I slammed on the brakes when she appeared in the road ahead of me. She glowed a pale blue that penetrated the night's darkness, and standing out clearly through the sleet and the foggy windshield. The car started to slide, losing traction on the pavement. The image of my wife did not waver as I steered into the skid; she raised a transparent arm and stabbed a finger at the side of the road. Then the specter was gone.
I pulled off the road and waited for my heart to stop pounding. There had been rage in that stabbing finger, even though her face had been indistinct. She was still angry. Even in death she had not found peace.
I put the car back in gear. The ghost had pointed to a narrow side road that I had missed in the sleet and darkness. I carefully turned down it. A small tree had grown in front of a faded sign, but I glimpsed it as the headlights washed across it. "Belvedere Bed and Breakfast. No Vacancy."
That was it, I thought, creeping forward, trying to penetrate the night with sheer force of will. I had gone through her credit card bills and account statements after the death certificate arrived, after she started appearing each night. Checks for the bed and breakfast had been regular, but I had not been able to google it, nor had it been in the phone book.
I had no idea that it was only a half-hour out of town. When she left, the charges had been for New Orleans, then for Vegas, and finally, for the last two months of her life, for this place. It was almost back home where she had begun her journey.
After half an hour, the late October sleet had intensified, and I had almost given up, but the road widened as it ended in a gravel parking lot. On a little hillside above the lot, a rambling house stood. There were lights on, and in the mix of that soft light and the car's headlights, the place looked old and run down. My heart jumped a little as I saw a formless blue glow on the veranda, disappearing through the front door.
I shut the car down and looked around. There was an old pickup on one side of the gravel, and a new sedan with rental plates on the other, so the place was not totally deserted. I sighed and made a dash for the porch, sloshing through puddle of icy water. This was where I was supposed to be, and Jeanne would give me no peace unless I went through with it.
Shivering, I knocked and waited, knocked and waited. It was only 10 or so, but everyone could be in bed, or the racket of the sleet on the tin roof could be drowning my knocking out.
Finally, the porch light came on, and a moment later, the door swung open.
The man who opened the door stood there, and then finally announced: "We're closed. No vacancy." He was young, no more than thirty, muscular in a bulky sweater and dirty jeans, and he started to close the door.
"No, wait!" I said, the words spilling out. "I'm not looking for a place. I'm Jeff, Jeff Parker. My wife stayed here, Jeanne. I'd like to talk to someone about her. Please?"
The door stopped closing. "Jeanne?" He said, thinking it over. He seemed a little slow, maybe mildly retarded. He frowned with the effort of thought, then nodded to himself.
"Yeah." He concluded, opened the door wider, turned, and walked away. He paused at the end of the entry hall and looked back at me, surprised I had not followed.
I was still on the threshold, reluctant to take that final step.
"Come in." He finally said. "You need to talk to Miz Monica."
I felt like I'd been released, and stepped into the house, closing the door behind me.
He led me to a large parlor which was furnished with several couches arranged to face a dusty, silent television. He gestured for me to sit. "I'll get her." He said, and walked off.
The house was not silent; the rain and sleet on the roof made sure of that. It was a comforting sound. There were no groans and screams, as much as the place looked like a haunted house, there was only the rain and the loud ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. It was haunted, though. Jeanne was here, and had probably died here.
As I waited, I thought back four months to that fateful day. After being so happy together for so long, things had begun to change. Jeanne had begun to change, becoming restless, easy to anger. Finally she had passed out one evening and cracked her head on the kitchen counter. When I rushed into the room, she was lying in a little pool of blood.
At the hospital they did the requisite scans and tests. The fall had not hurt her, but the scans revealed a large, dark mass. They kept her overnight, and the doctors confirmed it in the morning. A malignant tumor spread its tendrils through her brain, inoperable. They said she had three months, with chemotherapy, maybe six.
The fury that consumed her with the diagnosis was aimed entirely at me. Somehow it was my fault, and it was not fair. Jeanne lived a healthy life, healthy food, no smoking or drinking, and she got plenty of exercise. I was the opposite. I smoked, I loved junk food, rarely seriously exercised, and I liked a nice cold beer or a glass of wine. Yet she was dying, and I was healthier than I had a right to be.
I tried to be understanding. The doctors said that the pressure of the tumor lead to radical personality changes. It was difficult, not because it was unpleasant for me, but because I could not help.
She packed and left two days later, taking a leave of absence from her job and cashing out her retirement fund. I did not see or hear from her again. The only reason I knew she was gone was the death certificate. That and her angry ghost.
"That's him?" A woman's voice broke my reverie, and I looked up.
Two women had entered the room, the man who had answered the door behind them. The woman who spoke was the younger of the two, a dark-haired short woman in her mid-twenties. She was just on the edge of plump. Her pretty face and pouting lips were spoiled by the coldness of her stare. I shivered.
"He's soaked and freezing. Caleb, can you make us some hot tea?" The older woman pointed towards a back hall when Caleb did not move. He shuffled off, and she turned to me.
"I am Monica," she said, sitting down across from me. "Was Caleb right? You are Jeff Parker?" She was in her late thirties to early forties, a thin woman whose body was entirely obscured by the bulky sweater and sweat pants she wore. She would have been attractive had she not been haggard. I wondered if Jeanne had been keeping her awake as well.
"Yes. Ms...er, Monica. We need to talk about Jeanne."
"That's an understatement," the younger woman said.
Monica turned to her. "Could you give Caleb a hand, Charity? He's a little farther gone than usual, and I'm afraid tea might be beyond him."
Charity snorted, turned, and left.
Monica and I sat in silence for a while. Finally she sighed.
"You've seen her, then?"
"Jeanne? Yes. She guided me here tonight."
"She is not resting easily. She had so much anger. She haunts us too."
"I did not want to pry. When she left, after the diagnosis, I understood. I thought that maybe that would be what I would do, take one last fling, a final farewell packed with as much as I could. But she seemed to insist I come here, now. What does she want me to do?"
Monica thought for a while. "We never made it as a bed and breakfast. I have some skill at natural healing, and every once in a while, we take a guest for that reason. It keeps the property taxes paid, but not much else."
Caleb and Charity appeared with a tea tray, and Charity poured me a steaming cup. "Herbs," she said. "It will take the chill away and keep you from getting sick. Monica taught me."
Monica shot her a sorrowful look. "Thank you, dear."
I took a sip of the tea. It was earthy, with sharp bitter herbs, but it was hot, and I drank it gratefully. "Thank you."
Charity nodded and left, Caleb in tow.
"Anyway, Jeanne had heard of us somewhere. She was not ready to give up, and she came here with Tekka. I did what I could, but it was not enough. I delayed the inevitable maybe a month."
"Who is Tekka?" I sat the cup down carefully. I was feeling a little groggy from the warmth of the tea.
