Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

Where are you going? And more importantly, who are you? What’s your name?

Levi drifted over the water, gradually slowing down again so that he could keep a safe distance and avoid detection. At the same time, he flew higher, lifting himself out of easy range in case the entity became aware of his presence and launched an attack.

Lord , he prayed, I am your servant and your sword. Guide my hand tonight as if it were your own. Though my methods might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy glory .

He glanced down again, rather than ahead. The river seemed so far below. From this height, the water’s surface shined like glass. Moonlight flickered off the waves. The girl was a dark smudge.

And , he continued, if you’re so inclined, Lord, please don’t let me fall …

Maria took another sip of coffee.

“So you don’t believe in any of it at all? You don’t think Nelson LeHorn’s ghost still haunts the hollow?”

Her digital voice recorder lay between them on the tabletop, recording the conversation. Ken had seemed nervous of it at first, speaking in halting, self-aware sentences. But gradually, he’d relaxed, forgetting about the device altogether. The leftover remnants of their late dinner covered the rest of the table. Ken had ordered a hamburger and fries. Maria had ordered a grilled chicken salad. The waitress had done a good job of keeping their coffee cups filled.

Ken was apologetic at first, determined to make up for delaying their interview, and for the bad scare Maria had suffered. In return, Maria had remained clinical and distant, seeking only the facts. But as the evening went on, they both warmed to each other. Maria found Ken to be genuine and friendly. He liked her determined attitude and her playful sense of sarcasm. She’d been interviewing him for the last half hour, learning about the Ghost Walk, his deceased wife, and more.

Despite the late hour, the diner was crowded. Long-haul truckers sat at the front counter, reading newspapers and magazines or talking to each other. A group of boisterous college students occupied a large booth, playing an apparently high-stakes game of Magic: The Gathering . Even though it wasn’t yet Halloween, several of them were in costume. An elderly couple sat at a corner table, ignoring the others around them, sharing the comfortable silence that only longtime partners seemed to enjoy. A younger couple sat nearby, engaged in the type of small talk and forced conversation that indicated a first date. The sleepy-eyed waitress moved among them all, lost in her own thoughts, only coming out of her reverie long enough to ask if anyone would like dessert.

“No,” Ken answered Maria’s question. “Not really. I mean, some weird things have happened there over the years. There’s no denying that. Folks have died. But that was from accidents or stupidity, mostly. Not because of ghosts or demons or shit like that. Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to curse.”

“That’s okay,” Maria said. “I can edit that out. So you don’t believe any of it?”

“Nope.”

“What about Patricia LeHorn’s murder? What do you think contributed to that?”

“Simple. Nelson LeHorn was a nut job. Just because he believed he was a witch, that doesn’t necessarily make him one. He murdered his wife because he was crazy, not because she’d actually slept with the devil.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Ken smiled. “Don’t tell me you believe this stuff?”

Maria shrugged. “Not really. But it’s my job to keep an open mind, right? Reporters are supposed to be analytical. Explore all options and find the truth.”

“If you say so. I don’t know. I never met a reporter before. I thought you were just writing up a little article on the Ghost Walk.”

“I am. But everyone in York County knows about LeHorn’s Hollow. And people love a good ghost story. It wouldn’t be much of an article if we didn’t mention this. I mean, that’s the whole reason you based your operation in those woods, right? To be near the hollow?”

“True.” Ken glanced down at the recorder and cleared his throat. “Well, you asked how I know LeHorn was crazy. It wasn’t a big secret or anything. My dad used to know him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, back in the seventies and eighties. Before he…you know.”

Maria nodded in encouragement.

“My dad was a beekeeper,” Ken said. “Well, actually, he worked at the paper mill, like everybody else did back in the day. But in his spare time, he kept honeybees.”

“I grew up in New Jersey,” Maria interrupted. “Was the paper mill the county’s main employer?”

“Didn’t think you were from around here,” Ken said. “Your accent gives you away.”

“I have an accent?”

“Sure. Not a bad thing. I figured you for New York or New Jersey. Like a girl from a Springsteen song, you know?”

He paused, smiling. After a moment, Maria smiled back. She felt her cheeks flush.

What the hell’s wrong with me , she thought. He’s, like, twice my age .

She stared into Ken’s soft, brown eyes. Even when he smiled, a great sadness seemed to cling to him.

Poor guy . Maria looked away. I’m just feeling sorry for him. That’s all. Need to keep my mind on work .

“Dude,” one of the college students shouted at his friend. “You can’t un-tap that card this turn!”

His friend turned a few cards and then slammed another one down on the table. “Take that, bitch. Twenty points of damage and you can’t fucking block it! That’s game.”

Everyone in the restaurant glanced at them in annoyance. The waitress walked over and asked the students to keep it down.

“In the seventies,” Ken said, turning back to Maria, “pretty much everybody in York County worked at one of five places. We had the Caterpillar and Harley Davidson plants in York. There was Borg-Warner over in West York, who made stuff for the military—tanks and half-tracks and bomb shelters. All kinds of shit. And then there was the paper mill in Spring Grove and the foundry out in Hanover. That was it, unless you were a farmer or an auto mechanic. But by the mid-eighties, right around the time I graduated from high school, Caterpillar and Borg-Warner had closed down, the paper mill was in the middle of a yearlong strike, and Harley and the foundry had both downsized. But yeah, my dad worked in the paper mill, and in his spare time he tended to his beehives. During the strike, when he wasn’t on the picket line with his union buddies, he was fooling around with his bees. He had hives all over the place. In orchards and on neighbor’s farms. Anywhere somebody would let him. I think he had over forty of them during his busiest year. Every autumn, he’d harvest the honeycomb, extract the honey, and then sell it to the local grocery stores and farmer’s markets. Had his own label on the jars and everything. ‘Ripple’s Apiaries.’ He made a nice little secondary income. I bet if he was still doing it today, he’d make a lot more, what with everybody into all that organic shit.”

“I’m sure. But what does this have to do with Nelson LeHorn?”

“LeHorn had bees, too. More than my dad ever did. Occasionally, my father would go over to LeHorn’s farm and buy beehive materials from him. Frames. Parts for his extracting drum. Smokers. Protective clothing. Stuff like that. It was easier and cheaper to get them from LeHorn than through mail order.”

Maria signaled the waitress, indicating another refill. “So did he ever see LeHorn do any powwow?”

“No. My old man didn’t believe in that stuff. But he did say several times that LeHorn was crazy. I remember this one time, these little microscopic mites got into Dad’s beehives. Killed several of his queens—just destroyed whole hives, you know? My dad asked LeHorn what he should do and LeHorn drew some kind of weird symbol and told Dad to paint it on each hive. It was supposed to keep the mites out.”