Somehow I manage to press the shutter release and take the picture before I drop the camera; only the strap around my neck saves it from hitting the ground. Grabbing Papa Dan’s hand, I practically drag him behind me as I hurry around the corner of the house. Mom stands in the driveway talking to a small blond man with a deep Texas drawl. He wears a brown uniform and tan cowboy boots. Relief sweeps through me when I see letters plastered across the door of his white SUV that tell me this man is the county sheriff. My first instinct is to tell him what I saw. But what did I see?

“There you are,” Mom says. “Come meet Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Sheriff, this is my father-in-law, Daniel Piper, and my daughter, Tansy.”

“Mornin’, young lady…sir,” he says, smiling.

I pause beside them and open my mouth to reply, but I’m too shaken up to speak.

Mom pulls off her sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”

More than anything, I want to tell them, to hear the sheriff laugh and say: Oh, that? Nothing but a hologram the prior renters left behind. I turned it on to show your mother. Conditions have to be just right. An unlikely explanation, but at least it doesn’t question my sanity, which is exactly what I’m starting to do. First the voices last night, now this. Maybe Papa Dan’s condition is hereditary.

The dread in Mom’s expression changes my mind about speaking up. She’s already worried enough about me. Sometimes she acts like she thinks I’ll unravel if everything isn’t just right. I don’t want to make her even more anxious. “Nothing’s wrong,” I tell her, dropping Papa Dan’s hand and crossing my arms.

Mom searches my face, as if she isn’t sure she believes me. “The sheriff drove all the way out here to welcome us to town. Isn’t that nice?”

I nod, then pull the brim of my hat down a bit farther so Mom can’t see my eyes.

The sheriff chuckles. “Word around town is your mama was over at the Longhorn last night devising a scheme to murder some poor sucker with a Weed Eater, so I decided I’d better come have a little talk with her.”

Mom tips her head to one side, a teasing glint in her eyes. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Sheriff. But I used a blowtorch instead of a Weed Eater; it was much more efficient.”

While they snicker over her joke, I glance behind me, half expecting to see those two guys from the tree standing there. When I turn back, the sheriff stops laughing, peers at the sky, and says, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? We could sure use more rain, though. A real downpour, this time. It’s supposed to get hotter ’n all get out this afternoon.”

“Yes, a shower would be nice,” Mom murmurs, her voice trailing, her attention fixed on the sheriff in a flirty way that would probably disgust me if I didn’t have more important things to worry about. Was what I saw at the mulberry tree real, or was I hallucinating?

The sheriff twirls his cowboy hat between his hands. He looks as antsy as I feel. I’m pretty sure Mom’s scrutiny has him flustered. Either that or his collar is too tight. “I bet y’all are going to feel right at home here before you know it,” he says. “Texans are a friendly bunch, and the folks in Cedar Canyon are even more so than most.”

“We’ve already found that to be true,” Mom says.

While I squirm and look back toward the tree again, the sheriff puts on his hat. “Are y’all going to the Watermelon Run on Sunday evening?”

“The Watermelon Run?” Mom shakes her head. “I haven’t heard of it.”

“It’s held every August to kick off the school year and the new football season. Everyone goes. The tradition dates back to when my grandparents were in school.”

“In that case, we’ll definitely be there,” Mom says, sounding overjoyed.

“It’s at the stadium…over by the school complex. Have you had a chance to visit the schools yet?”

“No, we haven’t gone by,” Mom tells him. Placing her sunglasses on top of her head, she asks, “How does watermelon figure into all this?”

“The Food Fair brings in the melons—enough for each football player to choose one,” the sheriff explains. “The team meets at the store to pick ’em up, then it’s a footrace to the stadium where everyone’s waiting. When they show up, the players are introduced and the pep rally starts.” Grinning, he adds, “It’s quite a deal. It’ll be a great chance for you to get acquainted with folks.”

“It sounds like fun,” Mom says.

More like pure torture, I think, but nobody asks my opinion. And, anyway, I’m not sure it could be any worse than what I’m going through now. My heart’s thumping so hard, I’m surprised they can’t hear it. Was there someone in that tree? Or am I losing my mind?

“This year the booster club’s sponsoring a fund-raiser for the Pruitts at the same time as the run,” the sheriff continues. “Their house burned down a couple of weeks ago. Folks are donating baked goods and crafts, and businesses around town are providing merchandise for a raffle.”

“I should donate some of my books,” Mom says. “I’ll call my publisher today and ask them to overnight a box or two.”

The sheriff’s face lights up. “If you’ll give me your phone number, I’ll tell Della Shroeder to get in touch with you. She’s headin’ up the thing. She’ll be tickled pink.”

Mom tells him her number and he pulls a small notebook from his shirt pocket and jots it down.

“Well, I best be letting you get back to your business.” Returning the notebook to his pocket, Sheriff Dilworth says, “Y’all be careful out here all alone.”

“Careful?” Mom frowns.

“Not to worry you, but previous tenants reported some strange things going on around the property. Recently the Quattlebaums have, too.”

I was wrong to think that my heart couldn’t beat any faster. If others have seen the same sort of thing I did, then maybe Mom won’t think I’m going crazy…and neither will I. “What kind of reports?” I ask.

“Noises,” he answers. “A break-in or two. Hank Quattlebaum thought he saw someone prowling around here at night a week or so back.”

“Oh, you mean the ghost.” Mom laughs. “Hank told us about him. Actually, I’m hoping we meet.”

“Seriously, Ms. Piper.” Sheriff Dilworth scratches his chin and squints. “Is it Moon or Piper?”

Mom looks flirty again as she answers, “It’s Millie.”

He smiles. “I don’t particularly believe in ghosts, Millie, but you might want to keep your eyes and ears open.”

“We’ll call if we hear one rattling around the place.” Mom pulls a serious face and adds, “Especially if he’s carrying a blowtorch or a Weed Eater.” She slides her sunglasses onto her nose again, and the tiny rhinestones at the corners sparkle in the sunlight.

Chuckling and blushing, Sheriff Dilworth reaches to open the door of his vehicle.

“I think I just saw someone,” I blurt out, afraid for him to leave us alone.

“What?” Mom says.

The Sheriff pauses with his hand on the door. “You saw a prowler?”

“I was taking Papa Dan’s picture, and I thought I saw someone in the tree behind him. But when I lowered the camera the guy was gone.”

Mom touches my shoulder. “It was a man?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe. Or he could’ve been closer to my age.”

Closing the car door, Sheriff Dilworth says, “Let’s go take a look.”

Holding my grandfather’s hand, I lead them to the tree. We don’t see anything strange, so we walk around back to the barn but don’t find so much as a footprint other than mine and Papa Dan’s. After returning to the driveway, the sheriff warns us again to be careful and reminds us to call if we need anything. He studies me a second, concern wrinkling his forehead. Then he climbs into his SUV and backs out. Mom, Papa Dan, and I stand in the yard, watching dust billow on the road behind his vehicle as he drives away.

“Honey, are you sure about what you saw?” Mom asks, turning to me.

I shrug. “I don’t know. It was probably just a smudge on the camera lens.”

“We’re so isolated out here that it can mess with your mind, if you let it,” she says.

Her concern makes me wish I’d kept quiet. I laugh, hoping to disguise my anxiety. “I guess this house has me spooked. And Mr. Quattlebaum’s story about the ghost.”

“This is a pretty spooky house. And this is such desolate country. Did I tell you what I dreamed last night?” she asks, starting for the porch, her voice lighter.

Papa Dan and I follow her. “No, what?”

“I dreamed someone was screaming out in the canyon. Out in the direction where the bridge is supposed to be. It was that bird screeching, I bet. The one that kept you up all night. My subconscious must’ve turned the noise into a scream.”

Apprehension strokes up my spine like an icy finger as we climb the porch steps. I don’t mention to my mother that the bird didn’t exactly screech.

She glances back at us and says to Papa Dan, “Ready to set up your workshop, Dan?” The screen door squeaks when she pulls it open. “The sooner we put the house in order, the sooner it’ll start to feel like home.”

“Can we wait just a little while?” I ask. I don’t want to spend too much time around her when I’m feeling so edgy. “I’m really tired. I think I’ll go lie down and read for a while.” I want to draw the curtains, pull the covers around me, curl up, and shut everything out. Forget the mysterious frozen world; push the image of it out of my mind.

Mom faces me and frowns. “You just got up. Are you sick?”

“No, I’m okay. I think the trip just wiped me out. But you’re right; I probably shouldn’t be lazy or I won’t sleep tonight.”

Holing up in my room wouldn’t have worked, anyway. Even with the shade drawn, I’d sense the mulberry tree on the other side of the window. It doesn’t seem all that friendly anymore. I’m not sure which scares me worse—that I might have imagined what I saw or that I didn’t. But I need to figure it out, and the sooner the better.

“I still don’t feel like starting on the shop, though,” I tell Mom. “I’d rather take my film into town to have it developed. You want to go?”

“I think I’ll stay here. I don’t want to miss the handyman if he drops by. Papa Dan might enjoy the ride, though.”

“Where do you think I should take the film?”

“Probably City Drug on Main. Did you see it last night?”

“No, but I’ll find it.”

She must sense that I’m nervous about leaving her out here alone, because she touches my arm and adds, “I’ll be fine. You two go ahead. And pick up some ibuprofen for me. My back is killing me already from tugging furniture around.”

I hurry inside to get my keys and some money from Mom’s purse, wishing I had already set up a darkroom. A few years ago, Papa Dan bought me the equipment and supplies, but everything is in boxes.

 

I should’ve known Cedar Canyon wouldn’t have a place to process film. Which is one more reason I should ask for a digital camera for Christmas. Putting away my 35 millimeter would be hard, though. It’s been a friend for so many years. A better one than Hailey, that’s for sure.

While Papa Dan scans the magazine rack, I talk to the pregnant woman behind the counter at City Drug—Mary Jane, according to the name tag on her blouse. “Saturday, I’m driving into Amarillo. I’d be happy to drop off your film at the one-hour photo,” she says.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

“If it was any trouble, I wouldn’t offer,” she assures me. “I’ll run my errands and pick it up when I’m heading home.”

I hesitate a moment before handing Mary Jane the film. I don’t even know this woman. But I’m not sure how long it will take to get my darkroom up and running, and I doubt Mom and I will be going to Amarillo anytime soon.

Mary Jane drops the film into her purse. I have a sudden urge to grab it, to not let it out of my sight. That roll contains the proof that I’m either losing my mind or I’m not.

“Write down your name and number and how you want the pictures,” Mary Jane says, handing me a pad of paper and a pen.

“How I want them?”

“The size and finish.” Reaching behind her, she presses a hand against the small of her back, winces, and mutters, “Roger better not expect me to cook dinner tonight. In fact, I think I’m swearing off cooking until after this baby comes.”

As I’m writing down the information, a tall, balding, middle-aged man wearing a white pharmacist’s smock walks up to Mary Jane behind the counter. He winks at me, points at her stomach, and whispers, “Being pregnant makes her cranky.”

One row behind us, Papa Dan flips the pages of a magazine and whistles a jazzy tune. Satisfied that he’s occupied, I hand the paper to Mary Jane.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” the pharmacist says. “I’m Jim Bob Cooper, chief pill pusher, bottle washer, and owner of this bustling enterprise. Call me J. B.”

Jim Bob, Mary Jane, Sheriff Ray Don Dilworth. Does everyone in this town over the age of thirty have two first names? I introduce myself and we shake hands.

“Oh, you’re the writer’s daughter.”

“Yes,” I murmur.

“I heard you folks made it into town. Nice to have you here.” J. B. gestures toward the cashier. “The ray of sunshine behind the register is Mary Jane McAllister.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mary Jane says. “You’ll have to come back for a chocolate soda or a root-beer float some afternoon. The fountain’s a popular after-school place.” She nods toward the far side of the shop, where a row of chrome stools with round red tops lines an old-fashioned soda fountain counter. Glasses in all shapes and sizes are stacked on shelves behind the bar, and the wall is covered with a chalkboard menu and old signs advertising Coca-Cola and Hires Root Beer.

Before I can respond, the door opens, and two girls and a guy walk in. I flinch when I realize it’s Alison and her A-hole groupies. The freckle-faced guy struts in like a puffed-up rooster. His gaze cuts in my direction, and his mouth curves up at one corner. He nudges Alison with his elbow, and she looks at me and says, “Oh, hi.”

“Hi,” I say quietly, grateful the brim of my hat hides my eyes when the other girl smirks and glances away. Lowering my head, I take off to look for Mom’s ibuprofen.

“Hey, hoodlums,” J. B. calls out to the threesome, and they tease back and forth with him while I scan the aisles.

“My kids have missed you, Alison,” Mary Jane says, sounding cheerful now. “You sure you can’t squeeze in a little time to babysit for me every once in a while?”

“Sorry,” Alison replies. “I wish I could, but between school, cheerleading, and volunteer work in Amarillo, my weekends are going to be totally packed this year.”

Mary Jane sighs. “Your mom told me you were crazy busy. She said you’re shooting for the honor roll this year. Good for you.”

“Yeah, Alison’s become completely boring,” the rude girl says. “She has this sudden bizarre obsession with the letter A.”

“That’s ’cause she never learned the rest of the alphabet, Shanna,” Rooster Boy calls from the direction of the soda fountain.

Alison laughs. “Shut up, Jenks.”

“I’m just sayin’…,” he mutters.

I find Mom’s ibuprofen, then slowly start up front again. From the corner of my eye, I see Rooster Boy spinning in a circle on one of the soda fountain stools. As I place my purchase on the counter, he gets up and starts toward me. “Hey, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting me,” he says. “I’m Jon Jenks.”

“Idiot,” Alison murmurs, her mouth pulling into a tight smile that isn’t really a smile at all. She and Shanna wander over to a candy rack and disappear behind it.

“I’m Tansy,” I tell Jon.

“So I heard. Welcome to the big city.” He nods toward the girls. “Don’t worry about the wildlife; they aren’t as fierce as they seem.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Now I, on the other hand, bite.” Wiggling his brows, he starts off toward the magazine racks.

J. B. shakes his head and sighs. “Always the clown.” Shifting his attention from Rooster Boy to Papa Dan, he asks, “Is that gentleman looking at magazines your grandfather? I heard he used to live here way back before I was born.”

“Yes,” I say. “His name’s Daniel Piper.” When the pharmacist calls out a greeting to Papa Dan, I lower my voice and say, “He doesn’t talk.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Papa Dan yells, “Woo-wee!”

Giggles drift from behind the candy rack.

“He doesn’t talk much,” I add, my face heating up when I notice that my grandfather is looking at a Cosmo magazine while Rooster Boy snoops over his shoulder.

“Well, I’m pleased to meet both of you. I look forward to meeting your mother, too. It’s not every day I get to talk to a famous author.” J. B.’s smile is kind, but I don’t feel any less mortified. “What else can I help you with today?” he asks.

“You don’t sell film, do you? I need five rolls of black-and-white.”

“Yes, we have film.” He stoops to search beneath the counter.

I scan the store but don’t see the girls. Rooster Boy has moved to the opposite end of the magazine rack from Papa Dan. I feel Mary Jane watching me and glance at her. She settles one hand on her bulging belly and says, “When we heard a published author was moving to town, my husband bought one of your mom’s books at the grocery store. Something about a zombie girl.”

Rooster Boy sputters a laugh, and I wish for the hundredth time my mom was a secretary or a nurse or a lawyer.

“Roger stayed up till two this morning reading it,” Mary Jane continues. “Said he had to leave the lights on, it scared him so bad.”

I shrug. “I’m pretty sure that’s the goal.” Faking interest in the merchandise on a nearby shelf, I pick up a box, then realize I’m reading the directions for applying hemorrhoid medication and set it back down. I search the shelves for something else to help me escape the woman’s scrutiny. Enemas. Home pregnancy tests. Condoms. Tampons. No place is safe.

“The Peterson house ought to give your mom plenty of material for her books,” Mary Jane goes on.

Hoping she’ll forget about me if I ignore her, I move to the analgesic creams. I hear a girl’s giggle in the next aisle, hear my name whispered, followed by a shhhh. Ducking my head, I read the label on a tube. Apply small amount to cut, abrasion, or wound to reduce sensitivity.

“Here you go, Tansy,” J. B. calls, and I walk over to the counter as he hands Mary Jane the film. “Sorry that took so long. We don’t get many requests for black-and-white.”

Mary Jane rings up the sale. “Have you heard that the Peterson kid who lived in your house back in the thirties committed suicide?”

Startled, I nod and say, “Mr. Quattlebaum told me.”

“My grandma says he was nuttier than a fruitcake. He was a class ahead of her in school, but she and pretty much everyone else steered clear of him. I grew up hearing her stories about the strange things he’d do. Grandma said he used to walk the railing on the old wagon bridge that crosses the creek in the canyon. Have you been out there?”

“Not yet.”

She shakes her head. “A person would have to be crazy to do that. It’s a long drop to the creek bed. Sometimes people would see him sitting alone in the canyon, playing his violin. Grandma said he was an artist, too. He painted pictures.”

And wrote poems…

“He was a loner. A real oddball.”

“Aw, now…maybe he was just eccentric, Mary Jane,” J. B. says. “Or he might’ve been depressed. Back then, nobody thought kids suffered from depression.”

“If he walked the railing, why do they think he jumped?” I ask. “Maybe he fell.”

“It makes for a better story,” J. B. says, winking at me.

“I don’t recall all the details,” she says, ignoring him, “but I’ve always heard he committed suicide.”

I pass Mary Jane some money and ask, “Is your grandmother still alive?”

“Yeah, she’s in Willow Grove nursing home in Amarillo. I hate it, but what can you do? She’s close to ninety and can’t take care of herself anymore.” Mary Jane closes the register and eases down onto a stool, sighing long and loud before returning to the subject of Henry. “The turret in your house was the Peterson kid’s bedroom.”

“Don’t start in on that.” J. B. frowns at her. “It’s nonsense, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Mary Jane says, then turns to me and adds, “Sometimes he’d hole up in there for days at a time to play his violin when his parents were on one of their trips, and it was just him and the housekeeper. Wouldn’t even come out to go to school. Myra and Hank Quattlebaum swear they still hear him playing up there sometimes.”

“Come on, Mary Jane.” J. B. glances at me, flinching like he’s embarrassed by her claims. “You’re going to scare her. Surely you don’t believe that bunk.”

She scowls at him. “Tansy’s mom writes horror novels; she can handle it.” Turning back to me, she says, “Myra Quattlebaum insists she’s seen a light burning up in the turret when the house was vacant.”

J. B. cups a hand around his mouth and whispers loudly, “Mary Jane is a sucker for a ghost story.”

I rub my hands up and down my arms to chase away a sudden chill. Could Henry’s ghost be one of the figures I saw through the camera lens?

Ignoring J. B., Mary Jane says, “Hank was even considering buying a dog so he and Myra would feel safer out there all alone. He put it off when he heard you and your family had rented the place.”

“No, they have a dog,” I say. “A big black one.” J. B. shakes his head. “They don’t have a dog. They were here this morning and Myra was on Hank’s case about getting one.”

“They were here?” I take the sack off the counter, press it against my stomach.

“They were waiting outside the door when I opened up,” Mary Jane says.

“What time do you open?”

“Eight o’clock on the dot,” she answers.

“But I saw Mr. Quattlebaum in his yard this morning a little after eight. He was throwing a ball to a dog.” J. B. and Mary Jane stare at me, silent. Flustered, I say, “Maybe they have company staying with them, or it could’ve been a workman, I guess.”

Excusing myself, I walk over to the magazine rack to get Papa Dan, ready to make my escape. Rooster Boy is flipping through a car magazine as I pass behind him. “Let’s go,” I say to my grandfather. I put back his magazine and lead him down the aisle.

“See ya Monday at school, Zombie Girl,” Rooster Boy mutters as we pass by.

Heat scorches my neck. I don’t look at him, just keep my focus on the door.

“Glad you came in, Tansy. You, too, Mr. Piper,” J. B. calls as I hurry Papa Dan outside without looking back.

As I’m driving through town, every person we pass waves at us as if we’re old friends. I feel weird waving back, but I don’t want to seem unfriendly and earn another lecture from Mom. I brush aside thoughts of Alison and her friends, how self-conscious I felt around them, how Shanna completely ignored me. Instead, I think of Henry Peterson and Mary Jane’s grandmother. I wonder if Mom would let me drive the forty miles into Amarillo. I could tell her I want to go shopping. She hates malls, so maybe she’d let me go alone. I want to go to Willow Grove and ask the old woman about Henry.

We cross the city limits, and the landscape empties. In my mind, I picture Henry sitting in the turret with only his violin to keep him company, shut off from the world. Mary Jane called him an oddball for it, but I don’t consider his behavior to be all that strange. Maybe Henry and I are two of a kind.

As I make the turn onto the road that leads to the house, I glance at Papa Dan and the hairs on my arms stand on end. He stares out the windshield, a far-off, haunted look in his eyes. I wonder if he sees what I see: the dirt road ahead, the man mowing the tall weeds in the parched yard alongside our driveway, the Cedar Canyon Handyman Service truck parked there. Does he see the house? The hollow-eyed windows? Henry’s turret sticking up from the roof like a vulgar insult?

A shiver snakes through me. I have a feeling he’s looking at a very different scene. One I might see, too, if the light shifted.

Or if I looked through my camera’s viewfinder.