Ghosts Walk the Shenandoah: The Murderer's Apprentice Mysteries, #2

By Daryl Anderson

June, 1969. It's been three years since the deadly summer that changed Dara Burke's life forever. Now in high school, Dara struggles with bad memories, but is determined to enjoy her last summer before senior year. Until her aunt drags her to Black Springs, West Virginia, to attend cousin Isobel's wedding.

From her first sight of Black Springs, Dara feels a foreboding such as she hasn't felt for three years. As the wedding looms, Dara counts the days until she can return home. But then disaster strikes when Isobel's fiance is found murdered in the deep woods. While the cops focus on Isobel, Dara knows there's more to the story.

 

Digging deeper, she begins to suspect that a terrible secret lurks beneath the surface of the seemingly idyllic mountain town. As the line between reality and nightmare blurs, Dara realizes that Black Springs is a place that holds the darkness close. Now, something stirs in that darkness . . . something evil.

With vivid prose and haunting imagery, Daryl Anderson weaves a tale of mystery and terror that will keep you turning the pages long into the night. Dive in if you dare, but beware: once you enter the Shenandoah, you may never leave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mob City Books
• Release date: May 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223910831

Daryl Anderson

DARYL ANDERSON is a USA Today Bestselling mystery writer and author of the Addie Gorsky Mysteries as well as the new series of supernatural mysteries The Murderer’s Apprentice. For Daryl, the road to becoming a writer was pretty twisted—not unlike one of her plots. After burning through several careers—including teaching English and a stint as a psych nurse in a crisis stabilization unit—her husband suggested she try her hand at writing fiction. Being nobody’s fool, Daryl jumped on the offer. A couple of manuscripts later, she was over the moon when her debut mystery Murder in Mystic Cove hit the USA Today Bestseller list. Since then, Daryl hasn’t looked back. Though a longtime resident of Florida, Daryl recently traded all that heat and sunshine for the cool, rainy vistas of Washington state. When not plotting her latest homicide, you might find her hiking a lonesome woodland trail with her nutty dog Pitch, always on the lookout for where the bodies are buried.

Book preview

Prologue

December 22, 1921

A CRESCENT MOON HUNG low over the mountains, the long night of the winter solstice barely begun. In a clearing surrounded by gnarled pine trees, an old woman set a battered tin pot onto a campfire. Drawing her cloak tight, she crouched near the sputtering flames. Though the cluster of trees held off the brunt of the wind, the cold had already sunk into her bones, with her work barely begun.

With a sigh, she pondered the disastrous events in Baltimore and fretted over the inevitable consequences of such a calamity. There were always consequences in undertakings such as these. With such an uncertain beginning, the ultimate ending boded ill. A chill wind rustled through the crooked trunks of the pines.

If only she weren’t so old. How she mourned those wasted decades—long years in which she’d grown old and weak while her adversary gained strength and numbers. On the chill air, she suddenly heard the sibilant hiss of a viper about to strike. The dwam so real that terror clutched her weary heart until she saw ‘twas but the steaming pot on the fire.

She poured out some of the hot brew, letting her hands linger on the tin cup, gathering warmth. With a quick sniff, she savored the smell of chicory coffee. It was slightly burnt, but was hot and tasted of home. A home that, with fortune’s favor, she might see again, if only to bid it goodbye. For there was one advantage left to her, and that was time.

For she was the Herdswoman, the Firesitter who reckoned the vastness of time better than any folk living. Not the superficial time of a person’s life, which was measured out in teaspoons, but deep time, or what folks called eternity. While her own life had extended well beyond the common allotment of three-score-and-twenty, even those long years were nary a drop in that dark ocean of time. But then most folks lived in the present, always going forward, so they never noticed that what was, what is and what would be were different ways of looking at the same thing.

But understanding time weren’t the same as controlling it. While the business just concluded in 1966 had achieved the desired result, its ending had been brutal and bloody. She feared what would come next. As if in agreement, an owl hooted.

The wise old owl was right. Her plan would be in tatters before the long night ended. But this was her only chance. If she could save Laverna, there was hope. Damnable hope—the last thing left in old Pandora’s basket.

The old woman rose, knees creaking in protest. She smelled snow on the wind, and soon her dead sisters would arrive, drawn by the stench of death and sin. From deep within her cloak, she produced a fistful of herbs and broken twigs. When she tossed the dried material onto the sputtering fire, it blazed to the stars. As she stared into its swirling flames, dark forms took shape.

On the far horizon of the future, storm clouds gathered over the Blue Ridge. A terrible portent of blood, murder and madness that bore the markings of the ancient evil. Of course, she’d known trouble would come along—it always did—but not this soon. Had her adversary already glimmered her plans? If so, the game might be lost before it’d begun. But once the long night was begun, there was no taking it back. Shivering, the old woman cast her eye onto that faraway year of 1969.

Oh, ‘twas a bad moon rising over the Shenandoah.

Chapter 1

When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead,

who have nothing of peevishness, pride or design in their conversation.

W. B. Yeats

June 25, 1969

NIGHT FELL ON THE SHENANDOAH, enveloping the house in the woods in gloomy shadow. Inside the small attic room, a teenage girl perched on the edge of a cot, heedless of the gathering gloom. The place was unfamiliar, but Dara Burke knew there was nothing to fear in the darkness itself. Though the same could not be said of the things that hid in such darkness. But for the moment, she had bigger fish to fry. Foremost being whether to steal her aunt’s car.

While the theft itself would be child’s play—the key to Aunt Marion’s Studebaker was in the girl’s jean pocket—she’d never stolen anything as big as a car. Though in another way, it felt like a natural progression—like getting her period or smoking her first joint. In the blind confidence of youth, Dara knew she could pull it off.

Her destination was Black Springs, the last town she and her aunt had passed through on their way to cousin Isobel Bird’s house in the Appalachian wilderness. A mile away at most, and though the route was hillier than any road in Baltimore, it was a relatively easy drive in rocky West Virginia, there being no treacherous switchbacks or dizzying descents. It might even be fun, and Dara felt a stir of excitement, before reminding herself that stealing her aunt’s beloved Studebaker was a last resort. If she found a working phone somewhere in Isobel’s ramshackle house, she wouldn’t have to add grand theft auto to her criminal resume. But first she must wait until the others were gone.

Sighing, Dara dragged a chair over to the single window. With a little effort, she cracked it open to let in a gust of cool mountain air. From downstairs she heard Aunt Marian and her cousin Isobel scurrying around.

When she and her aunt had arrived late that afternoon, Isobel had a cold supper of bologna-and-cheese sandwiches waiting. Her excuse for the meager meal was that her fiance Dwight was taking them to dinner in Bluefield, a slightly larger town the next county over. Isobel might have saved herself the trouble as neither of her guests had much appetite, Marian being too excited to eat and Dara preoccupied with finding a phone. The only one she’d spotted was the Bell original on the kitchen wall. While Isobel escorted her aunt to her room, Dara held the receiver to her ear, but all she heard was dead air.

What are you doing?

Dara startled. Isobel had come out of nowhere. Dara replaced the receiver and said, Um, there’s no dial tone. Is your phone broken?

Isobel said nothing, but Dara hadn’t liked the way her pale blue eyes studied her. Almost like Dara was a lab experiment—one that had gone horribly wrong. Dara was used to seeing that expression, though it usually came from those who knew her. Until today, she’d never met Isobel Bird, and it irked Dara that this stranger had judged her so swiftly.

Soon after, Dara pilfered the extra car key from her aunt’s pocketbook, then announced that she was tired after the long drive from Baltimore. When she asked if she could go to her room instead of going out to dinner, it was Isobel who’d answered.

If you’re tired, of course you should rest.

What about dinner? Marion said.

Dara said if she got hungry she’d eat one of the leftover bologna sandwiches, inwardly pleased there was nothing Marian could say or do about the change in plans. Her aunt’s disposition soured even more when Isobel led them to the temporary digs she’d prepared for Dara—a dusty attic room with a window so tiny it’d make a porthole blush.

Sorry, Isobel said, not sounding sorry at all, but it’s the best I could do on short notice.

Dara shot a nasty look at her aunt, the author of her misery. Though Isobel’s wedding had been in the works for months, Dara’s addition to the wedding party had been at the very last minute, spoiling her weekend plans—and evidently Isobel’s as well. Still, the attic room was interesting.

Stacks of books, dusty paintings and sticks of furniture huddled against the walls, the detritus of past lives. Though the cot was thin as a dime and the pillow musty, the room reminded Dara of a haunted attic or an artist’s garret like in the old novels she liked to read. All at once, the girl was pulled back to the here-and-now by the thrum of a heavy engine wheezing up the long driveway.

From her high perch, the teenager spotted a pair of yellow headlights. A pickup truck, painted gray in the gloaming, rolled to a stop at Isobel’s front door. A second later, a horn shattered the quiet. Beeeep.

Dara laughed—Isobel’s fiance Dwight was a classy guy. When the women appeared a few seconds later, he stayed behind the wheel as Isobel helped her older cousin into the truck. As the pickup’s tail lights disappeared into the night, Dara checked the time—8:30 on the dot. Though not sure of the distance to Bluefield, she figured they’d have to be gone for at least two hours. More than enough time, Dara thought as she padded to the landing.

As there was no phone downstairs, it was a good bet one could be found in one of the second-floor rooms. First, Dara headed for Marian’s bedroom at the far end of the hallway across from the bath. As Dara approached, she saw the door was slightly ajar, soft light pooling on the carpet. Marian must have forgotten to turn off the bedside lamp, which was unusual for her cheapskate aunt, who bought dented cans of peas and hated wasting electricity.

Dara’s nose twitched when she entered the room, the air as musty as old sneakers. Though Marian’s bedroom was small, the window was large enough to allow a stray moonbeam to find its way inside. Still, there was something empty about the space. There was a bed, a small table and a chestnut wardrobe in which Marian’s dresses hung, but little else. A place to sleep, perhaps, but not to rest. And there wasn’t a phone in sight.

Next Dara tried the middle room, but found it full of boxes covered by decades of dust. Which left door number three—Isobel’s bedroom, the one nearest the stairway.

At once, Dara’s nose was assaulted by a musky smell that she recognized as Isobel’s scent. When she flicked on the overhead light, she gasped. While the rest of the house had the spare ambiance of a Victorian workhouse, Isobel's room was a sultan's lair, a kaleidoscope of excess.

It was a large room, but Isobel had filled it with so much furniture it felt stifling. And every surface was covered with crap. A jumble of colorful scarves lay in a mound on the unmade bed. At the vanity, jars of cold cream and bottles of perfume jockeyed for space. Even the small waste basket vomited lipstick-kissed tissues. Then Dara clocked the pink princess phone on the bedside table, partially hidden by a stack of bundled papers and a dirty coffee cup stained with red lipstick. Dara picked up the phone and was rewarded with a dial tone.

Finally, Dara thought, fingers flying. When a rude screech filled her ear, she cursed aloud, certain this phone was shit as well, before realizing she’d forgotten to dial the area code. Dara tried again, and this time it rang, though the ringtone sounded faraway, as if from the end of a long tunnel. She didn’t know if this was normal, this being the first time she’d ever called long distance.

As the phone wailed on, Dara’s restless gaze fell again on the fat bundle of papers on the bedside table. Idly, she undid the rubber band and started flipping. There was nothing personal, with most of the correspondence bearing return addresses from places like the First Bank of Bluefield, Mountain State Insurance and Liberty Life. Curious, she read one at random and discovered a life insurance policy made out for Dwight Bolls, with Isobel identified as the beneficiary.

Buster’s Pub, a female voice said.

Hi, Dara said, glad it was a lady who’d answered. As this was the kitchen phone, she must be a waitress. And waitresses were more helpful than cooks, and definitely more helpful than the managers, who were no help at all. When Dara asked to speak to her mom, she was ready with a bullshit story to explain the interruption, but the waitress, who had just started at Buster’s, said of course she’d bring Dara’s mom to the phone.

As Dara waited, she grew nervous. Mom hated being bothered at work, and from the shouts and clanging plates, Buster’s had a full house. Still, her mother’s anger was a small price to pay for getting at the truth. Because nothing about this trip was right.

For weeks, Aunt Marian had been yapping about her upcoming journey to attend cousin Isobel’s wedding in West Virginia. But yesterday afternoon—the day before Marian was to leave—Dara came home from summer school to find her father’s 1969 Oldsmobile parked in front of the apartment she shared with Mom and little brother Alvey. With her mother strangely silent and pale, Daddy told Dara she was traveling to West Virginia as well, supposedly to keep her aunt company.

While Marian might have wanted company, she could have taken one of her lady friends from her duckpins bowling league, or even her pain-in-the-ass neighbor, Mrs. Brooks. Any of them would have been over the moon for a road trip. Something was wrong—Dara knew it!

Hello? It was the same waitress, only her voice was different.

Did you find my mom?

After a pause, the waitress said, I’m sorry, hon, but your mom doesn’t work here anymore.

No! You made a mistake. Can you check the schedule?

I already did, the waitress said. Your mom gave her notice yesterday.

Can you— Dara began, but the line was dead.

Dara felt dizzy and couldn’t catch her breath, like when she was little and had played one too many games of Ring Around the Rosie. She needed to call her house next—maybe Mom was there—but first the world needed to stop spinning. She cracked open the big dormer window and drank in the cool air.

The gibbous moon, nearly full, cast a pale shadow over the Shenandoah. While it illuminated Isobel’s front yard in eerie clarity, its light didn’t touch the surrounding forest, which seemed an impenetrable dark fortress. But the night was so much darker here.

In Baltimore, even the darkest midnight was lit by a thousand other lights—porch lights, traffic lights and the occasional blue flash of a racing police car. All combined to wrap the city in a warm glow, even in the dead of night. But here there were no other houses or street lamps—not even a traffic light to relieve the gloom. Here was the darkness of an older time.

Dara started as an owl hooted from some place very near. Then a flurry of feathers as a winged shape rose in the sky. She was wishing the owl good hunting when another figure jumped from the darkness, followed by a plaintive meow. Dara laughed.

A cat now sat on the hood of her aunt’s woody station wagon, striking a pose like that statue of the Egyptian cat goddess in the Walters’ Art Gallery. Its yellow eyes were fixed on Dara, though that may have been a trick of the moonlight. Since the family dog Cleo died last fall, she missed having a pet. She hurried down the stairs, but when the front door closed behind her, the cat jumped off the car and scampered to the backyard.

Dara ran in quick pursuit, but when she reached the back, the cat had vanished among the gray shapes of the junk pile behind the old house. Lost in a virtual graveyard of empty tin cans, a busted bike and rusty tools. Then a soft meow and Dara saw the cat hunkered near the forest.

Nice kitty.

As Dara approached, the feline’s unblinking eyes followed her every move. Dara knew nothing of cats, her family having always owned dogs, mostly beagles and basset hounds. But cats were pretty, and this one was a beauty, its gray fur shining silver in the moonlight.

Once within touching distance, Dara extended her hand, which was what she would have done with a dog. Ignoring the gesture, the silver cat instead licked its front paw. But at least it hadn’t run away. Dara’s hand was moving nearer when a high-pitched voice shot through the night.

Leave her alone!

Meowing once, the gray cat bounded into the forest. Heart thrumming, Dara wheeled, her eyes searching for the owner of the voice–a voice that had been too close for comfort. Then she saw it. Several feet away, a tiny figure crouched in the woods—a shadow among shadows.

Hey you! Dara shouted.

Instinctively, she started toward the intruder, always believing that a good offense was the best defense. If she intended to spook the stranger, it worked. Like a bat or tiny night bird, the shadow soared into the darkness and immediately disappeared, as if the woods had swallowed it up.

Cautiously, Dara went to the spot where the figure had pulled its vanishing act, then breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the intruder’s escape route. Like a door opening into darkness, a narrow footpath cut into the deep woods. Why, this must be the trail Aunt Marian had told her about.

During the long drive, Dara had given Marian the silent treatment, but that hadn’t stopped her aunt from talking, nor Dara from listening. During her attempts to draw out her brooding niece, Marian had spoken of the many woodland trails and paths that crisscrossed the Shenandoah, including one that led from the house to the town of Black Springs. This must be the same trail.

Peering down that dark empty path, a profound disquiet took hold of the girl. She realized a person could be standing a few feet away, invisible in the darkness. Icy fingers touched her spine. Someone was there.

Who’s there? she whispered.

Something rustled in the trees, but before an answer came another sound intruded—the angry whine of a car engine climbing up the driveway.

Chapter 2

June 25, 1969

DARA REACHED THE FRONT porch as the pickup truck squealed to a stop. Aunt Marian emerged first and immediately started in with the third degree.

What are you doing outside, Dara?

Stung by her aunt’s sharpness, Dara blurted, There was a cat sitting on your car, and then I saw somebody in the woods!

Nonsense—Marian placed a hand to her temple—Go inside before you catch your death.

It’s not nonsense, Aunt Marion! I saw someone.

Just then, Isobel exited the truck, smoothing her cropped black hair as she did so. Though Isobel stood all of five feet, she carried herself like someone much taller. Everything all right here?

Ignoring the question, Marion asked if Dwight was coming inside for coffee, which was when the pickup spewed exhaust and chugged down the driveway.

Guess not, Isabel said. I’m going to bed, which is where you two ought to be. Tomorrow’s a big day.

After Isobel sashayed inside, Dara scowled at her aunt. Big day?

Oh, Dwight and his daughter are joining us for lunch tomorrow, but you needn’t be concerned with that. Marian shivered and drew her sweater tight. I forgot how chill the mountain nights are. Let’s get inside to the warm.

It wasn’t much warmer inside as Isobel’s drafty old house had plenty of holes for the wind to get through. But it felt good to be within four walls. Intent on avoiding any more conversation, Dara muttered goodnight and mounted the stairs.

Wait, Marion said. There’s something we should discuss.

What? Dara said, but when she saw her aunt’s sad face, the girl regretted her harshness, remembering that she loved her aunt.

Why are you always so angry? Marian said.

You know I didn’t want to come here. It’s great cousin Isobel is getting married, but I had things to do back home.

Your father explained why he wanted you here.

Dara stiffened at the mention of her father, Marion’s beloved baby brother who could do no harm. Can I go to bed?

A pause followed by a sigh, and Marian said their talk could wait until morning.

* * *

Dara brushed her teeth in the tiny bathroom on the second floor, then puttered in her room, getting ready for the morning. During summer vacation, Dara rarely rose before noon, but tomorrow she intended to be up with the chickens. She sorted through her wrinkled clothes and chose a tie-dyed tee-shirt and jeans and laid them over the chair. Then she wound her Timex watch and set it on the milk crate that served as a bedside table. When she lay down, the cot let out a warning squeak.

Though she’d brought along several books, she was too uneasy to read. Around her, the joints and beams of the old house creaked and groaned like an old woman’s bones. Dara punched the goose-feather pillow, which contained about five feathers from a scrawny goose. She hated fighting with Aunt Marian.

Not so long ago, Dara and her aunt had been two peas in the same snug pod. It was Marian who’d taught Dara the important things in life. Like how to score a baseball game or make a bowling ball curve the way you wanted it to curve. All the lessons of childhood that had been so important a few short years ago.

But Dara wasn’t a kid anymore, and hadn’t been for sometime—not since the summer of 1966. While he and Aunt Marian could still talk all day about how Brooks Robinson was the best third baseman ever, of necessity, much remained unsaid. Though a part of Dara longed to speak honestly with her aunt, another part—the greater one—bound her to silence. No one, not even Aunt Marian, could ever know the truth. The remembrance of the deadly summer of ‘66 brought to mind the shadow in the woods.

In this quiet room, Dara could almost convince herself that she’d imagined the whole thing—almost. But she knew what she’d seen. Before it turned to run into the forest, Dara had glimpsed it clearly: a short figure in a long, baggy coat, with a black hat, or perhaps a hood, pulled low. From that single quick glance, Dara couldn’t say whether it was a woman or a man. Lucky for Dara, the intruder made a mistake when it’d spoken three words: Leave her alone!

It had been a squeaky voice, making a sound like the rubber ducky Alvey loved as a baby. Yet Dara wasn’t sure it’d come from a woman. A man could have pitched his voice high, but even so Dara thought there’d been no deception by the speaker. The plea to leave the cat alone was heartfelt, almost childlike. Shit, could it have been a child?

It was possible. Not a little kid like her eight-year-old brother Alvey, but an older child of eleven or twelve. But what kid would roam the woods at night? To Dara’s knowledge, there were no other houses near Isobel’s. Sick of going in circles, Dara turned on her other side, which was just as uncomfortable.

She closed her eyes, the squeaky voice echoing in her head. A childlike voice, but this was no child. As her breathing slowed, Dara saw the running figure disappear into the darkness, its frantic gait awkward, but determined. Like a frightened bird with a broken wing.

In the instant before sleep, Dara knew she’d seen a lady in the woods, a lady dressed in black.

* * *

Marian held onto the staircase handrail for dear life, waiting for her pounding heart to settle. For the second time today, she’d shirked her duty, choosing the easy path over the hard one. Her brother Al would be furious if he knew, but it wasn’t all Marian’s fault. She’d planned to tell Dara on the drive, but the girl had fallen into one of her prickly moods. Moody or not, her brother had made it clear that Dara must be told about her mother without delay so that the girl could adjust to the coming changes. Which showed how little he knew his only daughter.

A true Burke, Dara was as stubborn as the day was long. Once that girl set her mind on something, all the time in the world wouldn’t change it. Even now, she was stomping around upstairs like a bull in a barn, thinking and planning some mischief or other. Though eager to put this terrible day to rest, Marian knew sleep would not come easily. Perhaps some warm milk would do the trick.

In the kitchen, she pulled a dented saucepan from the cupboard. The icebox held meager fare, but there was a quart of fresh milk. She poured a scant cup into the pan, recalling that Isobel liked plenty of milk in her morning coffee. Marian stirred the pot and pondered. At least the noises from the attic room had quieted. Was Dara sleeping? If so, it would be a troubled sleep in that blighted room—Marian’s old bedroom. The older woman shivered, though not from the cold.

When Ma joined Daddy in the Burke family graveyard, Deacon Bird opened his home to Marion and her little brother Al. As this was the depth of the hard times, the Deacon was praised for his charity, particularly as the orphans were no blood to him, his wife being a distant cousin to Marion’s mother, many times removed. With Mrs. Bird sickly and Isobel a mere fledgling, Marian had taken on the domestic chores. Lordy, she’d fried flocks of scrawny chickens and boiled endless pots of grits for Deacon Bird and his family. They were always hungry, the Birds.

Still, it had been bearable so long as they remained in Bluefield, where she and her brother had friends, if not family. But after the trouble in 1940, the Deacon moved them to this awful house in Dismal County. Marion yelped. Scalded milk was foaming over the stove top like Mount Vesuvius.

Marion snatched the saucepan and hurled it in the sink. Standing there, the pot hissing, she felt as if her life had come full circle. For all of life’s travels and travails, she was back in this horrid kitchen, back to where she’d started. But she was being foolish, tired from the drive. Marion wiped her eyes and was reaching for a washcloth when she saw something through the window. A light moving through the woods. She blinked, then it was gone.

Marion blushed at her foolishness. She was as bad as her imaginative niece, who was always seeing things that weren’t there. She put the kitchen to order, then trudged to the attic to look in on Dara, a habit she’d gained from the many nights her niece