P8: Howling.

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The drone of the petite voice is unfamiliar and he turns to face it.

The ghostly woman is fretful and weary, fiddling with a red-beaded necklace that encircles her wiry throat twice, her wispy spider-leg thin fingers ghoulish pale and jittery. Her lengthy black hair trickles down from a middle part and shines with an oiliness and musky tang his keen nose can corral, dripping over her shoulders like a silken blanket of shadows. His narrow eyes, sun-blinded, browse the bright jewelry for a missing piece, but he can’t tell for certain if it’s a link to the one he’d found earlier on Ashley.

Yes, he answers in the shape of a puzzle piece, hoping that what she will say next fits into his daydreams; everything he needs to know, a lead, a finger pointing in the right direction of a case swiftly dying, collapsing into cold.

She came to my prayer group, scratched up on her face to all hell like, animal or who knows, and uh, she wanted help, thought she was sick, possessed or something. She said we were a cult and left real quick when Jim said it’s not easy to exorcise somebody. We tried finding her after, night’s dangerous here… can be, and the moon was full. It made it easier to see, but we didn’t find her. Drove late as we could, but nothing …just howling in the night. Guess she didn’t show for work either, she says, next day she was dead.

Scratched face.
 Moon full.
 Howling.
 She didn’t show for work.

Where’d you get that necklace? He asks.

Oh, uhhh… lady makes them. Name’s Corrine, she says, Corrine Green.

He grins with recognition.

The dusky man with his worry lines transposing into irremediable creases between his brows excavates a yellow notepad and blue pen from an inner-coat pocket.

What’s your name? He asks.

Cassandra Brown, she says.

Can I see your necklace? He asks, and she lets him. There’s no missing piece.

An hour later, he’s got Cassandra’s necklace in a trouser pocket full of loose tobacco leaves and her phone number on that yellow pad, just in case he needs more answers. He’s knocking at someone else’s decrepit door on a dusty highway.

An elderly woman hardly able to move shambles over toothlessly; he sees her wobbling like a busted toy through the gauzy mint curtains. She arrives out of breath, says nothing when she props open the stuck door that’s ruptured at the hinges.

I need to speak to Corrine, he says.

Corrine gone, the woman oozes, crazy white man at motel take her somewhere, she never come back.

 

TO BE CONTINUED … 


 

[ ‘Girls That Vanish At Night: New Mexico, 1986′ is the continuation of a short horror series told episodically by Samantha Lucero. To catch up on series 1, go here. ]

 


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