The Keeper’S Wife

By John Hatch

Johnny Monsons old friend Belinda Pappos has spent over thirty years as a clinical psychologist, working at a local clinic near Jacksonville, Florida. As a youngster, shed spent much of her free time during the beautiful summer of 1976 with Johnny, who lived on his sailboat at a city marina in St. Augustine, Florida. As an aspiring writer he relishes in the peaceful solitude offered by a life close to the sea yet, by its very nature, such solitude also brings with it time for introspection, maybe too much time?

Life being life, Monson grows older, and he ruminants over a woman hed fallen in love with those long years agothinking, fantasizing, and searching his troubled soul for answers to questions that no one could answer. He turns back to his long-time friend for help. The therapist launches John Monson into a strange cerebral journey as he recalls the summer day when he first met a female student in St. Augustine. There was something anomalous about the woman, a mysterious quality that has befuddled him for almost forty years.

Sailing, witchcraft, rough dialogue, a story that will keep the reader thinking, and a wealth of colorful charactersthose off-the-grid people who live, or are at least more noticed, in many of Americas small towns. These are hard-working, blue-collar folks who possess a very substantive yet illusory quality. Cuddle up in a blanket when its cold and rainy outside, pour yourself a warm cup of coffee, and read The Keepers Wife. The Keepers Wife is fun, thought-provoking and, at the same time, an easy read. The book will become legendary for its pure, psychological appeal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524536855

John Hatch

N/A

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by John Hatch.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016913899

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5245-3687-9

   Softcover   978-1-5245-3686-2

   eBook   978-1-5245-3685-5

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, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

St. Augustine, Florida, is a real place. Descriptions in the book as well as situations are accurate but used fictitiously. The same holds true for certain streets, business establishments, bars, the city pier, marina, and places frequented by Johnny Monson and friends.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/23/2016

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Contents

Introduction

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

For Cynthia

Introduction

They had drab-colored labels and odd-sounding song titles, but childhood hosted a certain fascination for the bulky ancient recording discs. Back when record players were the medium for household entertainment, John Monson would lean against the old box, enthralled by the disc below, watching as words on its dull blue label became a blur of 78 rpm magic. The tune played on one of those scratchy old 78s that belonged to his father’s collection. But one song in particular entranced him, Harbor Lights. The haunting melody reached out from a bygone era; the woman singing and those muted brass instruments became a peripheral but integral part of his dream, and children do dream:

A nebulous woman wearing a white linen robe. She appeared to him aqueous in appearance and ghostly in nature. By intuition more than any empirical understanding, he believed this woman to be a visitor. In the dream, he blindly followed her room to room, compartment to compartment—never once seeing her facial features yet always certain of who she was.

But it was the melancholic old tune, the tremulous female voice, crying trombones, and muted trumpets that would years later initiate Monson’s struggle to find meaning to tune and life itself.

St. Augustine, Florida, Present day

He sat there, staring across the bay, the hairs lining his forearm shining like tiny golden threads. On the bay, water glistened as would a thousand diamonds on the surface of a mirror. Closer to shore, a few boats lay at anchor, all motionless as the morning itself. Above, a clear blue sky with cirrus clouds off toward the west. The past, he offered after some thought, sallow-faced. In your esteemed opinion, the whole freaky story has nothing to do with us? Quite simply, you believe it’s all me?

Psychologist Belinda Pappos thoughtfully traced her index finger along the edge of the wrought iron table. Keeping things in perspective. She added, more in a condescending manner rather than one sympathetic, The last time we checked, only you reside inside that creative head of yours. She finished by pointing to a place he’d guessed must be somewhere in the middle of his forehead. The ‘self’ of John Monson occupies an area right about there! With the same finger, but this time in a more cautioning manner, You, Mr. Monson, sought my services.

Sufficiently chastised, Damn it, Belinda, you can sound so damn clinical!

Years of practice, she said, her finger falling to the table and coming to rest near a cup and saucer sitting slightly to the left of her CD recorder.

His eyes sparkled, ruminating over her observation. Seeking your services was in part due to the comfort of our friendship. A second later, he pointed out, What happened back then … John pursed his lips, then exhaled. Happened to both of us. You, however, appear quite unaffected while almost daily—and nightly, I might add—the freaking event wears my nerves to a frazzle.

Forty years, a long time to hold something inside, John. Belinda stared at him thoughtfully, striving to see inside the man she’d known for so long. She rehashed, Our last session, we delved deeper, to the point of nausea, into a few commonalities of our remembrances. Finding we shared so many didn’t surprise me.

Monson brushed his pants leg, staring at the coffee sitting in front of him as if it were a crystal ball. As you said, to the point of—

Puking, she reiterated with a slight giggle, strictly in layman’s terms.

Of course. He managed to laugh with her but grew reflective. Nineteen seventy-six, wow! Sighing, he leaned toward a banister to his right. Last session, we talked mostly on the lighthouse.

Yes. Belinda’s smile remained warm as she affirmed. How old were you then, John?

Twenty-eight and you—

Although taken aback, she quickly answered, A precocious twenty-two-year-old, grinning fondly with her image.

Twenty-eight. John looked away, picturing how young he was back then as well as the time period and his less-than-desirable situation in life. An impressionable age, wouldn’t you say?

Young adults, said Belinda with a nod. You began your career as a writer when, 1977 or shortly thereafter?

True. But he stared off in the distance, perhaps toward Anastasia Island, figuring Belinda’s angle. There is a sneaking suspicion that you’re insinuating I’ve spent decades haunted by an event, image, and all because of something I’ve—

Invented? Belinda postulated.

Belinda …

You’re no different than most human beings, me included—pointing to her chest—because of your artistic side. Belinda paused, gazing quietly at her longtime friend. You create paintings from words, pronouns, nouns, adjectives. Eyes flashed as she rethought, Now that I think about it, ‘embellished’ is a better choice of words than ‘invented.’ Out of necessity, writers must allow themselves certain poetic license. Do you agree? She checked the chrome/plastic CD spinning within her recording device.

There are times, yes.

Think about it this way. Our unconscious minds often find it necessary to rid itself of unwanted clutter, discarding bad memories and embellishing the good. The mind, in an attempt to cure itself of depressing events, eliminates these undesirable experiences, feelings, sensations in order to make itself feel better.

Yes indeed, throwing all the dust into the garbage.

Perhaps you need one of those rooms in your head vacuumed, and it’s that simple, she said, fiddled with a lock of hair, then slowly wrapped it around her index finger—a habit she’d had since their first meeting. We’ll get back to this, but first things first. Let’s touch a bit more on your dream.

Fire away, said John, back to sitting straight in his chair.

Is its content—are the images—always the same?

Always, he sighed, thinking. With the passage of time, it’s become more tangible as well as a bit more on the real side.

Real? Belinda scooted her chair closer. How?

It begins the same. I’m inside a boat, a rather dank-smelling craft.

What kind of boat?

It’s a sailboat. Belinda, is there any other kind? Monson chuckled nervously.

Okay. Taking a sip from her coffee, You are in a boat, meaning inside as opposed to being topside, and the boat has a bad smell? What happens next? And bear with me here—the need to ask a few questions over is in case I’ve overlooked something of importance.

Sure. John agreed but grew more pensive, his brow furrowed with thought. Let’s see … After seeing the woman, I begin walking from compartment to compartment in search of … He paused, thinking out each detail, what Belinda had mentioned about rooms. Searching for those children. He rubbed his brow.

Children? Belinda brushed aside a few locks of wandering hair.

Yeah, the kids. I’m wearing a pair of cutoffs, a kind of T-shirt, maybe a sleeveless affair, I don’t know.

Do you think what you’re wearing is important? asked Belinda, placing the pencil’s eraser between her lips.

Never gave it much thought, he answered, appearing to think about it. Must be since I’m colder than hell, wet, irritated, shaking.

She smiled. You find yourself uncomfortable?

Yes, very. Then the sound of kids in trouble.

These were the children you were looking for, the ones you assumed were the offspring of the keeper’s wife?

Yep. John scratched the stubble lining his jaw. They were crying. His index finger rested momentarily under his chin. There’s a weird glow up ahead. This is followed by a sensation of floating. Someone speaks to me, and I yell out, ‘Shawn!’

You are certain? Of the name, that is—Shawn, not Shalease?

He eyed Belinda. No, Shawn. He added, They are one and the same.

You believe this?

Don’t play games, my friend, said Monson, pouring himself another round of coffee. So do you. Nodding with a knowing look, waiting for the rebuttal that didn’t come. As quickly, I’m wide awake, soaked in my own sweat. The oddest thing is I’m still screaming her name. To wake up that way—screaming, but totally unaware of the fact. My feet are moving beneath the covers as if I’m walking. My hands are reaching!

Sweating, cold. Belinda shook her head in the affirmative. A dream often incorporates tactile sensation, she offered as a small solace in seeing his distress.

What do you mean?

Perhaps there is a draft in the room, an open window? Your dream incorporates the chill you feel into its scenario, and you find yourself in a cold, damp compartment. The reality is you are feeling chilled because you’re sweating.

Ah yes, should have thought of it myself. John leaned back, his chair resting precariously on its rear two legs while he balanced on the balls of his feet.

The summer of 1976, I suggested you read a certain book?

Yep, remember it like yesterday. I worked at the Benet Store?

Yes. She smiled.

"St. Augustine Ghosts? Wow! You’d come by for a visit. Both of us had a strange night of it or, as in my case, strange early morning. Yeah, I do remember. Checked it out at the library after work!"

Your dream, the rumination, parallels the story, John. Almost verbatim.

Except, well, we lived the story. He paused. And the story mentions very little of the Bartho kids. In my dream, the children are definitely there.

Yes, my dear Mr. Monson, neatly woven into your unconscious.

Embellished, he slyly said, wide-eyed. I’m making all of it up?

More like making all the chaotic pieces fit into a more workable whole.

Geez …

For thirty years, she’d specialized as a dream therapist. The field fascinated her, engaging in the study of the ways people cope with especially complex or stressful events and how the manifestations of these events come to be associated in their dreaming. John presented both a complex and unique challenge; and she hoped their friendship, and the looming chance of transference, wouldn’t inhibit their progress.

There is fear in your eyes. Belinda drew in a breath of air, then jotted down a couple notes.

It’s today, Belinda, he said, making little sense.

What is?

Haven’t the foggiest, something … ? His eyes stared far off. Today is … it just is?

She gave him an odd look. The dream, pushed Belinda, squinting at the notepad as morning sunlight lit the veranda with golden brightness. She contemplated a friend’s psychological pain but continued, Assume you’ve just awoken from one of these dream events. What’s the first thing you do, and secondly, do you do the same thing every time?

Ha, John chuckled, with a quick stabbing motion toward his cup. Coffee comes to mind. Again, he laughed. It’s generally very early, so I’ll fiddle around for a few minutes, thinking. Then I’ll go to the kitchen, cut on a light switch, and fire up the Keurig. Let’s see … He stroked his chin, then pursed his lips. Takes a few minutes to open my computer, check for e-mails, eliminate the spam, look at my cell phone for any text messages I may have missed prior to calling it a night. You know, all those habits that ground me in the present. The dream won’t let go. It hangs on like I’m wearing it for a shirt … lingers inside my head. What the hell, it’s always a relief when daylight breaks over the eastern horizon—a new day. The progression is always the same, though. Once dawn arrives, I’ll walk the beach for a while. It’s like with each step, the remnants begin to fade. Most of the time, I manage to get hold of myself and feel good about the day. It’s the dream that is so weird, not reality, but in the same breath.

It has become your reality.

Hmmm … unconscious art mimicking life?

Though feeling sympathy for his plight, Belinda’s face soon waxed serious. Feeling so much a part of Monson’s past, she’d some trouble in keeping his experiences separated from her own. His meanderings often forced her to question, even doubt her own memories of the time period; separating when and where their commonness turned into diverging paths challenged even her. Progress was being made, or so she thought. His progress without transference grew more difficult with each passing session.

"St. Augustine Ghosts. Belinda stared blankly into his crystal blue eyes. We won’t worry about the book. Instead, let’s leave it at this. The story closely follows your present experience—interesting, but coincidental?"

John bit down on his lower lip. I’ll concur with your assessment for now, he solemnly answered.

She took a moment in stirring her coffee, allowed the spoon to linger along the cup’s edge, then checked the recording device. For the past few years, you’ve been showing more interest in, as well as become engaged in, writing articles about St. Augustine’s colorful folklore.

Ghosts? You have my permission to say the word unless you prefer ‘colorful.’ The front legs of his chair dragged on the tiles as they came back to rest. The articles have been a popular read.

Belinda shot him a ho hum look. Does the writing have any connection to your ruminations?

Not really.

Okay, back to 1976, one more time.

To those days? His finger hooked into the handle of his coffee cup. Suppose you’ll want me to close my eyes, relax, do the mental countdown thing, and all that?

Yes. Belinda grinned. We need to make certain of any small detail that may have been omitted. She sighed, suddenly unsure of bringing up a very touchy subject. You had an estranged wife in 1976.

Oh lord, do you have to go bringing that up?

No stone unturned, she sighed, knowing it wasn’t really a marriage, but more a youthful mistake. The couple had nothing to do with each other and usually met only in passing.

Legally married and that sort of thing, yes! Nervously chuckling, A dumb mistake that strapped me with a loony wife more interested in the pursuit of art than in maintaining a meaningful relationship. You know this, Belinda! Man, back then, our group and my boat were my life. John stopped, gazing across the street toward the bay where a small sailboat swung on its anchor. Until Shawn happened on the scene, she changed everything.

You were searching for this … a meaningful relationship, I know.

Go figure, stating it as fact. For me, coming to St. Augustine proved a confused introduction to ‘adulthood.’ He held up his fingers in imaginary quotation marks.

How so? Belinda queried.

Takes me months to sail here from Michigan, John said, tensing up. By myself even. The woman hated boats, was a total flake. And once I’d arrived, I saw her what—once, twice? What more is there to say? Sitting back and picking up a spoon, he added, Must come from being an artist?

Much as yourself, replied Belinda, drawing a comparison to John’s love for writing.

He thought about it. You got me there, reluctantly agreeing. After years of working for the paper, I’ve actually developed a limited respect for her, kind of. Monson smirked but went on. It takes dedication to develop a God-given talent. He stroked his chin, thinking on his past. For those of us whom the gods didn’t bless with such, it takes obsession. One must persevere, have complete faith in the idea of a project from beginning to end, then not allow anything between you and said project’s completion.

Even love. Belinda looked deeply into his eyes.

Belinda, I have to draw a line somewhere, he said, cupping his face in the palms of his hands.

Yes, and I know you’re a loving person.

Thank you for your vote of confidence. Monson licked his lips, then with his fingertips lightly brushed the top of his head. Again, this is nothing new. Right in the middle of great lovemaking. He stopped for a hearty chuckle. Subjectively speaking, and laughed again. She’d up and stop. A tinge of redness painted along his cheekbones. Stop, that’s right! The ‘I’m done’ kinda stop.

Lordy be, Johnny Monson. Belinda covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. I recall our many conversations, how frustrated you’d be!

You can’t love someone like that? I mean, we’re doing the freaking wild thing, and she goes flat-out dead because ‘she has an idea.’ John once more held up his fingers in imaginary quotes. She has a need, an idea to paint what the hell ever. She runs outta gas, and I’m left totally unsatisfied with my pants down, not to make a pun. He could laugh at the predicament now. Damned weirdo!

Belinda quelled her giggle, growing more serious. You divorced her, but you’ve always denied her existence?

Yes, but never to you … A bad experience tends to do that? He grimaced and lowered his head. Touché. Exactly the drift of their conversation. Nodding, in argumentative defeat, he’d mentally eliminated a bad experience—real though it was.

Belinda’s expression noted the same had crossed her mind. She made a couple more notations on a piece of paper. Was she having an affair, or did she suspect—

You and I? John’s lips turned up. Don’t believe so. But hell, all of us spent most of our spare time on the boat, and we were only friends, weren’t we?

I always thought it was much more?

So sorry, Belinda, that was a stupid thing for me to say, apologizing for oversimplifying. You, your undying friendship—it all meant and means a lot to me! One can take only so much of being neglected, like being put up on a shelf to rot. You, our little gaggle of social misfits were what kept me going.

There were many times you seemed so sad. But the good times far outweighed the bad. Our frequent get-togethers aboard the boat?

Something I’ll never forget, never. Monson rubbed along his temples, massaging away. Looking up, I didn’t feel good about any of what I was doing, Belinda. Sometimes I hated being me. I thought people looked at me, judged me, thought I was the only guy in the world who was inept at marriage. So when you say there were times I seemed sad, I was because I wasn’t able to free myself.

Are you ready to return to that time?

Okay.

Close your eyes, John.

He did as she requested; his eyelids fluttered, then closed.

Belinda began by counting backward, using the words Relax, rest, 50, 49, 48 …

We are here in St. Augustine. The year is 1976. You are working at the store, and it’s a most beautiful summer day!

Hmmm … He drifted off.

1

St. Augustine, Florida, 1976

We attempt to organize our psyche to fit our view of reality; this is life. Attempting to organize his current life into a believable whole was proving all but impossible. Surreal came to Monson’s mind; and for a twenty-eight-year-old sailor, thinking of life in such a way placed him on the wacky fringe, which, more often than not, was usually reserved for hippie types and anarchists and esoteric wannabes. He’d tried hard to change it, but this was the way a narcissistically limited young man’s mind characterized the self, being part of the wacky fringe.

Nine thirty in the morning and sunlight streamed through those uneven leaded glass windows of the Benet Store. Within each bright shaft, particulates of dust floated lazily like so many planets; the air inside the store, thick with humidity. Round silver-framed glasses provided John Monson with the desired Lennon look. No, the blond-haired twenty-eight-year-old didn’t even remotely resemble the rocker, but he liked the look. John’s blue eyes shone brightly behind the low-power lenses. Leaning his 5'10", 175 lb. frame forward, resting his chin upon both fists, a sun-bleached ponytail lay across his left shoulder. He listened intently while Belinda related a fascinating, though less than believable, story. He assessed her every word, respectful of the young woman he’d grown so accustomed to having around.

Predictably, he offered his take. Her trusting eyes rose to meet his. With youthful bravado, he spoke as if she’d accept his reading of the situation as empirical truth. Monson blinked twice, something he’d seen TV professors do, believing this would make him look intellectual. But he worried over his approach, fearing its interpretation would be construed as more adversarial than desired. Belinda’s soothing demeanor immediately eased any doubts as to the method. She remained open-minded and, though not always agreeing, trusted in his opinion.

Lighthouses—being careful to pace his take on the subject—are places that evoke mystery.

She acknowledged agreement by a slight nod.

Look at all these books, said John, gesturing toward shelves crammed full, then to several works of fiction lining the counter in front of him. At least thirty are about ghosts, haunted houses, stuff like that. Out of the thirty, no fewer than ten combine both ghosts and lighthouses as their topic. He peered over the top of his glasses, waiting for a reaction, but Belinda’s mood was hard to gauge. Haven’t read even one, he flatly stated.

Y’all need to be doin’ a bit more readin’, she drawled, turning on her Southern charm.

He shrugged, as if his choice of reading material had anything to do with her story in particular. But he admitted, Maybe so, and retreated from her inquiring brown eyes. Machismo alone fostered a need to sound as if he knew something of what he was talking about without showing his own doubts or insecurities in the process. And of late, he’d begun having plenty of doubt. John raised his head, continuing with his train of thought as much to ease inward misgivings. He slumped forward across the counter, closing the distance between them. You and I are sailors.

I’m glad y’all consider me such. She smiled.

As sailors, we hold a special regard for lighthouses, right?

Especially at night. Her bright eyes widened as she held the smile.

Yep. John nodded. That’s when these buildings become integral to navigation. Their powerful lights beckon us home. Why, even the metaphorical association—darkness, light. Or more symbolic, conjuring images of peaceful yet frightening feelings, like a beach with white sand and turquoise seas with a beautiful white-painted lighthouse looming overhead. But then clouds, thunder, and lightning with stormy seas and waves towering high as city buildings?

See y’all’s point, Johnny. Belinda drummed her painted fingernails across the counter. These are all feelings, images—

Your story and such …, he began, paused, then looked away and back. About the St. Augustine light. He caught his breath, watching her body language. At one time, the building was a fine example of marine architecture. But today, well, it’s nothing more than a burnt-out, charred shell of its former grandness. Now for the past hour or so, you’ve been suggesting a more mysterious nature to the fire that destroyed it. You can choose to believe the story if you want. You can even say you ‘feel’ a strangeness about the place.

There is, Johnny … sadness, longing maybe?

He sucked in a deep breath, getting nowhere fast. How would you expect an old gutted-out structure to be oozing with the warm fuzzies?

That isn’t it. Belinda placed her palms flat upon the counter, her fingers splayed out. We’ve talked about this …

Breathing heavily, John unconsciously checked her eyes for any signs of being irritated, seeing only interest. Belinda, to me, burnt-out and stinky doesn’t translate into haunted by what, ghosts looking for a place to call home?

Sounding as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, There is a presence. Said so yourself the night y’all gave us a ride to the light. Said ‘how the keeper’s house felt like an unhappy place.’

Going along with the crowd, nothing more. Good cover, he thought to himself.

Hmm, right, didn’t see it in y’all’s eyes, boy, Belinda smirked. There is a mood lonelier than the darkest night, residue left behind. She finished by brushing a few wayward hairs aside, then shaking her head with frustration from an inability to make him accept her conjecture. Self-consciously twisting a pinky ring around the little finger on her right hand, Remember it burned down only a few weeks before y’all arrived. Immediately, she wanted to retract her statement. I …

His eyes widened a bit, a mild reaction. And what’s that supposed to mean? John’s normally tanned cheeks flushed with a tinge of red. For a reason I can’t quite figure, you’ve been trying to link my questionable seamanship skills, hence my untimely and unplanned arrival in St. Augustine to this thing, what, an allegedly curse … a fabrication?

Do tell. Giggling at how he’d perceived her remark, No, Johnny. Belinda lied because she’d felt exactly that—a connection between John Monson, a ghost story, and certain out-of-the-ordinary phenomena happening as of late. Look, I’ll retract my previous statement. She stroked her tanned arm. Yes, I believe there is a connection.

Huh … I thought you were going to retract . . . ?

Oh my. A finger went to her cheek. did I say that? She flipped her head sideways. It’s all too coincidental. Spinning her finger in a circle, Think about it. If the light had been operational the night y’all got caught in the storm, Daddy and I would’ve never had to come out and rescue y’all!

Nothing like hitting below the belt.

Well, y’all saw a light, but it wasn’t theee light. She blew him a kiss.

Coincidence. Monson returned her kiss, You can’t make assumptions using this as your basis.

All I can say is y’all need to take some time and read the story.

He sighed with a mock grin. If only to make you happy.

"At the library, St. Augustine Ghosts, she quickly shot back. Don’t forget, St. Augus—"

Got it, John said. Stop by the library after work. Pinky promise! They locked little fingers and pulled.

As a city, many consider St. Augustine an institution of higher education for ghost hunters. Tales of omens, fear, delight, and disaster abound—all of which are interwoven, emphasized, and made part of one’s experience when living here. Within the city’s unique microcosm, it becomes easy—at least for a few—to fall in line with believers in spirits. But belief and storytelling served to provide a secondary benefit, that of diminishing a normal day’s toil in the real work-a-day world. Not many locals would likely argue with Belinda, though. Very few townspeople would announce, without fear of chastisement, that St. Augustine’s otherworldliness is only a product of dreamers, lunatics, and those with overactive imaginations.

Their fingers separated. John braced himself on the counter.

A spinning sensation inside his head made him feel faint. Monson felt his forehead with the back of his hand as if feeling for any signs of an oncoming fever.

Something unusual, well, not for John … He breathed, dissociated.

She beckoned him?

Beautiful, mystical, and for all intents and purposes, stuff from earlier this morning creeping into his imagination—but it all felt so real. His palms grew clammy.

Of what or who am I thinking? Does this have to do with my morning’s event?

Self-chastisement for his mental state. Opening his eyes, without realizing how much distance a mind could travel in a matter of seconds, John scratched his chin as if nothing had happened and tried to remember where he’d left their conversation.

The book—stammering slightly—you believe it’s haunted?

Not the book, silly. The lighthouse! Of course I do, Belinda answered with a perplexed squint. They stared at each other like opposing chess players. It’s always been. She sexily leaned against the gray stucco wall and allowed its cool, smooth finish to penetrate her lightweight garment. They wait, she shyly offered.

Who? John asked the question but had no real desire for an answer.

Coolness sent shivers down her triceps. Y’all ask Becky. Go ahead.

Who waits? he asked a second time, regaining some semblance of his surroundings.

The one still there. Lifting her index finger as if in lecture, a long painted fingernail gleamed bright even in the low light of the store. Her 5'7, 110 lb frame arched away from the wall, inviting his eyes. She asked, Have y’all ever walked around the grounds … at night?"

For what reason? he asked, shaking off a few cobwebs. You said ‘they,’ and now you just said ‘one.’ Then he reminded her, When I took you guys out there, I didn’t walk the grounds, just stayed on the porch. His chuckling served only as a diversion because the clinging uncertainty remained. Never once had the inclination …, said John, stopping short.

The spinning returned.

He cupped a palm over his face.

A hand reached toward him, two longing silver/gray eyes blinked, and a complete blackness momentarily filled his visual field.

John, she whispered softly into his ear.

If you don’t believe, you will, said the voice inside his head.

What?

I didn’t say a thing. This time, it was Belinda who giggled, wondering why he’d been standing there with his eyes covered, passing it off as only one of John’s many eccentricities. Ah do declare, y’all be the death of me, she said, then picked up where she left off. Strolling around the grounds, y’all come in contact with so much history.

Exactly, John said, rubbing his brow. Real history, not a manipulated version. He moved to the window. A girl in jogging shorts went by in a blur, weaving her way through several people, then making her way toward Cathedral Place. Dressed for the heat, she sported a white halter top, short shorts, and fashionable jogging shoes. He stepped back closer to the register where Belinda waited.

What happened a few seconds ago? she asked him, noting the odd behavior.

Don’t know, a little hungry maybe, he answered, thinking his physical weakness was due to having had little for breakfast. Got the shakes, like low blood sugar or something.

Knowing Monson had something on his mind besides his blood sugar level, Strange to say, but such walks bring me closer to whatever it is. In the dusk, those towering oak trees surrounding the grounds seem more threatening.

You’re talking about trees?

How they hover high overhead as though they move closer to the road at night.

Trees are planted firmly in the ground, he said. Your imagination is working overtime.

The shadows, coolness of evening. The gnarled limbs wear Spanish moss like a funeral garment.

Spanish moss is an air plant! John shook his head, seeing his train of reasoning wasn’t getting through. Perception, situational, he added, his head still reeling from the spinning sensation, whatever had caused it.

Belinda paid little attention, her mind wandering back. One night while standing out front, a powerful emotion overcame me. My whole essence shook with sadness. She paused with recollection, her eyes vacant, staring not at John but through him.

John twitched. Wow, you are serious! Even he was touched with a bad case of fright. Girl, you are giving me the heebie-jeebies and tell me …

What?

Was this before or after you guys did your little hoodoo thing out there?

Why, Johnny Monson, y’all are bein’ rude. It’s not hoodoo, and y’all know it!

Okay, hocus-pocus then.

I do declare I’m gonna punch y’all, she said, raising her fist but with a wide grin. Besides, it was before. Why? she asked, sticking out her tongue, then taking a step back.

He smiled. Just curious, that’s all.

Sorry, hon. Offering him an insincere apology, Belinda straightened up. He’d prompted her to think about the night of ceremony, what transpired. Spells, at least the ones that worked, had a way of being vague, their effects unpredictable and often delayed in consequence. She lifted her hand, fingers spread, painted nails glinting like brightwork on a boat. At times, y’all can seem almost receptive and then—

I become incurious? John lovingly grinned, feeling nothing but admiration for his lovely friend.

Sleep on y’all’s boat last night?

Yeah. He breathed in. Where else?

Wifey’s doin’ her artsy thing again?

Crazy, off in her nether world. If I’d have known this, I’d—

Have never married her? Belinda answered for him.

Yep. Do you realize I haven’t spent one night with her since my arrival? Nuts! Friends and my boat are my only refuge. All of you bring me a sense of solace. John tossed her a heartfelt look. Belinda appeared vibrant this morning, even more so than usual. Her shoulder-length brown hair, highlighted with streaks of blonde, maintained its beautiful sheen from being freshly washed.

Always impeccably dressed, Belinda’s morning attire denoted her bohemian simplicity. She wore a tan broomstick dress with an empire waist. There was an embroidered bodice with soutache detail snug tight about her upper body. Each of the finely woven silver threads seemed to glisten independently, highlighted in the vibrant early-morning light. She never carried a cluttered handbag or stylish daypack and positively no designer leather purse filled with superfluous items. Upon closer examination, John made a quick mental note of her accessories—all witch’s paraphernalia and a blue satin cord drawn around her waist. From this hung a smallish sachet filled with helpful herbs like borage, herb of gladness. There had to be lavender. John could smell it. Clover, certainly along with a small sprig of mugwort she used to consecrate holy places. Of the things he’d learned about her during their short year of friendship, above all, Belinda considered herself a magical person, a woman close to ancient ritual and deep into the mystical arts. The world she traversed through was one of shadows, a place few admit has any basis at all in reality.

Again, the silence between them grew thick.

I’m sorry I brought up your situation, Belinda apologized, looking precociously repentant. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, watching Monson watch her.

No problem. Monson took a minute to collect himself by pretending to check a couple drawers as if he’d misplaced something. Outside, the street’s pavement grew hot; puffy cumulus clouds began to dot the blue sky above. With the progression of morning crowds increasing, people appeared, then disappeared in the throng of moving bodies. He closed the drawer, saying, It’s something I’ll have to work out.

Divorce comes to mind, Johnny.

Thought about it more than once, he replied, more on the defensive.

Talk to her, Belinda began. Y’all can’t get anything done until talking!

Thank you, teacher, he chuckled. We haven’t spoken a word to each other in over … He paused, thinking. Geez, it’s been almost nine months, said John, shaking his in disbelief.

Y’all know I’m bein’ selfish, she said, twisting her pinky ring.

Sure, but you’re correct. My life isn’t going anywhere until this business is taken care of.

Her glossed lips peeled back to reveal a white-toothed smile.

Thank you, Belinda.

Like a chameleon changing color, John watched her face shift from a pensive expression to one more inquisitive. Ghosts, a haunted lighthouse, witchcraft, and the wife—none of which are y’all’s favorite topic of discussion, she began, rotating her slender twenty-two-year-old body in a tight circle, her magnificent eyes finding his.

My estranged wife is certifiable. John didn’t look up but instead began polishing a few brass keys on an antique cash register, phony work to occupy his mind. Far as ghosts. Sensing a lack of focus, John cleared his throat. Don’t know where our conversation is going or what you’re trying to convince me of? Stopping the rag’s movement midsentence, his shoulders slumped. The possibility spirits exist is very fascinating, however …

Accepting the supernatural as fact. Belinda’s long fingers with their meticulously manicured nails reached toward him, lightly grazing the skin on his exposed forearm. Y’all drawin’ a line in the Florida sand, eh? Electric charges shot through his muscles. Something happened to y’all this morning, I know it.

Hearing her question, he exhaled a long breath. You certainly have a gift for detecting my moods. With a slight grin, he grudgingly answered, Hmm, don’t really know what it was.

I’m right here. Belinda waved. And I am y’all’s friend.

He didn’t immediately respond but continued to stare at the dormant register, eyes widening until he tapped the one-dollar key; and with a ring, the cash drawer slid open. Wow! he said as if relieved. Let me think about this for a second. He nudged the drawer closed and looked up.

A metallic hum coming from an air-conditioning unit seemed to breathe with the Benet Store while muffled sounds from outside on St. George Street filtered in around them. From a window open to a small garden out back, muffled voices whispered on a breeze, and the thick tropical leafs of banana palms moved lazily on a jetty of air.

John, readied by an interlude from thought, whispered, Whatever it was, I don’t think it was a ghost.

Belinda lovingly smiled. Don’t sound too convincing!

He couldn’t agree more. Righteous observation, dear. He withdrew to the waiting register, mumbling a few words she couldn’t make out; then he hesitated as if having second thoughts.

The sporadic chirping from songbirds drew his attention outside to where a tourist couple passed slowly by the window, enjoying St. George Street as most do, pushing a baby stroller while licking ice cream cones. He felt comforted at the couple’s relaxed demeanor but retreated from his voyeuristic window world.

His mind spiraled in an ever-tightening circle, recalling the strange eyes he’d envisioned a moment ago, the vertigo, a woman reaching for him from darkness. To ease the intrusive thought, he went back to search outside for the couple with their baby. But they’d become only a shadow in his past, for they were nowhere to be seen. A second later, he turned back to Belinda and sighed.

Fine, saying the word to no one in particular. A second later, while reaching to straighten a stack of books, he unintentionally hit one and, like dominos, knocked them all from the counter.

Ah shit!

Falling books fanned out like a peacock’s plumage across the dusty wooden flooring. Lordy be, Johnny, getting all excited, aren’t we? Belinda knelt down to help in the reorganizing. Gathering in copies of Antiques of the South, St. Augustine Cooking, and Floridians in the Civil War, she paused once or twice to check a couple titles of interest.

John took several books from her, neatly restacking them from where they’d fallen. Call me, Mr. Coordination, joking at the rather sloppy move while making sure each book went back in its proper place. A moment later, he took a single step closer to the window, placed his forehead against the glass, and looked up and down St. George Street, scratching his chest as the historic reproduction linen shirt itched. He breathed in, standing there, deep in thought.

In the sky above, a flock of sandpipers flew by, their high-pitched squeaking scattering over the ancient city. From several open windows in the rear of the store, morning air flowed in like an eddy of surf; the scent of honeysuckle flooded in on warm waves of sweetness. Earlier that morning, he’d lit two candles; their wicks burnt bright orange, the rush of air sensually stoking their tiny flames. A glowing reflection exploded from pewter candleholders and plates lining a shelf just to his left.

After a few moments of contemplation, Okay … you may be of some help? Beginning with some hesitation, Last night, after Buggy split, I tidied up the boat. You know me, rubbing down the woodwork, dishes, then topside to tie off halyards and securing a couple open hatches—stuff like that.

Go down to y’all’s boat to get away from the crazy woman and end up entertaining Buggy. Even I wouldn’t consider that an even trade-off! Belinda chided, No rest for the wicked.

Ah yes.

Buggy out fishin’ again, trying to catch a shark?

Yes and …

Belinda looked to her left.

Before he could utter another word, the front door had opened with a great sucking of air, and two happy-faced tourists sauntered in. They hesitated, sensing they’d interrupted something, looking self-consciously at both John and Belinda. After a perfunctory smile, the couple promptly made for the pickle barrel, where fresh pickles immersed themselves in good old-fashioned dill juice. Even during John’s childhood visits to St. Augustine, that oaken pickle barrel had always been a favorite. The only difference was pickles were ten cents then, and an inflation rocketed them to fifty cents now, but the pickles remained a rare bargain for hungry visitors. Monson returned their smiles with a nod.

Morning, he said with a wave. How are you two? But both shot past