Restless Spirits, Part One

FICTION Restless Spirits, Part One Patty Crow HALLIE WAS ON LOAN TO THE TELEPHONE-engineering group in Wartburg, Tennessee, working as a design engineer for a year or more. I love this job—never boring. Always problems to solve,fires to put out, and the occasional difficult person. I don't even mind being the "token Yankee." It's the same work, North or South of the Mason-Dixon line. At least the telephone company gave us a common joke, the unofficial motto, "Dial Tone Is My Life." Don't even miss Denver much. Miss the Rockies, though. She turned off the computer and picked up her briefcase, intending to cram it full of blueprints and papers. No. I am not taking work home this weekend. I need some time out. She grabbed up her purse and slung it over her shoulder, briefcase in her other hand. Hallie changed into sweat pants and shirt after she got home and spent the rest of the evening lounging on the sofa, watching mindless TV. In the morning, she woke up feeling somewhat refreshed, packed a fried egg sandwich, carrots and threw in an almond poppy muffin for good measure. After adding a thermos of coffee and some bottled water, she headed for the door, car keys jingling merrily in her hand. She opened the closet by the front door to grab her jacket and noticed the duffle bag on the shelf. Guess I'd better take it—winter's coming on— might need it. The duffle contained her emergency survival gear, sleeping bag, utility candles, waterproof matches and other necessities. Comfortably settled behind the wheel, she began to drive aimlessly into the mountains. As she drove higher, the air became crisper. No telephone poles, houses, or traffic distracted her from the awesome views and forests. Blue and purple hills tipped with sunlight rose in the distance. The stream close to the road was alive with wood ducks and mallards. J need this— balmfor the soul. Her imagination twisted and turned with the road. The pavement changed to dirt—dusty and lumpy. How many turns have I taken? Left or right? Am I a mite confused or lost? She pulled over, stopped the car, and got out, stretching as she looked around. Well, ifIfollow this path to the top ofthe hill maybe I'llget my bearings. Hallie struggled through overgrown hedges, brambles and trees as she made her way to the top of a hill. When she broke through the 51 brush, she was surprised to see a small cabin, barn and outbuildings in the little valley below. Ramshackle. Looks like an old-timey photo. I have to go see this. She tramped down the hill toward the cabin. Feels like I'm going through a time warp—back a hundred years. Makes my scalp tingle. Densely forested hills surrounded the cabin. No road led here, just a dim track through the undergrowth. The leaves were alive with brilliant autumn colors typical in the rural backcountry of Tennessee. In the distance, pearl and gray storm clouds began to billow. A light wind set free a kaleidoscope of orange, red and rust. Fallen leaves carpeted the damp ground giving off a pungent earthy aroma. She inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of fall. Doesn't look like anyone's lived herefor years. The logs and planks of the cabin had weathered to a shabby soft dove gray. Silver green and drab olive moss covered the sagging roofs. Cracked windowpanes and drunkenly tilted doors beckoned. Shadows from the trees made the cabin look cold and forbidding. Hallie shivered. Wild rosebushes, thick with clusters of bright russet rose hips and a few ragged blossoms, filled what must have been a sizeable vegetable garden. A dilapidated wooden fence that once defined the front yard, now stood broken and forlorn. An overgrown shale path invited visitors to come and stay a while. She spotted about two dozen mold-covered empty quart jars with zinc lids nestled in the weeds. Why are the canning jars scattered around? They aren't even broken. A rope swing hung from an old red oak tree. The tattered ropes and gray splintered seat moved...