Not Guilty

By K. M. McDonough

Trish Porter is living a perfectly happy life when a ghost decides to haunt her. Why? She has no idea, but she has to find out. Her life might depend on the answer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483538761

Book preview

Kmmcdonough.com

Chapter 1

The barn was waiting for Trish. Even from a distance, it filled the door of the school bus, daring her to come near.

Well, what are you waiting for? Get goin’, Mrs. Ledbetter growled.

I’m going. Trish took her time descending the three steps. Merry Christmas, Mrs. Ledbetter.

Merry Christmas yourself! the woman yelled and yanked back on the silver handle, slamming the door closed.

Trish shook her head. Unhappy to the core, is what her mom would say. Peterson would have a wisecrack. Just yesterday he said, When I get my license, we won’t have to ride her broom ever again.

What a great day that would be. Her mom might not let her ride with a new driver, but they’d figure that out later. Right now, it was enough to dream about no more Mrs. Ledbetter’s bus.

Peterson Smith was literally the boy next door, and Trish’s friend and confidant since kindergarten. By the fall of first grade, they’d worn the path to each other’s houses that they still used.

Peterson got off the bus with Trish most of the time, but not today. His family had started Christmas vacation early. How many people had an aunt who owned a ski lodge? Peterson was one of the lucky few and he was spending most of the break there, in Colorado.

That left Trish to face the barn, alone. The putty colored, dirt driveway ribboned out from under her feet like a piece of masking tape. It disappeared behind a thick nest of trees, but would continue until it came to a stop in front of her grandfather’s home. Pap, an architect, had designed and built his home when Trish’s mom was nine years old.

Another, much shorter piece of driveway was attached to the first about a hundred yards away where it hooked to the right. The entire length of the shorter piece could be seen from where Trish stood.

The short driveway ended in front of a doublewide trailer so near Haynesworth Road that Trish didn’t need an alarm clock. She woke every morning to the sound of tire rush as the five o’clock commuters made their way to work.

The sight of her house caused tears to burn. The aching desperation to move was almost physical.

It wasn’t the trailer. Trish and her mom had turned the trailer into a nice home, good as any. The early morning commuters didn’t bother her either; she liked getting up early. The thing that made her want to live anywhere else in the world sat across from her house, the barn. She stared at it, still riveted to the spot where she’d stepped off the bus.

Most people considered her lucky. The barn, also designed and built by her grandfather, had every convenience, an award-winning design, in fact. But people didn’t know that the equine paradise was haunted, and in the worst way; by shrieking, blood-chilling poltergeists, the kind that would make Stephen King shiver.

If the specters made their presence known to everyone, something would have been done a long time ago, but Trish had the tough luck of being the only one to attract the squirrelly ghosts. They got to her when she was alone, like today.

She searched the landscape for Cal, an honest-to-goodness modern-day cowboy who worked for her grandfather. Cal Trekcut had shown up at the ranch ten years ago, when Trish was five. She grew up thinking of him as an older brother.

Cal spent a lot of time at the barn. Why couldn’t he be there now, tinkering with the tractor or fixing a saddle? That’s how she got past the barn this morning without incident. Cal was changing the oil on Pap’s old truck and Trish waltzed to the bus stop without a care in the world.

Now, she had to play the waiting game. She shrugged off her backpack and sat in the grass, hugging her knees to her chest. Cal would be by sooner or later and he’d give her a ride past the barn. It wouldn’t be the first time she sat around waiting.

Trish had never talked to Cal about the ghosts. She told her mom and Peterson, and their reactions surprised her. You certainly inherited your grandmother’s imagination, her mom said and laughed.

Peterson thought the whole idea was hilarious and teased her about it for weeks. After all, Peterson walked with Trish to and from the bus stop every day without so much as a groan from any ghost.

She checked the time, four-ten. What if her mom came home before Cal? Julie Porter, Trish’s mom, was a registered nurse at Rambling Regional Hospital and had lost all patience with her daughter’s fear of the barn. It would infuriate her to pull up and find Trish waiting for a ride, which only testified to the seriousness of the haunting. Trish would rather face her mother’s wrath than the ghost’s.

She scanned the barn area; still no Cal. Where was he? Trish could see the horses lazing in the distance and the breezes swaying the long wispy grasses; a bee dropped into the cup of a flower. Could the peaceful scene be any more deceptive?

It hadn’t always been this way. The ghosts first made their presence known to Trish six months ago. She saw flashes of movement and had the vague feeling that something was near. After a while, the flashes became glimpses of long, flowing hair or the back of a person, and Trish felt a chill when in their company.

She stood and brushed off. Cal might not show up until tomorrow, and if her mom took on a second shift, she wouldn’t be home until after eight. Pap should be home soon, but sometimes he got held up at one of the properties where he served as a consultant. Trish tried to call Pap, no answer. Cal didn’t answer his phone either, and Trish’s mom kept her phone in the break room. Somehow Trish had to get past the barn on her own.

Peterson said that ghosts couldn’t kill a living person. They can scare a person to death if the person allows them to. But since ghosts are from a different world, they can’t cross over to harm a person in this world. Not crossing worlds is like a rule. He stated it with such conviction that Trish didn’t argue. In fact, she hoped it was true and that the ghosts in the barn followed the rules.

On the driveway, with the barn soaring three stories high to her left, Trish took one silent step at a time. She concentrated on the sounds and feelings, even the smells. When a car passed on Haynesworth Road, she stopped and waited for it to get quiet. Or as quiet as it could be; the barn never stood silent. Creaks and pops of settling wood and wind whooshing through cracks in the planks occurred every few minutes. If animals were inside, stomping hooves, snorts, or contented munching added to the creaks and pops.

Once in a while, Trish heard a sound that definitely didn’t belong, the thin strain of guitars and harmonies from the sixties or seventies. The music came from the barn. Trish heard it now, and the ghostly tinniness chilled her skin.

Chills were often the portent of an encounter and in the past month, the ghosts were becoming physical. Exposure to the ghosts left her with pains in her arms or legs, but the pains didn’t manifest in any outward signs, no bruises or cuts. Her mom checked her over and after the third incident suggested that Trish see a psychiatrist. That’s when Trish decided to stop talking about the ghosts and the pains. The decision put her in the position of being silent as the haunting became more physical, but what choice did she have? Every time she made a claim without proof of their existence, the ghosts won.

She held her breath and tried to block out the music as she moved along the edge of the driveway. Not breathing made her even stealthier. When she reached the trailer’s patio, she almost collapsed, gasping for air. The trailer was a safe zone. For some reason, the specters never came near the house.

Trish dropped her backpack on the floor and headed for the kitchen. Getting past the barn gave her a powerful hunger. Milk and Oreos would do the trick. She sat down at the kitchen table and started dunking when her eye caught the flash of a red shirt and the familiar, dingy, white cowboy hat. No wonder she got past the barn. Cal was there the whole time, on the other side. But where was the truck?

Her cell phone rang; Peterson. Hey, what are you doing?

Talking to you.

Ha. So how’s the skiing? Trish asked.

Good. How was school?

We didn’t do anything. You know how it is the day before break. Her voice trailed off.

Peterson waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t, he said, Is everything okay?

Yeah. It’s just... well... I had a hard time getting past the barn this afternoon.

Why? Did something happen?

No. I couldn’t find Cal, and you weren’t here.

Aw, sounds like someone’s missing me.

She laughed. Maybe a little. The tiniest, tiniest bit.

While they talked, Trish watched Cal. He went into the side pasture. Within minutes he reappeared, leading his bay gelding, Zeus, into the barn.

Peterson, I have to go. It looks like Cal might be taking Zeus out, and I want to go with him.

Okay. I’ll call you later.

She gulped her milk and stuffed the last Oreo in her mouth. The terror she experienced after getting off the bus didn’t cross her mind with Cal nearby. The door slammed behind her. Can I go with you? she yelled across the patio.

Cal was examining Zeus’s hoof. When Trish reached him, he said, Check with your mom first.

I’m fifteen years old.

So you’re old enough not to worry your mom. Call her, or you don’t go. He softened the words with a smile and went back to his examination.

Trish leaned against the horse and pulled out her cell. After a few minutes, she said, Mom says I can go. Do you want to talk to her?

No. He put Zeus’s hoof down and straightened. I believe you. After saying goodbye, she pushed the phone in her pocket. Get a jacket, Cal said.

I’m not cold.

He turned to go in the tack room and called over his shoulder, Jacket, you go. No jacket, you don’t go.

You’re worse than my mother, Trish mumbled, but went back to the house. On her return, she held the jacket in the air for Cal to see. He nodded and she stuffed her arms in the sleeves.

Trish’s horse, Jane, was waiting in the stall. All the horses on the ranch carried the name of a favorite author or character from literature. Pap said his naming method honored Grandma, whose mystery novels languished for weeks on the best seller lists. Since the place was called, The Novel Ranch, naming the horses that way fit."

Trish couldn’t imagine a spring without the literary debates over the names of the new foals. Discussions of authors and characters spilled over from the dinner table to the family room. They could be heated arguments that caused one member of the family to go to the bookshelves and yank down a book to prove a point. Trish credited the spring debates for a lot of her literary knowledge. The name chosen for a colt or filly had to be a unanimous decision. Some names came fast and others were debated well into the summer.

Trish’s horse was a petit, ladylike creature with long eyelashes and a shy, reserved nature that flared into spunkiness at a moment’s notice. Jane Austen, Julie said. Cal, Pap, and Trish agreed. Few names fell that easily into place.

Last summer, in honor of her horse, Trish read Pride and Prejudice. She enjoyed it so much that she read another one of Austen’s books, Sense and Sensibilities, before the start of school.

She brushed Jane’s thick winter coat. It felt good to be outside and busy. Leather mixed with dirt, sweet hay, and horses. Jane shook herself, starting with her muzzle and rippling all the way down to her tail. Trish coughed and waved away the tiny cloud of dirt that rose from her horse.

After saddling and bridling her, Trish led Jane out of the stall into the roomy aisle and swung into the saddle. Usually Cal finished tacking up first and hollered for her to hurry, but Zeus was standing alone, looking bored.

Trish tried to glance around nonchalantly. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to her growing fear. Was she alone? Where did Cal go?

A breeze stirred through the barn, but nothing moved in its wake. No. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe Cal was in the office or tack room. She listened, but didn’t hear anything. The breeze grew cool. Trish shivered.

Jane shook her head and the jangle of the bridle ripped through Trish. The animal pawed at the ground with her hoof, impatient to get moving. Zeus’s bridle hung over the stall door; a loose knot in his lead secured him to the metal ring in the aisle. One back hoof rested on the tip. Could Cal be outside?

If Trish called for him, it would alert the haunts to her distress. Instead, she silently pressed her heels into Jane’s warm side. The horse moved forward a few steps and then stopped. C’mon girl, Trish murmured and gave Jane plenty of rein while renewing the pressure with her heels. Jane didn’t respond.

Then it happened.

Chapter 2

Zeus snorted deep in his chest. This was new, an attack while riding, but then, animals didn’t make the best witnesses, so why not? Jane whiffled through her nostrils while side stepping and then, for no reason, she reared, squealing and pawing at empty air.

It wasn’t the first time a horse reared with Trish on its back and she knew how to respond. Stay calm and give Jane a loose rein. Trish adjusted her body weight forward and, with an assist from gravity, Jane stood, once again, on all four hooves. Any less of a rider would have been on the ground.

Why did she mount her horse in the barn? Stupid mistake, stupid, stupid mistake. Of course she thought Cal was getting ready, but she should have checked.

She could dismount and lead Jane and Zeus out of the barn, but as that idea took hold, a rush of movement built around her. Jane’s skin flinched as if flies were landing on her and she was trying to shake them off. Trish got glimpses of long hair, or was it mane? Were those horses? Ghost horses? Up until now, Trish’s encounters had the feel of a one-to-one horrific experience, but this time she felt crowded. Could this mass of motion trample her? Dismounting was out of the question. She would stay in the one place that felt safe, the saddle.

As Trish struggled to calm Jane, she waited for the shrieks and personal attacks, but they didn’t come. This was a quiet encounter with frenzied action. Trish, Jane, and Zeus were caught in the middle of a chaotic ghostly intersection.

Trish wanted to close her eyes, but for Jane’s safety and hers, she needed to stay focused. She also needed to be a witness to this experience, everything had to be recorded.

Suddenly, Jane side-stepped toward the wall. In one swift move, Trish yanked her foot out of the stirrup and curled her leg behind her before Jane slammed into the boards. Her horse grunted and squealed. Her head moved up and down as if she were trying to shake something off. Trish wanted to scream, but she didn’t have that luxury. Right now she had to focus.

Tears of anger and frustration threatened to spill down her cheeks. She wiped them back. Whatever was bullying her wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Instead, she put her effort into getting Jane back to the center of the aisle, where they wouldn’t be battered against the wall. When that was accomplished, Trish concentrated on getting out. No matter how hard she tried, Jane wouldn’t move forward, not even a step. The barn doors stood open, taunting Trish with their promise of freedom and safety.

Zeus was having his own troubles. While Trish and Jane were struggling to get away from the wall, he bucked and thrashed at the end of his lead. Trish focused on keeping Jane far from his panic. He finally broke free then swung around wild, looking for an escape. His sides heaved and flecks of foam flew through the air.

The last glimpse Trish had of Zeus was a bucking snorting ball of energy surging through the barn doors and into the afternoon light. Trish urged Jane to follow, but the horse seemed frozen in place, her chestnut coat trembling and darkened by sweat. There could be only one reason Jane didn’t bolt after Zeus; a ghostly hand held her. Trish couldn’t see it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

The thought sent a fresh fear through Trish. She had to calm herself. Cal flashed through her mind. She was eight years old and he was giving her a riding lesson. You’ve got to stay calm, Trish. Don’t forget that you telegraph a conversation to your horse through the reins. If you’re nervous, your horse will be nervous. If you’re calm, your horse will be calm.

Peterson’s words came to her for the second time that day. A ghost can only kill you if you allow him to.

That’s not happening, she muttered.

Hey, what’s going on? Cal hollered.

The voice made her jump and Jane, released from her invisible bond, bolted. Trish pulled her up in the space of a few feet.

Why is Zeus outside? Cal said.

Before she could answer, Cal set something down and went out the door. Trish’s body was trembling from the scare. She had to calm herself if she ever hoped to calm Jane. There, there, she murmured as she patted the horse’s neck. Cal’s here now. We’re safe.

She wanted to yell all sorts of garbage at the ghost, but didn’t. There would be other encounters. The last thing Trish needed was a ghost seeking revenge for her flippant mouth.

Trish never went anywhere without a notebook and pen. She pulled them out of the saddle pack while she waited for Cal; a simple gesture made difficult by her shaking hands. In a sloppy scrawl, she wrote, December 17 – Dangerous encounter with multiple ghosts - Feelings and sounds mixed with wisps of things like winter breath, cold, white and swirly, and then gone. Not hurt, but shaking. Horses were affected. Saw ghost horses, I think.

After the first encounter with the ghost, Trish had started her own personal study of the haunting, documenting exactly what she saw, heard, and felt. Somehow it calmed her down to record her findings, and she was learning a lot. Like today, she’d never seen ghost horses before. She also didn’t realize that animals felt the presence of specters too. She took deep breaths, still trying to slow her heartbeat, and then returned the pen and notebook to the saddle pack.

Cal walked in leading Zeus, who squealed and tried to rear at the barn entrance. With a firm hand on the halter, he moved Zeus forward. The animal snapped his long tail, snorted, and side-stepped.

Cal smiled. Looks like we’re gonna have a lively ride this afternoon. Big man’s feeling his oats. How’d he get so sweaty? Looks like he ran a race.

He went crazy on the lead. When he freed himself, he bolted. With great effort, Trish kept her voice steady. Where were you?

I had to go after Zeus, Cal said as though it were obvious.

Not just now. I meant before. I came in the barn and you were here. Then I saddled Jane and you were gone. Where were you?

He turned so she could see the backpack. I had to get the tools. They were in the back seat of the truck. You know what a mess that is. I kept finding things I didn’t know were back there. You’ll never believe this but remember that piece to the pipe bender Pap was asking everyone about last weekend?

Trish nodded, still numb.

It was in the back of the truck the whole time, Cal continued, and reached a practiced hand down Zeus’s legs, searching for injury. Good thing he didn’t go out and buy a new one. Would’ve been a waste. He brushed Zeus, picked his hooves, and when he was satisfied nothing was wrong, saddled and bridled the big bay.

Where’s the truck? Trish’s voice still shook.

The truck?

She nodded.

Up at Pap’s.

You went all the way to Pap’s?

Cut through the trees. Why?

She shrugged her shoulders.

Everything alright?

She nodded, but pretended to fix her stirrup so he wouldn’t see the tears that kept filling her eyes, threatening to spill over. She never cried when she was sad, like most people. Trish’s tears fell when she was frustrated, angry, or happy. It was terrible, too, because the ghosts made her plenty angry and frustrated, which meant she often found herself fighting off tears.

She continued rubbing Jane’s neck. Helping Jane helped her, and by the time Cal finished with Zeus, Trish and Jane were calm.

You should have gone after Zeus, Trish. If he stepped on his lead, he could have hurt his leg or neck. When she didn’t answer, he added, It was a dangerous situation.

"I’m sorry.