Page 5 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

“Just like high school,” Oscar said shakily as he poured a measure of whiskey into a coffee mug. “Stealing from Dad’s liquor cabinet.”

He took a healthy gulp from the mug; the whiskey burned on its way down. Jack Daniels, not whatever brew their ancestors had made at Cloven Oak. Was it better? Worse?

He sat on the couch, Nigel’s arm around his waist in silent comfort. Tina put down the whiskey bottle after pouring some for herself, Chris, and Nigel, and topping off Oscar’s drink again.

Chris came back into the den and snagged their drink. “Fuck, it’s cold out there.”

“Thanks for putting everything away,” Oscar said. While Tina found the booze, Chris had hastily folded up the screen, packed the projector and films, and taken the box back out to the van where Oscar’s parents wouldn’t see it.

“Sure thing.” They sat down on their air mattress and looked up at him. “So…what was that? At the end?”

Oscar glanced at Nigel questioningly. Looking troubled, he shook his head. “I’m not sure. Something disturbed her in the aging warehouse, but she didn’t seem to panic until they were outside. As for what happened to her after that, it’s impossible to say from the film. Was she being attacked? Having a medical emergency?”

“Was it what got her sent to the state hospital?” Chris asked.

“Maybe. She was sent away that year, but I don’t know the date.” Oscar felt in his pocket for his phone. “We should look up the distillery.”

“Already ahead of you.” Tina bent over her own phone. “There’s not much, just the stub of a Wikipedia article. It says Cloven Oak Distillery was founded in 1872 in Marrow, WV, by Ivan Corbett. Which we already knew.”

“So it’s near here?” Nigel asked, looking to Oscar.

“I guess?” Oscar felt wrong-footed, suddenly aware of a gap in his knowledge he’d never expected. “I think there was some mention of it in a class, maybe? About the history of the town? But I’m not sure.”

Nigel leaned against him, comforting. “There aren’t any ghost stories about it, then?”

“No, not that I know of.” Oscar sifted through memories left undisturbed for over a decade. “I got pretty into ghost stories when I was in my late teens. The lure of the forbidden, I guess. There’s a crybaby bridge out on Cold Creek Rd., and a woman in white who supposedly hitchhikes near the high school on moonless nights, but those are the only local legends I know. And I never had the guts to check if they were real or not.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “If I’d seen something and no one else had…according to Dad that’s the mark of a crazy person, so it was the last thing I wanted to be.”

Nigel squeezed his hand in support. “You deserved better.”

“Thanks.” Oscar took a deep breath and glanced at Tina. “Is there anything more?”

“The distillery closed in the early sixties,” Tina said. “And that’s about all there is to find online.” She looked up from her phone. “Do you think your Dad would know more?”

Did he? Dad would have been a baby when the distillery closed down, and from what Barbara had said, they weren’t the inheritors anyway. The place had been abandoned even in local memory, except for those who wanted to preserve the history of Marrow. Possibly he didn’t know any more than they did.

“Maybe, if I could ask him.” Oscar said unhappily. “If it wouldn’t turn into a fight.”

“We passed a library when driving into town,” Nigel said. “They might have records. Is there a historical society?”

“Not that I know of, but that doesn’t mean anything.” Oscar finished off his whiskey and put the mug down. “The library, that’s a good idea, though. If they have old newspapers, maybe we can learn more.” He glanced at them, one at a time, ending on Nigel. “I know this wasn’t our original agenda when we came here…”

Tina held up her hand. “Please. This is important to you, and it involves ghosts. Which is exactly what we all signed up for.”

He smiled, feeling lighter than he had since viewing the film. “Thanks, guys.”

“We’d better get some sleep,” Tina said, standing up. “And come up with an excuse as to why we’re visiting the town library tomorrow, so your dad doesn’t get suspicious.”

“I’ll think of something.”

Chris, Oscar, and Nigel took turns changing into their pajamas in the bathroom, then crawled into their respective beds. Within minutes, Chris was snoring softly into their pillow.

Nigel and Oscar lay facing each other. Nigel lifted his hand and ran thin, cool fingers over Oscar’s face, tracing a line from forehead, to cheek, to jaw, and finally landing on his lips. Oscar kissed his fingertips, then pulled Nigel closer and kissed him properly. Despite everything, his heartbeat quickened with desire, and he wished they had a room to themselves.

“I love you,” Nigel whispered. “I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“I love you, too. And I know.”

They held each other in silence, until eventually Nigel’s breathing evened out. Oscar started to roll over, then stopped when he heard the soft creak of a floorboard.

He lifted his head and looked to the door. There was a flash of white…then nothing.

The spirit was gone.

Oscar lay back down. “Goodnight to you, too.”

* * *

The town library was a tiny brick building constructed on a slope. The main entrance off the road led straight onto the second floor, with the first floor below sunk half into the hillside running down to a creek. Looking at its small size, Nigel wasn’t sure they’d find what they needed, unless the place was truly jam-packed with material.

“I don’t know how much help I’m going to be,” Chris said doubtfully as Oscar pulled the van into a parking space near the front. “Research isn’t my specialty.”

“Or mine,” Tina added.

“I know,” Oscar said, shutting off the engine. “But it would have looked weird if we’d left you at home, while Nigel and I went off for a drive together.”

“Weird, or romantic?” Chris countered.

“I have enough research experience for us all,” Nigel said, changing the subject. “The question is whether or not there’s anything here to find.”

They climbed out of the van and made for the front door. The building was clearly old, judging by its bricks and the National Historic Register plaque by the door. But work seemed to have been done on it recently; the white paint on the door and window frames was bright and unweathered.

The smell of dusty books common to all libraries rose up as they stepped through the door. Nigel took a deep breath, even though the dust made the inside of his nose tingle. Tension slid from his shoulders, as though he’d come home from a long journey.

Clearly, he spent far too much time in the stacks at the university.

An elderly white woman sat behind the desk, her silver hair in short curls. As they entered, she looked up with a smile. “Welcome to the Marrow Township Library. Let me know if I can help y’all with anything.”

“Mrs. Simpson?” Oscar asked, sounding surprised.

Her face creased for a moment—then cleared. “Oscar Fox! I’d heard you were visiting.”

Grinning, Oscar went over to the desk and hugged her. “Mrs. Simpson was my elementary school librarian!”

“Retired now,” she said, beaming at him. “Well, from the school system, anyway. I work here part-time; it gets me out of the house and keeps me out of trouble.” She glanced from him to the rest of them. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes,” Nigel said. “I’m Dr. Nigel Taylor; my pronouns are he/him. We’re looking for any information you might have on the old Cloven Oak Distillery. Plus, if you have an archive of local newspapers from the 1970s, that would be extremely helpful as well.”

Mrs. Simpson looked a bit taken aback. “Cloven Oak? I haven’t heard that name in years. Yes, I’m certain we have some information, and there will be more in the papers.” She bustled toward the stairs leading down. “I’m afraid we haven’t gotten around to digitizing our newspaper collection, but we do have issues on microfiche from the nineteenth-century on. I’ll check to see if we have any books on the topic of West Virginia distilleries while you look.”

“Thank you,” Nigel said. “And if you have any books on local legends, ghost stories, anything of that sort, it would be a great help.”

Mrs. Simpson showed them how to use the library database and pointed out the microfiche readers. Once she left to look for books, Nigel said, “We should divide and conquer. Who wants to search the database?”

“I will.” Tina sat down at the computer.

“Use as many keywords as you can think of, starting with the distillery’s name,” Nigel instructed. “Chris, if you would pull the microfiche once Tina gives you the location information, I’ll start reading. Oscar, would you mind looking through any books Mrs. Simpson finds?”

“Sure thing, doc,” Chris said, at the same time as Oscar’s “No problem.”

Nigel nodded and turned to the microfiche reader. “All right, let’s see what we can find.”

* * *

Oscar helped Mrs. Simpson pull books, then sat down with the pile. Back at Marrow Elementary, she’d always encouraged him when it came to reading above grade level, unlike some of the other librarians there. If it had been cranky old Mrs. Watson behind the desk here, he probably wouldn’t have had the guts to ask for help.

Was she even alive now? She’d been ancient already back then—but Mrs. Simpson had seemed ancient to his young self as well, so who knew.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Mrs. Simpson said. “And tell your parents hello from me. I hope they’re doing well?”

Since the group was supposedly on a drive through the mountains to visit some scenic overlooks, Oscar had no intention of passing on her greeting to Mom and Dad. Instead of lying outright to her, he said, “They’re doing just fine, thank you. They delayed Christmas dinner so we could all have it together.”

He could tell her curiosity was burning, even before she said, “So, your friend is a doctor?”

Dad wouldn’t want him to talk about anything connected to ghosts…but he wasn’t here. “Nigel’s my boyfriend, and yes. He has a PhD in parapsychology—he studies hauntings, spirits, that sort of thing. Chris and Tina are on a ghost hunting team with me. OutFoxing the Paranormal —you can find us on the internet, we do videos of the locations we go to.”

“Goodness me,” she said, putting a hand to her chest.

“I don’t suppose you know any stories about the distillery” he asked. “I heard it might be cursed…?”

“I don’t know about that.” She frowned, as if searching her memory. “I haven’t heard much about it at all since I was young. People don’t go there—no reason to, I guess. I can’t think of anything.”

He hid his disappointment behind a smile. “Hopefully the books will have some more information in them.”

“I’m sure they will, honey. Just let me know if you need anything, you hear?”

She started to walk away, but a thought suddenly occurred to him. “You’ve lived here your whole life, isn’t that right, ma’am?”

She stopped and turned back around. “We moved here when I was five, but otherwise, yes.”

“Did you…by any chance, did you know my mamaw? Dad’s mom?”

A wave of sadness passed over her face, answering him even before her words. “Not well, but yes. I did.”

She’d never said anything before—but of course she hadn’t. No one wanted to bring up the family shame. “Did you know she would do seances?”

Her expression turned uncomfortable. “Yes. Well, I heard the rumors. I wasn’t raised to approve of that sort of thing, though. My parents wouldn’t even let me talk to Miss Virginia—that was your mamaw’s mamaw.”

What was it Barbara had said about her grandmother on the film? “Since she passed, I’ve been trying to take up her mantle. Doing seances and the like.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Mrs. Simpson shifted awkwardly. “Oh, well…she had some mountain ways that seemed strange to my folks. I’m sure there was no harm in her.”

In other words, she wasn’t going to talk about spirit work, or whatever folk magic might have been mixed in with it. “Did Mamaw have a friend named Sharon?” he asked without much hope for an answer.

To his surprise, Mrs. Simpson’s face cleared. “I don’t remember for sure, but Sharon Griffith would be about the same age as Barbara, and she’s lived here since birth. It might be her. I’m sure she’s in the phone book if you want to give her a call.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

Mrs. Simpson scurried away, as if afraid he’d ask any more uncomfortable questions about the past. He paused just long enough to enter Sharon Griffith’s name into his phone for later, then turned his attention to the books.

There was a single slim volume on the history of brewing and distilling in the state, most of it focused on moonshining. As for Cloven Oak, there was only a paragraph mentioning the date of its founding by Ivan Corbett, and that it had survived prohibition by securing a government license to brew “medicinal” alcohol for distribution to pharmacies.

Hopefully he’d find more in the stack of volumes concerning ghost lore in West Virginia specifically and Appalachia generally. Though it sounded as though any local ghost stories had faded from memory between Mrs. Simpson’s time and his own. He opened the first book, scanned the table of contents…and froze.

There was a section on insane asylums. Including the place where Mamaw had been locked away. Where she’d died.

Of course there was—what had he expected? A place with such history, whose walls had seen so much suffering over its hundred-plus years of operation…it would be a shock if it didn’t have the reputation of being haunted.

He was supposed to be looking for anything on Cloven Oak, but instead his shaking hands turned to the chapter about the asylum.

Disembodied voices, doors closing by themselves, at least one shadow man, an angry nurse, a ghostly girl…the litany of the unquiet dead was a long one. And the activity had begun decades before the asylum closed, experienced by nurses and patients alike.

What must it have been like for a medium to be locked away in there, unable to escape the screams of the tormented dead?