Page 3 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER THREE

“And she was just staring at you while everyone was asleep?” Tina asked, as Oscar drove them down the mountain and into Marrow proper. “Do you think she came in and looked at me, too?” She shuddered.

“You could have woken us up, boss,” Chris added.

“There wasn’t time to wake anyone up,” Oscar said. “Besides, I didn’t want to scare her away.”

“Did you sense anything from her?” Nigel asked.

Oscar considered for a moment. “Not really? It almost felt like she was just checking in on us.”

“That makes sense, if she realized you’d come back after a long absence. Especially since you weren’t in your normal bed.”

“I wish we’d been able to put up some of our instruments,” Tina said. “Maybe we would have caught more on a thermal cam.”

“Yeah, well.” Oscar grimaced. “Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen.”

Nigel didn’t say anything, but his skin crawled at the thought of a spirit wandering into the room while they slept. Would she repeat the performance tonight? If they tried to put a line of salt across the doorway to keep her out, Scott would probably throw them out of the house.

It was going almost noon the next day. Lisa had cooked them a hearty breakfast, and things around the table seemed almost normal. All conversation had steered well away from the topic of ghosts, and when Scott asked what their plans were, Oscar perked up and said he was going to show them his old stomping grounds.

It didn’t take long to see that time had left Marrow behind. The newest houses were from the 1950s, judging by the architecture, and for every open storefront there were two closed ones. The whole town seemed to cluster around just a few streets, hemmed in between the mountain on one side and the river on the other. According to the internet search Nigel had done before they came, only about 800 people lived here, and the population was dwindling with every passing year.

Oscar slowed the van. “Okay, there’s the diner.”

“We’re actually stopping?” Nigel said, surprised. “I thought showing us the ‘old-stomping grounds’ was just an excuse to go to the storage facility.”

Oscar’s face fell. “I mean, we’ll do that, but…I don’t know, I thought you’d be interested. We don’t have to.”

Nigel cursed himself. Oscar was his boyfriend, of course he wanted to share his history with Nigel. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound that way.”

“Smooth, doc,” Chris said, leaning forward. “Real smooth.”

Tina smacked them on the arm. “Oh, hush. Show us the great metropolis of Marrow, Oscar.”

Oscar finished parking the van. “We’ll pass the high school on the way out to the storage place. Downtown here is where I’d hang out with my friends, when I could get a ride, anyway.”

“Downtown” was a bit of an overstatement for three or four blocks of old brick buildings from the Victorian era. At least half of them were empty, the rest occupied by antique stores, a hardware store, the diner, and a number of small offices. There were only a few other people on the street, most of them heading for either the diner or the antiques.

Even so, they’d only made it a few steps before someone called “Oscar? Oscar Fox?”

Oscar turned, a grin already on his face. “That’s me!”

The middle-aged man who’d approached looked delighted. “I watched all your games! You could’ve gone pro!”

“Thanks; I appreciate that.”

The man rooted around in his pocket for a minute before digging out a crumpled receipt. “Could you sign this for me?”

Nigel watched, feeling vaguely startled, as Oscar took out a pen and graciously signed, while the man rambled on about games and sacks. Yes, college football was big in the south—hell, depending on where you were, high school games were followed just as closely—but he’d never really had an interest. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that other people wouldn’t be as indifferent.

Once the man had gone on his way, Chris said, “So, are we your entourage, or…?”

“I didn’t realize I was dating the hometown hero,” Nigel added.

Oscar actually blushed. “No,” he told Chris, and “I’m not the hometown hero.”

The diner put a lie to his words. As soon as they stepped in, Nigel spotted an orange Clemson jersey with FOX on the back, hanging on the wall alongside a signed photograph of a man—presumably Oscar, though it was impossible to tell under the helmet—crashing into another player on a field.

The young woman behind the counter perked up when they came in. “Good afternoon, y’all! Have you been in before?”

“I have, but not for a long time,” Oscar answered with a smile. “Are the pepperoni rolls still as good as they used to be?”

A man stuck his head out from the kitchen behind the counter. “Too good for the likes of you, Mr. Big City!”

Oscar’s entire face lit up. “Josh!”

The man looked to be around their age, with short blond hair and a husky build. He came around the counter and swept Oscar into a bear hug, pounding him enthusiastically on the back. “Your dad mentioned you’d be coming into town. It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Josh.” Oscar pulled back and grinned, but didn’t entirely let go.

A little flame of jealousy flickered in Nigel’s chest, and he cleared his throat loudly.

Josh jumped back a bit, as if he’d forgotten they had an audience. “Oscar, you remember my niece, Kayla?” he asked, gesturing to the counter.

“Not little Kayla!” Oscar exclaimed. “You were in braces the last time I saw you.”

Kayla offered him the smile of someone trying to be polite, but not really interested in her uncle’s old friends.

Oscar turned back to Josh. “These are my friends,” he said, and went on to introduce them. Nigel felt a further flash of irritation that Oscar hadn’t singled him out as a boyfriend. “And this is Josh Rizzo. We went to school together from kindergarten on.”

“And played football together, even though I was never meant for the big leagues. Not like this guy here,” Josh added with a trace of pride on Oscar’s behalf. “Your lunch is on the house, by the way.”

“No, it’s all right,” Oscar started, but was interrupted by Josh shaking his head.

“Your money’s no good here. Y’all want pepperoni rolls? Fries? Look at the menu and take your time. I’ll head to the kitchen, but I’ll be back out to catch up, don’t you worry.”

Josh herded them to the counter, then went back to the kitchen. Apparently, despite their huge breakfast, they were now eating lunch.

Staring up at the chalkboard menu on the back wall, Chris said, “Pepperoni rolls?”

“Bread stuffed with pepperoni,” Oscar explained. “It was popular with coal miners back in the day—no refrigeration needed, tasty even when at room temperature, and hand-held.”

“I see,” Nigel said. “And Josh…?”

“His family owns this place,” Oscar said with a sweep of the arm, indicating the old brick walls, the squeaky wooden floor. “Best pepperoni rolls in town.”

Nigel suspected they were the only pepperoni rolls in town but kept the remark to himself. They all ended up ordering the rolls, along with a pitcher of sweet tea and a basket of fries, then retreated to a table. A few other people came in, but it was clear the diner wasn’t going to do a lot of business today. Because everyone was still at home, eating leftovers from Christmas dinner, or because the town was slowly dying?

Kayla brought their orders. Chris picked up a fry and popped it in their mouth. “Your friend seems nice.”

“Josh? Oh yeah.” A goofy grin touched Oscar’s lips. “We used to be inseparable. The trouble we got into as kids…”

“Ooh, spill,” Tina said with a wicked grin.

Nigel took a cautious bite of his pepperoni roll. The oils from the sausage had soaked into the bread, flavoring it perfectly.

To his surprise, Oscar blushed lightly at Tina’s prodding. “Oh, well, not much, you know. Driving too fast on the mountain roads, underage drinking, skinny dipping at the old quarry…”

Tina gasped and grabbed at non-existent pearls. Oscar threw a fry at her.

About halfway through the meal, Josh came back out and joined them at the table, sitting between Oscar and Nigel. “Not many folks out and about today, I guess,” he said lightly. “But the diner’s loss is my gain.”

They immediately became absorbed in conversation about places Nigel didn’t know and people he’d never heard of. Which was to be expected. They’d been friends. Friends who skinny dipped together.

Friends who were looking at each other as if there had been something more between them.

No, no, he was projecting. Nigel wasn’t exactly the best when it came to social situations; probably his perceptions were off.

The bell above the door jingled as another group came in. “We should be going,” Nigel said. “You probably have to get back to work.”

“Yeah.” Josh sighed. “It was good to meet y’all.” He stood up, then turned back to Oscar. “Is there an evening you’ll be free? Maybe we can meet up somewhere, talk about old times?”

“I’m not sure,” Oscar replied. “We’re sort of playing it by ear.”

“Let me give you my number, just so you have it.”

Once they were back in the van, Nigel said, “Old flame?”

“No,” Oscar started, then caught himself. “Not exactly? We fooled around some in high school, you know how it is.”

“Not having been a popular football star, I don’t know how it is,” Nigel said, managing to keep most of the sharpness from his tone.

Annoyingly, Oscar laughed. “It was high school, you dork.” He leaned across the console and kissed Nigel on the side of the head.

Nigel knew he was being unreasonable. Still. “We should go to the storage unit, before your parents start wondering what’s taking us so long.”

That sobered Oscar up fast. His laughter faded, and he cranked the ignition. “Right. Let’s go see if there’s anything left of Mamaw Fox for us to find.”

* * *

The self-storage business lay on the outskirts of Marrow and was among the few examples of new construction to have happened since Oscar had left for college. The lot had been a farmer’s field back then, already abandoned and going back to nature. Now rows of gleaming units sat atop black asphalt, holding whatever excess stuff the residents of Marrow couldn’t—or didn’t want—to keep at home.

“I’m surprised to see a place like this in such a…small town,” Nigel remarked as he turned in.

Oscar cast him a glance. It had been good to see Josh again—and borderline hilarious to discover Nigel seemed to be jealous of him.

“You can say ‘dying.’” Oscar slowed, scanning the numbers on the buildings. “Kids move away, leave all their junk behind with the promise of coming back someday to get it, and it ends up in storage. Businesses go under, and the furniture gets put away and never taken back out. The old folks die, and no one wants to just throw everything out, so here it ends.”

Like with Papaw Fox. If he’d realized Dad was renting a unit to store things, he’d have offered to come home and help sort through it. Though, depending on what was in there, Dad might have refused the offer.

He pulled up in front of the unit: number 306. Instead of getting out of the van, though, he found himself staring at the blank metal door.

Should he be doing this? Mom had given him the key, but that didn’t mean he had to use it.

What had happened to his mamaw had obviously hurt Dad—well, of course it had, he’d been a kid whose mother was taken away to the state mental hospital. Their family had been permanently broken, even before she’d died in overcrowded conditions while in the state’s care.

“Is everything all right, boss?” Chris asked from the back.

“Yeah, it’s just…” he trailed off uncertainly. “There might be things in there Dad wanted to keep private, memories he wanted to die. Do I have any right to go digging around?”

Nigel’s hand came to rest on his, thin fingers curling gently. “What happened to your grandmother caused your father to demand you suppress your mediumistic gift,” he said softly. “If she had the same talent, I think you have the right to know. But it’s your choice.”

A wave of warmth flowed through Oscar. He turned his hand over and tangled his fingers with Nigel’s. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The parking lot was otherwise deserted as they climbed out of the van. Though the lot had been salted and plowed, a jumble of snow piled against the lower part of the door, where the lock was. He kicked it loose, then slid the key in, hoping the whole lock wasn’t frozen.

It clicked open on the first try.

The metal door groaned and squealed as it rolled up; clearly no one had opened it in a long time. The watery gray sunlight gave only glimpses of boxes and furniture in the dark interior. “Everyone grab a flashlight,” Oscar said, going to the back of the van where the equipment was stored.

“What are we looking for?” Tina asked. “That is, I assume anything with your grandmother’s name on it, but anything else?”

“Anything personal,” Oscar said. “Letters, journals, post cards, anything that might tell us something about her. Or hell, anything that catches your attention, I don’t know.”

They entered the unit, flashlight beams alighting on boxes, plastic tubs, and old oak furniture. There wasn’t enough to be packed in too tightly, so at least they would be able to reach most of it with a minimum of shifting boxes.

He paused, running his fingers along the side of an old, glass-fronted cupboard. It had once held the family china, brought out only at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. And the side table beside it—that had been in his papaw’s dining room, shining warm and polished in the light of many a family gathering. To see it here, abandoned in the dark, made him sad in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.

There was no room for it in his parents’ house, no room for any of this, but it seemed wrong to just leave it here. On the other hand, he doubted it had much value to anyone outside the family, so selling it wasn’t a realistic option. Dad probably meant to donate it somewhere, but loading it all up and taking it over the mountain to Goodwill was a daunting task.

Maybe he’d try to find space for it in his place. Or maybe, if things kept on going the way they seemed to be, he and Nigel would get a bigger place together. Somewhere there would be room for a few family heirlooms.

“What’s this?” Tina asked. She held up what looked like an antique bottle.

Oscar took it; the worn label still bore the faded words Cloven Oak Distillery, est. 1872. Fine Whiskey. The bottle was stoppered, but the liquid inside was clear rather than amber. “I have no idea,” he said. “It looks old, though.”

“Oh wow!” Chris exclaimed from somewhere near the back. “Check this out!”

Oscar hurried over to see what Chris had found. They held up a camera that looked like it had come straight from the 1970s. “A Super 8 Movie Camera with 8-1 Auto Zoom, movie light, and omnidirectional microphone!”

Tina snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

“I simply appreciate the classics,” they shot back. “This was what people used to make home movies before VHS and camcorders.”

Oscar shone his flashlight on the open box beside Chris. “Look, there’s a projector, too. And film.”

“And a fold-up screen,” Chris added. “What do you say? Should we take a look at your family’s old home movies?”

Oscar knelt on the concrete floor and began to remove the cardboard film containers. All of them were labeled in a careful, neat hand he didn’t recognize. “ Christmas 1971 ,” he read aloud. “ Julie’s Wedding —oh gosh, she was one of Dad’s…cousins, I think? She died one Thanksgiving while they were visiting us, had a massive heart attack while hiking in the woods. Fox Family Reunion . Adkins Seance…”

The word trailed off, his skin suddenly flushing with goosebumps. Clearing his throat, he repeated, “Adkins Seance, 1972.”

“Fuck me,” Chris said in a low voice.

Oscar stared, frozen, at the film container, his heart thumping so hard his hand shook. After a moment, Nigel’s fingers curled around his shoulder. “Do you want to watch it?”

Did he? If Barbara Fox had been a medium and not suffering from mental illness, how had things gotten so bad she’d ended up at the state hospital? Then again, maybe she was both mentally ill and a medium; there was no reason that couldn’t be the case.

A part of him was irrationally afraid to watch. Because what if she seemed perfectly normal? Did that mean whatever happened to her might happen to him, too?

Nigel reached into the box and took out another film canister. “This is the last one,” he said. “Cloven Oak Distillery, Ghost investigation, 1972.”

Their eyes met, Nigel’s wide with shock, his own…he didn’t know, couldn’t name the emotions coursing through him. Then he turned to Tina, who still held the whiskey bottle in her hand.

“Yes,” he said in a voice that shook less than he expected. “Let’s watch them.”