Charon's Crossing

Kathryn nodded politely and held out her hand. "I'm Kathryn Russell. I'm staying out at—"

"Charon's Crossin'. Yes, I know."

"I was looking for Mr. Carter. Do you know when he's expected to return?"

Ada shrugged. "Two, three weeks, maybe."

Kathryn's mouth fell open. "What?"

"He flew to England."

"To England? Are you sure?"

The woman nodded. "He has family there. Somethin' came up, he said, he had to go there to take care of it. He mentioned you might come by. Said to tell you he'd tried to let you know he'd be gone but your phone's not workin'."

"Do tell," Kathryn said with a tight smile. "Did he leave any other message?"

"He said you might want to go over to see Hiram Bonnyeman." The woman jerked her chin towards the opposite side of Front Street. "Walk up a bit, then cut down the next cross street. Hiram's house is blue and pink. You can't miss it."

"Thanks."

"Miss Russell?"

Kathryn swung around. "Yes?"

"How is it, livin' in that house?"

"It's fine," Kathryn said brightly. "Just fine."

"Glad to hear it. As for me, I don't think I could get a wink of sleep in a place like that."

"Listen," Kathryn said, grinding out the words through her teeth, "there's nothing wrong with that house that hard work won't cure."

"Oh, surely not," Ada said quickly. "I only meant that the stories about it... well, you know. And the name..."

"Charon's Crossing?"

"Well, it's peculiar, isn't it?" The woman's voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper and she leaned towards Kathryn. "Namin' a place for an old-time loa, I mean."

"A what?"

"A spirit, your people would call him. You know. The one used to sail dead folks over the sea to hell."

Kathryn's mouth dropped open. Ada wasn't talking about some voodoo spirit, she was talking about an ancient Greek god. Charon, whose job it had been to ferry the newly dead across the river Styx to the afterlife that awaited them.

How come she hadn't remembered that?

Her house, the house where she'd had such incredible dreams, where the cold came sweeping down the stairs, was a nineteenth-century metaphor for the river that separated the living from the dead?

The sun was high, the air hot. Despite that, a sudden chill swept the length of Kathryn's spine and she gave a little shudder. Ada, reading the swift play of emotions on her face, reached out a comforting hand but Kathryn forced a smile to her lips.

"Oh," she said, "of course. I should have realized."

She wanted to say more, something light and airy that would make it clear that she was above such nonsense, but she was too angry.

Damn her father for leaving her saddled with such a mess.

Damn Olive. And Amos, too, for not having told her about the house and whatever dark legends surrounded it, legends everyone but she seemed to know.