Page 16 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The winter sunrise was beautiful, painting glorious streaks of pink and gold across the eastern sky above the mountains. Oscar wished he wasn’t too exhausted to appreciate it.

After the session with the talking board, he’d been too wound up to sleep. Instead, he let the others catch some rest while he monitored the cameras. Nothing moved that he could see; even Jeff seemed to have left off replaying his fatal fall.

Find her bones.

Sharon had been right—it was a vengeful ghost killing off the Corbetts and their descendants. But who? And why?

Whoever she was, she’d made sure to put a stop to the session before Ivan could tell them too much. If they’d just had a few more minutes, maybe he could have directed them to her grave, or at least given them a name.

They needed to find out who she was and where she was buried. And they didn’t have much time to do it. The year was fast running out, only hours remaining before the clocks ticked over.

Why hadn’t she made her move to kill him last night? Or had they simply been too prepared for her?

Unlike Mamaw, Oscar had come knowing they were in danger, armed with salt and with his talent on high alert. So far as he knew, he didn’t have heart disease like Julie. He hadn’t been on a catwalk he could be pushed from, or surrounded by dangerous barrels that would need only a weak bit of wood to give way before they fell. Nor was he messing with electrical equipment that he probably shouldn’t have touched in the first place.

Maybe it was as simple as that. If he could just convince Dad to go somewhere safe for the day, maybe stay in his bedroom and not go near anything that might topple over on him…

As soon as they got back into cell range on the drive back to town, Oscar’s phone lit up, buzzing with a dozen text alerts.

Oh shit—what if something had happened to Dad, while Oscar was off running around the distillery?

He pulled half-off the road, not caring the van was partially blocking the lane. It took him two tries to type in his passcode correctly with a shaking hand.

“What’s wrong?” Tina asked, and she and Chris both sat forward in alarm.

The first text was from Josh.

Your dad knows something is up. He called me, said he couldn’t get ahold of you. I offered to give you a message, but he demanded to speak with you to prove you were really here. I had to confess—I’m sorry.

The rest of the texts were all from Dad.

I know you’re not at Josh’s house. Where are you?

This has something to do with your ghost-hunting show, doesn’t it?

Answer me!

There was a voicemail as well, from Mom. “Hey, hon, sorry about your dad. I’ve convinced him to stop texting you every five minutes.” Her voice lowered. “I haven’t told him anything, but he’s not stupid, despite the way he’s acting now. You need to come clean.” She paused, then added. “Hope you’re staying safe, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Nigel touched his arm. “What’s wrong? Is Scott all right?”

“He’s fine.” Oscar silenced his phone and plugged it into the charger. “The jig is up—he figured out we haven’t been hanging out with Josh or going on long drives through the mountains.” He checked his mirrors, then pulled back onto the road. “Time for me to face the music.”

* * *

Dad must have been watching for them, because he was out of the house almost before Oscar put the van in park.

Oscar bit back a sigh. “All right, just…just let me handle it. Stay in the van, this is going to be awkward.”

Nigel opened his door. “At least let me be moral support.”

Maybe Dad would keep a leash on his temper in front of a guest. “Thanks.”

Nigel stayed near the van door, while Oscar went around to the walkway. “I know you’re mad,” he started.

“I raised you better than this.” Dad glared up at him, his expression emphasizing the wrinkles that had creased his skin over the last decade. “I told you I didn’t want any of this ghost crap under my roof.”

“And it mostly hasn’t been,” Oscar replied calmly.

The scowl deepened. “Mostly?”

There was no point in dancing around the subject. “Did you know Mamaw left behind films? Of her doing a seance?”

Dad’s face went white. “Where did you find them?”

He’d known. All along, he’d known.

“That doesn’t matter,” Oscar said, voice shaking now.

“Oscar—”

“I gave him the key to the storage place,” Mom said, emerging from the house.

Dad turned on her now. “You know how I feel about this!”

“I do, which is why I knew you’d never get around to sorting that junk out.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “At least Oscar could get some use out of it.”

“I don’t believe this.” Dad started to turn back to the house, but Oscar grabbed his arm.

“Dad, listen,” he said urgently. “You’re in danger.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and I, we’re descended from the Corbett’s, the ones who founded Cloven Oak Distillery,” Oscar said in a rush. This was his chance, maybe his only chance, to convince his dad. “Something happened, we don’t know what yet, but there’s a-a vengeful ghost, probably? Anyway, it’s killing us off every twenty-five years. Ivan Corbett, his son Edwin, his son Jeff, then, well, Mamaw didn’t die but it hurt her in her mind. Then twenty-five years later, it got Julie when she hiked out there that Thanksgiving with her husband. The family’s down to just us, and this is the year, and we don’t have much time left—”

Dad yanked free, stopping the rush of words. “What sort of conspiracy-theory bullshit is this?” His face went red, and he pointed at Nigel. “Is your crackpot boyfriend filling your head with his crap?”

“Don’t you dare,” Oscar snapped. “Apologize, right now.”

“We have proof,” Nigel interjected, a bit desperately. “Mr. Fox, we can show you what we found, right now, if you’ll just give us a chance.”

“This is all bullshit,” Dad shouted.

Oscar’s hold on his temper broke. “Mamaw was a spirit worker! And so was her own mamaw! And I should have been too.” He thumped his chest with one hand. “Our family had a history. I had a heritage, but you cut me off from it. I deserved to know, and instead you pretended it didn’t exist, and hid any evidence that it did in a storage unit to rot!”

Dad’s face darkened. “Don’t you take that tone with me, boy.”

“You cut me off from my roots, let me think I was crazy, and you’re worried about my tone?” Oscar took a step back, his chest tight with hurt and anger. “We’re done. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you’re in danger, and we’re going to do our damnedest to save you before it’s too late.”

Oscar stormed back to the van. He half-expected Dad to call out to him—but he didn’t.

Fine. Let the old goat stew if that was what he wanted. Once they were all strapped back in, Oscar threw the van into reverse, turned around and headed down the driveway without looking back.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” Nigel said, after a few minutes of tense silence in the van. “If I made things worse—”

He’d truly expected Scott to calm down and listen. To be more like Oscar, ready to hear anyone out. But it seemed, despite inheriting Barbara’s gift, Oscar took his personality from his mother’s side of the family.

“You didn’t.” Oscar held out his right hand, the left still on the steering wheel, and Nigel took it. Oscar’s phone pinged, and he sighed loudly. “Check that for me, will you?”

Nigel picked up the phone, still connected to the charger. “It’s from your mom,” he said. “She’s trying to talk Scott down.”

“Good luck with that,” Oscar muttered.

“So, uh, what now?” Chris asked from the back.

Oscar’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry about all of that. Family drama isn’t fun, even when you’re not a part of it.”

“That was nothing,” Tina said, waving her hand. “Family fight, but we still love each other.”

“My family fights and then stops talking to one another for decades,” Nigel said.

“Mine just gives each other the cold shoulder,” Chris added.

Tina glared at them both. “You’re not helping.”

“Breakfast first,” Oscar said. “There’s a coffee shop down the way. It won’t be as good as Mom’s cooking, but, well…”

“It’ll be fine,” Nigel said. “And after that, I suggest we go to the library, look for the letters Julie’s husband donated.”

The sole coffee shop consisted of a counter and three cramped tables, so they ate their cold scones in the van. Once they were done, they drove to the library.

Mrs. Simpson was once again behind the desk; she brightened as soon as she saw Oscar. “Welcome back! Looking for more ghost stories?”

Oscar gave her his usual charming smile. “Actually, I just found out that there are some family letters in your collection. My cousin Julie’s husband, David Armstrong, donated them in her memory. I wondered if we could have a look?”

“Certainly.” She turned to the computer on her desk. “I assume they were of historical significance?”

“I’m told they were from the Corbetts, the ones who founded Cloven Oak Distillery.”

“Let’s see…Armstrong, Armstrong…ah, here we are.” Her smile brightened. “Good news, they were donated in 2002, so the flood of ’99 didn’t get them.”

She led them to the lower level, then to a door marked STAFF ONLY. “We keep this sort of thing out of general circulation, of course,” she said, unlocking the door. “Now where is that light switch…here we go.”

The florescent lights buzzed to life, revealing a windowless room filled with metal shelving units, each one stacked haphazardly with cardboard bankers boxes. “The one you’re looking for should say Armstrong on the front,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll have to look at it in here; we have a policy about not taking anything out of the room, just to keep it from getting lost or misfiled, you know. Let me know when you’re done, so I can lock back up.”

Once she was gone, Nigel stared aghast around the dismal room. “No climate control…do you think they do anything to keep insects and mice out, at least?”

Chris opened the nearest box and peered at the papers stuffed inside. “That would be no. It’s silverfish central in here.”

“This is a tiny county library,” Oscar said with a touch of exasperation. “They don’t get much in the way of funding. You can’t judge them by the standards of Duke.”

Nigel winced. Oscar was right; he’d become a bit spoiled by doing most of his research at the university. “No, of course, I understand that. Let’s just hope the mice haven’t gotten too comfortable in your family’s letters.”

It took only a few minutes of searching to find the box with “Armstrong” scrawled across the front in black sharpie, high on one of the shelves. Oscar took it down, and Nigel held his breath as he removed the lid.

At least there was no explosion of mice or insects to greet them; perhaps its storage height had saved the box from most of their depredations. Inside was a large padded envelope with the library’s address on the front, and a return address from David Armstrong. Oscar picked it up, then slid out a cover letter and a packet of letters gone brown with age, held together with a rubber band.

Oscar squinted at the cover letter. “To whom it may concern, included are the letters I spoke to you about on the phone. They were the property of my wife Julie Armstrong, née Corbett. I haven’t read them myself, but she said they came from her great-great grandfather, Ivan, who opened Cloven Oak distillery. I understand it was an important source of jobs for your town at one time, and so these letters may be of historical interest. Sincerely, David Armstrong.”

He picked up the packet; the rubber band was so old it came apart in pieces. “I don’t think anyone has looked at these since they were originally read,” he said, then carefully opened the first. “Never mind, I see why. This old-timey handwriting isn’t easy to read.”

“May I?” Nigel held out his hand.

“Please.”

He sat down cross-legged on the concrete floor, since there were no tables or chairs in the storage room. The paper was old, but of good quality, and had held up better than cheaper scrap would have. The handwriting wasn’t the most legible, but it was far from unreadable.

“I’ve looked at a lot of writing from the era,” he said. “I’m used to deciphering old journals and letters, so perhaps I should be the one to look through them?”

“Be my guest.” Oscar smothered a yawn. “I didn’t sleep last night, so if it’s okay with you, I’m going to nap in the van.”

“Go right ahead. The rest of you should, too; we have a long night ahead of us.”

“You’re not wrong.” Chris stifled a yawn of their own. “We’ll let Mrs. Simpson know you’re still here, so she doesn’t lock you in.”

“Or think you’re a donation.” Oscar winked at him. “Though it would be a good tax write-off…”

Nigel offered him a rude gesture. “You do know how to make a man feel appreciated.”

Once they were gone, Nigel reopened the letter.

A letter written by a long-dead man, whose ghost was only a few miles from here.

He looked around uneasily, then scooted until his back was against the wall. It wasn’t that he expected something to sneak up behind him while he read….

No, who was he kidding? It was exactly that.

He tucked the letters under his arm and walked quickly to the door, which opened without any supernatural resistance. To hell with library policy; he was going to read these in the sunlight, with at least one other person within shouting distance.

Just in case.