Neighborhood Watch Page 7

  Even though he appeared older than his website photo, the man’s bow tie and thick glasses were a dead giveaway. Dr. Henry Edgington himself dropped by to make a house call.

  “Dr. Edgington.”

  “So, you do remember me?” Edgington’s eyes lit up with pride.

  “Of course. What can I do for you? I see you’re, ah, admiring my tree.”

  His cheeks and scalp flushed. Dragging his hand across his comb-over, Edgington looked at the ground like a bashful schoolboy caught staring at a cheerleader. “Yes, um, yes I was.” He cleared his throat with a fist cupped to his mouth. Twice. “I certainly hope you don’t mind my, ah, coming over unannounced, but your call the other day made me curious.”

  “Okay.” Derek leaned against the tree, defenses up. Edgington strained to look behind Derek at the dog barking behind the front door, apparently worried for the tree’s safety. “What’re you curious about?”

  “I know you said you weren’t interested in selling, but I wondered if you’ve reconsidered.”

  “The house is not for sale.”

  “I’ll give you a very good offer, Mr. Winton.”

  “I repeat; it’s not for sale. We’re not moving.”

  Patch changed his ferocious vigil to the bay window, unleashing scrabbling paws against the glass. Edgington took a quick step backward, nearly stumbled. “Um. Quite a dog you have there.”

  “Yes, he is.” Derek smiled, relishing Edgington’s fear. Mean, sure, but Derek had had enough of uninvited intruders. “Dr. Edgington, why do you want to buy the house? Why this house? There’re tons of houses for sale in this neighborhood. And in this economy, at good prices.”

  “That’s all true, Mr. Winton…but…could I have a few moments of your time?”

  Derek nearly responded he had already taken more than a few moments. Still, his curiosity baited him. The man might have useful information about the house. “Okay, fine. Come in.”

  At the top of the stoop, Patch banged against the storm door with his claws.

  Edgington retreated down the stairs. “Could I trouble you to put the dog away? Sorry, I’m a cat man, myself.”

  “All right. Hang on a minute.” After putting Patch in the backyard, Derek returned to the front door. Edgington stood with his chin to the sky, gawping over the house exterior, eyes full of wonder. “All clear.”

  Derek directed Edgington to the sofa by the bay window. “Talk. It’s your dime.”

  “Ah, yes, quite a delightful but outdated statement. You see—”

  Derek sighed impatiently.

  “Mr. Winton, the other day I told you your house is quite extraordinary. But it’s really the land—the ground—it’s on. Especially your wonderful oak tree.” He twisted on the sofa to admire the object of his passion.

  “Yeah, so you said. What aren’t you telling me, Doctor?” He asked it on a whim, but Derek only trusted his instincts these days, reality proving to be so fickle.

  “Well. I told you your tree is, ah, thought to be a tree of fertility. Did you know the farmer who lived here years ago had fourteen children?” His eyelids fluttered behind his thick glasses as if they couldn’t keep up with his mind. “Fourteen children!”

  “Dr. Edgington, I don’t think it was uncommon for farm families—particularly back in the day—to have so many children. They practically bred ‘em to be farm hands.”

  “Yes, but rumor has it the farmer’s wife was infertile in the early years of their marriage.”

  “Huh. Sounds like she made up for it later. A rumor?”

  “Well, yes.” He took off his glasses, blew on them and wiped them clean. “That’s all we have to go on. Records back then not being what they are today, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And before the farmer built his farm, the land was a Native American reservation. Lakota tribe. Rumor…well, um, stories are the Lakota worshipped the tree. They’d offer sacrifices to the tree in exchange for their wives becoming impregnated. From all indications, it worked. Their people thrived until…well, you know what happened to them.”

  “Yeah, I think I remember reading about their plight. Dr. Edgington, what kind of sacrifices?”

  “Animals and…” He sat back, attempting to drape a tightly restricted arm over the back of the sofa. Realizing the futility of it, he gave up and rested his hands in his lap. “I doubt the truth of this, but there’re even folktales told of human sacrifices. Native Americans from other tribes.”

  “What about a dead squirrel?”

  Edgington switched his eyes back and forth, confused. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Would it be a valid sacrifice?”

  “I suppose it could, but…”

  “Why is the tree supposed to be a tree of fertility? Surely your research…or rumors…explain the background?”

  Edgington grinned, looking happy to finally have an interested student. Derek imagined he didn’t find too many of those. “That’s where things get a little complicated, Mr. Winton. There are many contrasting legends and folklore regarding the tree. But the one that seems most commonplace regards the Mica Coyote. Are you familiar with the Coyote, Mr. Winton?”

  “Only coyote I know is the one that chases the roadrunner.”

  “Yes, well. The Mica Coyote is a trickster deity of the Lakota people. A shifter, able to take the form of a human or a coyote. There’s a Lakota ritual called Ta Tanka Lowanpi. In this ritual, young females gather their first menstrual blood, wrap it, and place it in a hallowed tree, so the tree’s spirit can aid in their fertility. The Mica Coyote spent a good portion of his time attempting to steal these bundles, enabling him to control the girls. They’d be his puppets on a string, more or less.”

  “Huh.”

  “Exactly. Now, one tale has it that Okaga, a fertility spirit comprised of southern winds, took offense to Mica Coyote’s actions. By the sheer force of Okaga’s wind, he blew Coyote into the ground, burying him there. The oak tree sprung from his…ah, seed.” Edgington rocked on the sofa with laughter, pleased at his joke. “Um, anyway. He’s supposed to be there still, struggling to unearth himself.”

  “That’s interesting. But I don’t see the relevance.”

  “This land is said to be full of spirits. Fertility spirits both good and bad.”

  “Do you really believe that, Doctor?”

  “Well, as a scholar—” He shot an embarrassed look at Derek. “All right, in all fairness, I’m not a true scholar per se. But I’ve studied the land and history. Let’s just say I believe parts of it. There’s evidence that the tree—maybe the land—has something to do with the high birthrate of all residents who’ve lived here. In the past, I mean. Lately, it seems the neighborhood’s birthrate’s going down. But in the past? Absolutely. The numbers don’t lie, Mr. Winton.”

  “Guess not.”

  “There’s some sort of power in the land here. Call it spiritual, supernatural, a strange anomaly, whatever. Some people think it’s good; others have called it the devil’s playground. Either way, there’s more to the story. The farmer I told you about? Harold Cabbott? He met an unfortunate end, sad to say. Now, county records not being all that accurate back then, reports vary. But it’s said his wife snuck up behind him at his kitchen table.” Edgington peered into the dining room as if looking for someone. “I believe it happened right about there. Could be wrong. But even though your home replaced the Cabbott farmhouse, I imagine your dining areas were roughly in the same area.” With a great deal of drama, he pointed an authoritative finger toward the room. “He was sitting down to breakfast, and she buried an axe in his back several times. Some say she got away with it, reported it as a farming accident. Back then, I imagine it wasn’t too hard to get away with murder.”

  A macabre chuckle slipped out of Derek. “I imagine she was tired of churning out children. Maybe she was one of the first women’s libbers.”

  Edgington’s demeanor turned dour, an almost offended look. “Regardless, Mr. Winton
, there’ve been tales of Cabbott’s ghost wandering the land. And…other such stories. It’s a land blessed with the goodness of fertility. And tainted with supernatural evil.” Derek wondered if Cabbott and Katherine’s husband, Herbert, got together at midnight, chatting about the good ol’ days.

  “Is that why you’re so interested in buying my house, Dr. Edgington? Because of the historical background? And the folklore? Or because of the potential of fertility?”

  Edgington inhaled and rolled back his thin shoulders. “I suppose you could say that’s some of it.” Obviously, Derek hit a nerve. Edgington smiled innocently, yet his eyes displayed a suggestion of lust. Derek didn’t begrudge him that. Between marriages, Derek had spent quite a few lonely nights, wondering if he’d ever find that special someone.

  “So you want to kick-start your love life with the tree of fertility?”

  “Ahem. It’s an interesting way of putting it. I suppose I’m just hedging my bets.”

  “Even if the house is haunted?” Derek tossed that out there to gauge Edgington’s reaction. The nonchalant manner in which Edgington accepted this laughable notion surprised Derek.

  “Especially if the house is haunted.” He fished into his jacket pocket and handed Derek a dog-eared business card. Dr. Henry Edgington, Paranormal Investigator. “I’ve been quite successful at debunking other paranormal activities.”

  “Hm. How many’ve you debunked?”

  “Well, all of them.” His smile slipped away like yesterday’s weather. “But I’m always interested in true paranormal activities. This is the other reason for my visit. You simply must let me investigate your home. There’ve been too many tales for there not to be some substantiation in truth.”

  Derek scratched his day-old stubble with the card. “What would that entail?”

  “I’d need to spend the night. Set up some equipment. You’ll never know I’m here.”

  Derek unbelievably—stupidly?—weighed the offer. Something about this strange man’s earnestness he believed, but conflict with Toni, he didn’t need. Why give her any more reason to worry about his mental health? But what if Edgington’s findings led to some clue about what’s happening to his neighborhood? “Okay,” he finally said, “but let me tell my wife first.”

  * * * *

  “Hey, honey, how was your day?”

  “Fine.” Derek could tell her day had been anything but fine by her clipped comment. “Why is Patch in the backyard barking? And whose car is that out front?”

  “Um, Ton, there’s something I need to tell you.” Toni brushed by him. She stopped in her tracks, Derek nearly bumping into her back, when she saw the man sitting at the dining room table.

  Edgington rubbed his hands on his slacks and stood. “Ah, hello, Mrs. Winton, I’m—”

  “Ms. Willett.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name’s Ms. Willett, not Mrs. Winton.”

  “Oh, I see. I thought you and, ah, Mr. Winton were married and—”

  “We are.” She turned to Derek and raised her eyebrows, a look he had loved before but not now.

  “Honey, this is Dr. Henry Edgington with the Barton Historical Society. He—”

  “Can I see you a moment, Derek?” Before he could respond, she whirled and headed upstairs.

  Derek closed the door behind him. “Okay, I tried to call you at work, but you’d already left, and I know you hate me to bother you and—”

  “Just cut to the chase.”

  “I told him he could do some research on our house. I know I should’ve checked with you, but—”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  Time to approach it from a different angle. “Well, it’s funny…” Although Toni obviously didn’t see anything amusing about the situation. “He’s got some crazy idea the house is, well, haunted or something. For a laugh, I told him he could set up—”

  “Unbelievable.” She shook her head, closed her eyes for an agonizingly long moment, then opened the bedroom door. “Whatever. You go play with your new friend. I’m going out to dinner.”

  “Toni, wait!” He ran to catch up with her. The front door slammed shut in his face.

  “Did it go well with your wife, Mr. Winton?” called out Dr. Edgington.

  * * * *

  Edgington unloaded equipment from the trunk of his car, including several tripods, antiquated VHS cameras, and a hard hat complete with light attached. He pottered around in the basement, various clunks and clanks reaching up to Derek on the first floor.

  At nine p.m., Derek checked on him. He found him sitting in a folding chair at the foot of the basement steps. His hat strapped around his head, he looked like a nervous miner in over his head.

  “So you’re camping out in the basement?”

  “Yes. This is where Wilma Spencer died, isn’t it?”

  Derek nodded.

  “I’m also getting some readings down here. Lots of unexplained cold drafts.”

  “Dr. Edgington, it’s a cold, stone basement. It’s always drafty down here.”

  “I think I’m set.” A camera mounted on a tripod hovered over Edgington, making him appear even smaller. A black box with counters and knobs rested in his lap like an odd packed lunch. Dr. Edgington sat ready and waiting for school to begin.

  “Okay, Dr. Edgington. Please try and keep it down. My wife likes her sleep and has to get up early.”

  “Understood, Mr. Winton. And thank you again for this opportunity.”

  “No problem. Hope you see what you want to see.”

  The front door opened and closed. Derek heard Toni trudging upstairs.

  “Night, Dr. Edgington.”

  Derek trotted halfway up the stairs before Edgington responded. “Good night, Mr. Winton.”

  Taking a deep breath, not knowing what to expect, Derek opened the bedroom door. Toni was already in bed. “Hey, honey. How was your night out?”

  “Fine.” Short and terse; never a good sign.

  “Where’d you eat?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Um. In the basement.”

  “And why are you doing this, again?”

  Derek crossed the room to sit next to her. “I don’t know, honey. I called him about the house’s history. One thing led to another and—”

  “And you’re having the house investigated for ghosts.”

  “You put it that way, it does sound kinda stupid, doesn’t it?”

  “Ya’ think?”

  “Maybe I’m just bored. That’s all. I thought it’d be…fun?”

  Weakening, a smile fought its way to her lips. “You know most men—when they go through a mid-life crisis, or call it what you want—have an affair. Or buy a sports car.”

  “You want me to go trade the funny man in the basement for a sports car?”

  “Might make more sense.”

  “Cool! Can I borrow the credit card?”

  “Seriously, after this—whatever it is—is over tonight, can things please get back to normal? I like normal.”

  “Yes, I promise. Normal will be our lifestyle.”

  Derek didn’t know it then, but they would never experience “normal” again.

  * * * *

  Something woke Derek at three fifteen a.m. He blinked into the darkness. From far away, murmurs sounded from the basement, carried through the air ducts. Not exactly murmurs. Whimpers.

  Patch stirred at the foot of the bed. By the time Derek crawled out of bed, Patch had his nose to the door, growling. The blankets rustled, a hand smacked onto the mattress. Toni turned over and fell back asleep, oblivious to the strange sounds.

  Carefully nudging Patch out of the way, Derek climbed down the stairs. The whimpering grew. Nothing he could discern clearly but definitely louder. A man’s voice, Dr. Edgington’s. But he heard another voice. A woman’s, maybe? A conversation. Edgington responding softly to the woman’s even tone.

  Derek reached the kitchen. A scream bellowed from below, muffled by the closed door. Footfalls
bounded up the steps. The door crashed open, missing Derek’s extended hand by inches. Edgington knocked into Derek, never slowing. He raced for the front door, crying, muttering to himself. Derek rushed to the front door just in time to see Edgington’s car careening down the street, leaving black streaks on the road and darker shrieks in the night.

  Derek had to know. He pulled open the basement door and flicked on the light. Still as death, nothing seemed out of place, nothing moving in the basement. Like the first time he stepped foot inside the house, it reminded him of the life that had been lived and lost there.

  * * * *

  Toni mercifully slept through the night’s hysterics. After Derek reassured her that Edgington had given up and gone home, she left for work.

  Derek called Edgington through the day, leaving messages that he’d left his equipment behind.

  In the late afternoon, on his seventh attempt, an elderly woman answered.

  Dr. Edgington’s mother informed Derek her son had left town late the night before.

  For good.

  * * * *

  Derek exhumed the extinct VCR from the back closet and hooked it up to the television. He shoved the tape Edgington had first made upstairs into the player and settled in, his hand on the remote control.

  The image showed his dining room table looming sickly green, filtered through some sort of night-vision feature. After ten minutes of watching the same inanimate object at the same angle, he grew bored and hit fast forward. Still nothing. But something had scared Edgington. He took a break to go water the vegetable garden, leaving the tape to roll on. When he returned, the angle had changed. Before, the camera had been firmly glued to the table. Now the view was through the window into the backyard. Sitting down, he rewound to the point where it had changed. A shadow fell across the table. Something covered the lens. Dark shadows of fingers? The image jiggled, became still again. Maybe Edgington had adjusted it. But wouldn’t he have been visible on the tape? Maybe not, if he had been behind the camera.

  Next, Derek put in the basement tape. Amused, he turned up the volume as Edgington recited time, place, and repeated the house’s history he’d already expounded upon. The camera filmed over his shoulder, his hands animatedly flapping about. Two hours in, Edgington quieted, hands at rest in his lap. A long chesty rattle sounded, followed by a phlegmy exhalation. Derek supposed even ghost hunters need sleep at times. Time to fast forward again.