Free Ghost on Black Mountain by Ann Hite

hair!”
    “Stop talking like that. You’re scaring me.”
    She looked past me and her eyes got big. “I can’t, ma’am.” She looked back at the hair. “Lordy.”
    “You’re being silly.” I touched the piece of string tied around the lock.
    “He cut it.” She looked around me and then at me. “He cut it for fun.” She shook her head. “I gotta go and I ain’t coming back here no matter how much I like you.” And she was gone. I heard the kitchen door slam.
    I stood there holding the hair, wondering what in the world Shelly saw that scared her so bad.

Fifteen

J anuary closed in around me like a pack of hungry wolves cornering a lost traveler. No matter how much wood I threw on the fire, I couldn’t stay warm. I took to sleeping on the red velvet sofa by the fireplace in the front room. I’d gotten good at chopping wood. Jack tried to help me, but I wouldn’t let him. I was driven to take care of me. He came by but never stayed. Sometimes I caught him watching me with his intense green eyes. It was those times that I thought I might ask him to take me to Mama, but something held me back, a hand clenched around some happily-ever-after notion that all things come out smelling fresh and clean. Each day I breathed in the air and fed myself. I went through the motions, but my heart was empty. The days turned into nights and then back into days. Even the spooks didn’t show their faces. I was alone. My mind was old and turning inside out with the crazies. Widow Marks lived next door to me and Mama ever since I could remember and as far as I knew she never left her yard. Many times I saw her sitting on her front porch talking to empty air. I was starting to understand why.
    One morning I woke up thinking about a garden me and Mama planted the spring after Daddy died. It was full of every kind of flower, and somehow watching them grow gave me reason to hope. That’s what a garden could do. I itched to feel the loose dirt in my fingers. I sat up on the sofa, looked outside, and thought I might throw myself off the roof if I had to see snow for another day. The sun was shining, trying to fool me into believing it was warm. I decided to get back to what me and Shelly had been doing before she threw a fit and ran out on me. I went to the attic.
    The door creaked like a ghost story. Cobwebs hung in fluffy velvet clusters. It was warmer than I thought it would be up there, probably because of the sun beating on the tin roof. Piles of stuff filled the space, but I figured I’d start at the back this time and give that necklace and hair all the room they needed. I made my way to a tiny window in the corner. The trunk was older than me. I brushed off layers of dust and found the initials “AP.” The latch wasn’t made for keeping people out. Inside were books with flowers pressed between brittle pages, filled with old photographs of a woman who looked like Hobbs’s mama when she was young. In one she wore a fancy dress with a big floppy hat. My favorite was the one where she held a small boy. I enjoyed seeing Hobbs’s expression lit up in a smile. I opened one of the small books with lined paper—there were several—and found a willowy handwriting.
May 3, 1913
I gave birth to my first child today. We will name him Hobbs. Henry James thinks I’ve lost my mind, but he’s supposed to be Hobbs. I dreamed the name two weeks ago. Who am I to argue with a dream of this nature? I’ve counted all his fingers and toes. He’s perfect in every way.
    I flipped through the book, reading about never getting sleep. Hobbs was of a colicky nature. I opened another of her diaries.
December 25, 1923
I don’t understand a thing about my husband. He refuses to allow Mother to send Christmas gifts for the children. I know he has every right not to care for her, but she is my mother. I love her. I hate his pride. I hate this mountain. I wish I had the courage to take Hobbs and AzLeigh home, but what kind of life would they lead in