A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (book series to read .txt) 📖

“We’ve only owned the property for eight months,” Charlene interjects. “We haven’t thoroughly investigated the entire cave yet.”

Stephanie asks when they will open the entire cave so she can adequately report this to her readers and the couple explains their construction schedule, how they are adding a boardwalk, a nature hike and a corn maze in the fall as added attractions. When Stephanie starts asking about details, my mind wonders back to the angelite. The light-blue stone has been cut into a heart and polished and when I pick it up again, sits warm in my palm. People believe angelite assists its owners with spiritual communication. When Lillye died, I bought several, placed them throughout my house in the hopes that I could hear her voice one more time. The effort was futile and I’m trying to convince myself to place this rock — it’s only a rock, after all — back on the shelf when I feel someone approach from behind.

“You picked that stone up twice,” Charlene says to me. “I think it wants to go home with you.”

Goosebumps charge up my body as if they are racing with one another to reach my neck. Wasn’t that the very thing Aunt Mimi told me when I visited her cave? I shiver as if to shake off the feeling but I find the angelite remains in my hand.

“I think I will buy this one,” I say to Charlene, adding, “It’s a lovely color” to keep her from thinking I’m buying it for any other reason.

To my surprise, Charlene places her hand beneath mine and folds her fingers and mine over the angelite. “My gift,” is all she says and heads back to Bud who is opening the back door.

“Y’all ready?” Bud calls out.

I slip my angelite into my pocket and follow the line out the door. I’m the last one on the long woodsy path down to the lake and the cave and I’m missing most of what is being spoken at the front of the line. I don’t mind because it allows me an opportunity to drop back and enjoy the sycamores and maples, witness a chipmunk scurrying across the way and listen to birds calling out from the treetops. The path is a switchback down a steep decline and the lake comes into view every few yards, teasing us with its placid blue waters, making us want more. By the time we reach the bottom of the trail, I hear snippets about Native Americans and how they used the cave, dating back centuries. Suddenly, I wish I had been closer. Yet, the peacefulness of the woods embraces me like a mother and I find my soul lifting. I will ask Winnie later what I missed.

We follow the lake for a small time before the cave comes into view. Indeed, Bud and Charlene have their work cut out to make this attraction more tourist friendly. For now, those in wheelchairs have no access and they are working on that, they say. The path heading inside is rugged and bumpy and sometimes difficult for those of us on two feet with boots. I stumble, naturally, and Winnie laughs.

“LSU wimp,” she whispers back at me.

“Redneck colonels,” I whisper back, and we both giggle like college students.

We pause at the first area large enough for a group to assemble, where a few stalactites drip from the ceiling and pools of milky water form at the floor. A hole in the rock ceiling allows for light to cascade down and the illuminating effect is remarkable. We all take a moment to enjoy this delicate balance of light and water and I can feel our shared energy of awe.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bud asks.

“Very nice,” Stephanie answers, while Joe pulls out a small tripod and shoots a bunch of photos. He kneels ever so slightly to catch the water dripping into a particularly lovely pool, its drops sending circles through the water as if in slow motion. I won’t doubt his abilities again.

“As we said, records have indicated that the Native Americans of this area used the cave, although for what we don’t know for sure.” Bud points to unusual markings on the wall behind us. “A local archaeologist claims those pre-date white settlers to this area. We’ve heard lots of stories from locals that Indians used this cave for the spring waters. One local historian believes those signs mean ‘a special place for water.’”

“Where is the spring?” Winnie asks.

Bud and Charlene look at each other and Charlene laughs nervously. “It’s down a long, dark corridor that’s very dangerous,” Bud says. “Once we get the cave up to where we want it to be, we will start exploring and developing that side.”

“But if that’s where this special spring is, wouldn’t that be a high priority,” Winnie insists. She looks at me and gives me a “Duh?” look, and I agree. That’s what I would want to see, just like those early twentieth century tourists coming over from Eureka Springs.

Charlene scratches her head, looks away and offers up that nervous laugh again, like the criminals I used to interview for the newspaper, the ones who would claim they were innocent while avoiding your eyes and shuffling their feet. There’s more to this story, I think.

Winnie starts to retort but Bud turns and begins talking about the Civil War markings a few yards away, claiming that these scribblings left by retreating Confederates never fail to attract history buffs and re-enactors. Personally, graffiti doesn’t interest me. I’ve seen it in other Southern caves and find it as distasteful as the gang markings lining the streets of New Orleans. I look up at the ceiling where light filters down and let the sun bath my face before descending into darkness. Nature is perfect just the way it is.

It only takes a few yards of walking from the hole in the ceiling before we can’t see without the aid of Bud and Charlene’s lantern. At this point, the couple hands us all flashlights and we continue on our way.

“They are definitely not ready to open for tourists,” Winnie whispers. “You could kill yourself in here.”

As if hearing us — although I know we were well out of earshot — Charlene begins shouting from the front that for now they do specialized guided tours for those who want a real cave experience. So far, they have been mostly catering to college students coming over from Fayetteville.

At the mention of the University of Arkansas, another esteemed member of the Southeastern football conference, Winnie and I both scrunch our noses in disdain.

“Razorbacks!” she whispers, and I fight off the giggles.

We stop when the tunnel becomes tight and it’s now completely dark except for the faint glow of our flashlights. As we shine our beacons around us we see a delightful dwelling of stalagmites emerging from the cave floor. Off to the right, next to where the couple is pointing is a collection of soldier names scratched upon the wall.

Bud is obviously a Civil War fan for he begins relating battles that occurred in Arkansas and their significance to the Southern cause. I find the Civil War tiring, a simple case of not doing the right thing in regards to slavery, that resulted in the loss of so many lives. I’m not a fan of either side, mind you. I find war ridiculous, like children fighting over toys. But the Civil War happened on my turf, so its legacy lingers throughout my homeland. I love Southern history, particularly Louisiana, but you can have the blue and grey nonsense.

Since I’m once again at the back of the line, I slink back and explore the unusual natural formations that surround me. There’s a particularly gorgeous stalagmite off to the side, but I have to practically crawl to get a better view and snap a photo. I figured it’s worth it, but I suddenly find myself slipping down a slick decline that seems to go on forever. I keep moving, hoping the momentum will help me remain on my feet, and quickly slip the camera into my jacket pocket for safe keeping. No matter how I attempt to right myself, several yards later I’m flat on my butt on the cold, wet floor. I slide my hands into my pockets to make sure my camera is okay — it is — and find the angelite cool and humming.

Before I can regain my composure, a wave of goosebumps skitters up my arms and my head feels light and dizzy. I slowly stand, trying to recoup my equilibrium and it’s then that I hear a soft whimpering to my right. My first thought is that it’s an animal trapped in the darkness, unable to find its way out. I swallow hard, hoping it’s nothing prone to attacking people, and slowly make my way back from whence I came. The more I head back towards the others, however, the stronger the sound, and the goosebumps double. As I round the corner and lock my boot on a solid rock, I’m able to pull myself back up the path. Here, the sound is strongest. I’m almost sure now that it’s right next to me. Only it’s not an animal.

I raise my flashlight slowly, trying to keep the beam steady from all my shaking. I’m scared to death, have no idea what the light will uncover. In the darkness all I can make out for sure is the sound of a young girl softly crying.

When the light meets the origin of the sound, it is indeed a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in old-fashioned school clothes of a mid-calf white pleated skirt, white shirt and a little navy blue tie around her neck that reminds me of sailor outfits. She’s sitting in a pool of water, legs outstretched before her with cuts and bruises appearing where her tights are torn and her skin exposed. I try to make out her face but her right hand is placed over her right eye as she whimpers, rocking back and forth agitated.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaking. What on earth is this girl doing here? I don’t know what frightens me more, the fact that I may be witnessing another ghost or finally losing my mind. And yet, this girl appears so real, down to the dark clay marring her shoes.

She glances up at me and her eyes narrow in anger. She stops whimpering, instead holding up her right hand like a cop signaling a car to stop, as if she wants me to get a good look