Mary Jane's Grave by Stacy Dittrich Page B

since you’re so pretty.” He reached over to the door to push it open, but I grabbed it quickly to prevent him from falling over.
    “Have a seat over there, young ‘un.” He pointed to a couch in the living room, but I kept standing close to him to make sure he’d make it into the room without any help.
    “I know what you’re thinking, but sit, young lady! I’ve been gittin’ around on my own for twenty years now, and I don’t need any help.” He was still smiling, clearly proud of his dental work.
    I sat and waited as he made his way over to an old lounge chair in front of a window. It took a few minutes for him to turn himself around, put the walker to the side and sit down.
    “There now, I ain’t the quickest draw in the West, but I’ll get there eventually. Now what can I do for you?”
    Despite his physical deterioration, his mind appeared quite sharp for his age. I got the impression that he didn’t receive many visitors, since he seemed thrilled to have someone to talk to.
    “Mr. Morris, I—”
    “You can call me Walt. No need to be formal.”
    “Okay, Walt. How long have you lived here?”
    “My whole life. I grew up in this here house,” he said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice.
    This was exactly what I’d hoped for. Maybe Walter Morris could answer my questions after all.
    “Now, what’s this all about?” he asked, his gaze turning sharp.
    “Mr. Mor—Walt, I wanted to know if you remember any of the Hendricksons, some folks who once lived around here. This would have been close to sixty, seventy years ago, so I can understand if you don’t.”
    Walter’s shiny dentures disappeared as his mouth tightened when he’d heard the Hendricksons’s name. I hoped I hadn’t hit a nerve. By the look on his face, I knew he remembered his former neighbors very well.
    “Listen, young lady, I know what you’re getting at, but take some advice from an old fart like myself. Some things are best left alone.”
    “Walt, I was just asking if you knew them, that’s all.”
    He leaned forward. “Again, I know what you’re getting at. I know all about the witch crap. I know what happened a couple of days ago, too. I still read the papers. Far as I’m concerned, the place has been and always will be evil.”
    “Now, Walt, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?” I prodded. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as I waited for his answer.
    “Wouldn’t know. I only know what happened when I was a child and that was enough for me to believe in that place. I never went back again.” He let out a loud, gassy burp. “Sorry ‘bout that. These kids nowadays don’t know what their messin’ with. They think it’s fun and all, but look what just happened.”
    “What do you think they’re messing with, Walt? Please tell me whatever you can. A seventeen-year-old girl was brutally murdered, and the killer is still walking around. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
    “That girl is dead because she disrespected sacred grounds.”
    I silently groaned. I wondered if Walter was one of those superstitious people who never walked under ladders or used the number thirteen.
    “I ain’t superstitious, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, startling me a little. Was the man a mind reader, too?
    “I wasn’t implying that you were,” I said defensively.
    “You had that look on your face, like you think I’m some fruit loop or something. I’m fine and I know what I know, and that’s it,” he grunted.
    “Okay, Walt. Can you just tell me what you know?” I leaned back against the couch, trying to curb my growing impatience.
    “I’ll tell you what I remember,” he began reluctantly. “But I was just a boy, maybe nine or ten, so my dates are kind of fuzzy. Me and the nigger kid…Oh!” He looked surprised. “I forgot you don’t call them that anymore. One day, me and the colored kid that lived down the road was out catching crawfish and frogs down at the river. He asked me if I