Restless Souls, Page 2

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  "Breakfast ready, sweet pea?" Leroy August asked his wife as he walked into the kitchen.

  “In two shakes of a puppy’s tail.” Clara turned away from the stove and stared at him. “You look like something the wind spat back. Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He sat at the table and rubbed his tired eyes.

  For years now, a good night’s sleep eluded him. It was because of the nightmare. Always the same nightmare: A ring of fire encircling a full moon. Magenta clouds dotting a blackened sky. An owl hooting ominously in the distance. Birds speeding through the air, their frightened cries echoing in their wake. A house, shrouded in darkness. The front door creaking open. His heart hammering in his ears as he crossed the threshold into thick, almost soupy air. The room swathed in a reddish haze at the end of the hallway. The something, or maybe someone, he didn’t know for certain, darting chaotically around him. The maniacal laugh piercing the silence.

  It all started when their good friends, Bridget and Vince Simson, moved into the house next door.

  Everything was fine for awhile.

  Then things changed.

  Little things at first, like Bridget and Vince declining their dinner invitations and forgetting their weekly bridge game.

  While Vince seemed oblivious of his wife, Leroy observed her moping about the house, taking no interest in her appearance, the house or flower gardens she once cherished, chanting — the ravings of a lunatic, he'd thought. It was then that Leroy had intervened.

  He wished he'd taken time to think through his course of action. If he'd done things differently, maybe his good friends would be alive today. If. . . Enough. Obsessing and recrimination wouldn't solve anything or change the past.

  “I’m going to get the paper,” Leroy said and stood.

  "Don't dawdle. You won't be wanting to eat cold oatmeal."

  Leroy walked through the hallway and out the front door. He strode across the veranda and down the six wide steps, then along the walkway as quickly as his feeble eighty-year-old legs allowed. Stooping to pick up the daily newspaper, he noticed a car parked in front of the house next door. He squinted against the glare of the early morning sun and recognized Susan Turner behind the wheel. The moment her gaze met his, she stomped on the accelerator and sped away.

  “The woman who bought Vince and Bridget’s house was just here admiring her new home,” he said, re-entering the kitchen.

  Clara placed his breakfast on the table in front of him. “So?”

  He stared at the oatmeal with no appetite. “I think she might be afraid of me.”

  Clara scoffed. “Why would she be afraid of a big teddy bear like you?” She took her seat across from him.

  “Probably because I told her Vince’s house is cursed.”

  She placed a hand against her heart. “Oh dear.”

  “When will I get it through my thick head no one will believe that house is haunted?” He sighed, removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose.

  There was nothing Leroy could do to prevent the new owner from moving in and what was inevitable when she did became almost too much for him to bear. His eyes filled with tears and his heart felt heavy.

  “She probably thinks you’re nutty.” She chuckled.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “No," she said and stared into space as though reliving memories. "Poor Father Murphy, God rest his soul,” she said after several seconds, signing a cross against her heart and kissing her fingertips. “He was so sympathetic, but the more we tried to convince him the house was possessed, the crazier he thought we were. And the ladies from the church . . .” She shook her head. “That was so embarrassing.”

  "It was." Leroy would endure any discomfort if it meant saving Susan Turner and her family the anguish the Simsons had suffered. But he didn't only have himself to consider. Clara wasn't as resilient as she once was and might not recover from another public humiliation.

  “Leroy, you’re not eating. Is something wrong with your oatmeal?”

  He shook his head, unable to speak.

  “You’ve got to stop worrying about it, dear, or you’ll drive yourself crazy. You warned her. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  Clara knew him all too well. He patted her hand. “I know. Maybe one day I’ll believe it. Or maybe I’ll be stricken with Alzheimer’s and won’t remember anything.”

  “That would include not remembering me, you know.”

  The softness of her words and the sadness in her eyes pained him. “Okay, selective Alzheimer’s.”

  “That’s better.”

  He studied her a moment. “You’re worried about the new owner, too. I can hear it in your voice, see the fear for her in your eyes.”

  “I am," she said, taking his fingers in her hand. "Bridget and Vince are in a better place.”

  “I know, but when I think of the torment they went through all those years . . .”

  She squinted and looked into his eyes. “Something else is worrying you. What is it?”

  “How they died. They must have been desperate to resort to suicide.”

  “We don't know that for sure. It could have been an accidental overdose like the coroner ruled.”

  Leroy's eyes filled with tears. “There must have been something more we could have done for them.”

  Clara smoothed a napkin across her lap. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Leroy. We did all we could.” She passed him a bran muffin.

  He looked up from his untouched breakfast and took the muffin from her hand, noticing she wore that disapproving expression on her face that told him she knew what he was up to. He spread his arms wide and feigned innocence.

  “What are your plans for the day?” he asked.

  For many years now they spent their days together. Before he retired he asked her that same question every morning just as she asked him how his day went when he returned home from work. Some habits were just plain hard to break.

  She gave the ceiling her undivided attention, drumming a finger against her chin. “Hmm. I find I’m dusting less, and I don’t mind dirty dishes sitting in the sink anymore. Dust bunnies under the beds don’t bother me. In fact, I think they’re dang cute. And instead of sweeping crumbs from the floor, I try to figure out what their shapes resemble.”

  She could always make him laugh. God, how he loved her.

  “Leroy, it took me most of my eighty years to realize life is meant to be cherished, not endured. Now every night before I fall asleep I wonder if I’ll be sipping tea with Jesus in the morning. When morning comes and I open my eyes and see you next to me, I tell myself today is special because it’s one more day I have to spend with you.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  She dabbed his eyes. “Please don’t worry, dear. You’ll make yourself sick. What would others have done in our shoes? I’m guessing the same as what we did — try to help. There was nothing more we could have done for Bridget and Vince, and there’s nothing we can do for the new owner, either.”

  Leroy nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. If he approached the matter differently and with more circumspection than he had with the Simons, he might be able to save the Turner woman and her children.

  Clara leaned back and smiled. "I have an idea."

  He raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

  "What do you say about us trying to help our new neighbor?"

  "I say that's a dandy idea, sweet pea."

  As God was his witness, Leroy would not fail this time.