A Ghost of a Chance - Cherie Claire (best ebook reader under 100 .txt) 📗

“Who?”

“That cop. This will prove you’re not crazy.”

“Thanks.” I turn off the camera and put it back into my bag. “I never thought I actually was.”

She gives me that mom look again. “You know what I mean.”

After lunch we all pile into two vans and head for the outskirts of town. I’m feeling better now because one, I have actual evidence to show Maddox, even if he doesn’t believe in ghosts, and two, I’m starting to trust my newfound ability. And if I can communicate with ghosts now, I should be able to talk to my daughter. For the first time in a very long time, I have hope and feel the stirrings of something akin to happiness.

After a quick trip outside of town, we stop at Thorncrown Chapel, a magnificent structure rising heavenwards in the Ozark woods with four hundred and twenty-five windows and more than six thousand square feet of glass, an impressive, uplifting site that mirrors my mood. As we make our way into this chapel that also contains one hundred tons of native stones and colored flagstone, we all sigh with pleasure. The architecture alone is extraordinary but to be able to worship inside a space that’s surrounded by nature makes it that more special.

An elderly woman who we wish would speak louder tells us the story of how the chapel was built. Ninth-grade teacher Jim Reed purchased the property for his retirement home but found people constantly pausing on his homestead to view the natural beauty of the area. He envisioned a chapel for people to use and enlisted the help of E. Fay Jones, an architecture professor at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. Halfway through its construction, however, Reed ran out of funds.

“He was downhearted,” the woman tells us, and we all lean forward to hear. “But he came into his half-finished chapel and prayed for guidance. And somehow the money came.”

“Is that all it takes?” Winnie whispers to me. “I could use a new roof.”

“Go for it,” I whisper back. “And get me a new bathroom for my potting shed.”

Once Jim Reed built it, the people came. The woman claims that more than six million visitors from around the world have come through these doors.

She’s getting a little preachy at this point and it’s still hard to hear so my mind wanders out the window, enjoying the sunshine filtering through the trees to warm my face, wishing church had been this awesome when I was growing up. If I had attended church services here, I would have spent the whole time gazing out into those peaceful woods. Not exactly what church is for, but nature brings me peace like no other.

The group begins laughing softly and I look up to find a man dressed in biblical garb walking down the aisle. He’s a shepherd, he tells us, a follower of Jesus. He’s performing with the Great Passion Play at the Christ of the Ozarks, but he tries to stay in character. The production coincides with the massive statue of Jesus on the hill overlooking our hotel.

The shepherd actor introduces himself as David and explains how a cast of more than one hundred performs in Eureka Springs every summer and that we all need to return to catch this outdoor drama. There’s also the Holy Land next door to the performance space, offering exhibits that have been reproduced historically and archaeologically accurate, David insists.

Our colleagues start shooting tourism questions such as when does the show begin and end, is it tour bus accessible, would non-Christians enjoy it, etc. Suddenly Winnie pipes up. “Was this something you studied in school, becoming a biblical-era shepherd.”

Davis laughs. “Actually, ma’am, I studied to be a Roman soldier when I was sixteen and I worked my way up.”

The crowd laughs appropriately and David beams being in the spotlight.

“Did it help you win girls?” Winnie asks and our fellow travel writers giggle.

“Yes ma’am,” David replies proudly, missing the sarcasm. “My wife’s in the production too. She plays Satan.”

Winnie throws up her hands. “I’m not touching that one.”

We leave Thorncrown Chapel in a good mood, our van chugging up the mountain over to Lake Leatherwood City Park, a peaceful retreat created by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the early 1940s. The cold spring stream was dammed to form the eighty-five-acre lake covered in lovely lotus blossoms, popular with fishermen. Both the dam and the park are on the National Register of Historic Places and the acreage is one of the largest city parks in the country. There are cabins at the lake’s edge, nestled near a manmade beach where a gaggle of Canadian geese have taken over. Because spring has almost arrived, the trees are beginning to burst forth in greens and other colors, dogwoods dotting the landscape in whites and pinks.

On the way back through town Nanette Wells, our local tourism contact, suggests a stop at Pivot Rock, another park located outside of town that includes an unusual rock formation — basically a rock resembling the inverted pyramid we journalists learn in basic newswriting — and a natural bridge. We hike to both from the parking lot and are considering continuing to a view of Lake Leatherwood until Irene and Richard begin complaining, Irene that she has a bum knee with doctor’s orders to lay off physical activity and Richard that rain is in the forecast, no doubt to cover up the fact that he’s not up for the challenge. After hasty photos, we return from whence we came and head back to town.

It’s beginning to drizzle so we decide the Crescent is the best course of action. Henry announces that we have two hours until dinner and does anyone want to do the ghost tour at the Basin Park Hotel tonight at nine o’clock. Half the van raises their hands but I’m not one of them. I’ve had enough of ghosts for a while.

“You’ll be missing the cowboy,” Carmine leans over and whispers to me. “He and his horse kept me up all night.” I give him a questioning look but he only raises that one eyebrow in explanation. “You don’t want to know,” he finally answers.

Henry pulls the van up to the front door and we all disembark, grateful for a few hours of down time. I’m thinking now’s the perfect chance to grab a nap, hopefully make up for the past few nights of fitful sleep, when I spot Merrill lounging by the lobby fireplace. When she sees me she waves. I slip over to the couch where she’s sitting but I’m hoping Henry doesn’t notice.

“I really shouldn’t be seen with you,” I whisper when she looks up from reading a copy of the latest Sierra Club magazine.

To my surprise, Merrill looks heartbroken. “Oh. I was hoping we could talk about Lori.”

“Four Twenty-two,” I whisper and continue my stroll through the lobby to the elevator, hoping no one noticed. Winnie has that quizzical look on her face and the elevator’s packed, so I take the stairs. It’s a good haul up three flights in the Crescent but I love the hotel’s old staircases with their heavy wooden rails painted black, the Victorian red walls and the colorful carpeting. You can also look straight up to the fourth floor, not to mention peek around the corners of each floor you visit. Not sure what I’m looking for, maybe a nurse pushing a gurney?

At the top of the stairs I make my way down the hall, past the Baker Bar and around the corner to my room. TB hasn’t arrived yet, so it’s just me and for the first time since I arrived in Eureka Springs I get to enjoy the solitude.

Of course, it doesn’t last long for Merrill is soon at my door.

“I brought the letter,” she tells me as she slips inside.

Something in the air shifts when Merrill enters the room. I don’t experience the buzzing of the past few days but my arm hairs are standing at attention. I gaze around in the hopes of seeing Lori appear but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Look, I’m sorry about showing up at the hotel,” Merrill says. “I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want Henry, the guy who put this tour together, to think I’m one of your protestors posing as a travel writer because I suspect that the mayor already planted that seed in his head.”

Merrill gingerly sits on my bed. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Nanette is not a big fan of Leticia and I told Nanette everything that happened.”

I exhale and fall into the easy chair opposite the bed, trying not to appear too eager. “Can I see the letter?”

Merrill pulls an envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “You can keep that. It’s a copy.”

I open it and read the delicate writing of a different age. There’s no date, but the postmark reads January 22, 1924, Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

My dearest Annabelle,

What must you think of me after my actions of the past few weeks? Nothing I can say or do will ever erase the hurt I have caused you or the disgrace I have brought upon us both, even if our secret shall follow us to the grave.

You have done right in leaving this place. There is nothing but evil about, including deep within my heart for darkness has invaded my soul.

The search for your colleague continues. No matter what has happened or who will be charged in what I fear will be a crime, I consider myself responsible. I let the evil desire rule my judgment with her, as I did you, and will carry that sin with me until my dying day. I pray you will forgive me.

There are things that may be said of me in the near future, dear one, but do not listen to these rumors unless you hear the truth from my lips. Do not return, for it is not safe to be here and will remain so until I’m confident things have been made right.

Please