Rita Herron - Return To Falcon Ridge

And he would be done with them and could go home.

ELSIE SHOULDN’T have come. She should have driven to a hotel for the night.

But she had to face her demons or she might never be whole again. Hadn’t the professors pounded that into their heads in psychology class?

Still, there were so many ghosts here, so much anguish….

The wind cut through her bones as she closed her eyes, willing her courage to surface.

You witnessed Hodges burn to death yourself. You even saw Hattie Mae standing over his grave, her head bent in sorrow. Or maybe it had been shame or relief.

Elsie had never understood how Hattie Mae had succumbed to her husband’s sick wishes and let the girls suffer his cruelties.

Hattie Mae is gone, too. The house is empty, and no one can hurt you.

Elsie braced herself for the squeak of the stone door, but she shivered as she stepped inside the dark entry. The scent of dust and mildew filled her nostrils, along with fear and death. Even ten years later, the pungent odor of Hodges’s flesh being charred rose with the dust motes.

Her footsteps sounded hollow on the marble floor, her erratic breathing rattling in the ominous quiet as she forced herself forward in search of a light. The electricity had probably been turned off. With the frigid temperatures, she’d freeze tonight.

No, there were the fireplaces and the lanterns.

Hattie Mae had always kept a dozen kerosene lanterns filled and ready for use when the power failed, and wood had been stacked in every room with a fireplace. As if on autopilot, she moved through the icy, cavernous living area to the kitchen. There she felt along the wall until she reached the pantry where she discovered several lanterns filled and ready for use. Matches were also stacked beside them as if Hattie Mae had been waiting on someone’s return.

Elsie barely stifled the urge to turn and run. But she had been running all her life.

No more.

She would face this place and slay her demons. In honor of all the girls whose hopes and dreams had died here, she’d turn it into a safe haven for troubled teens who could find hope for a better life.

A flick of the match and the lantern lit up. Determined to overcome her anxiety, she forced herself to examine the kitchen, then the rooms on the main floor. Only leftover discarded antiques that had once shone with polish and glory remained, still sitting in the same places she remembered. The fabrics were faded, the wood dusty, the walls a dreary pea green, the paintings water damaged. She would change all that, paint the rooms bright colors, get rid of the grim furnishings and replace them with more functional contemporary pieces, sturdy ones that would turn the dark, sinister interior into a welcoming home.

Exhausted from her drive, and the tension from her encounter with Deke Falcon, she checked the door locks, pausing in the hall as she noticed the padlock to the basement. The acrid smell…

She would not go down there. Not now. Maybe never.

The memories were too painful, the images too real, the anguish and shame too raw.

Her secrets had to remain hidden.

Shaking off her paranoia, she climbed the steps, grateful for the flickering light of the lantern as she studied the print carpet, the shadows from the corners, the long hallway that led to the dormlike rooms the girls had occupied.

The room where Hattie Mae and her husband slept had been on the main floor, off-limits.

The dorm wings had separated the girls by ages. She had slept in the east wing while the kids under ten had slept in the west. She didn’t think Hodges had ever ventured into the younger girls’ rooms, but couldn’t be sure.

Uncertain if she could sleep, she stopped at the private bedroom on the second floor. It had been reserved for the caretaker, who had seen after the girls and made certain they were tucked in at night, their doors locked securely. Elsie stepped inside, the scent of lavender and old lace greeting her. A hand-crocheted blanket covered the iron bed with cross-stitched pillow cases in blue and white. The dust that had been so evident in the house seemed minimal in here, the room clean and tidy. A white rocking chair sat beneath the window, and a full-length mirror occupied the opposite corner, complementing the antiques.

Outside, sleet slashed the roof. She built a small fire to ward off the chill, then looked out the window. Thick woods surrounded the place, trees bending and swaying with the force of the wind. The Smoky Mountains rose toward the sky like a fortress that offered a hiding place from the rest of the town.

The way Hodges had wanted it.

Back then, it had frightened her to be so far away from everyone else. Now, she sought comfort in the solitude. Keeping herself at a distance from others had saved her life in the past.

A shadow moved outside, and she tensed, studying the darkness. Was someone out in the woods watching her, or had it only been her imagination? The roar of an animal rent the air. What if the werecats were real?

No, she did not believe in the supernatural. The monsters she saw were human.

A noise inside startled her. Birds flapping in the attic? Or maybe raccoons or another trapped animal?

Seconds later, the sound of a baby crying trilled through the hollow walls. Elsie covered her ears. The sound would never cease. She heard it every night as she tried to fall asleep.

She’d run from this place to escape it, but she had never been able to. And she never would.

Because the baby had been hers. And it was lost forever.

DEKE STUDIED the orphanage, surprised that Elsie had gone inside and hadn’t returned to her car. Age and weather had grayed the exterior while cobwebs and years of fallen leaves and tree branches overflowed the gutters. Weeds had overtaken the yard, the grass brittle from the winter, the windows dark and coated in layers of dirt and grime. It was as dark as Hades inside.

He couldn’t imagine Elsie spending the night in the spooky place, but the fact that she had gone inside proved she wasn’t as skittish as he’d first thought. Or maybe she assumed this was one place no one would ever look for her.

He considered approaching her again, but decided to wait until morning. Let her think she’d escaped him. Let her get some rest. Meanwhile, he’d do a little research on Wildcat Manor.

Then he’d catch her off guard, early in the morning before she had a chance to leave again.

Still, he watched the house until after midnight, when it grew quiet and the small light flickered off. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he walked down the graveled drive back to his Range Rover, climbed in and followed the dirt road to the main highway. A battered sign pointed left, guiding him to the small town of Wildcat. He’d heard the South and Smoky Mountains were filled with spooky old legends. Would he find ghost stories in Wildcat?

Blinking to see through the fog, he circled the square until he found a small ten-room motel called Mountain Man’s Lodge. He grimaced at the dilapidated concrete building. There was probably a cozy bed-and-breakfast the tourists used, but he didn’t need frills, only answers. This truck-stop dive backed up to the woods, which beckoned him to visit for his nightly ritual.

Inside, an old-timer with gray hair, overalls and a hearing aid lifted his frail hand in a wave. “I’m Homer. You ain’t from around these parts, are you?”

He shook his head no. “I need a room for tonight.”

“Just passin’ through?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.”

Homer handed him a key to room nine, then looked him up and down. “You never been to Wildcat before?”

“No. What can you tell me about the town?”

The old man huffed. “Don’t many people that come through here ever come back.” A chortle rumbled from his thin chest. “Fact is, some of ’em never leave, either.”