Ghost in the Mountains

By Bill Creed

A mother’s dying wish motivates Joe to visit his aunt in Tennessee. He convinces his wife Jill, that the crisp mountain air will do them both some good. Little do they know, his aunt’s sleepy little town harbors several deep, dark secrets. Secrets of conspiracy, murder, betrayal, and corruption. However, the worst is yet to come, as Joe and Jill accidentally awaken a vengeful spirit that terrorized the town for years. Now their lives and the town of Mountain Top will never be the same.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499039122

Bill Creed

Bill Creed started working at the age of fourteen delivering newspapers. After high school he joined the Marine Corps, and served in Operation Iraqi Freedom in 2003. While on deployment, he began working on his idea for his first novel. He is currently the co-owner of an insulation company in Michigan, where he lives with his wife and two children. He is the author of Ghost In the Mountains.

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Copyright © 2014 by bill creed.

Cover Illustration by Mark Ruben Abacajan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/27/2022

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ONE

In a cold examination room at St. Mercy’s ob-gyn clinic, Jill Miller has just received the news and is sitting in silence wondering how her husband will react. Will he be relieved at the fact they won’t be burdened by a child while their careers are just starting to take off? Will he be devastated because he will never experience the joy of a child’s laughter or witness a first step, first word, or first hit in a little league game? She knew if the news was positive, Joe wanted a son. Being a typically male, he never verbally expressed his preference, but his wife knew. The wife always knows. She knew by the way his eyes lit up when he talked of taking his boy fishing, that a son would be his pride and joy. He wanted to play catch with his son and go camping and hunting together. One night, as the couple lie in bed dreaming of their future, he even went as far as saying, once their son was born, he would have to buy the kid a baseball glove. That way, he could play center field just like his daddy did in high school. Jill recalls laughing at her husband’s premature prediction while explaining to him that the baby might not want to play center field. He told her she was absolutely right as he kissed her cheek and turned off the lamp. A few seconds later, the lights were back on, and Joe sprang up and said, You’re right. He might want to play behind the plate. We’ll have to get him a catcher’s mitt as well. She pushed his head down, ordered him to turn the off the light, and told him to go to sleep.

Jill smiles as she thinks back to that night. Joe turned the light off, but they didn’t go back to sleep. They stayed up late talking and making plans for the future. Joe seemed so excited, but it could have just been a front to make her happy. He was good at hiding his true feelings and emotions yet Jill believed that his excitement was genuine. Perhaps if it wasn’t, if it was indeed an act to please her, then it wouldn’t have been so difficult to relay the bad news.

She hesitates. Part of her wants to leave, to run to her husband and cry on his shoulders. Then again, another part of her wants to stay put, not wanting to see the look on his face when she delivers the news. What if it crushed him like it did her? Two weeks ago, the thought of having a baby never crossed their minds. Then all of a sudden, when Jill experienced what they believed to be morning sickness, a baby was all they could seem to talk about. She was so sure she was pregnant.

She stands up, only to sit back down again. She wasn’t quite ready to face her husband. She remained there feeling cold and alone. The lines that started to form on her forehead due to the stress of the last couple of weeks made her appear older than her twenty-five years. Still, she was an attractive woman with sandy-blonde hair, just slightly longer than shoulder length, and blue eyes. Joe is likewise twenty-five but two months older, six feet tall, slim, with brown hair, smooth facial features, and green eyes. They met on their high school debate team where they became engaged in an all-out war on the topic of abortion. Jill was arguing that under certain circumstances, such as rape, abortion should be allowed during any trimester. Joe was in total agreement but couldn’t resist throwing gasoline on this feisty blonde’s fire. In other words, he loved to argue with her. He made it a point to automatically oppose every topic she was in favor of. Both ended up graduating at the top of their respective classes. The seniors held a mock election toward the end of the semester. Jill was voted Most Likely to Succeed, while Joe was voted Most Likely to Argue in Court, on either side of the law. The couple loved arguing with each other so much that they agreed to get together during lunch to discuss the latest hot-button issues. They would rehearse their arguments, which made for a great show at the debate. These casual lunches eventually escalated into dating, which continued all through college, until they were finally married in the spring of 2007.

Jill smiles as she thinks back to their senior year. It was a sad smile. She realized there was no use in putting off the inevitable any longer. She let herself slip off the examination table to her feet, knocking the white paper sheet on the ground in the process. She picks it up, folds it, and lays it back on the table. She then walked slowly to the waiting room where her husband was reading and waiting for her to return. It was her idea to leave him there while she spoke with the doctor. When she mentioned this plan to Joe, he simply nodded. He knew better than to argue with her once she had made up her mind. He was sick of talking to doctors anyway. His mother was currently losing her battle with cancer at St. Mercy’s Medical Center just up the road. He told his wife that he didn’t have any desire to talk to any more doctors. He knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he ranted just the same to save his pride. He said, I’ve had my fair share of conversations with overpriced, undersympathetic jerks, who can’t ease the pain of the suffering. So what do they do? They dope them up on morphine and send them a big fat bill, hoping, just hoping, they live long enough to charge them for an extra few nights’ stay at the luxurious St. Mercy’s. When he finally took a breath, she said, Well, it’s settled. She went in to see the doctor, and he sat down to read a year-old issue of Field and Stream.

He was reading an article about the latest technological advances in fishing lures when Jill entered the waiting room and stood in front of him. She is unable to produce the words she so desperately needed to say. As it turns out, she didn’t have to say anything. He could tell by the look on her face that the news was negative. He simply nodded his head as he stood to hug her. They walked in silence to the car. Alone, in the privacy of their own vehicle, she asked, What do you think?

There’s no easy answer for Joe and no way out of answering either. If he took the easy way out and simply said nothing, she would likely cut him to pieces with her piercing eyes. If he acted relieved, she would think he didn’t care. Then again, if he acted disappointed, she would think he was lying because he never showed any signs of sorrow unless he missed a play-off game. There was no way out, so he tried his best to be honest and sympathetic. Maybe it’s just not in the cards. Sorry, babe, I know how much this meant to you. It meant a lot to me too.

Jill sighed and said, I know in my heart that now isn’t the best time for us to have a baby. But when we thought I was pregnant, it got me thinking how great it would be to be parents. I think we would have been good at it. We could have learned from our parents’ mistakes and would have been the coolest parents on the block—the ones all the other kids wished were theirs. We would have been best friends with our child but tough when we needed to be. I would have been a good mom. Joe looked at her with knowing eyes and gently caressed her cheek. She ignored him and continued venting. I was already thinking of cutting back my work schedule. I’ve read baby books. I even bought this. She reached in the backseat for a brown paper bag and pulled out two sets of clothes. One was a pink dress with a little hair bow for a girl, assuming she was born with enough hair to wear it. Lord knows Jill wasn’t. Everyone thought she was a boy until her hair finally started to grow around the age of two. The other was a blue-and-white baseball uniform with the words Little Slugger embroidered on it. A single tear formed in the corner of Joe’s right eye. He wipes it away and tells her something neither of them were ready to hear at that moment. He said, We could always adopt.

She turns away from him and stares out the window. He knew the moment the words left his lips that it was the wrong time to mention the A word. Sure, they both knew there was a strong possibility they might not be able to have children. It was a condition that ran on Jill’s side of the family, so the topic of adoption was indeed tossed around a few times. However, Joe knew very well that Jill wanted the total birthing experience. For some ungodly reason—reasons which no man on planet Earth can possibly fathom—she wanted the morning sickness, the labor pains, and the midnight cravings. She thought she could live without the weight gain, but if it came as a package deal, she accepted it as well. She just wanted the opportunity to bring a life into this world. She wanted to feel that instant bond between a mother and a child when the doctor placed the baby in her arms for the first time. She wasn’t against adoption. In fact, she thought it was an amazing option for parents who couldn’t have children of their own. She just never thought she would be one of those parents.

He wrapped his arms around her in a failed attempt to pull her in closer. She shrugs him off and cranks the window down. Power windows were only an option on their ’87 Buick Regal—an option that the previous owner deemed unnecessary. Joe bought the car for $2,000 from an old man who only drove it two years before retiring from the road for good. It was in mint condition, still is, and was the deal of the century. The old man just wanted it out of his garage. It came equipped with air-conditioning and every other option you could think of, except power windows. The man explained this to Joe by saying, Young people today are just too damn lazy. They don’t want to go to the television to turn the channel, and they don’t want to roll down a window. All they want to do is hit a button and have the device do all the work for them. What the hell is the world coming to? Hence, he opted not to get the power windows, so Jill rolled the window down the old-fashioned way. As she did, she thought back to when Joe first bought the car. He had his heart set on the much sportier Grand National, but it was well out of his price range. Hell, at that time, everything was out of his price range. He got lucky with the old man and got a great deal. Joe said, Even though it isn’t a hot rod, it’ll still be a classic in a few years. And who knows, in twenty years when we pass it on to our son, he’ll be the luckiest kid in town. Jill wondered if he would remember uttering those words, but she didn’t ask. She simply stared out the window.

Joe turned the key over just enough so the radio would come on but did not fire the engine. An old country song played softly in the background. It’s one he’s heard several times before but never caught the name of the song or the artist. He scoots over to his wife and hugs her. This time, she allows it. The song changes to Alan Jackson’s Remember When. The couple is oblivious to the singer’s words until he sings, The sound of little feet was music . . . It refers to the pitter-patter of children’s little feet as they run and play. Those few simple words hit close to home at that moment, and Jill’s silent weeping becomes much more audible. It begins to rain, which only added to the dismal mood. A stiff breeze blew a few drops of rain on Jill’s face. It gave her a chill on this cool afternoon, which made her increasingly aggravated. She was suddenly sick of sitting in the car moping about something neither of them had any power to change. She gently shoves her husband away and says, Let’s go see your mom.

Five hundred miles away, in a little unknown Tennessee town, a lonely old widowed woman sits in her garden and hums. Her hands are wrinkled and weathered from decades of laboring in the cornfields. She’s worked in nearly every type of field and garden under the sun from the time she was old enough to pull weeds, or, as she calls it, "rootin’. A slight breeze causes her long gray hair to move in awkward patterns. It’s as if a hundred invisible fingers are pulling the strands in all directions. Those same tiny fingers seem to be lending a hand in pushing the wooden swing as it sways back and forth, just a few feet from her. Her late husband, Jack, had painted it white and hung it from the large oak over thirty years ago. Most of the paint has long since chipped and faded away, but the wood is still intact. Likewise, the mighty oak still towers above her and the garden. It’s a wonder that any sunlight gets through to the crops below, but it somehow finds a way. No. No, I don’t think they’re calling for rain today, she said to no one in particular. The forecast said it’s supposed to be sunny. In her backwoods Tennessee mountain twang, supposed to sounded more like spos ta." She grew up in the South. She and her sister Anne used to help their pa weed their garden until their hands bled. That was a different time, and the South was a different place, but she wouldn’t trade those memories for the world.

A truck pulls up her long drive, and two delivery boys from Johnson’s Market get out. The driver’s name is Tom Johnson, the owner’s son. The other is a young kid named Mike, whom Tom’s dad hired as a stock boy. On this particular morning, Tom asked Mike to ride along to Old Lady Carter’s house to help him unload her monthly load of groceries. Since she only placed an order once a month, the load was enormous.

It doesn’t look like anyone’s here, Mike said, getting out of the truck.

Oh, she’s here, Tom said affirmatively. She’s always here. Not always mentally, but physically, she’s always here. Let’s go around back. She’s probably in her garden.

Sure enough, she was in her garden pulling weeds in her nightgown, still talking to the wind. Gosh, no, the rain won’t be here until the weekend.

Tom overhears her conversation with herself, which only reaffirms what his dad and the rest of the townsfolk already knew—that Old Lady Carter was out of her mind. To quote Big Tom Johnson, Someone must have put oil in her rocking chair because she keeps sliding off of it. What he was referring to was the fact that she might be fine or normal for several days in a row. Then for whatever reason and without warning, she would slip into one of her spells. When she came out of it, she couldn’t remember anything that had happened. Everyone knew she wasn’t well, but what good would it do to take her from her home and stuff her into some institution? She wasn’t a threat to herself or anyone else while she was in her little trance. Not to mention, the collective feeling of the townspeople was that she couldn’t have much time left before she slipped for good, so they let her be.

Maggie Carter was still in her own little world as the men approached. Tom was sure he would frighten her when he spoke up, so he hesitated. However, before he could even consider initiating a conversation, Mrs. Carter spoke to them without turning around.

Hello, boys. So nice of you to come.

Ma’am, Tom said, startled. We’ve got your monthly order, Mrs. Carter, but how did you know we were here?

She looks briefly at the empty swing before answering, You’re not as quiet as you think you are, my boy. I could hear you stomping up the driveway. Anyway, you boys can put those things on the kitchen table, and I’ll put them away in a bit.

No problem, Mrs. Carter. I’ll tell you what, we’ll do you one better. We’ll carry all the meat right to the freezer for ya and put the canned goods in the pantry. You just hold the door, and we’ll do the rest, ma’am.

Oh, thank you, boys. That’s so kind of you. She gladly holds the door wide open as she ushers them in through the back patio entrance. It was an old sliding glass door, but it was rigged to close when it was released. Therefore, someone had to hold it to keep it from slamming shut. She smiles at Mike as he struggles through the door with a large box of canned goods. He sits it on the floor with a bang and looks at Mrs. Carter who seemed to be struggling herself, as she fought to keep the heavy old door open. Mike went back out for a second load and returned with a large patio stone. He laid it flat on the door’s track to keep it propped open. There you are, Mrs. Carter. This rock ought to hold for a while. You can take a break.

She smiled and said, Such nice boys. I’ll make you some lemonade.

For the next twenty minutes, the men carted cases of meat down the rickety basement stairs to two enormous deep freezers. They were the largest freezers Mike had ever seen aside from the walk-in ones at the market. Next came the rest of the canned goods. They had already filled the kitchen pantry, so all the rest had to go on cobweb-filled shelves in the basement. Mike struggled down the squeaky staircase with his heavy load of peas and corn and chili beans, while the boss’s son lingered close behind with two paper sacks full of bread and other miscellaneous items. The men walked up the stairs and back out to the truck. There are some cans of coffee, a turkey, and two fifty-pound bags of potatoes. Tom snags the turkey and walks back inside. Mike slings one of the bags of potatoes over his aching shoulder and grunts, You dirty son of a . . .

Tom ran down to the basement and tossed the bird in the freezer. He is already back to the truck as Mike reaches the cellar. He drops the spuds in the corner and says, I wonder what the lazy, good-for-nothing will grab this time? Mike knew his buddy, Tom, wasn’t the hardest worker on the planet and that he had a tendency to slack off when his daddy wasn’t there to babysit him, but that didn’t bother him. What got on his nerves was the fact that they were friends, and friends shouldn’t treat friends like that. Since they were good friends, Mike gave him the benefit of the doubt. He’ll carry that last bag of potatoes. There’s no way he could stoop so low as to have me carry all the heavy shit.

Come on, slowpoke, Tom called from atop the stairs. He was carrying the coffee cans. You only have one more thing to grab, and we’re out of here.

Mike clenched his fist and thought he could accidentally drop the last bag of potatoes on Tom as he was coming up the stairs. Death by taters would certainly serve him right at this point. Of course, Mike would never really hurt his old grade-school chum, but the thought did make him feel a little better about the situation. He unclenched his fist and made a mental note to have a talk with his coworker later.

Once the boys had finished, they found Mrs. Carter in her garden once again. She told them she had left two glasses of lemonade on the kitchen counter for them. If they also looked on the table, under today’s journal, they would find something else. Just a little something to show my appreciation for all your hard work.

The boys went back inside. Mike removes the patio stone from the screen door and tosses it on the deck. He releases the door slowly so it doesn’t slam shut, but it closes with a thunderous bang anyway. It startles Tom, but Mike shrugs it off and downs his lemonade in one mighty gulp. He pours himself another glass and points to the newspaper lying on the table. He picks it up and begins reading the headlines, completely oblivious to the generous tip that lay underneath. Hey, wait a minute, didn’t she says this was today’s paper? Tom nods his head as he gravitates toward the cash. Well, this one’s from several months ago.

I told you she was batty, said Tom. He picks up two fifty-dollar bills and hands Mike his share.

Fifty bucks! Are you kidding me? This is more than I make in a week after gas and taxes.

Yep, and if you ask me, my old man overpays you, Tom laughs, then adds seriously, When we say bye to Old Lady Carter, just thank her for the tip. Don’t mention the dollar amount.

Okay, Mike said, not knowing why.

Thank you, boys.

Thank you, Mrs. Carter, for the nice tip, Mike said, returning the gratitude.

Five dollars is hardly nice these days, but it’s something. You boys did such a nice job on the lawn. I wish I could give you more.

Mike looked at Tom and was about to tell her she had made a mistake when Tom grabbed him by the arm. He told Mrs. Carter to have a nice day as he dragged Mike to the truck. Once they were back on the road, Mike asked Tom, Why didn’t you tell her she gave us fifties instead of fives? And why did she think we were there for lawn maintenance? And if we were there for the yard, why did she say we did a good job when clearly that place hasn’t seen a landscaper in several years? My god, did we just take money from a mentally ill, old woman?

Tom defended his actions by saying, What difference does it make? She’ll never know that she overtipped us, and she’ll never miss it.

We took ninety dollars more than we should have from a sick old lady. We’re going to hell for this.

Then give your share to the offering on Sunday. I’m keeping mine.

Mike shakes his head in disgust. You don’t feel the least bit of regret for what we did?

No. You shouldn’t either. Look, the old bag can afford it. Besides, we worked our butts off today.

Well, one of us did, Mike mumbled.

What’s that? Tom asked.

Nothing, never mind. But don’t you think we should at least get her some help? She’s obviously not well.

No, she does it all the time. She’ll be fine in a couple of minutes and probably wonder how the groceries got put away. If we’re lucky, she’ll forget that she tipped us and give us double the next time.

Mike sits back defeated but happy to have doubled his salary for the week. He turns the radio up to avoid further discussion and closes his eyes. He thinks of all the things he can do with this unexpected bonus and eventually drifts off to sleep. He naps for the remainder of their long ride back to town.

Meanwhile, at St. Mercy’s Medical Center, Joe is listening to what could very well be his mother’s final words. For several days, she has been hooked up to a morphine drip, which causes her to hallucinate. She has her good moments, but lately, they are becoming few and far between. She constantly calls Joe by his father’s name and asks him if he remembers odd events throughout his childhood that never occurred, like hiking in the woods with his Uncle Jack. Of course he didn’t remember because it never happened. However, his mother would describe in great detail how Joe and his uncle would get up at the crack of dawn, pack a lunch, and hit the trail. Another morphine-induced memory told of how Young Joe would run up to his uncle and beg him to take him bear hunting.

You told your uncle you were going to kill one with your bare hands and drag him back to the house ‘so Mama and Aunt Mag could cook ’em up right.’ (He called her Mag because he never could quite pronounce Maggie when he was little. It would come out as Mag-ny.) She laughed at the memory, which was clearly an effect of the medication, confused with something she had seen on TV. The laugh turned into a cough. She couldn’t stop coughing. Jill hit the call button for the nurse and ran to her mother-in-law’s side. She helped her sit up and began rubbing her back. The doctor came in and asked them both to step outside. Twenty minutes later, they were allowed to go back in, but Jill returned alone. She had brought a fresh bouquet of flowers. Anne Miller sat up as far as she could in her condition, so she was able to see them. Thank you, she said with a hoarse voice. Roses are my favorite.

Oh, you’re awake. Don’t try to sit up, hon. Save your strength.

Save it for what? My days—shoot, my hours—are numbered.

She lies back down and says, The flowers are beautiful, Jill. Nothing smells better than fresh-cut roses. Almost takes the smell of medicine and that awful hospital food out of the room, doesn’t it?

Jill smiles. Almost.

I need to talk to Joe. Where is he, dear?

He stepped out for some fresh air.