Been awhile, eh

So, I know I've been offline for quite a while now, but have no fear. I'm back. Below is a short story I wrote recently. Hope you enjoy it.

Talking Bones

It was huge. Much bigger than I’d imagined. I mean, I knew it would be scary, but nothing like this had ever crossed my mind. I stepped off the bus and took a deep breath. Shrugging on my backpack and grabbing my two other bags from the driver, I moved towards the small group of people standing on the corner. Biting my lower lip, I stood on the outskirts of the group and quickly swept my eyes in every direction. A maze of white sidewalks, lined with lush green trees, led towards tall, authoritative buildings. It overwhelmed my senses as I watched hundreds of people walk with purpose down the paths.

Signs hung along the paths indicating the various directions we could take towards the dorms we’d been assigned. I looked at the paper in my hand and followed the signs toward Bailey Hall. As I approached the towering, white-brick building, I wondered what my roommate would be like. With a swoosh of energy, the front doors opened and led me into the worst 1970s décor I’d ever seen. Orange and brown colors dominated the walls, carpet and furniture. I hoped I wouldn’t have to spend too much time in this room as I walked over to the desk and waited for my room assignment.

“Abigail Von Heisling.” I said when the bored, highly pierced girl finally looked up at me. She handed me a key for room 2107 and pointed towards the elevator. On the second floor, my room was easy enough to find. Straight out the elevator, three doors down on the right. I opened the door and gaped. I had a feeling my recently purchased “dorm-room ensemble” of matching bedspread, sheets and floor covering wouldn’t fit in with the already decided décor. I glanced around the room and immediately realized my roommate was out. Stepping into the room, I shook my head.

“Great.” I thought, “Now I’m stuck rooming with a vampire.” Black spewed from every area of the room. From the curtains to her bedspread to the rug to every item in the closet. Nothing but black. Sighing, I unpacked my Indian-inspired bed sheets and hoped the mixture of reds, yellows and tans would give the room some light. I was standing in the doorway of my small closet when I heard the door open.

“What the hell is that?”

I poked my head around the door and saw my roommate pointing to my bed. “Hi, I’m Abigail. But most people call my Abby.”

She looked over at me and raised her eyebrow, “Abigail? That’s an old lady’s name.”
I tried to smile, but the years of memories of the playground taunts swirled in my mind.
“Whatever, I’m Rickie. My real name’s Margaret but don’t ever call me that.” And with that, she put back in her ear-buds and laid on her bed. I assumed our conversation was over and went back to unpacking my clothes.

A week later, I anxiously sat in my first Anthropology class and waited for my new life to begin. I had always wanted to work with bones. I loved the history and stories bones held. Ever since my parents took me to see the King Tutankhamen exhibit eight years ago, I knew my destiny. At that time, I immediately got hooked on the ancient stories of bones.

By the end of the first class, I was even more in love with bones. The professor, Dr. Red O’Connor, fascinated us with stories of his excavations and finds. He showed actual artifacts that dated back to the times of the ancient Aztecs and Mayans. And then he talked about his forensic lab. He explained that part of his job was to identify, catalog and try to put back together the broken bones that other Archeology digs had found. He also wanted volunteers. My hand shot straight up.

Later that afternoon, sitting in O’Connor’s lab, I looked around at the other volunteers. Only two other people had signed up and they were twins. Engaged in their own private world, they seemed to have little interest in widening their circle. I sighed. So much for meeting new people, I thought. Turning my attention back to the bones, Dr. O’Connor told us that the bones he wanted us to work on had been found recently just a few miles from the campus. The state police had asked him to try to identify them in hopes of solving a cold case from years ago. Then, he showed us how to identify and catalog the bones and I got to work. I really enjoyed it. At least, until that day when the bone spoke.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, I was sitting in the lab pondering my pathetic life. I couldn’t go home for the holidays, and I still didn’t know anyone on campus. I had eaten dry turkey and lumpy gravy in the dorm cafeteria last night and got to bed early.

Fortunately, Rickie had gone home and so at least I didn’t have to deal with her. We still barely spoke to each other and anytime she did talk to me, it was to tell me to move my stuff or turn out a light. Needless to say, we hadn’t become the best of friends. So, here I sat, wondering if college was really for me. Should I come back next semester? And, if so, why? Lost in my own pity, I almost didn’t hear it. The faint whisper climbed into my head and repeated itself until I paid attention.

“Help me.”

Dropping the bone, I looked around the room. No one was there. Shuddering, I figured it was my imagination and picked the bone back up.

“Help me. Please.”

I jumped back and dropped the bone again. Had I really just heard that? What was going on? Was someone playing a joke on me? I looked around the room again. This time, however, I got up and walked around. I was looking for speakers or a video camera or anything that would indicate that I was the brunt of a practical joke. Seeing nothing, I slowly approached the table again. Cautiously, I touched the bone with my pencil.

Nothing. Using my pencil lead, I flipped it over. Nothing. Using the same pencil, I pushed it back and forth across the table. Nothing.

Sighing, I sat back down. Must just be my imagination, I thought. I’m lonely and sad and maybe I just want to be needed. I picked the bone back up.

“Please. I need your help.”

I stared at the bone. Was it really talking to me? Looking around a third time to make sure there was still no one in the room, I said, ‘How?”

“Find the man who murdered me.”

Dropping the bone for the third time, I raced out of the lab and back to my room. Laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling I tried to erase from my memory the chill that crept up my spine in the lab. I almost jumped out of my skin when our door opened. Rickie stormed in and slammed her suitcase on her bed, “I hate my new step-father. He’s such a jerk!”

I stared at her, speechless. She turned towards me and I could tell she was about to spew her wrath on me when she suddenly said, “What the hell happened to you?”
Not knowing what else to do, I told her about the bone. I don’t know what I was expecting, especially since I didn’t even believe my own story, but she just listened and then said, “So, if you can identify the bone, you might be able to help the police solve a case?”

I nodded. “I guess so. But, the bone spoke to me. What about that?”
“That’s awesome. Just think about it. What if we found out who died and who killed him? We could become famous.”
“Her. The bone belonged to a woman. And, what do you mean, we?” My eyebrows shot up at the pronoun.

Rickie started pacing around the room, “Well, I’m home early from break with nothing to do and you’re obviously weirded out by this thing. So, I’ll come along to help.” She shrugged. As if bones spoke to people all the time.
Knowing there was no way in hell I was going back in that lab alone, I agreed.
When we got back to the lab, Rickie took some things out of her backpack: a candle, incense, and a crystal pendant. Raising my eyebrows, I wondered if she always carried that stuff with her. We sat down at the lab table and looked at the fragment of bone. I explained that based on its size and structure, I knew it composed a part of a woman’s cheekbone. I watched as Rickie placed the bone in the center of the table, drew a circle around it in chalk, lit the candle and incense and began swinging the pendant over it.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Clearing the bad spirits.” She spun the crystal around it a few times. “There. Now you can talk to it.”

Shaking my head in confusion, I walked over to the table and picked up the stone. Almost immediately, I felt its warmth.

“Help me.” The same whisper came into my head.

I replied, “We want to try. Who are you and who killed you?”

“Eyes of violet. Tall and white. Very tall and very white. As white as I am now. Find him. I beg you.”

“Who are you?” I asked again.

“Belinda. Sweet little Belinda. Thought he would give me cookies-just like always. Never wanted to hurt my mamma.”
I put the bone back on the table and looked over at Rickie. She stood there with her hands on her hips. “Well, what’d she say?”

“Come on, let’s go to the library.”

On the way over, I told Rickie that we were looking a murder victim named Belinda. She was less then excited about our chances.

When we entered the library, the woman at the information desk sat hunched over a large tome. Her white hair flowed down her back and when she looked up at us, her eyes almost got lost in the rolls of wrinkles. We asked about a murder that took place two decades ago involving a girl named Belinda. I doubted she’d know anything about it, but I was wrong. Pulling out an old newspaper, she found the article about the murder.
According to the papers, the murder of six-year-old Belinda Morris had been the worst case this county had ever seen. Based on the interview from the girl’s mother, Belinda had been playing out back when the phone rang. The woman stepped inside for about ten minutes and when she came back out, Belinda was gone. No one knew if she’d been kidnapped or had wandered off. They searched for two solid weeks and never found any clue of the girl. The case had gone cold and no one had any answers.

Rickie glanced over at me. “Now what? We know who she is, but not who killed her.”
“She said he always gave her cookies. What if it was a neighbor or someone else she trusted?”

Rickie shook her head. “Nope, there’s an interview with the man from across the street. His name’s Melvin Hopplinger. Man, that’s a crappy name. Anyway, he claims he saw a man sneak into the backyard and take Belinda. It must have been a stranger. He even helped in the two-week search for her. He said the guy was a short, black man with long curly hair.”

“That’s not right. That’s not at all how Belinda described him. Let me see the article.” I took the paper from Rickie and inhaled sharply. There, staring back at me was a tall, almost albino man. I read the description of him. The reporter remarked about his height (almost 6’5”) and his stark violet eyes.

“This is him.” I pointed at the paper. “We’ve found him, Rickie. Now what do we do?”
Rickie stood up and began to pace. “If we go to the police, they’ll never believe us. We need proof. Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and practically pulled me from the library.

The next day, I found myself crouched down behind the most scratchy bushes I’ve ever seen, trying to look nonchalant while staking out the house of a sixty-year old man. He seemed so harmless, making mulch from his rose bushes and humming to himself. I started to doubt that he could be the killer. Just then, Rickie pointed towards the roses.
The bush was gigantic and led all the way into the back yard.

“I bet he used the mulch machine to get rid of her body.”

I nodded and tried to remember something O’Connor had said.

“Wait, I’ve got it.” I crawled away from the bushes and stood up. Rickie’s eyes popped open wide. I walked towards the old man.

“Excuse me,” I began. “Have you seen my dog? He’s just a puppy and I think I saw him run into your backyard.”

The old man turned towards me and I tried not to show my fear when his vivid eyes bore into mine.

“Nope. Haven’t seen ‘im.” He went back to pruning the rose bush.

“Can I go look?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll take a look. You stay here.” He threw his gardening gloves and shears down and rambled into the back yard.

I quickly grabbed one of the gloves and started running towards Rickie, who stood shock-still with her mouth agape. “C’mon!”

We ran all the way to campus and burst into O’Connor’s office.

His kind eyes looked up from the paper he was reading. “Can I help you girls?”

Rickie asked, “Can you get DNA from this glove? And from a bone in your lab?”

His brow crinkled. “Yes, but why would I do that? Abigail, what’s going on?”

I took a deep breath and told him everything. He sat back in his chair and mumbled, “I wondered who’d be next.” Pushing up from his desk he added, “So, you think you’ve found the killer, eh? Let’s find out.”

Two weeks later, as I was packing to go home for the winter break, the story broke.
Turned out the old man had been the kidnapper and had killed that poor little girl. Professor O’Connor got a nice big promotion, and I got an A in my Anthropology class.

Rickie thought I should have gotten more recognition, but I was happy with the outcome. Dr. O’Connor had put me in charge of his lab and I was beginning to make friends. I was actually looking forward to coming back next semester.

I turned as Rickie came into the room. “You ready?” She asked. “I can’t wait to meet your family.”

I nodded and smiled. “Let’s go home.”