Help for the Haunted_P.S. by John Searles

Author:John Searles [Searles, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: William Morrow
Published: 2013-09-17T04:00:00+00:00

I shouldn’t have told you all those things,” Heekin said as we pulled off an exit ramp after nearly two hours on the highway north. At the stoplight, his car stalled for what must have been the fifth time. He pumped the gas and worked the ignition until it started again just as the light turned green. “Blame the long ride. Blame the fact that you remind me so much of her.”

I stared at my reflection in the glass of the passenger window, trying to see the parts of me that led him and so many others to think of her. Outside on the derelict sidewalks, I watched a woman carrying shopping bags that looked too heavy for her stringy arms. I watched a hunched man push a grocery store cart heaped with empty bottles. It felt as though we were touching down in some strange place, a tiny bird from the preserve gliding its way into some far-flung country on Rose’s globe.

When we turned onto the streets of a barren neighborhood, one last unexpected question slipped out: “Did she ever tell you how her father, my grandfather, died?”

“Only that it was some sort of accident on the farm.” He paused, before adding, “Your mother was an honest woman, but I got the feeling that was one of the rare lies she told. If I was a better reporter, I might have found out what really happened.”

For all his talk of poor reporting skills, Heekin had done an expert job of tracking down my uncle—or rather, never losing track of him in the first place. Before we got on the road, he had insisted we give him a call from a pay phone. When Howie heard my voice, he sounded surprised, and even more so when I told him I was on my way to see him. He stalled, suggesting we put it off until some other time. But I insisted. Even if he didn’t exactly agree, that’s how I made it sound to Heekin when I hung up. Now, after driving all that way, I felt anxious about the possibility that my uncle might not be there after all.

We moved at a crawl through the streets of a dreary neighborhood, squinting at the boarded windows of houses we passed, the shell of a scorched car, the minefields of shattered glass on the pavement that Heekin carefully navigated around. At last, we came to a stop outside a large building. As I looked at the chipped gray paint, the scramble of crooked letters above the row of glass doors, a strange feeling stirred inside me. It made me realize I’d seen this place before, but where?

“Are you okay, Sylvie?” Heekin asked.

I told him I just felt anxious about seeing my uncle again after so many months. “And, well, I don’t understand. After all these years, why—how did he end up here?”

“Those are questions your uncle can answer better than I can. And that’s what we came here for, isn’t it: so you can get answers?”

With that, Heekin pushed open his door.

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