“That pouch was hanging around the guy’s neck, and I took it.”
She grimaced.
“Why on earth would you do a thing like that?”
He threw up his hands.
“Beats me. I saw the thing in the grave and cut it loose. Misty took off, and I forgot I was holding it in my hand. I went back to the cabin, drove into town to the police station, and forgot all about it.”
“And?”
He sighed, bent his head back to gaze at the ceiling.
“And now the dead man’s after me. He wants this bag of rocks, but I can’t give them back.”
Diane frowned and glanced toward the garbage can. Mack knew she was looking to see how many empty bottles were stacked inside.
“Diane, I haven’t told a soul about this. But you know me. Don’t you? I’m not a lying man. I’ve got a lot of faults, but I’ve never been a liar.”
Diane lifted her hands as Misty appeared and propped her head in Diane’s lap. She rubbed the dog’s ears.
“What do you mean, he’s after you?” She stared at the stones as she spoke.
“He appeared in the cabin the night I found his body. I woke up and found him standing upstairs. When I turned on the light, he was gone. Then he followed me in the woods. I got all turned around and he was there, watching me. He’s shown up every night, Diane. Eight nights in a row, this guy has made himself known. After the first night, I started drinking. I mean, I never stopped, but I started drinking more. It was the only way to keep him at bay.”
Diane leaned back and crossed her arms, glaring at Mack as if something had clicked into place.
“You’re telling me you have to get loaded every night, so this ghost doesn’t bother you,” she demanded.
He braced his hands on the table.
“Diane, it’s not like that. I’d love to never have a sip again, if this thing would go away. I’d make a deal with the devil to get rid of it. The drinking just… I pass out and I don’t have to see it, feel it.”
“Then how do you know it’s still there? If you’re spending every night in a drunken haze, what makes you think it’s not gone?”
“Because it’s getting worse. I still wake up to it, I just… I barely register it. But he’s standing over me, clawing at me, shrieking. Misty goes nuts. Every single night, Diane.”
Diane bit her lip. He could see her mind working behind her eyes, wanting to believe him.
“Have you tried to give it back?” She motioned at the satchel.
He nodded.
“I left it at the cabin, but when I got home, it was in my bag. I’ve thrown it out my front door. I’ve buried it the garden. I’ve driven out to the woods and chucked it in. Every night, it’s back on the hall table.”
“This all sounds very far-fetched, Mack,” Diane told him, eyeing the rocks wearily.
“You think I don’t know that?” he sputtered.
Two days later, Mack opened his door to find Diane standing on his porch. She wore a white scarf over her dark hair. Beyond her, a steady drizzle of rain cast the world in various shades of grey.
“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mack. Let me in.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer, hurrying across the threshold and wiping her muddy boots on the rug.
Misty jumped and licked at her, and Diane sank her hands into the dog’s red coat.
They stood for a moment surveying one another in the foyer.
He had shaved, put on a sweater she’d bought him for Christmas years earlier, and dotted cologne on his neck.
“You look better,” Diane said, handing him a jar with a ribbon on top.
“A present?” he asked.
She smiled.
“Raspberry jam. I jarred five quarts of it this summer. I know you always liked it.”
He held the jar and remembered a Christmas when they spent a week decorating jars of Diane’s raspberry preserves to give to family as gifts. They’d added maple syrup from the trees they’d tapped that spring, and fresh-baked cookies. It had been their first Christmas married. Diane was eight weeks pregnant. Four weeks later, they’d lost the baby.
“How did you sleep?” Diane asked, walking into the kitchen.
Mack followed her, gazing at the gold necklace around her slender pale neck. When she turned, he saw that a small gold heart lay at its center. She noticed him looking.
A flush lit her pale cheeks, and she touched the delicate charm.
“An early birthday present from Dale,” she murmured.
He nodded, wondering if a ring would soon follow, and wishing he could wind back the years and do it all differently.
“How did you sleep?” she asked a second time.
He frowned, remembered the dead man watching him from the rocking chair across the room, the steady creak-creak-creak and the hiss of Mine.
He shook his head and banished the image.
“Not great.”
“He’s still coming?”
Mack nodded.
“Every night.”
Diane squared her shoulders and drew a sheet of paper from her purse. She handed it to Mack.
He opened it and read: George Corey. Written beneath was the name Wilma Burns, followed by an address in Kalkaska.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“George Corey is the dead man you found in the woods,” Diane explained. “They haven’t made a formal identification, but they’re pretty sure. I called the sheriff in Kalkaska and bugged him until he gave me the name of one of Corey’s friends. Apparently, the man didn’t have any family. Wilma Burns grew up near the Stoneroot Forest. She knew Corey, and she’ll talk to us.”
“How?” Mack sputtered, holding up the piece of paper.
“I picked up the phone, Mack. It wasn’t hard.”
Mack sighed. He hadn’t thought to call the Kalkaska police, to find out about the man who haunted him. In the few moments he’d sought a solution, his mind had wandered to priests and witch doctors.
“We have to leave now,” Diane continued. “We’re meeting Wilma in an hour.”
“An hour? What if you’d found me passed out again?”
Diane smiled.
“I have more faith in you than that.” She tugged on the sleeve of his sweater. “I remember this old thing. Still looks good on you.”
Mack brushed a hand down the sweater, almost got sucked into a memory of Diane wearing it with only a pair of panties, and clapped his hands together to wipe the thought before it took hold.
Diane started.
“Sorry. My brain was trying to take me on a ride. You said, we. Are you coming with me, Diane?”
She nodded.
“I told Dale I had errands to run.”
“You lied?” Mack could hardly believe it. Diane couldn’t lie to save her life.
“I felt justified. He’d never understand, and… you need help, Mack. I want to help you.”
Mack stepped toward her, ready to gather her in his arms. She gazed at him with clear, kind eyes, and he stopped. She was not his anymore. Another man went to bed with her every night.
Mack had his chance, and he blew it. He swallowed and sighed, looking away from her to break the spell.
“Thank you, Diane,” he told her, though he couldn’t imagine how anyone could help him get rid of a ghost.
Wilma led Mack and Diane into a sitting room stuffed with worn, cozy chairs.
Mack shrugged off his coat and took Diane’s, draping them over his arm.
“Hot cider? Or tea, perhaps?” the woman asked.
She looked to be approaching seventy, with white curls fluffed about her head. She wore a grayish-pink housecoat and thick wool socks.
Strewn about her sitting room floor, Mack saw dolls and doll clothes, including a tiny wooden bassinet.