The Haunting of Autumn Lake by Marcia Lynn McClure Page B

rest.”
    “Oh, I see,” Gentry mumbled.
    “Yes…when the sun sets and the moon is high in the dark night sky, folks see the Specter sometimes. Sometimes they seem him out in a cornfield…or near the old covered bridge.” Autumn leaned forward once more. “If you happen to be lucky enough to be near the old bridge when the Specter is about, you’ll know he’s comin’…for the bullfrogs will quick croakin’…and the wind will moan through the old bridge, warnin’ you that the Specter is ridin’ your way.”
     
    Gentry smiled at the girl—tried to ignore the desire his body was feeling. “You tell a mighty fine tale, Miss Autumn Lake,” he said.
    “Why thank you, Mr. Gentry James,” she giggled.
    She smiled at him, and an odd thought traveled through his mind as he was suddenly distinctly aware of all the tastes and scents and scenes of the harvest season—apples and cinnamon, pumpkin pie, a big yellow moon low in the sky, the scent of piñon and cedar burning in the hearth, lending a soothing, smoky aroma to the air. And as his mind and senses reflected on all the beauties harvest gifted the senses, he wondered if Miss Autumn Lake tasted as divine as the season she was named for did. He wondered if she smelled as warm and alluring. Just as autumn itself was stunning—with its warm and vibrant colors of orange, crimson, gold, and plum—it was obvious Autumn Lake was just as beautiful. Her hair was the color of an autumn midnight and her eyes the color of an autumn sky. Her smile soothed him in much the same way the cider her daddy had brought to him days ago had—and Gentry James wondered if Autumn Lake tasted as sweet and delicious as the apple roll her mother had sent for his breakfast.
    “I just hope I get to see him someday…if he really does exist, that is,” she said. “I think it would near stop my heart cold, mind you…to look off in the distance and see the Specter cowboy ridin’ over the horizon…his long, white, bloodied death rags flowing behind him in the breeze.”
    “Bloodied death rags?” Gentry asked.
    “Mm hmm,” Autumn said, nodding. “Ritter Houston and Catherine Russell bled out on their bed. It was such a mess the townsfolk simply wrapped them up in the bloodied sheets and buried them that way. It’s said the Specter tore the sheet he was buried in to shreds when he escaped his grave the first time. But since they were bloodied, the blood had soaked to his skin and bones…and therefore his restless soul.”
    Gentry shook his head and chuckled. “And just how old were you the first time someone told you this story?” he asked. It was a rather gruesome tale, and he didn’t like the idea of young children been privy to such a thing. He’d spent his entire childhood being scared into behaving. He hoped the parents in town didn’t use the story of the Specter to keep their children in line.
    Autumn shrugged. “Oh, maybe eight the first time…though my mama and daddy would have had a fit if they’d caught me eavesdroppin’ on my brother Cole when he was tellin’ his girl about it one night while he was sparkin’ her on the back porch.” She looked to him and smiled again. “I was twelve when I heard it the first time from my daddy…but he only told it to me because I kept beggin’ him to.”
     
    Again Gentry James smiled, revealing the deep dimples in his cheeks—and again Autumn sighed with delight.
    “Well, Miss Autumn…that sure is quite a story,” he said. “The Specter, huh? And you thought you saw him at the window a while ago…in broad daylight?”
    “Um…um…yes. I suppose my imagination is playin’ tricks on me again,” Autumn stammered. Her smile faded a little—her joy having been squelched by the memory of Riley Wimber looking in through the window at her.
    “Well, it was a good story all the same,” Gentry said as he struggled to stand. “But I’m feelin’ a bit stiff, so I best be takin’ a turn around the room.”
    Autumn