Page 69 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
“Yeah, but she had life in her.” LeRoy nodded, a look of nostalgia sweeping across his worn features.
“Until you took it from her,” Norah accused.
“I didn’t kill Naomi!” LeRoy insisted.
“What’s goin’ on here!” Ralph tottered in from the kitchen and took a quick glance at Norah to make sure she was all right. He jabbed his finger in LeRoy’s direction. “You get, boy, ya hear? You aren’t welcome here.”
LeRoy gave a curt nod. “Fine.” He tapped the box as he turned to leave. “Used to belong to my great-grandmother.” LeRoy’s eyes drilled into Norah’s. “You think I’d give a priceless heirloom to a girl I’d want to murder? Mother of my kid? I loved your sister. But believe what you want, Norah. You always did anyway.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Norah demanded.
LeRoy sniffed. “Naomi said you were afraid of a shadow. Of a speck of dust. Of anything that moved that you couldn’t explain. Wouldn’t let her out of your sight for fear something would happen to her. Why else do you think she didn’t tell you about us? It wasn’t your parents she was afraid of—it was you.”
Cold, Dead, But Never Buried
Hosted by Sebastian Blaine
I’LLBEHONEST.As your podcast host here atCold, Dead, But Never Buried, I’ve never hadthe dead reach out from the grave before. But todayI feel it. I feel it like never before. It’s hard to tell which direction is up and which is down.
As the story goes, 322 Predicament Avenue isa place of nightmares. It always has been, and now, in my experience, it always will be. It’s hardto find the good between the front door and the back door of that place. Whether you believe in ghostsor not, they play with your mind and conscience. Andif you didn’t believe before, you pretty much do once you walk out the door of that house forthe last time.
Is it my last time at 322Predicament Avenue? I don’t know. What I can tellyou is that I’m no closer to understanding what happened to Isabelle Addington than the day I first arrived. Suddenly I’m not sure I care to either. Maybeit’s better to leave old ghosts locked away.
As for the present ones? The ones who linger and arecurrent enough maybe to still be resolved, but are too sensitive to talk about here on the air? I haveto ask myself, What are we afraid of when we look at cold cases of the last few decades? Myanswer is simple. We’re afraid of them becoming likeIsabelle Addington’s story. No longer trauma and heartbreak, butinstead intrigue and entertainment.
The fact is all crimes are laced with fear. And fear is a beast to waragainst. So, whether you listen to my podcast to beentertained, or you fancy yourself an amateur crime-solver likeI’ve always fancied myself, just know this: Real people still exist who have been touched by these crimes. Someof them are so afraid to find the answers, theybecome afraid to live too. And then there are peoplelike me. People who are afraid to live in thepresent, so instead we keep exploring the mysteries of yesterday. It’s safer in the past. For all of us. Because the past has already been lived in, already beenbroken, already been ruined. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is one giant questionmark, and none of us are sure we want to go there. Not just yet.
But we have to. Tomorrowdoesn’t wait for us to be ready.
Tomorrow doesn’t wait for us to stop being afraid.
24
EFFIE
May 1901
Shepherd, Iowa
IFFEARHADATASTE, it would taste of blood. The tangy iron of it would seep through every pore in a person’s body. But instead of tasting it filtered through her nerves, tightening her muscles until they cramped and creating a haze as she tried to open her eyes, it was voices that were the hollow echo in Effie’s ears. She tried to remember what had happened, but all she could identify was the desperate fear that paralyzed her where she lay.
“Effie?”
The voice was distant. Unfamiliar.
“Effie?”
A hand touched her forehead. She cried out, slapping the hand away. Effie could remember now. The bony fingers around Effie’s throat. The way the fingernails dug into her neck...
“Shhhh!” Whoever it was stayed out of focus.
Effie whimpered, trying to push herself off what felt to be a soft mattress.
“Did you send someone to fetch the doctor?” A woman’s voice.
The rumble of a man’s voice. Floyd. It had to be Floyd Opperman.
Effie twisted on the bed, the blanket trapping her as it tangled with her legs.
