Chapter 5

I hear the voices before I see them, particularly Winnie insisting someone

take me to a hospital. I suddenly remember the line of doctors at the

Cajundome in Lafayette, checking vital signs, poking me as they looked for

infections and god knew what, probing me with needles to prevent new ones.

After two days on a roof you’d have thought that they would have let me rest,

showed me to a comfy bed and a hot meal, but we stood in line for two hours

filling out forms and getting poked.

I bolt upright and practically shout, “I’m fine.”

Winnie rushes over and takes me in from head to foot like a mom. I now

realize I’m lying on a couch in the cave office. How did I get here?

“How do you feel?” Winnie asks.

“Like running a marathon,” I answer weakly.

A sliver of a smile emerges on its own but Winnie’s in mom mode,

touching my head for fever, checking out the back of my head where

someone has placed a gauze.

“You hit the back of your head,” Winnie tells me. “But you must have bit

the inside of your cheek when you fell because there was blood on your

face.”

I explore the area around my mouth, hoping it’s not that bad, but it feels

soft and clean. Bless her heart, that Winnie. She cleaned me up.

“What happened to the girl?”

Everyone stops for a moment, gazing at me like they’re afraid I might

have dislodged something inside my brain. It dawns on me that the schoolgirl

might have been my imagination again — or worse. And now everyone is

concerned I might have lost my mind.

“What girl?” Charlene asks from behind Winnie.

I lean over and spot Charlene, ashen face, hands clutched tightly in front

of her, and gather that she’s worried I will sue them, put them out of business

before they have time to adequately start their new adventure.

Or maybe she knows something.

Before I have time to inquire, a paramedic arrives at my side, carrying all

sorts of torture. It’s more gauze, antiseptic and what looks like some

Acetaminophen but there’s a big needle in the pile.

“I’m fine,” I reiterate, never taking my eyes off that needle.

He follows my gaze and to his credit reads my mind instantly. “When

was the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

I can’t help but laugh at this. Ten a.m. Wednesday, September 1, 2005.

“Within the last few months,” I answer.

“Are you sure?” He looks at me sternly. Must be a dad. Do they go to

school for this or something? “Because most people can’t remember. And it’s

important that you have one.”

I smile like a good student. “Trust me. It was within six months.”

He relaxes and starts bandaging me up and it’s here that I catch his name

on his right ****** pocket. Peter Parker. Really? I start to giggle which turns

into a snort and then suddenly gag on the blood that must have been waiting

inside my throat. It tastes nasty but Winnie and Charlene are looking at me

with concern so I don’t want to spit it out and have them faint at my feet. I

swallow the nastiness and grimace, which makes Spiderman suddenly

concerned.

Wow, blue eyes, I think as he turns his attention away from my wound

and into my face. Maybe I’m not dead to men as I thought. Reece, my

gorgeous Cajun landlord, comes to mind and that childish grin keeps on

keeping on.

“You okay?” he asks and I nod like a teenager.

“Is your name really Peter Parker?” I am a teenager.

He gives me a smile he must bestow upon half the population who

routinely ask that question, the one that says “Yes it’s my name and I know, I

know” but what he’s really thinking is “Get over it, why don’t you.”

“It’s a family name,” he says politely, and I suddenly feel stupid. People

in glass houses, you know? Viola Valentine is no walk in the park.

“My last name is Valentine,” I tell him, hoping this will bond us. “I got a

lot of grief in school, especially because I never had a date.”

“I doubt that.”

He’s not flirting with me — believe me I know because I’ve had a

lifetime of people not flirting with me — but it’s sweet of him to say. I smile

politely, kicking myself for laughing at his name. He’s cute, but I now realize

as I gaze into a head full of thick black hair and a face devoid of life’s harsh

lessons that he’s about five years younger than me.

“She needs to go to the ER,” Winnie says from somewhere, bringing me

back to the pounding in my head. Amazing how blue eyes and a cute ***

(Okay, he turned at one point and I looked; I’m not dead, thank you Jesus!)

can take your mind off the pain. But it’s there, dull and consistent, and I’m

ready for drugs, not a hospital. A strong martini might do the trick.

“I’m not going to the hospital,” I tell Winnie.

“You blacked out,” she insists. “Poor Bud and Joe had to carry you up the

hill unconscious. Viola, it could be something worse.”

I stand up to test my sea legs and find it’s a throbbing headache but

nothing else. I teeter a bit, but I’m fine. Instinctively, I know there is nothing

worse going on in my head. Well, physically that is.

“Look,” I proclaim to everyone in the small room that appears to be the

office off the gift shop. “I’m fine.”

Winnie places hands firmly on her tiny waist and gives me a stare. For a

petite woman, she packs a force. “You were talking about some girl down

there.”

At this point, Spiderman gives me a questioning look and starts to ask,

but Charlene jumps in the mix, gently pushing Winnie and Peter out of the

room. “Let me talk to Viola for a minute, please you all?”

“I need to check her blood pressure,” Peter insists and Winnie starts

mentioning hospital again, but Charlene gently nudges them toward the door,

convincing them in her sweet Southern accent that she will only be a

moment.

“A little girl talk, that’s all,” she concludes as Winnie and Peter slide into

the gift shop and Charlene closes the door.

I don’t even give her time to speak. “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

She pauses, which makes me worry I may be wrong and I’m indeed

insane from post traumatic stress. But Charlene nods and I find myself

exhaling.

“What in the world…?”

Charlene looks around even though we’re alone. She pulls up the stool

Peter was using and scoots up close. I can sense she doesn’t know what to

say or how to explain this, pulling her hands through her hair nervously and

causing a bit of it to stand up straight on top. I want to smooth it down, but

she suddenly finds her voice.

“I’ve heard screaming in there. In fact, pretty much every time I go past

that entrance.”

“It’s where the spring is, isn’t it?”

Charlene nods.

“Have you ever been down there?”

I can tell she has and it was an experience she regrets. I sympathize.

“Once, I took a strong lantern and ventured down about a quarter mile. I

found the spring, which is quite lovely and pure. I took some water in a jug to

have it tested and headed home. And that’s when I saw her.”

I sit up eagerly, which makes my head pound but I don’t care. These are

the best words I’ve heard someone speak in days. If they were food, I would

be devouring them like dessert.

“I can’t believe you saw her,” I manage without chocking up. “I can’t tell

you how much that means to me.”

“You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I lean back in my chair and exhale again, wishing I had taken that Tylenol

before Peter was rushed out the room.

“Was she a schoolgirl? Dressed in schoolgirl clothes?”

Charlene nods. “With a gash across her forehead, much like yours only in

the front.”

“She acted like she didn’t know she was dead. Unless, of course, she’s a

live girl and lives down there.”

Charlene smiles at this and I relax slightly. I’m amazed to find my

muscles taunt and achy.

“I shone my light at her and she screamed,” Charlene explains. “I was

like you, frightened and started backing up the trail to get away. But she

disappeared as fast as she came.”

“You saw her vanish?” Oh please, oh please. I so want this crazy girl to

be a typical apparition so there’s no question I haven’t lost my mind.

“Poof!” Charlene says with animation.

My shoulders drop with relief and my head even feels better. Charlene

isn’t as relieved as I am. She’s obviously disturbed to find a dead schoolgirl

in her cave.

“Okay, so we both saw a ghost but who is she?” Charlene asks.

I think back on Uncle Jake and Aunt Mimi and their cave in Alabama and

all the soft, comforting hands reaching out to me in the dark. My logical

journalist brain wants to dissect all this, providing hard facts to explain the

phenomenon but that won’t do. There are no hard facts to prove the deceased

walk the earth. Instead, I’m convinced the answers lie in the emotions,

because as clearly as I saw the blond schoolgirl holding her head as blood

trickled through her fingers, I knew she was dazed and unaware of her death.

Besides, I’m a fan of the ghost reality shows on TV and swear that ghosts

have unfinished business. Or they are confused as to why they died,

somehow missed the bus to the otherworld.

“I think she doesn’t know she’s dead,” I deduce. “She could have been

here on a field trip with her school, got lost, hit her head and died in there and

no one was able to find her.”

Charlene nods in agreement. “That would make sense. And no one

thought to go down that path because she might have done what you did,

leave the group without anyone noticing.”

I feel guilty, like a naughty child. “Sorry.”

Charlene tilts her head and smiles. “No, don’t be. I find Civil War shit

boring too.”

This makes us both laugh, which cuts the tension. But in a flash I

remember something.

“I believe she was murdered.”

The blood leaves Charlene’s face and I wonder if she owns a psychic

nature as well, for she understands me, maybe hoped for the best but silently

knew the worst. “I think so, too.”

I sit up more, pounding now back full force and I grimace.

“Shall I get Peter?” Charlene asks.

“Not yet, because you might want to call the police and have them search

the cave for bones and I want to give you one last thought.”

Charlene leans in closer, as if the walls have ears.

“The last thing I remember before I blacked out was blood in her lap.”

Charlene shudders as if goosebumps have taken over her body, an intense

skittering over her skin. Suddenly, I feel them too and shiver as well.

The door opens and Peter sticks his head inside, which makes Charlene

rise and ask for a blanket. “I think our patient is a bit cold,” she tells him.

Peter leaves to retrieve one from the EMT van but Winnie is Johnny on

the spot, entering the room and gazing around to see what she might have

missed. “What’s going on?”

Charlene doesn’t know what to say, to explain how our little tête-a-tête

involved ghosts. I stand and pretend I’m feeling like a million dollars,

heading for the door and hopefully a hot bath at the hotel in Eureka Springs.

“We were discussing how that path I stumbled upon was not for public

use and how Charlene and Bud are putting up barriers this week to keep

people out. I assured her I wasn’t going to write about my misbehavior.”

Winnie senses I am lying — that mother thing again — but she nods.

“You really need to do something about that,” she tells Charlene.

“Don’t be hard on her,” I add. “It was all my fault. I never stayed in line

in school and I never did what I was told.”

Winnie gives me a look that says I know something more is happening

here. As I pass her on the way out the door, she whispers, “You’re going to

tell me everything in the van.”

I nod, which makes me wince and I see her eyes widen in my peripheral

vision. “Stop, Mom. I’m fine. Really. It’s just a headache.”

“You should go to the hospital,” she says to me as she takes my elbow

and helps me outside.

“No way, no how,” I whisper back. “I’m a Katrina survivor, remember?

Bad memories.”

She lets it rest and I’m thankful for that. Besides, I’m sure it’s just a bad

bump to the head and that martini is sounding better and better. If I’m lucky,

my hotel room will have an oversized bath with some signature bath products

and I can sip my alcohol and slip into heaven.

As I enter the gift shop I realize my worries about the rest of the group

being bored and anxious to get out of there was unfounded. They have been

happily exploring the woods and lake, I’m told, or buying stuff in the gift

shop.

It’s then that I remember my angelite stone and slip my hand within my

pocket. The cool stone remains and for a second I remember the girl’s face,

bloody and frightful but also mad as hell. I pull my hand out of the pocket

and the image vanishes, much like it did for Charlene.

“Why now?” I wonder. “What the hell?”

I feel a pinch at my elbow. Winnie’s giving me that look again. “Why

what?”

Crap, I said it out loud. “Why on my first trip did I have to do something

stupid and get hurt?” I say with the best innocent look I can summon. She

doesn’t buy it and I pull away from her grasp, looking instead for Charlene, a

friendly face who doesn’t think I’ve gone dancing with the fairies.

As I expected, Charlene is right behind me, embraces me tightly and

whispers in my ear. “I’m so sorry.”

I enjoy the warm feel of her arms about me, wondering how long it’s

been since I’ve been hugged. “Now how would you know the cave was

haunted?” I whisper back.

She still looks scared, as if the journalists visiting her this morning

promising to put her on the tourism radar have turned into 60 Minutes.

“Don’t worry,” I assure her. “The police may straighten this out.”

Bud joins us, giving me a big hug and I wish I could stay in this sweet

little paradise, the crazy dead schoolgirl notwithstanding. Alicia also looks

worried, so I figure I should make my speech now.

“It was all my fault,” I tell the others, although Winnie frowns, arms

folded tight across her chest. “I left the group and started playing Indiana

Jones and went down this really dangerous trail. Believe me, if anyone

remains on the trail they are perfectly safe. I’m just a sucker for adventure.”

The Moseleys begin a long litany about how they are working hard to

bring the cave up to code and how that area is never open when tourists are

here, but we were a small group and they didn’t think we would go exploring

(Charlene gives me a guilty look for saying that but heck, it’s true). Finally,

Stephanie holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“We’re not going to write about this,” she says which makes both Bud

and Charlene exhale, a bit too loudly I might add. “I wasn’t planning on

including your attraction until you had it fully functional, since my newsletter

caters mostly to families.”

“This was a sneak peak,” Alicia interjects and I’m amazed to find her

piping in.

“A beautiful place,” Joe adds. “It’s going to be just lovely when you have

it done. Why don’t you let us know when it’s finished and we’ll come back

for a visit.”

Bud looks like he’s won the lottery. “That would be fantastic. We can do

that. And we’ll put you up anywhere you like.”

I give Charlene one last look and we silently speak volumes across the

driveway. “Let me know what happens,” I say and she nods.

We all pile into the van and we’re not halfway down the road when

Winnie starts her twenty questions. Only my head is now reminding me

bigtime that I slammed it against a wall of rock and even my teeth hurt when

I try to speak. I flush down the Tylenol with water Spidey gave me and close

my eyes for a few moments of peace, which freaks Winnie out even more.

Something about staying awake in case you have a concussion.

“Don’t you remember Peter telling you all this?”

I shake my head, and swear there are things rattling around inside. All I

remember is the look on that girl’s face when she found blood on her fingers.

The more I run that movie inside my head, the more I’m convinced she has

no idea she is dead.

Winnie keeps talking, mostly small talk about her son’s football team and

the trouble goats get into while we drive into Eureka Springs. Even Stephanie

and Joe get into the act, rambling on about their last trip to Europe and what

they had to eat on a barge ride through the Loire Valley. I’m about to scream

that I’m in no danger of falling asleep unless they keep talking when we

make the turn off the main highway, heading into town, and I’m anxious to

see what this eclectic mountain town, founded on a series of medicinal

springs, looks like.

A native of flatlands, I’m surprised at the twisting, winding roads that

make up the town, the houses rising above us since placed on a mountainside,

and how quickly we roll through the quaint downtown and are now at the

Crescent Hotel. Perched high above Eureka Springs, the historic Victorian

offers a stunning view of the Ozarks, the Catholic Church below and a giant

Jesus statue in the distance.

“Jesus!” I shout, and the van’s occupants immediately think I’m in pain,

offering all kinds of support. “No, Jesus,” I repeat, pointing off in the

distance. We turn a corner and the hotel is now blocking the view so all they

see is my finger pointing to the giant crescent moon gracing the hotel’s

portico.

“You need to rest,” Winnie insists.

“I need a drink,” I reply.

Alicia parks the van, unloads our bags and relays instruction as we head

toward the historic hotel built in 1886. We have a couple of hours before

drinks with the mayor and then dinner in the Crystal Ballroom. She suggests

a dip in the pool if we’re brave enough since there is a chill in the late spring

air, a walk through the woodsy grounds, maybe a drink in the bar. I’m

envisioning a hot bath, deep shampoo to get the blood out of my scalp and

relaxing in a plush bathrobe. If I can figure out a way to get a martini in this

picture, even better. This fantasy becomes so real I’m beginning to tingle all

over.

Winnie, bless her heart, nabs my hotel key and we head upstairs in a tiny,

slow elevator to the fourth floor. We roll our suitcases to Room 420, where

she leaves me, insisting to come inside and help me unpack, undress, do

whatever, but I wave her away. There’s a bathtub on the other side of this

door, I know it, and quiet time in hot water is all I require. I will quickly take

some photographs of the room to use in my story, then unload my suitcase

since we’ll be in Eureka Springs for three days. Once I’m settled, it’s just me

and that bathtub.

Winnie finally gives in, offers help one last time and makes her way to

her room down the long hall that looks like something out of a Victorian

novel.

Finally, I think, peace and quiet, relaxation time. What I’ve been

dreaming of for weeks. My potting shed, despite allowing me to follow my

bliss, lacks any semblance of a decent bathroom, including a tub. Instead, I’m

forced to take showers in an ancient stall surrounded by old faux marble slabs

and rusty fixtures where brown water emerges before coming clean.

As I use the old key to open the door — the kind they used before those

little plastic things that turn lights from red to green — I hear movement

inside my room. I figure it’s the maid, but my usual calm demeanor escapes

me and I’m ready to push this person out, no matter the condition of the

room.

Instead, the person opens the door for me, and it’s not the maid. My key

still hanging lifeless in my hand, I gaze up to find my goofy ex-husband

staring down, a stupid grin playing his face.

“Hey babe,” he says. “Surprise.”

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