Stories that Haunt, Heal, and Hold on 

                                                                                            Chapter 11

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    The wood floor in the living room was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the furnishings as if you were peering into a wooden mirror. The living room itself was decorated beautifully. Porcelain figurines were everywhere, in different shapes and sizes, ranging from three‑inch table‑top pieces to the largest: a four‑foot unicorn in glossy white. Its hooves, mane, and horn were made of pure gold. That one had been custom‑made by master sculptor Rogelio Mensa, who had shipped it from Spain to be displayed exactly where it stood now. The entire house was immaculate, and nothing was out of place. The large chandeliers hanging in the living room and the hall leading into the house were lit with over seventy bulbs each, making the downstairs shine and sparkle as the light glinted off the various collectibles carefully placed around the home.

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    Abby Walnut smiled at the way her home looked. She was proud of it. She had spent years collecting the fine sculptures and knick-knacks she’d come to love after her husband Porter died ten years ago. Porter had left her one and a half million dollars from his insurance policy, making Abby a millionaire overnight. She had traveled the world in those ten years—India, China, England, and Russia twice—but she was happiest at home in Tanner with Carmine.

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    Abby went around turning off the lights for the night. She was ready for bed and had just shut off the television. The Clay Bradshaw Show had been another entertaining episode. She ordered her all‑black American Cocker Spaniel, Carmine, upstairs to get into his bed. She would have to call George Kenner in the morning about the rose bush on the side of the house. They weren’t blooming yet, and he had told her they would be by early spring. That was truly unacceptable. Abby looked over the living room, double‑checking the work her cleaning lady, Selma, had done earlier that afternoon. Selma had done a very good job dusting and polishing the statues and waxing the floor.

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    Abby walked over to one of her favorite statues, one that had been in her family for years. It was an authentic black‑faced lawn jockey she had inherited from her father. Selma had told her on several occasions that she should get rid of it—that it was offensive and racist to have in her home. Abby could never understand what the big fuss was about. It wasn’t as if it were out on the lawn like it had been when she was a child growing up in Kentucky. Abby’s father had told her the statue was a good thing, that having a black‑faced lawn jockey brought the owner good luck and prosperity.

 

    He had told her that dreaming about “a Negro on your lawn” meant riches were coming. Over the last century, it has gone from ornament to status symbol. She had seen them in front of hotels and country clubs she frequented as a young woman. To her, it was a beautiful work of art.

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    How could Selma know what real art was? She was a fool. None of Abby’s friends ever had a problem with it—not even her Black friend Daisy Fuller, whom she’d known for at least three years. Daisy never complained.

   

    “It’s just those uneducated, poor Blacks who don’t understand,”

    Abby said to herself, justifying the statue's continued presence on her living room floor.

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    Abby knew her father had been right. Porter had died and left her all that money. She knew it was because of her good‑luck lawn jockey. How could she ever part with it after something so great had come out of such tragedy? No—there was no way she was getting rid of him just because of an overly sensitive housekeeper. If Selma didn’t like it, there was always the unemployment line.

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    Abby leaned in and examined her father’s gift. She could see dust building up on the outstretched arm of the statue, the one holding the large, looped ring. She followed the dust trail with her eyes up to the shoulder and across the glossy crimson jacket.

 

  “How dare she?” Abby muttered.

Her chubby cheeks glowed red with anger.

 

    Selma had told her that if Abby didn’t get rid of “the disgusting piece of racist crap,”

She would never clean it or go near it again. Selma had kept her word. She hadn’t dusted the four‑foot iron statuette in months.

 

    “I pay that woman a good salary. I make sure she has a job, and this is how she shows her appreciation for all that I do for her? Abby seethed.

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    She ran her index finger along the arm, collecting the dust into a small lump.

 

    “Selma, you are so fired.”

 

She said through gritted teeth, holding the dust ball up to eye level. She wiped her finger on her nightgown and decided she would take care of the problem herself right now. Carmine would have to wait for his bedtime treat. This was far too important to leave until morning.

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    Abby walked out of the living room toward the kitchen. She knew Selma kept extra bottles of cleanser in the cabinet under the sink.

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    The thumps came again.

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    Abby heard them on the wall beside the window in the hall by the front door. She was back—and Abby was not in the mood for that little girl tonight. Abby turned on the light and glanced at the rooster clock on the far kitchen wall. It was a little after eleven. She hadn’t even reached the sink cabinet before the noise started. The thumping grew louder and more annoying by the second.

Abby marched heavily to the front door. The thick frosted security glass prevented her from seeing who was outside, but she knew it was her. Abby had had enough. First, Selma and her insubordination, and now that little Black child throwing rocks at her house again.

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    Abby clicked on the hall light, went to the coat closet, and retrieved her pump‑action, 20‑gauge Winchester.

She hadn’t used it in a long time. Her dearly departed Porter loved duck hunting and had bought the weapon for her to join him on trips to the Finger Lakes in late fall. She had gone with him more than a dozen times but had only ever managed to shoot two ducks.

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    But tonight she wasn’t taking out her shotgun to hunt waterfowl.

Tonight, Abby Walnut was going to blow a child away.

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    Her thick fingers managed to shove two shells into the receiver’s underbelly. She pumped it once, making sure it was ready. She stuffed the box of extra ammo into the pocket of her robe. The barrage of stones clanging against the siding only fueled her fury.

 

    “Sheriff Norton doesn’t want to do his job? Then I’ll do it for him!” she snapped, slamming the closet door.

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    In the few steps from the closet to the front door, Abby had just enough time to realize what she was doing. Shooting a child wasn’t the smartest idea, she thought, as she flung the door open and stepped onto the porch.

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   “Maybe if the little brat just sees the gun and hears a few hard words, she’ll get the message that I mean business,” Abby thought as she scanned the lawn.

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    The begonias hadn’t been peed on by Natalie Warren’s old Labrador today. Abby had thought about shooting that dog a few times, just to put the flea‑bitten thing out of its misery. The girl had to be close. The dimly lit sidewalk glowed faintly under the streetlight, but no one was visible. Abby pointed the shotgun outward, sweeping it right to left and back again.

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    “I know you’re there! Come out where I can see you!” she shouted.

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    A faint giggle drifted from her left. Abby aimed toward the sound. It was too dark to see anything. If someone was there, they were just outside the streetlight’s reach.

 

    “I know you’re out there! I’m going to get you!” she threatened.

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    She felt exposed standing on the porch. Vulnerable. The giggles continued, growing bolder, and Abby’s confidence began to slip. Something shot out of the dark and struck her just above the left eyebrow. Pain exploded across her forehead. Abby clutched the spot, feeling something wet and sticky. She pulled her hand away and saw fresh blood coating her palm.

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    “I’m going to shoot you, you little bastard!” she screamed into the night.

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    More laughter. Louder now. Another rock hit her in the right breast. She staggered back with a grunt as it bounced off her and landed at her feet. She barely had time to glance at it before a larger stone hurtled toward her, slamming into her upper thigh. The loose flesh beneath her nightgown rippled from the impact. Then the barrage began.

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    Rocks came at her in twos and threes, pelting her from every direction. Abby cried out as her body came under attack. Stones that missed her struck the house, some smashing through windows. The porch light shattered above her, raining glass as she crouched, trying to shield herself from the relentless assault.

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    Abby cradled the shotgun close to her chest. She was ready to do it. She stood up as more rocks buzzed past her. Two hit her in the stomach, and another struck her shin, taking the skin off. Abby held the weapon in both hands just as Porter had taught her. She pointed it toward where she thought the girl might be standing on the darkened street. She leaned into the buttstock of the shotgun as the recoil pad pressed into the crook of her meaty shoulder. Abby pulled the trigger.

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    The Winchester thundered as it went off, the noise echoing through the quiet, sleeping neighborhood. Abby’s arms rose from the recoil. The rocks stopped coming.

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    “Got you!” she said with a hefty laugh, the nozzle of the shotgun still expelling white smoke. She lowered the weapon to her side as she tried to see where the girl was in the dark from her porch. Abby didn’t want to step off the porch, but she needed to know if she had hit her.

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    She moved to the top step and was about to descend when a rock came from her right, striking her hard in the upper bicep. Abby grabbed the spot with her blood‑stained left hand. She knew then she had missed, especially as the girl’s laughter began again. The girl stepped into the glow of the streetlight on the sidewalk. Abby could barely make out her features, but something about the child’s face didn’t seem right. It looked distorted, or not fully there — as if under a veil or shadow.

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    Abby stepped back at the sight of the young girl coming into view. She was frightened and somewhat relieved she hadn’t injured the child.

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    What if she had shot the girl?

    What would she tell the police?

    Abby was still angry, but seeing the child unharmed eased her slightly.

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    The girl smiled at her — a knowing smile, as if she were keeping a secret. Her eyes seemed to glow as she stepped backward out of the light, disappearing again into the dark. The uncomfortable wave of fear returned to Abby’s gut.

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    Abby raised the 20‑gauge again and shucked it, loading the next shell. She pointed it just past the last spot she’d seen the girl. She was ready to fire again, and this time she didn’t care if she killed the little monster. Abby had had enough and was ready to do whatever it took to get rid of the little pest once and for all.

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    The rocks came again — not in twos or threes as before, but in tens, maybe twenties. Abby was hit all over. Pain exploded everywhere, and she could do nothing to stop it. The rocks kept coming as if someone were firing an automatic weapon, and the ammunition was stone. All shapes and sizes flew at Abby, ranging from golf‑ball to grapefruit‑sized. They dented the pretty white aluminum siding of her home. Paint chips flew wildly. It was like a horizontal hailstorm doing tremendous damage.

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    Abby let off another shot — this time not on purpose. She had squeezed the trigger after a rock hit her cheek just under her right eye. The pain made her hands clench involuntarily, and her index finger had been on the trigger the whole time. The shotgun went off. The shot didn’t deter the attack. The rocks kept coming. Abby knew she had to get back inside, get shelter, and call the cops. As she turned to retreat, another rock hit her forearm — the one holding the shotgun’s stock. She heard the bone crack even through the noise. Her forearm was surely broken. The shotgun fell to the porch floor.

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    Abby retreated, turning her back to the street and trying to shield her head with her left arm. Some rocks still found their way through, striking the back of her head. She heard them ring in her ears as they bounced off her skull and spine.

Abby made it into the doorway. She turned to close the door when a rock hit her mouth at the corner of her upper lip. She felt the impact and tasted blood instantly. She reeled backward and fell to the hall floor, her large body crashing onto the polished wood.

She wasted no time feeling sorry for herself. Blood poured from her mouth as she rolled onto her stomach and began crawling toward the living room. She left the front door open. She was halfway there when the sound of stones hitting the house suddenly stopped.

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    Abby froze, listening to the silence. She raised her head and looked back toward the open door, but could only see the night sky from her angle.

 

    No girl.

    No movement.

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    Why hadn’t any neighbors heard the shotgun? Or the rocks?

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    It didn’t make sense, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The girl was still out there, and the front door was wide open.

Abby continued crawling into the living room. She reached the phone on the end table beside the white sofa. The break in her arm made dialing 911 difficult, but she pushed through the pain. The dispatcher answered.

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    “911 operator, what is your emergency?” a woman with a southern twang asked.

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    “Youshh hasssh too helppfff meee!” Abby slurred, realizing the tear in her lip made her whistle words.

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    “Is someone there? You’ll have to speak up, honey. I can’t understand what you’re sayin’.”

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The hall lights flickered. Abby watched them blink off, then on again. She knew the next time they went out, they wouldn’t return.

She tried again, speaking faster, more panicked, her words even less comprehensible.

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    “Peshh! Heeepuh meee! Gawwddd! Heeepuh! Peshh heepuh meee!”

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    Blood covered the phone. The lights went out — this time for good. The dispatcher vanished. The line went dead, replaced by a fast busy signal. Abby threw the receiver onto the white sofa, now smeared with blood. She lay on the floor, crying from the pain in her arm. Her mouth still bled heavily; it had gone numb.

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    Then she heard footsteps.

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    Someone was coming into the house. She needed to hide. Abby rolled onto her stomach. Her legs were too bruised and swollen to stand. Her legs burned from the stoning she had received.

 

    She needed to hide — but where?

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    She aimed for the other side of the couch, hoping whoever entered wouldn’t see her. She crawled, but she was too slow.

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    The footsteps grew closer.

 

    She began to move backward, sliding helplessly along the floor. The girl was pulling her out from behind the couch. Abby slapped her hand against the hardwood, reaching for anything she could grab, but nothing was close enough. Her fingers scraped uselessly across the polished surface. She could hear breathing behind her — deep, steady, inhuman — growing louder as she was reeled in like a fish on a line.

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    Abby cried out again, but it was too late. She flipped onto her back with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. The hand gripping her arm was impossibly strong. The girl stood over her in the dark living room, small in size but towering in presence. Abby still couldn’t see her face — only the faint outline of her head and the eerie glow of her eyes, bright enough to reveal the malice behind them.

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    “Whaaa… dooo… yooo… waaannn…”

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    Abby pleaded, struggling to speak. Blood had pooled in her throat, making it hard to breathe. She spat some of it out as she tried again, desperate to understand what the child wanted.

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    The girl’s breathing filled the room slowly, heavy, unnatural.

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    “You are guilty,” the girl said.

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    But the voice wasn’t a child’s. It was deeper, older, layered with something animalistic beneath the words.

 

    “You have brought this upon yourself… just as the others before you did.”

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    Abby’s eyes widened. She didn’t understand.

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    Others?

    What others?

    What had she done to deserve this?

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    The girl turned her head slightly, as if listening to something Abby couldn’t hear. The girl reached to her right.

Her small hand closed around the lawn jockey statue.

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    “Please—don’t—” she tried to say, but the words dissolved into a wet, trembling cry.

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    The girl stepped closer.

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    With one hand, the girl lifted the one‑hundred‑fifty‑pound iron figure as if it weighed nothing. Abby stared at her in stunned disbelief, her breath catching in her throat. The statue hovered above the girl’s head, held effortlessly in her small fingers. Abby threw both hands up, ignoring the agony in her broken forearm. Her palms trembled in the air, pleading, begging, her voice a wet, desperate cry.

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    “Please—don’t—”

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    The girl didn’t hesitate.

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    She brought the statue down with a force that seemed impossible for a child. The impact landed with a sickening, heavy finality that echoed through the living room. Abby’s body jolted violently, her heels drumming against the polished floor in a rapid, involuntary rhythm.

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    Then she went still.

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    The house, moments ago filled with chaos and shattering glass, fell into a deep, unnatural silence. The girl stood over Abby’s body, the iron statue still in her hand, her glowing eyes fixed on the motionless figure at her feet.

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    For a long moment, nothing moved.

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    Then the girl turned her head toward the open front door, as if listening to something only she could hear.

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And then she smiled.