He sensed movement underneath the blankets. Saw her small white head turn on the pillow. She was only half-awake but staring straight at him. He held up a box of oatmeal pies.
“I brung you Little Debbies, Mee Maw,” he said. “A whole dozen!”
His grandmother beamed. “Billy? Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Mee Maw!” His smile looked more like a leer.
“Such a dear, sweet boy.”
Mee Maw slowly crawled out of bed, found her slippers, and shuffled to the window.
“Well done, Billy boy,” said the voice inside Billy’s head. “Well done.”
Mary O’Claire sat perched on her bed, nibbling a spongy oatmeal pie.
She smelled the familiar scent.
Brylcreem.
“Who are you?” she muttered to her grandson.
“Me? Why, I’m your grandson. Billy O’Claire.” The young man, who didn’t sound at all like Billy tonight, sat in an orange vinyl chair next to her bed.
“You’re not my grandson!”
“Yes, I am. I’m Billy! Your grown-up grandbaby.”
“No. You may look like Billy, but that’s not who you really are!”
“Is that so?” The evil spirit inside Billy’s body made his wicked grin grow wider. “Well, then, who do you think I am?”
Mary trembled. “You’re him.”
“Him who?”
Mary put one hand to her chest. She felt her ribs tighten and squeeze most of the air out of her lungs. She knew who was sitting in the room with her.
“You’re my husband,” she gasped. “Clint Eberhart. I can see his evil in your eyes.”
“Well, well, well. You’re pretty sharp for a dried-up old biddy,” said Billy, speaking the words the dark spirit of Clint Eberhart dictated. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. And don’t call me your husband. I dumped you a long time ago. Remember?”
“We weren’t divorced….”
“Oh? Then why’d you change your name back to O’Claire?”
“After what you did, I couldn’t stand being called Mary Eberhart!”
“Cut the gas, doll. I don’t need to hear your noise.”
“You’re evil, Clint. Pure evil!”
“Yeah? Well, I could’ve been evil and rich, but you had to butt in and ruin everything!”
“I told Sheriff Jennings the truth!” Mary whispered. “There were children on that bus, Clint. Children!”
“So? You ask me, you’re the one who killed ’em all! If you hadn’t called Mr. Spratling, nobody would’ve died!”
Mary could hear her heart pounding. It sounded like it had moved up to her skull. It sounded like it might explode.
“Sheriff Jennings knew everything, Clint. I finally told him—after he shot my son.”
“Son? Wait—let me guess. You married some other sap?”
“I never remarried, Clint. My son was your son.”
“That’s impossible!”
“The night you died, I was six months pregnant.”
“No, you weren’t! I never had no son!”
“Yes, you did. You just never met him.”
“You’re lying!”
“No, Clint. Lying is a sin.”
“Really? The nuns teach you that?”
Mary nodded.
“So how come you never told me about this baby?”
“Because you abandoned me, Clint. When you and Mr. Spratling cut your deal!” Mary shook her head. “No wonder my boy went bad. Like father, like son!”
“Shut up, you old hag!”
“No!” It was Billy. The real Billy. Fighting back. He wanted to hear more. Learn about his father. His grandmother could sense that he was struggling to regain control of his body.
She smiled gently. “Are you in there, Billy? If so, remember that I love you. No matter what.”
“Shut up!” Eberhart was back. “No more talking!”
Eberhart’s spirit made Billy’s body rise from the chair. Made him stretch out his arms and moan so fiercely that it shook the windowpanes and knocked a drinking glass off the bedside table.
“Die, old woman!” he roared. “Die like you should’ve died fifty years ago on that bus!”
Then Clint Eberhart allowed his real body to materialize inside the room. He became a mushrooming cloud of red-hot rage hovering over Mary O’Claire. He moved his ghostly hands toward the old woman’s throat as if he would strangle her.
It was enough to scare Mary O’Claire to death.
That week’s front page of the North Chester Telegraph ran a feature story about Mary O’Claire.
“MIRACLE MARY” DIES
NORTH CHESTER—“Miracle Mary” O’Claire, the sole survivor of the Greyhound bus accident of June 21, 1958, died in her sleep at the County Rest Home on Monday night.
She was called Miracle Mary because she walked away from the infamous bus wreck that killed 38 passengers, the driver, and the occupant of the Ford Thunderbird it collided with. She was the only survivor.
Miracle Mary boarded the Greyhound Scenicruiser in Massachusetts. When the bus neared North Chester, it was broadsided by a Ford Thunderbird convertible driven by a Spratling Clockworks employee named Clint Eberhart. Mr. Eberhart had been traveling south on Highway 31. The bus was headed east on Route 13. A state motorcycle trooper was also killed that night, raising the total number of casualties to 41.
The accident, still the worst in county history, led to public safety hearings and the installation of a blinking red light at the crossroads of 13 and 31.
After escaping the bus wreck uninjured, Mary O’Claire disappeared from the public spotlight. Her son, born three months after the accident, later achieved his own notoriety.
In 1983, at the age of 25, Thomas (Tommy) O’Claire and his wife, Alice, were gunned down by Sheriff James Jennings in what was described as the “tragic and fatal conclusion to a bungled blackmail scheme.” The shootings took place outside Spratling Manor.
Miracle Mary is survived by one grandson, William O’Claire, a plumber who still works in the North Chester area. Mr. O’Claire could not be reached for comment.
Zack stood barefoot on top of the rock jutting out over the swimming hole.
“Jump in, sport!” Davy floated in the water below. “There ain’t nothin’ to be scared of!”
“I didn’t see you jump in!” Zack shouted to Davy.
“Don’t worry. Water’s over ten feet deep. You won’t crack open your head bone!”
“But the water’s freezing!”
“Wait for the sun. Here it comes. Clouds are partin’! Jump, Zack! Jump!”
For the first time in his life, Zack did something he knew was extremely foolish. He went running across the slick stone and kept running after he reached its edge.
“Geronimo!” He plunged feetfirst into the frigid pool and sent up a foamy geyser.
It was dark and cold underwater. Zack should have been terrified, but instead he felt exhilarated. His toes touched the slimy creek bottom, so he pushed off and kicked his way back to the surface.
“Whoo-hoo!” he screamed through a rush of bubbles when he sprang up. “Whoo-hoo!”
“By jingo, you did it, Zack! You dove off Dead Man’s Bluff.”
“I want to do it again!”
“All rightie. Have at it!”
Zack swam to the shore and hauled himself out of the water. The pockets of his cargo shorts bloated out into water balloons.
“This time, I’m gonna do a cannonball!”
Zack clambered up the cliff and took off running. He leapt and kicked and climbed into the air. He tucked his knees up to his chest and screamed as he plummeted into the briny depths of the bounding main. He smacked the top of the water with a stinging, thumping whack.