The Lingering Spirits

By Summer Munger

West Brook General Hospital closed its doors for good over a decade ago, but the halls were far from empty even before Sam Gilbert arrived. Hard living in New York sends the broken photographer back to her small hometown to serve as the hospital’s new caretaker. Everyone tells her the building is haunted. But the job comes with free room and board, plus a little extra cash to help her get back on her feet. Not to mention, it isn’t her old bedroom at her parent’s house. She soon finds life back in West Brook isn’t all that bad. New friends emerge to make her days less lonely. Then an old love resurfaces in Shelby Walker, forcing Sam to face her past mistakes. Just as life starts to look brighter, her new abode gets darker and darker.

Will Sam brave the growls, footsteps and phantom voices that surround her to figure out what happened at West Brook General? Or will she succumb to her own demons along the way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Summer Munger
• Release date: Oct 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999098028

Summer Munger

Summer Munger is an American fiction author who writes stories about women who happen to love women. Presently she lives near Atlanta, works in marketing and spends a lot of time with her dog (surprise, surprise).

Book preview

Prologue

Hey Quincy, it’s Rick Gilbert. How you doin’ these days, old man?

The heavy footfalls of expensive shoes echoed through the barren hallway. The fourth floor of West Brook General hadn’t seen a patient since the doors to the building closed for business years ago. The southern drawl of its owner lingered as he made his request of the local newspaper representative.

Yeah, yeah, doin’ just fine but I need a new caretaker for the hospital now that Johnny…

The pause was expected. Everyone in West Brook had heard about what happened to Johnny.

Well, I appreciate those kind words, Quincy. Johnny was a good boy, even past all his weaknesses.

Lies fell easily off Rick’s tongue when they were harmless.

Yep, that’s right. Free room and board, tools provided, payment negotiable; you know the deal.

A low growl from the room at the end of the hall caused the squeak of Rick’s shoes to halt his steps. Looking back at darkened space, he sighed and amended his request.

Quincy, do me a favor, will you? Put something in there about a preference for applicants who don’t scare easy.

He needed this one to last.

CHAPTER ONE

"Well, what did you expect, sugar? You’d go and piss away your whole life and get just to come back, thinking everything’d be the same?"

The words were spoken in the way that only the gruff tones of a judgmental yet loving father could utter them. The pinch of tobacco in his mouth complimented the gravel in his voice. Sam could hear it even through the phone.

No, Dad, I knew that things would be difficult. I just thought that I might be able to get some kind of work in town, Sam replied as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. The light of several job search tabs on her computer illuminated her face in the dark. There’s not one agency that will so much as interview me.

The chuckle that lilted over the phone was genuine.

Well, you know, I’d tell you you should have thought about that before you got caught screwin’ your coordinator’s wife with a mountain of drugs in the corner, but it seems like that might be a tad useless at the moment, her father said, before spitting audibly. How bad are your finances?

Photography had been both lucrative and glamorous before the alcohol and drugs had gotten out of hand. Sam had gone from being different – ‘the other’ – in a small town to being invited to bathrooms full of blow and very, very beautiful women. They said it was the intensity of her gaze and the way her arms flexed when she held the camera that drew them in. Sam knew better, though. She was as much of a stimulant in those moments as the chemicals were. She just really didn’t mind being one.

I can’t make rent next month, she said, running a hand through her long, dark hair and looking around the SoHo loft that had played host to some of the greatest moments of her life. I can freelance a bit here and there, but that kind of money is nowhere near what I need to sustain a life out here.

What’d I tell you about your savings account? he asked, probably with a shake of his head.

It wasn’t your advice about saving money that I didn’t heed, it was the lack of understanding of just how expensive rehab is when coupled with a drug and alcohol problem, she explained tiredly as she sipped tea, which was not bourbon. She hated a life that would force her to drink tea when bourbon existed. I know I screwed up, Dad. I don’t need any further lecturing about it.

Aren’t they supposed to teach you humility in those meetings you go to? he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

I’m not on that step yet, Sam replied dryly, before shutting the laptop and leaning back at her desk, one arm crossing over her stomach. I think I might need to come home and stay at the lake house for a while.

At this, her father laughed much more heartily.

Baby, we’re in the middle of fishing season. Unless you want to share that place with me and a buncha other big and burly gas-bags on Friday nights into Saturday evenings, I suggest you search for other accommodations.

She gave a long exhale. Shit. I forgot about fishing season.

Nearly five months of weekends where her father and ‘the boys’ would load up their truck beds with PBR, pork rinds and God only knew what else it was that gave them that smell of putrid meat by Sunday. Then it was day-drinking out on the lake and tall tales from the days of yore on the porch while they smoked the cigars and cigarettes their wives had long since made them give up during the week. It was… less than ideal.

Yeah, I figured. You’re welcome to stay with me and your mom if you like. I can clear all the junk off your old bed and you can try to get back on your feet at home.

She shook her head before answering. No, that’s ok, Dad. I’ll figure out something.

Sam loved her family; she really did. But the idea of going back to her old bedroom, meatloaf Mondays, and Wednesday night church service? Well, there were cardboard boxes under overpasses in Queens that seemed more appealing.

Don’t you go living on the street because of pride and hubris, young lady, he warned, as if reading her mind. Ain’t no shame in where you came from. It got you where you are today. It was the city that broke you down.

I know, Dad, she lied, forgiving him the placating title he’d used. Some battles were worth losing when the war was family. I just… Let me try to figure things out for myself first. I don’t want to put you and Mom out.

Aw, horse shit. You know damn well your momma would be in hog heaven having you around here again. You just think she’s gonna make you go to church.

The thought had crossed my mind. Sam bit her lip and decided it was time to end the torture of paternal insight. Alright, Dad, I’ll call you later this week and let you know what’s going on. I need to get a few things figured out. Don’t tell Mom about the money. I don’t want her to worry.

And I don’t want to hear her worryin’, he confirmed. She won’t hear it from me. Keep your chin up, baby. You can do this – but remember, tryin’ to do everything by yourself is just gonna put more stress on you. I know you have dreams, and I know you wanted something bigger than this place could provide, but if you don’t ask for help and let people in you’re gonna drive yourself right back to drinkin’ and snortin’ and whatever the hell else you been doin’ up there.

Roger that, she said, trying desperately to end the call. Love you, Dad.

Love you too, darlin’. You be careful.

I will. Bye, Dad, she said, before hanging up.

He never said ‘goodbye’ – always ‘be careful’. Even when she had gone to sleep at night as a kid. It was a strange habit, but she’d learned to accept it about him. Thumbing through her contacts, she called Mateo, her one and only friend who didn’t require alcohol to have a good time.

I am in desperate need of Indian food. Want to meet me at the buffet in 30 minutes? Sam asked when he picked up.

You can’t keep doing this to me, Sam, he replied with faux annoyance. Your newfound sobriety is going to put an extra ten pounds on my hips.

Yeah, well, all the songs say that every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the power bottom. Now get movin’, she said, before hanging up and hoping he was hungry.

* * *

The restaurant she liked to frequent was relatively bare at night. Buffet food wasn’t exactly romantic or chic: things New Yorkers tended to stray toward after 6 pm. That was one of the things she liked about it – that and the wide range of choices. Indian food had been so adventurous to her palate when she had first moved to the city. There had been so many different spices she hadn’t experienced when she was just starting her big and ambitious journey in the world. She had eaten it nearly every night, trying every single dish. And then, of course, her compulsive nature had come through and, having figured out the exact science of what made the very best ladlefuls, turned something exotic and new into something ritualistic and predictable.

New and exciting became tried and true. Just like the rest of her life. Rinse, cycle, repeat. One of the major problems she’d run into was that she’d applied that formula to her more dangerous addictions. 

Shot, bump, girl.

Shakes, anxiety, regret.

Rinse, cycle, repeat.

She knew she needed to stop long before she actually did. It just all seemed so pointless without the vices. Why work so hard all day and not play at night? Why have all that money and beauty and youth only to cart it home at the end of the day to frozen dinners and streaming television just like every other boring, sedated being in the civilized world?

Sam didn’t want to be civilized. She wanted passion, excitement, fear, sex… all of the things that had been not only out of reach in her youth but so elusive they had almost seemed like lies. Lies they’d all been told just so they didn’t give up on the world completely before they had a chance to spend the rest of their lives working, underpaid, for people who sailed on yachts and paid for the silence of their sins rather than the clothes on their backs.

She figured there must be a sweet spot where it worked. Where all of the excess wasn’t too much. She’d just plowed through that window with higher speed than most and made a beeline for the ‘pathetic mess’ stage of the process.

You do know that when you invite someone to dinner you’re supposed to engage with them, right? Mateo asked. I’m not eating curry tonight instead of going out so that you can have a nice quiet dinner with yourself.

No, I know, I’m sorry, she said, forking some potato into her mouth. I’ve just been super stressed about the job thing.

Still no luck finding anything? he asked, using some naan to scoop up the chicken on his plate. 

No, she said, shaking her head. Honestly, I think I might have to move back home for a while.

To the Bible Belt? he asked, surprise and fear coloring his very expressive face. Girl, surely there’s something you can do. I know you’re opposed to sucking dick, but we got girls here working Craigslist and living in Manhattan. That’s got to be better than moving back to Bum-fuck wherever you came from.

It’s not that bad, Sam replied with a chuckle, throwing a pickled carrot at him. If you’re quiet they don’t care.

So that’s what you’re going to be the rest of your life? Quiet? Mateo asked, as if the very word were offensive. You pull yourself out of that country-bumpkin cabbage patch and bring yourself all the way to New York only to go back there and be quiet? Because you are not quiet, Samantha Gilbert. I know you think you are without the bourbon and coke to pull you further out of your skin, but you are loud with or without your pharmaceutical snack pack.

Really? She gestured around them. It’s 8:15 on a Friday night and I’m at an Indian buffet stuffing my face with carbs. My plans after this are a shower, a melatonin and a 15-minute Facebook scroll of people from high school who went on to become middle management and mommy bloggers. People I used to be able to judge because I’d made something of myself but who now can afford the toilet paper that wipes their ass – whereas me, not so much. Quiet is exactly where I need to live for a while. Quiet, contained and alone long enough to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with my life.

And you think you can figure that out in a red state crawling with nothing but white people?

It helped me figure out how to get here, she countered, breaking off a piece of bread and scooping up some lentils, with which she stuffed her face – the perfect punctuation to her point.

Fine, he said, with an apathetic shrug that didn’t match his tone. But don’t expect me to come visit you. I think they hate Mexicans more than they hate gays where you come from.

Sadly, I think you might be right. Sam leaned her head on her hand. You’re not going to unfollow me on all of your social media just because my location changes, are you?

I make no promises, he said, though she knew he was lying, before finally looking into her eyes. Is this our goodbye dinner? Our underwhelming last gay supper, minus Jesus?

Mateo was one of the first friends she’d made when she’d moved. They had lived in the same apartment in Bushwick together and smoked a lot of pot on his balcony before binging on cheap nachos, made with everything in his fridge, and watching marathons of whatever happened to be on the Travel Channel at that moment. They both loved the idea of seeing other places in the world, yet they’d never made the effort to go to any of them.

Why would we actually go to Paris when we can look at it from New York? he’d say, kidding himself and her.

Because we’re not even looking at Paris, she’d reply. "We’re looking at grown men yelling at curtains, claiming they’re hunting ghosts in Paris."

If she thought hard about it, she found that some of the best experiences of her twenties hadn’t been spent with the people who rolled the one hundred dollar bills and called her ‘the photographer’ – they had been the times with TV and Mateo. Being two kids with big dreams in the city. The living out of the actual dreams had been the illusion the entire time.

I think it might be, she said in regards to his question about the dinner. At least for a while.

Sighing softly, he put his fork down and mirrored her sad position, head on hand.

What are you going to do without me? he asked.

She thought for a moment and gave the most honest answer.

I don’t know.

Because she didn’t. She didn’t know what she was going to do in general. It was scary. Why did that kind of fear not feel as good as the fear she felt when she hit on a model for the first time, or breathed in her first line of cocaine? How sad was this new fear? How desperate and lonely?

She’d have to find out, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

Sam was in bed by ten. She was starting to doze while doing the exact thing she’d told Mateo she’d be doing when, all of a sudden, her dad’s contact photo took over the screen, impeding her view of her Facebook feed.

Dad? she asked as she answered the call. Is everything ok?

Yeah, baby, everything’s fine, he replied softly, obviously trying not to wake her mother. Listen, I was talkin’ to your Uncle Rick tonight. Remember him?

Yeah, Dad, I remember Uncle Rick, she said, shaking her head at the idea that her memory might be that bad. Dr. Richard Gilbert had been a very busy man his entire life. There wasn’t a lot of time for family out of the hospital, but he’d managed to make a pretty good impression on Sam when he had been around. Why?

Well, the other day, he told me that he lost his caretaker for that old hospital. You know, the one we took Granny to when she had that stroke?

For southern people, everything that had a bad connotation attached to it also had the word ‘that’ attached to it. ‘That’ old hospital was sad because it was where Granny had gone when she’d had ‘that’ stroke.

Yeah, I remember, Dad. The one with the terrible food, she said.

Yep, that’s the one, he confirmed. Well, Uncle Rick still keeps it up for some reason. Pipe dreams about reopening it, probably. But, anyway, now that the old caretaker’s gone, he’s lookin’ for another one to just keep the place up and scare away kids from tryin’ to trespass. He paid him pretty good, from what I remember. Guy had a whole rec room set up down there. I can talk to Uncle Rick about maybe takin’ you on to stay there. You’d have to mow the grass and fix things here and there, but you’re smart. You used to help me work on that old, beat-up truck.

The one we could never get running? Sam asked, recalling hours of watching her dad swear and drink as he tried with all his might to get the motor to turn over while she bit her tongue against requests to go back inside and play video games. Yeah, I remember.

See, so maybe you could be the caretaker. I know you didn’t forget how to mow a yard and mop a floor. It’d at least be nice and quiet for you. What d’ya say, darlin’?

She thought for a few seconds. West Brook was incredibly beautiful. There were trails, lakes, mountains, waterfalls – all nearby and just ready to be snapped and photoshopped. She could work on her portfolio, and maybe start on a path toward what she’d always wanted to do anyway: travel and shoot landscapes. And perhaps it would do her good to learn how to fix things. To sweat in the Tennessee sun as she worked on the yard. To pull back from the gilded glamor that was the life she’d come to know. Because, under that gold plating, beneath the surface of the champagne and powdered mirrors, there was nothing of substance. Nothing real. That was why she’d honestly stopped drinking and using in the first place. Every conversation about how brilliant Sam was, how far she’d come, how much more she could do if she just got in front of the right people… it wasn’t real. It was empty and cold, and in the harsh light of day it only served to remind her that she was wasting the one life into which she’d been fortunate enough to be born.

Yeah, Dad, I think I will, she finally found herself saying. Can you give me Uncle Rick’s number? I don’t think I have it.

Oh, I sure can, baby doll! he said, much louder than his previous words. I got it right here. He read the numbers out carefully.

Henry Gilbert, who in the world are you talking to at this time of night? 

Sam, hearing the annoyed tone of her mother in the background of the call, couldn’t help but shake her head and smirk. He’d gotten louder on purpose. He wanted her mother to hear the good news.

Samantha! She’s comin’ back home, he said, his voice farther away from the receiver. She’s gonna stay at Rick’s old hospital. The one that shut down.

She can’t stay there! her mother argued. What if somebody comes out there to sneak in and kill her?

Aw, nobody wants to sneak into that place, he argued back. She’s just gonna be there to cut the grass and scare off kids lookin’ for ghosts.

I can’t believe you sometimes, Henry. Give me that phone.

There was a shuffling, combined with a bit more arguing, before her mother’s voice rang through loud and clear.

Samantha, what in the world has your daddy talked you into? she asked, obviously not even remotely on board with this plan.

He’s helping me out, Mom, she said, as even-keeled as possible. She hated being mothered more than most things. And please don’t call me by my full name – you know I hate that.

Oh, I’m sorry. For a second there I thought I created you, carried you for nine months, birthed you and raised you. You’ll have to forgive me for naming you after all that, was the reply, mock contrition dripping from her tone before she barreled through to the point of the matter. Why don’t you just come back home for a while? Why would you want to stay all the way out there in that dirty building all by yourself?

Because you’ll make her go to church if she comes home, Sam’s father could be heard saying in the background, right before a swat rang out through the air.

Just because you can’t sit through a sermon without checking your phone for sports updates doesn’t mean Samantha can’t get right with Jesus, her mother replied, before settling her attention back on the matter at hand. I don’t like the idea of you being there all by yourself. It’s not safe.

Neither was New York according to you, Mom, but here I am. Just fine.

You’re not just fine! the older woman screeched. You turned into a drug addict, went to rehab and lost your job!

Not quite in that order, Sam said, placing her hand on her hip and looking out the window at the city – considering, once more, just how bad it would be to do some cardboard-box living. And New York didn’t make me an addict. I just am one. The point is, I can take care of myself, and I think I need the space and the alone time.

There was silence on the other end as her mother, no doubt, seethed.

I’ll come visit once a week if you promise not to give Dad a hard time about this, Sam offered, trying to ease the tension she could feel even hundreds of miles away.

Fine, her mother replied with a sigh. At least you’ll be closer if anything happens to you. When are you coming home?

Walking over to the fridge, Sam took a look at the calendar and started mentally calculating how much time it would take to get her affairs in order.

I’m thinking about a week and a half, she said, finding it funny how all of her childhood dreams could slip away so swiftly and with just one final utterance. She certainly couldn’t go back on a deal with her mother.

Alright then, baby. I guess I’ll just have to deal with you living in that hospital if it means I get to see you more. At least you’ll get one decent meal a week. I’ve seen your Facebook. You look way too skinny. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.

Love you, Mom. Get some sleep, Sam said, in an effort to definitively end the night’s conversation.

Love you too, baby. Call me when you firm up your plans. Night, night.

Night, night.

Pocketing her phone, Sam entered the bathroom to start the water for one of the few pleasures she felt she had left in life: a nice, hot bath. Candles were lit, fragrant oils were poured, and Pandora was turned on as she stripped away the day and slipped into warm, comforting bliss. As her eyes closed, she calculated the number of sober days she’d have once she arrived back in town.

44

That wasn’t a lot of time to have under her belt when she was going to be living in a place where all there really was to do was drink. And smoke meth. Thank God she had never had the urge to pick up that particular habit. She was going to have to be careful. And, sadly, she was probably going to have to make an effort to go to meetings.

She hated the meetings. Even in New York. She couldn’t imagine the tone of an AA meeting in West Brook.

As she allowed the water to warm and calm her body, she tried to stop thinking about the struggles of the future and simply be in the moment. She was safe, she was warm, she was alive, she was present. Everything was real – good or bad. And she needed to find a way to be thankful for that. She had to look at this as an opportunity rather than a death sentence.

And, if all else failed, she could just become a drunk in West Brook. She’d fit in just fine.

CHAPTER TWO

Moving day came sooner than Sam thought it would. Between selling and giving away half of her belongings, canceling all of her utilities, and eating at every single restaurant she’d grown to love before embarking on a journey to a land of generic, frozen crap, she had very nearly cut it down to the wire. With hardly a second to spare, she'd finished her preparations and started the road trip home.

Sam hitched a tiny U-Haul trailer to the back of the old Jeep she’d bought simply because old Jeeps seemed to make people look cool no matter where they were. She sipped diet soda from the extra-large cup purchased from a gas station in the last state she had blown through and listened to local radio that got more and more country the further south she went. She was trying to embrace her fate. To take in a culture that was more a lack of culture when it wasn’t an outright theft of culture.

She’d never borne any illusion regarding the fact that she hated where she came from. She had tossed out the tenets, beliefs and societal norms of the southeastern United States almost from birth. To Sam the south represented everything that rejected who she was; a proud, intelligent, gay, independent feminist. So, in turn, she rejected it – vehemently. Her mind recalled far too many drunken nights slurring insults at the place that had created her. The veiled or blatant racism. The inclination to demean intellect. The clinging to old beliefs that served no purpose in a brave new world. She didn’t know if she hated them because they hated her or if she would have, even if that were not the case. But, either way, there was no love lost between her and the very lifeblood that flowed through West Brook.

Yet, if she’d learned anything from her quest for inner peace that didn’t come from the bottom of a bottle, it was that one had to accept the truth of a situation before they could work to change it. So, she accepted the crooning twang of the country star on her radio.

Her GPS stopped working just shy of the hospital. It had been going reasonably steadily the entire trip but once off the highway, the connection got spotty.

Shit, she said, picking up her phone at a red light and raising it to the roof of the car with no luck. Stupid, fucking, podunk town.

She dialed her dad, who picked up after the first ring.

Hey, baby, where are ya? he asked.

Hey, Dad. I think I’m a little lost, Sam said, looking around to give him some road signs or markers that might help him guide her. I just passed a tractor supply store on my right and I’m coming up on a diner called… Slick Skillet on my left. Is there any way you can tell me how to get there from here?

Yeah, you’re just gonna go past the Slick Skillet and keep on goin’ straight for two lights before you turn right. Now, don’t turn at the second light. You’re still gonna wanna go through it. You’ll see an old shut down Texaco on your left – that’s where your uncle Jimmy used to work. Don’t turn there either, he said, adding in the useless details that always drove her to madness when getting directions from him. Then you’re gonna see a Chevron on your left, right after the train tracks. Definitely don’t turn there, or you’ll end up on the tracks. You’re gonna want to pass the Chevron and then go on up the road until you see the hospital on your right. Now, still don’t turn into the front entrance – you’re gonna want to go around the back to the Emergency entrance so it’s easier for us to get your stuff down into the basement.

So, literally go straight on until I hit the hospital? she asked, annoyed beyond compare.

Yeah, he said, as if he saw absolutely no distinction. Come on back here. I’m waitin’ on you.

Thanks, Dad, she said, before ending the call and continuing on her way.

Each one of the road markers were there. The ‘old Texaco where Uncle Jimmy used to work’, the train tracks, the gas station located conveniently within walking distance of the hospital and then the back entrance that led to the ER. The hospital looked a lot smaller than she remembered it as a child, but she reasoned that everything looked a lot bigger when you were that small.

There were three floors plus, apparently, a basement. Sam had spoken to her Uncle Rick briefly about the caretaker position on the phone and he had said she’d have her own living suite, but he hadn’t mentioned that it would be in the basement. Not that Sam was the type to scare easy – but who wouldn’t be a little creeped out at the prospect of living in the basement of an abandoned hospital?

If the outside was any indication of the inside, it was no wonder Rick was so desperate to get someone in there to work on it. The grass was knee-high, the foliage was growing up the walls, and it looked like a few of the windows would need to be replaced as well. Her eyes grew wide as she took in the arduous task ahead of her from the inside of the car. What the hell had she signed up for?

There she is!

Her father’s booming voice could be heard even with the windows up as she pulled through the area where the ambulances would arrive. He opened the door once the car was in park and pulled her out as soon as the keys were out of the ignition.

There’s my baby! he said, again, louder than necessary, as if God himself had asked to be made aware of their reunion.

Breathing him in made her smile. The smell of Old Spice and tobacco, which he wasn’t supposed to smoke, clung to his off-brand polo shirt that was, of course, tucked into his jean shorts. His much taller frame and big, strong arms gripped her tightly, as if he thought holding on with enough might could keep her from ever leaving home again.

Hey, Dad, she said, softer, hugging him back with as much force as she could muster. It’s so good to see you.

Can’t be that good, he replied, his tone still jovial as he pulled away and started back around to the trailer to open it and assess the workload they had ahead of them. It’s the first time you’ve come back home in about three years.

Had it really been that long? She couldn’t quite remember. And he was good at remembering dates, so it was likely he was right.

Well, ruining your life tends to eat up time, she said, following him and placing a hand on his back. Sorry I didn’t visit more, Dad.

Hey, it’s all fine and dandy now. He started pulling the cheap steel bed frame out of the trailer. You’re stuck with us for quite a while, I’d say. Grab your pillows and I’ll show you the way down before we get the big stuff.

She did as instructed, shaking her head at his no-time-to-waste attitude and the cowboy swagger that led them through the dark halls of the building.

Now, you’ve got power in the basement but, besides that, Rick hasn’t got much electricity running through this place. You’re gonna need to invest in flashlights and lanterns if you want any decent light to work by. The sunlight will only get you so far, but you’re lucky enough that it rises on one side of the building and sets on the other. Best to work east to west during the day and hunker down at night. I don’t know about you, but roamin’ around an empty, run-down hospital doesn’t seem like the best atmosphere to set you up for a good night’s rest.

I don’t doubt you on that, Sam said, as they reached the bottom of the stairwell and took a right.

Now, this here is the living area, her father said as they arrived on the lower level and passed through a double door archway. You got your basics. Living room, kitchen, bedroom and rec room, complete with pool table! I might even have to come visit you with this old thing hangin’ around.

Uncle Rick had all of this installed for the last caretaker? she asked, moving into the kitchen to place the pillows on the counter, as putting them on the floor did not appeal to her.

Well, some of it, he said with a tone that was trying too hard to be casual. Some of it was already in here.

I doubt the pool table was, Sam muttered, looking around to try to envision just precisely what the area had been used for. It was an ample, square space; utilitarian, with bright lights and tiled floor and walls. She slowly realized that the sink was quite industrial looking; far too big for cooking… Please tell me this part wasn’t the morgue.

Her father was silent, as if the process of setting up the bed frame was far too taxing to listen at the same time.

Dad?

Well, baby, it’s free rent, he explained, grunting as he stood back to his full height of 6 foot 4. It was never gonna be the Ritz.

Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting to rest in an area where people were actually laid to rest! she pointed out, eyes wide.

Oh, that part came after, baby doll, he corrected with a shake of his head. People aren’t put to rest until they get to the funeral home or the cemetery. Here they were—

No, no, no! She held up her hands. No, I know what happens in a morgue. I’ve seen all the TV shows. Let’s just… not talk about it and I’ll… buy some sage or something.

Lord, don’t tell your momma you’re gonna be doing that voodoo stuff in here, he said as he turned to go back out into the ‘foyer’ and toward the stairs. She’ll have the whole damn church prayin’ for you.

Left alone only for a few seconds in her new, all-too-quiet abode, Sam felt a shiver run down her spine at the prospect of sleeping where dead people had been dissected and studied as if they were fetal pigs in a high school science lab.

Honestly, I may need her to, she muttered, before walking a little faster to the stairwell than she would under any normal circumstances.

* * *

The drive to the quiet subdivision where Sam’s childhood home still stood firm was a brief one; everything in West Brook was close by, and there was never any traffic. The grass was freshly cut, the driveway clear of any debris. An American flag hung from the notch beside the front door near two rocking chairs that were well worn and rocked. Her mother, no doubt coming from behind the curtain where she’d been watching and awaiting their arrival, opened the heavy oak door and pushed past the screen door, smiling as she approached the truck.

There’s my baby, she said, her voice an octave higher than usual from the excitement that flowed through her veins and right into the warm hug in which she wrapped her daughter.

Hey, Momma, Sam said as she returned the comforting gesture.

Her ‘heys’ always sounded slower and more drawn out when preceding the word ‘momma’. A subtle reminder of the accent she’d grown up with and tried for the better part of her adulthood to shed. She honestly didn’t know whether the inflection was conscious or unconscious. A small remittance of the control she’d sought over taming her roots to please her mother, or a genuine slip of the tongue due to the familiarity of a love built on speech that had settled deep within her bones?

Oh, just look at you. Skin and bones. Julia Gilbert pulled back to take a look at her daughter and shook her head. What? They don’t have food in New York?

They’ve got lots of food, Momma, Sam said, wrapping one arm around her mother’s waist to guide her toward the house. I was just blessed with your metabolism.

Growing up in the south had taught her that the easiest way to redirect nagging was to offer a compliment in its place.

Yeah, well, enjoy it while you’ve got it, baby girl, because it won’t last much further up into your thirties and forties, let alone the rest of the journey, Julia replied, pulling away upon entering the house and heading straight for the kitchen. I made your favorite: pot roast and potatoes.

Thanks, Momma, Sam called out as she took in every familiar aspect of the house that had built her.

Beige carpet had replaced the brown shag from when she was a teenager. The wall heater and window air units still poorly regulated the temperature, making both winters and summers just a little colder than they needed to be. The curtains hadn’t changed; the pictures on the walls had simply been added to until there were far too many. The old wooden television that had done its fair share in raising her was gone, replaced with a flatscreen likely purchased from some poor teenager working a Black Friday sale at ‘the Walmart’; it was always called ‘the Walmart’, not just Walmart, as the prestige of being the only Walmart in town might diminish with the lack of the definite article.

Clichés are clichés for a reason, and coming home certainly did feel like walking into a time capsule. The smell of the roast on the stove was precisely the same as it had been when Sam was a kid. It mixed with the Tinactin her father had just sprayed on his feet at the door so they wouldn’t offend the rest of the house. In the kitchen, an old, square, bulb-powered television showed the local news, something she never watched in New York. The anchors were still the same. Their hair looked plastic; their tones were desperate. They worked tirelessly to try to communicate a sense of importance over a birthday party gone awry from a fireworks mishap that had hurt absolutely no one in the neighborhood, though it had caused damage to a mailbox. The dining room adjacent to the kitchen had been turned into a craft station and abandoned home gym. Fabric and thread were piled up on a discount treadmill that sat sad and forgotten in the corner. It overlooked a host of colorful projects that would become Christmas and birthday presents for all the members of the family and church.

Well, I just can’t believe you’re gonna be stayin’ in that old hospital, honey. Her mother’s voice called her back to the moment. She ladled food onto the plates and put the extra-large pitcher of sweet tea in the middle of the kitchen table. Your daddy’s gonna take care of my fear of the riffraff, but how in the world are you gonna sleep there with all that death around you? Aren’t you scared of ghosts?

Sam started to answer, but before she could her father came in from the hallway with an old rifle he’d used on his one, and only, attempt at hunting. He’d wounded a deer and had been unable to finish the job, so her Uncle Jimmy had had to take care of it for him. Henry had never gone hunting again and, consequently, hadn't eaten venison since.

I’ll take ya out back of the hospital after supper and teach you how to shoot it, he said, before taking his place at one end of the table; her mother would take the other.

Dad, I really don’t think this is necessary, Sam said, placing the gun gingerly on the dining-room table before returning to the kitchen and taking a seat. I survived twelve years in New York without even so much as a can of pepper spray. I think I can handle West Brook without a gun.

Now, don’t you start going into that liberal, hippy-dippy gun talk, Henry said, over-salting his food. I know you’ve been out in the world and think you know everything, but this is a special circumstance – one that not many people find themselves in. You are gonna be staying in an abandoned building. Meth-heads have already broken into it and spray-painted the walls just in the time Uncle Rick put out the help wanted sign. They go in there and do their drugs and rituals and Lord knows what else. You’ve got to be able to protect yourself if they decide to come down in that basement.

Rituals? she asked with a smirk and a shake of her head, placing her napkin in her lap and waiting for the prayer that was surely coming.

Why, Lord, yes, her mother said with disdain as she sat down and reached out for Sam’s hand. The crazies go in there and paint all those devil signs, light some candles and call on the demons of hell to come up. The meth eats up their minds and then they give their souls to Satan.

Sounds like the most happenin’ place in town, Sam deadpanned as she took the small hand in her own and reached out for her father’s much larger one.

Oh, hush up, her mother warned. Daddy, say grace.

Her father’s deep and soothing voice recounted each and everything that came to mind that he might be thankful for that day, starting with her return home. As a child, Sam had found she could learn a great deal by actually paying attention to her father’s mealtime prayer. It was how she had discovered her mother’s cancer scare, learned that her parents had found her cigarettes in the loose floorboard of her bedroom, and, though she had already had the news broken to her, cried along with the old man as he begged Jesus to welcome Grandma Gilbert into heaven. It seemed as though the main concerns of today's prayer were her safety in the hospital, a gout flare-up in his knee and, a rarity in West Brook, the moral failings of the Republican party – all culminating in a hearty and grateful ‘Amen’.

Amen, she echoed from her atheist mouth. She might have come out as a lesbian to her parents, but she would never dare break her mother’s heart by admitting she didn’t believe in Jesus.

Are you tellin’ me you’re not scared one bit about stayin’ all by yourself in that place? Julia asked as she cut the meat, potatoes and carrots on her plate.

Not now that I’ve got Dad’s gun to protect me from the Satan worshipers, Sam said, with a wink to her father. She shoveled a forkful of food and gravy into her mouth and didn’t even try to suppress the moan that escaped her lips. God, this is good, Momma. Thanks for cooking.

You’re welcome, sweetheart, but I was talking about the ghosts.

Come on, Mom. You know I don’t believe in that kind of stuff.

Yeah, well, just like Jesus, you don’t have to believe in them for them to be real, was the ominous reply.

I’ll try to remember that, Sam said as she took a sip of the sugary-sweet staple of the south and made a mental note to ask for water next time.

Make fun if you want, but don’t you be callin’ me at three in the mornin’ because you keep hearin’ noises in there, Julia warned, before finally starting to eat her food.

Eh, she’s tough, Momma, Henry chimed in, halfway through his plate already. Plus I got the Sheriff’s Deputy on notice about her stayin’ there. He said he’d check in on her from time to time… Don’t shoot him, baby.

I really don’t need a babysitter, Dad, Sam said, unhappy with the idea of being ‘checked in on’ by a complete stranger.

Are you talkin’ about Eric? her mother asked disdainfully. If so, no need to worry, baby. That boy probably won’t even be able to find the place.

"Don’t