The Last Goodbye of Harris Turner: a ghost story by Byerrum Ellen

Author:Byerrum, Ellen [Byerrum, Ellen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Lethal Black Dress Press
Published: 2014-10-29T16:00:00+00:00

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Halloween. It was the witching hour, which in this case meant nine p.m. The fabled blue moon rose on the eastern horizon and loomed huge over Coppertown. As everyone assured me, it wasn’t really blue. It rose as orange as a pumpkin, then shaded to gold as it cleared the trees. I could see the face of the man in the moon, but I couldn’t read his expression. The perfumed air was a heady mixture of wood smoke and the peppery aroma of falling leaves, blended with fermented apples and a hint of some late fall blooming flower. The last of the autumn leaves were shaking off the trees, tiny dancers in the dark, whirling and falling at my feet and scurrying down the sidewalk. The warm afternoon air had turned sharp as the sunlight faded.

I picked up Harris Turner in front of his home across town. He said he couldn’t drive after dark.

“I thought you might bring Lydia,” I said. The truth is I wanted to meet her, to see the woman in the middle of the triangle, even though she was now as elderly as he was. I was willing to bet she still had a certain allure.

“She’s not interested in haunted houses,” he replied. “Said we’ll all be dead soon enough. We can have a reunion then.”

“She sounds very practical.”

“Lydia has always been practical,” he agreed.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to see King.”

“More like she doesn’t want him to see her so much older now.” Harris had a point. My image of the lovely Lydia was from the old photograph, when she was a glamourous dark-haired temptress. “Besides, she’s been happily handing out candy all evening. She wouldn’t want to miss the children.”

“Do you and Lydia have children, Harris?”

“No,” he said. “We wanted to, but we were never blessed in that way.”

We lapsed into silence and our own thoughts as I piloted my ten-year-old Honda to the so-called haunted house. It was impossible to miss. Cars crowded the street, bumper to bumper, barely moving. Gawkers stuck their heads out of windows, pointing fingers. I got in line and fought for a parking space.

Glowing pumpkins marched up and down the porch steps and lined the sidewalk. Clear plastic ghosts, large and small, flew from the trees, beautiful and eerie, their eyes glowing orange. They came from Nora’s shop. Nora Odell clearly expected the crowds to drive by her house on the 31st of October, hoping for a glimpse of the ghost of tragic Kingston Grand at the bay window on the staircase landing. She had achieved her objective.

A shiver scooted down my back and up over my head. It made my ears tingle. I wasn’t sure whether I felt a ghostly presence or I had simply psyched myself out, feeling something because I wanted to. On the other hand, maybe I was coming down with a fever. Probably consumption.

I helped Harris from the passenger seat. He leaned on his walking stick, leather gloves protecting his hands. His cheeks were bright pink, though he wore a heavy tweed jacket and a burgundy wool scarf.

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