Page 41 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Anderson offered her a glimmer of a smile. But it was a sad one. “I know what it’s like to fear death.”
Effie shifted her attention to the new grass beneath her feet.There was a tiny white alfalfa flower growing there. Its delicacy reminded her of the love between family, the fragility of life, and the finality of death. She lifted her eyes to his.
Anderson shifted his stance, tilting his head to study Effie closer. “Do you know why we are afraid of death?”
Effie waited. Unable to respond or tears would surely flow again.
Anderson seemed to comprehend that. He continued, “We’re afraid of death in part because we’re afraid of the grief that follows. Death is momentary, but grief is what’s left behind. The remnants of every memory, every moment, every emotion. Grief is all the unspoken words that will never be said, the lost I-love-you’s, and the emptiness of the shadows they leave behind. Grief is a demon that stalks us.”
“How do we escape the demon?” she whispered. She could feel the tears begin to shove past her restraints, their hot paths trailing down her face and leaving invisible scars she would never be able to wipe away no matter how much she tried.
“We don’t. We embrace it.” Anderson’s response wasn’t what Effie wished to hear.
“As you have done?” she ventured hesitantly.
Anderson’s mouth pulled in a worn smile. “No. I haven’t embraced grief.”
“But you admit so easily that your wife has died.” Effie tried to understand.
“The truth of reality isn’t always what’s known.” Anderson laid a hand over his heart. “Grief is a beast we wrestle with only when we’re ready to face it.” His hand moved to her face, his fingers brushing away the tears. “You’re afraid of death that’s yet to come, while I’m terrified of grief that still waits to be recognized.”
Cold, Dead, ButNever Buried
Hosted by Sebastian Blaine
WHATCANTHEHOUSEat 322Predicament Avenue tell us that no one else can? Are there clues in its walls, evidence under itsfloorboards? Does the spirit of Isabelle Addington roam the hallways at night, waiting to be discovered and listened to?
If she’s here, can she tell us of her death?Can she explain why she was at 322 Predicament Avenuein the first place? Can she whisper the identity of her killer in our ear?
I’m stationed here in a room on the very property where Isabelle Addington wasmurdered. Today I’ll be exploring the graves in thebackyard cemetery. Some of their headstones are worn to thepoint of being illegible. But I feel they’re notthere by chance, nor are they unconnected. No crime wasever condemned in a court of law by an argument made from intuition and acting on one’s gut. Butsometimes crimes have been solved that way, with the evidence to be swept up once the pieces fall together.
My gut is telling me to investigate these graves. AreIsabelle’s bones lying in the earth here, or is there more to her story than a single grave?
15
NORAH
Present Day
Shepherd, Iowa
ASTICKBROKEbeneath Norah’s feet as they crossed the yard toward the graves that dotted the back lot before merging with the woods that stretched at least ten acres before running into the property of the neighbors to the north of Predicament Avenue.
The small neighborhood was both private and pleasant. And with the historical cemetery keeping the property larger than most and respected by all, 322 Predicament Avenue had an aura of stepping back into time. Into an era when life was slower. It was why Otto and Ralph had spent years here, gardening and trimming. It gave them something to do that their own personal half-acre plots down the street didn’t offer. Aunt Eleanor had been grateful to have the boys managing her yard work, andover the years this place had almost become as much theirs as Eleanor’s.
But today, Norah observed Sebastian as he strode ahead of her, intent on the stones that marked each grave. Harper had opted to stay inside, and Norah couldn’t blame her. Last night had grown long after Norah awakened them with her screams. The discovery of Naomi’s library card was still eating at Norah’s insides, but for now she would welcome Sebastian’s attempt to distract her. Besides, it had to be a coincidence. There was no way Naomi’s ghost—or Isabelle Addington’s—had been in her room last night. She’d been half awake. The library card must have fallen from wherever it had been tucked behind all these years. Or maybe when Norah had used that old handbag yesterday, it had fallen out of it? Norah was probably wrong in believing Naomi had kept the card in her missing wallet. She tried to recall thirteen years back as to whether she had borrowed the library card. The purse she’d used yesterday was certainly from that era. It was possible that—
“That’s an old grave.” Sebastian pointed to the grave that dated back to the eighteenth century. Its crudely carved epitaph had withstood the weather and time’s passing better than some of the graves that were dated a hundred years later.
“A lot of folks don’t believe it’s for real,” Norah said. “They don’t believe a man of European descent would have been buried in Iowa Territory back in that time period.”
“Europeans hadn’t come this far west yet?” Sebastian asked, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his stare fixed on the headstone.
“They had, but only a few here and there. There weren’t any settlers as yet. This land still belonged to the Indigenous peoples, and any Europeans around these parts were mostly French explorers, trappers, and traders.”
“So then who is this bloke?” Sebastian asked.
“No one knows,” Norah answered. “His story has been lost to time.”
