For three years since my wife died, I've tried to put a new life together in the more modern day-to-day world around me. My grown kids come to me for money and hint that they want their inheritance early. The women that I pick to date are either pushy or nuts. I don't understand what our leaders are doing to our economy and I am starting to drink and eat too much - time for me to regroup, decide to live alone and work. I'm good at work. I write for a successful living, can build houses and I am a good gardener. My father did not encourage my egghead drive to go to college but I went after high school and struggled my way through. He always said, "Someday you will want to work in the dirt and spend more time alone." I thought he was crazy then. Now, at sixty, I can admit, he was right.
I sold my overpriced home in the big city and moved to a few acres of good farm land with a well kept turn-of-the-century two story farm house. The couple I bought it from left almost everything, including a cellar full of home canned goods. It needed lots of updating work and was ten miles from even a 7-11 or a McDonalds. After six months, I had to lock up for a couple of months for a book tour. When I came back something was not quite right.
During especially still dark quiet nights, I heard noises. Rustling noises, like a raccoon was in the basement. Many times, during the days, I looked for signs. None of the boxes were scratched or chewed through, bottles were not broken, I couldn't find animal signs. What I did notice were some missing bottles of canned peaches and missing things from the root cellar. I checked and checked but could not find any other clues. Even when I tried to seal access to tiny venting windows, it would still happen.
I had been back for three weeks when I remembered a list of tricks to uncover charlatans that was in some dusty 1910 book about ghosts. A little flour on the floor gave me my first clue -- small bare footprints that led to and from a stack of apparently empty apple crates stacked to the left of the inside root cellar door. The prints were much smaller than my size eleven. That night I left a plate of good food and a can of coke; then I securely locked up all ways into the main house.
The next morning, it looked like someone did not want to take the food from the plate because I would know he was there. Still, the plate was picked over and the coke was gone. I browsed through the old crates and found a door that led to an old bomb shelter or storm shelter. I peaked inside. It had a door that led to a short tunnel. Lots of dirty, empty canning jars were stacked in the corner. A few of my flannel shirts were there. They had gone missing from the barn. The evenings were getting cooler now.
I replaced the burned out light bulb in the shelter and left the new 100 watt one on. The room would be warm and provide light for me to see through the peepholes I drilled in the door.
About eleven, I went through the motions of going to bed and turned off all the inside lights as usual. In the darkness, I could see streaks of light coming from a cover that I thought was on an old abandoned well. At least I had learned where the short tunnel led. I got comfortable in the basement and waited, hoping food and warmth would be enough to draw my barefoot burglar into the light.
About twelve thirty, I heard the little door into the basement push open and saw a little silhouette begin a search for the plate of food. I had set a new plate full and a new can of coke. I was expecting a struggle, so I was prepared with an ax handle. I came out of hiding quickly, pushed the crates back into place blocking the exit and turned on the basement lights. We were both shocked and stood perfectly still. My flannel shirt was way too big for my "thief." The hair was a mess but my criminal had tried to stay clean. The house's haunting entity weighed maybe 120 pounds and had blond hair, bare feet, green eyes, a pale complexion and was paralyzed with fear. She was also pretty and about eighteen.
"Everything is alright, Little One. I will not hurt you. Please, eat, relax and then tell me why you are stalking my basement."
Her eyes darted back and forth like a cornered cat. I could see that every muscle in her body was tense looking to flee or fight. She visibly relaxed when I backed away and sat on the stairs blocking her only fast way out.
There was a spoon in the plate but she was starving. Her eyes stayed locked on me and she ate with her fingers as fast as she could get the food into her mouth. The food was almost gone when she touched the coke. It seemed to shock her back into civilization. Tears rolled down both her cheeks. I sat. She cried. I watched all the fight and adrenalin fired strength drain from her exhausted body.
I recognized her. Her face had been on the news for five months. Her tearful mother and pleading father asked for help finding her and announced a reward for information. They said she would have no grip on reality without her medication. I hid my knowledge for now.
"Little One, I'm Jake Thomas. This is my farm. I want to help you but you have to tell me how you want me to help you."
She was fearful and started to back away when I partially stood and swung a mostly full paper sack full of bags of chips, cookies, peanuts and more cokes. She caught the bag. Her eyes softened.
"Please tell me what to call you."
Maybe she hadn't talked to anyone for her months in hiding. When she finally did speak, her voice was hoarse, "Megan."
At least I got the truth so far. I knew she was Megan Sue Allen, 19, her parents lived 150 miles away and presumably she could launch into a violent rage without warning.
"Megan, will you come upstairs with me. It is warmer and more comfortable there. I need for you to tell me how I can help you. I will not touch you, block you from running away or hurt you in any way."
"I have watched you."
"Then you know that I don't hurt things or get angry."
"You were gone."
"I had to go on a book tour. I didn't know you were here. I would have left you food and made you a nice warm place to sleep."
I did not want to frighten her more than she already was. I stood and walked slowly up the stairs and straight out from the door so she could see that I was not hiding or trying to trap her. She watched me and, holding her bag of goodies to her chest, she followed me.
"Have you ever been inside this house?"
"No."
"The living room is behind me; you are in my kitchen and the downstairs bathroom is down the hall way to your right. I'm going to sit by the fire in the living room and have some wine. I hope you will sit with me and talk with me."
She picked a chair far away from me, close to the fire and close to the front door. I started the conversation and then waited patiently for her to answer, "How long have you been living on my farm?"
"More than four months."
"What have you been eating? How have you stayed warm? Where have you slept to feel safe?"
"I have taken eggs."
I laughed, "I'm so glad you told me that. I thought the chickens were holding out on me and I've been thinking of getting some younger ones."
Her lips were parched but her first slight smile showed straight white teeth and a long unused sense of humor.
