different room to move into, but knew that the odds of seeing “Uncle” Roger again were probably the same, wherever she went. After all, he had lived in the house for almost fifty years. He had left his fingerprints in every room. Fortunately, the episode had not repeated itself. Maggie wondered if that was what had happened the night before in the hallway at the school. Maybe she had seen one of her ghostie moments, as she called them. Giving them a cute name made her feel more normal and made the episodes less jarring.

“That must be it,” Maggie said out-loud as she rolled out of bed and dug around for her slippers. “That school is as old as the hills. It’s a miracle I haven’t seen a whole ghostie mini-series in that place.”

Maggie laughed at her own lame joke, but knew there were several big holes in her theory. Her past experiences seeing ghosts had never involved blaring music or chores being miraculously completed. Most of the other ‘ghosts’ had never been aware of her at all. This one had been startled…and somewhat aggressive. Maggie didn’t want to think about it anymore, so she pushed the unsettling event to the far corners of her tired teenage brain and headed off for morning dance practice.





3


“GONE”

Ferlin Huskey - 1957





August, 1958




Johnny watched them cover his brother’s body with a white sheet. Johnny raged and argued with the doctor, demanding that he do something. The doc didn’t even flinch when Johnny got in his face and screamed. Roger Carlton, that bastard, stood huddled with his parents not far from where the doc, who also apparently moonlighted as the county coroner, declared Billy dead. The police were questioning Roger about the gun, which was conveniently still clutched in Billy’s right hand, and about the large blood stain on the floor where Johnny had lain. Where Johnny’s body should have been but wasn’t.

“What did you see after they fell over the balcony, son?” the Police Chief repeated the question he had already asked Roger at least once.

“I told you! Billy was waving the gun around. I heard it go off, and I’m pretty sure he shot Johnny. Johnny grabbed Billy, and they fell over and landed right there! I saw them both lying there.” Roger waved his hand toward where they were loading Billy’s body on a wheeled gurney. “Neither of them was moving. I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I ran out front for help.”

“So where do you think Johnny is?” Chief Bailey asked Roger again.

“I don’t know! Why don’t you all go look for him?” Roger yelled, frustrated. His parents shushed and patted, and his father’s face got red as he stepped between the chief and his rattled son.

“Chief Bailey, he’s told you what he knows. The Kinross boy obviously wasn’t as hurt as his brother. He’s obviously run off somewhere. He’s probably afraid he’s going to get in trouble.”

“Hmmm. I guess that could be it, Mayor,” Chief Bailey replied deferentially, “but that’s an awfully big puddle of blood, and it obviously didn’t come from Billy Kinross. Doc said the fall probably broke Billy’s neck, killing him instantly. There was a little blood beneath Billy’s head, and he had blood on his shirt, probably from his brother falling against him, but nowhere else. Plus, you would think if Johnny Kinross walked on out of here, he’d have left a pretty good trail, considering the amount of blood he had already lost.”

Mayor Carlton shifted his weight uncomfortably. There was no arguing with that. There was no blood leading away from the large maroon pool now marking the center of the shiny new lobby. It was clear that someone had once lain in the blood, but it was not smeared or marred in any other way.

Johnny looked down at his chest. His tee shirt had been soaked in blood when he'd lain beside Billy. There had been a singed hole where the bullet had ripped through his shirt and burrowed itself into his chest. His shirt was now as white and hole free as when he had put it on earlier that evening. He lifted his shirt up and looked at his flat, smooth torso. It too was free of blood. He ran his hand across his chest and down his stomach. There was no wound. Not a single mark blemished his skin, and he felt no pain. He had felt that bullet hit him. He’d seen the look on Billy’s face as he’d fallen into his arms. Billy.

Johnny cried out and grabbed his chest. Now he felt pain, a fiery, tearing, blood-curdling pain exploding in his heart. Billy was gone, and he was here and no one seemed to be able to see him, though he was standing where Billy had lain.

“Billy!” Johnny cried his name again, and ran towards the entrance doors. He had to go with Billy. He had to find his momma and tell her what had happened, tell her how he’d screwed everything up. If only he hadn’t stolen that gun!