On 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 sleeting1 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 Creek2 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 sparse4 and about as exciting as pancake batter5. Farms were separated by thin strands6 of loblolly pines, and given the sparse traffic, it was everything Jeremy could do to keep from flooring the accelerator out of sheer boredom7.
But it wasn’t all bad, he had to admit. Well, the actual driving part, anyway. The slight vibration8 of the wheel, the revving9 of the engine, and the feeling of acceleration10 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 justify11 the expense. Instead, he was transported from place to place in crowded subways or whiplash-inducing taxicabs. Travel in the city was noisy, hectic12, 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 judgment14, good and bad. A year later, they were married in the church, surrounded by friends and family. He was twenty-six, not yet a columnist15 for Scientific American but steadily16 building his reputation, and they could barely afford the small apartment they rented in Brooklyn. To his mind, it was young-and-struggling marital17 bliss18. 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 foretold20 the end of their relationship, and even Jeremy knew it.
“I can’t stay,” she’d told him afterward21. “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 spoke22 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 trauma24 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 clan25 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 pang26 of yearning27 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 correlation28 between beauty and eye contact: the infants stared longer at the attractive women, suggesting that people’s perceptions of beauty were instinctive29. 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. Exterior30 beauty might catch someone’s eye right away—he knew he was just as susceptible31 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 whatsoever32 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 antibiotics33 in chicken feed, which had the potential to turn streptococcus into the next bubonic plague. Which made sense, Jeremy noted34 with chagrin35: the editor was a vegetarian36, 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 passionate37 and politically savvy—in other words, corporate38 survivors—which meant they were the ones who not only doled39 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 hustle40 all the time. Maria had been right to challenge his workload41 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 investigations42, 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 bishop43 of Myra, and was known for his generosity44, 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 tundra45. 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, smallpox46 epidemics47, 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, gambling48, 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 quacks50 like Clausen.
He had to admit the process wasn’t anything like he’d imagined a career in journalism51 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 bias52 in SAT scores used in admission. When his article led to a number of student demonstrations53, Jeremy realized he had a knack54 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 con3 man. Like a man possessed55, he searched court and public records, interviewed associates of the swindler, and produced detailed56 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 rhetoric57 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 speculation58.
Jeremy took the suggestion, working two months on the story on his own dime59. 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 confession60 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. 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 dingy61 one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, and heading to Boone Creek, North Carolina, to explain a case of mysterious lights in a cemetery62.
He shook his head, perplexed63 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 narrative64, 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 incessantly65. He knew full well that the public loved a good ghost story. He might hem19 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 staple66.
In the past, Jeremy had investigated seven different ghostly apparitions67; 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 mischievous68 spirits that actually move objects or damage the surroundings. According to paranormal investigators—an oxymoron if Jeremy had ever heard one—poltergeists were generally drawn70 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; apparently71, 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 anguished72 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.
My name is Doris McClellan, and two years ago, I read your story in Scientific American about the poltergeist haunting Brenton Manor74 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 geologists75 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 captions76 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 eyebrow78 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 excerpt79 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 caption77 claimed it was).
It wasn’t quite the Borely Rectory, a rambling80 “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, weird81 organ chants, and ringing bells, but it was enough to pique82 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 quack49? 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 detector83, electromagnetic detector, compass, night-vision goggles84, laptop computer, and other odds85 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 mowed86 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 passionately88 about the need to decrease the weight at which the fish could be harvested. The announcer, who seemed inordinately89 interested in the topic, spoke with a heavy twang. Commercials advertised the gun and coin show at the Masonic Lodge90 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, brackish91 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, denser92 thickets93 of trees, and the occasional farmhouse94. 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 haphazardly95 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 jurisdiction96. 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 Chamber97 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 peeking98 out above the tree line and decided99 to make his way down one of the cross streets he’d passed. After a serpentine100 curve, the surroundings suddenly changed, and he soon found himself driving through a town that may once have been gracious and picturesque101, 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 neatly102 trimmed rhododendron bushes only partially103 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. Meandering104 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. Dispersed105 among the vacant spaces and boarded-up windows were two antique shops, an old-fashioned diner, a tavern106 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 extinction107. 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 gravel108 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. Impulsively109, he pulled into a gas station.
After taking off his sunglasses, Jeremy rolled down the window. The gray-haired proprietor110 wore dingy coveralls and a Dale Earnhardt cap. He rose slowly and began strolling toward the car, gnawing111 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?”
He nodded, saying nothing for a moment.
“I s’pose. Which one ya lookin’ for?”
The proprietor looked at him curiously115. “Whatcha want to go out there for? Ain’t nothin’ for anyone to see there. There’s nicer cemeteries116 on the other side of town.”
“Actually, I’m interested in just that one.”
“No.”
“You one of them big-shot developers from up north? Maybe
thinking of building some condos or one o’ them malls on that
land 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 of
the car. “No, thanks.” He was already unscrewing the cap. “Premium or regular?” Jeremy shifted in his seat, thinking the man could probably use
the 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 fix
both 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, as
if Jeremy were a moron69. “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. “The Historic Homes and Haunted Cemetery Tour, right?”
Tully stared at Jeremy, as if he were the densest117 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 . . .”
“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 vagaries119 of the weather, ridiculous government edicts, and how Wyatt—the other gas station owner— would gouge120 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 hood23 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 sneak121 away. He stopped at the department store to buy a map and a packet of postcards featuring the landmarks122 of Boone Creek, and before long, he was making his way along a winding123 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 potholes124 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 rusting125 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 moss126, but the massive magnolia tree in the center dominated everything. Roots spread from the trunk and protruded127 above the earth like arthritic128 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 grooves129 and carpeted with decaying leaves. The few patches of dormant130 grass seemed out of place. Fallen branches were propped131 here and there, and the undulating terrain132 reminded Jeremy of waves rolling toward shore. Tall weeds sprouted133 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 retrieving134 his camera from the trunk. The breeze was chilly135, but it had none of the arctic bite of New York, and he took a deep breath, enjoying the scent136 of pine and sweetgrass. Above him, cumulus clouds drifted across the sky and a lone137 hawk138 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 crumbling139, it was tilting140 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 groan141 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 erased142 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 crumbled143 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 droplets144 in the fog, but there weren’t any streetlamps out here, nor was the cemetery lit. He saw no signs of any dwellings145 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 spotted146; 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 wizened147, 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 makeup148 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 condemned149 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 eyebrows150 raised in appreciation151, 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 tilted152 inquisitively153. 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 mow87 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 actively154 tried not to stare as she disappeared behind one of the oak trees, her canvas bag swinging with every graceful155 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 hopped156 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 frustration157. 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 lamely158 to himself, wondering if the woman he’d seen at the cemetery would have laughed at that one.
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1
sleeting
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| 下雨夹雪，下冻雨( sleet的现在分词 ) | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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5
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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9
revving
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| v.（使）加速( rev的现在分词 )；（数量、活动等）激增；（使发动机）快速旋转；（使）活跃起来 | |
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10
acceleration
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| n.加速，加速度 | |
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11
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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12
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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13
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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14
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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15
columnist
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| n.专栏作家 | |
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16
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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17
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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18
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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19
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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20
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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24
trauma
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| n.外伤，精神创伤 | |
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25
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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26
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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27
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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correlation
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| n.相互关系，相关，关连 | |
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29
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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30
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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32
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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33
antibiotics
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| n.（用作复数）抗生素；（用作单数）抗生物质的研究；抗生素，抗菌素( antibiotic的名词复数 ) | |
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34
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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35
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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36
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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37
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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38
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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39
doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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41
workload
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| n.作业量，工作量 | |
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42
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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43
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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44
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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45
tundra
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| n.苔原，冻土地带 | |
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46
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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47
epidemics
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| n．流行病 | |
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48
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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49
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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50
quacks
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| abbr.quacksalvers 庸医，骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 )；江湖郎中；（鸭子的）呱呱声v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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52
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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53
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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54
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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55
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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57
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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58
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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59
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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60
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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61
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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62
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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63
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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64
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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65
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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66
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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67
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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68
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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69
moron
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| n.极蠢之人，低能儿 | |
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70
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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72
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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73
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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74
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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75
geologists
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| 地质学家，地质学者( geologist的名词复数 ) | |
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76
captions
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| n.标题，说明文字，字幕( caption的名词复数 )v.给（图片、照片等）加说明文字( caption的第三人称单数 ) | |
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77
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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78
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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79
excerpt
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| n.摘录，选录，节录 | |
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80
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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81
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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82
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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83
detector
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| n.发觉者，探测器 | |
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84
goggles
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| n.护目镜 | |
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85
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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86
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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88
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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89
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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90
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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91
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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92
denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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93
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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94
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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95
haphazardly
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| adv.偶然地，随意地，杂乱地 | |
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96
jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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97
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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peeking
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| v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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99
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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100
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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101
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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102
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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103
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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104
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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105
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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106
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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107
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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108
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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109
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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110
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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111
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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112
rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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113
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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114
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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115
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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116
cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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117
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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118
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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119
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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120
gouge
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| v.凿；挖出；n.半圆凿；凿孔；欺诈 | |
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121
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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122
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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123
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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124
potholes
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| n.壶穴( pothole的名词复数 ) | |
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125
rusting
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| n.生锈v.（使）生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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126
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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127
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
arthritic
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| adj.关节炎的 | |
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129
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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130
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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131
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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133
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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134
retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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135
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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136
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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137
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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138
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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139
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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140
tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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141
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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142
erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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143
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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144
droplets
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| n.小滴( droplet的名词复数 ) | |
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145
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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146
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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147
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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148
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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149
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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150
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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151
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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152
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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153
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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154
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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155
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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156
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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157
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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158
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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