Chapter 5

With a wide smile on his face, Mory Felton shuffled toward the front door of the diner to welcome the pretty customer. He couldn't remember seeing her there before, but his Mama had told him that everyone was welcome and should be treated as such. He pointed the young woman to a table by the window and handed her a menu. He loved greeting the customers. His Mama said he had a natural talent for it. She said he was friendly and had a handsome smile and that he was very good for business. He liked that. His Mama was so good to him that he wanted her diner full of people who gave his Mama their business.

The smile still on his face, Mory pulled his note pad from his pocket. "Good afternoon. I'm Mory and I will be your server today." Those words made Mory feel so important. He had a special job and Mama always told him he did it well. "Could I get you something to drink?"

The woman was already scanning the menu and looked up briefly at Mory. "Coffee, please."

Mory hurried to the counter and poured the coffee, then slowed his pace as he carried it to her table. He had a tendency to hurry and Mama said his eagerness was a good thing, but that he might spill the food or drinks on himself or the customers and that would be a bad thing.

"What can I get for you?" he asked with enthusiasm.

"I'll have the club sandwich," the woman answered.

"You from the big city?" Mory asked. "You don't look like anybody from Coal Junction, but we're happy to have you just the same."

She seemed to study his face for a moment before answering. "Yes, I'm from the big city. Have you lived in Coal Junction all your life, Mory?"

She'd remembered his name. That was important. Maybe she worked in a diner in the big city and knew the customers liked to be called by name. "I been here all my life," Mory stated with pride. "Mama took me to the big city once to see a doctor. He said I was different and Mama said that was good. We are all different and that's what makes us interesting." Mory tilted his head and eyed her carefully. He knew he wasn't supposed to stare. Mama said that made people uncomfortable. He knew he never liked it when people stared at him. Usually when they stared, they called him names that weren't very nice. "You've been here before," he said with conviction.

"No," she said quickly. "I was just driving through and got a little lost. I passed an old gas station and came to a dead end. There was an old house . . ."

Mory nodded knowingly. "That was Mr. Rueben's house. He don't live there no more."

"Yes," she said. "I noticed it was deserted." She suddenly reached out her hand to Mory. "I'm Belle. Could we talk some more after you turn in my sandwich order?"

"I'm so sorry," he stuttered. "I'll be right back."

More apologies were on his lips when he returned, but Belle brushed them off. "I'm enjoying our talk," she told him. "I'm fascinated by small towns and the history that surrounds them. So, tell me, did this Mr. Rueben live alone?"

Mory's smile returned. This nice woman liked talking to him and didn't seem to care that he was different. "Oh, no. Jessie lived with him most of the time. Jessie loved living with her Uncle Rueben."

"What about Jessie's parents? Why didn't she live with them?"

"Jessie didn't have no daddy. And her mama took her for visits sometimes. I didn't like it when she went away. But Mr. Rueben said she'd be back 'cause her mama was flighty. That's what he said."

"How old was Jessie?"

"Not very old. She was a pretty little girl. We used to play in her yard and Mr. Rueben would make us sandwiches and lemonade. She was my best friend. Mean old Walter at school would make fun of her because she was friends with a retard. I don't know what that means, but my Mama said it was not nice to call someone a retard. And mean old Walter made fun of Jessie because her uncle was different. Not different the same as me, but another kind of different. I was happy when he moved away."

"And what about Jessie? Did she move away too?"

Mory looked down at his scuffed shoes as a strange sound came from deep in his throat. "People say Jessie died a horrible death."

"What happened?" Belle asked.

Mory turned as his mother approached the table with the club sandwich. He'd forgotten to check on Belle's meal and he felt bad about it. She was so kind and seemed so interested in what he had to say. Mama set the sandwich on the table in front of Belle and patted Mory's shoulder. "Introduce me to your friend, Mory."

His ever present smile returning, Mory made the introduction. "This is Belle. She's very nice, Mama."

"Hello, Belle. I'm Doris Felton, Mory's mother. Welcome back."

"Back? You must have me confused with someone else. This is my first time here."

"She drove by Mr. Rueben's house, Mama, and we started talking about Jessie."

Doris smiled warmly as she patted Mory's shoulder again. "Let Miss Belle enjoy her meal."

Disappointed, but knowing his Mama was right, Mory turned to follow her. Belle's voice stopped him. "Please, what happened to Jessie?"

"I don't know, Ma'am. People said she was drowned. But nobody's ever found her."

Belle nodded and pushed her uneaten sandwich aside. "And what happened to Mr. Rueben?"

Mory shook his head as he sucked in a deep breath. "They took him away. He's in that bad place where they put people who kill. I don't like to think of Mr. Rueben in a place like that. He would never hurt Jessie."

"They think he is responsible for Jessie's disappearance?" Belle asked.

"Yes, Ma'am, and Mr. Rueben loved Jessie as much as I did. See them two angels on the shelf over there?" Mory pointed to the wall opposite them. "Mr. Rueben gave them to Mama and me. They are guardian angels. A man who believes in guardian angels wouldn't hurt nobody. I think of him every time I look at them angels and hope Mr. Rueben has a guardian angel too."

"Maybe he does, Mory," Belle said as her eyes remained glued on the two statuettes on the shelf. "Maybe you are his guardian angel, Mory."

Puzzled, but smiling anyway, Mory followed her gaze to the angels. "I'd like that very much. But if I'm his guardian angel, how can I bring him home from that bad place?"

Belle's hand reached for Mory's and she gripped it firmly. "Please help me, Mory. I think I'm Jessie. I think I'm the little girl who lived in that green house with Uncle Rueben."

Chapter 4

Looking at the two tattered dolls on the equally worn front porch seemed a million miles away from Belle’s normal routine that morning. She had woken up seven minutes before the alarm went off, anxious to go on her daily run. The autumn air had rushed through her lungs invigorating her every step; and as she passed familiar landmarks on her 3-mile route she mentally mapped out her day. Make coffee, throw a bagel in the toaster, shower, and sit for an hour or so at her computer desk to enter invoices. Even though it was Sunday, she had planned to eliminate this boring task before the new week started.

She had just landed a big account and she wanted to focus on her clients and not bookkeeping when Monday rolled around. Funny, when she imagined having her own design business this paperwork chore never entered her dreams of late nights shuffling through fabric swatches and paint chips and thrilling hunts for the perfect piece of furniture. But if she continued to get big jobs she may be able to expand her one-woman enterprise to include an assistant for the more mundane aspects of the job.

Belle’s mother, Joan, had called the night before, too, hoping to schedule a Sunday dinner with her daughter. Visits with Belle were scarce now that her business was taking off and Joan relished any time she could arrange. La Vista, a favorite Italian restaurant near downtown, was offering live jazz on Sunday evenings. Belle agreed that enjoying a leisurely dinner with her mother was just what she needed to clear her head and prepare her for another grueling week. Plus, it would give her something to look forward to while she attacked the stack of receipts and work orders.

Belle rounded the last corner to her townhouse. The autumn chill did nothing to temper the energy she expended on her run. Sweat sprung on her forehead—the shower would feel good.

Normal. That is how Belle’s day started. And, now, she stood nearly one hundred miles from her home looking at two very ghoulish dolls. All it took was opening her email account before tackling work that morning to resurrect her intense desire to find out where Annabelle Marshall came from. The message, with “For Annabelle” as the subject, had an unfamiliar email address.

Belle’s curiosity quickly dissolved into anxiety as she scrolled through the message. No identification or name of the sender was given, but the person clearly knew Belle. Various details of her life with Joan were listed as well as an account of various past attempts by Belle to unveil her first 8 years of life. And, then, the person ended the email with the house. Directions out of the city, out of the suburbs, out to the country. Usually a skeptical person, Belle, however, sensed a certain viability about the message. Anyone who knew such intimate details of her life would not pull a cruel prank on her in this way.

Hope welled up again, somewhat cautiously, but it was that hope that kept Belle searching. Yet, it was the same hope she had tried to stifle for the last three years. Her last unfruitful search left Joan emotionally battered and feeling betrayed and worried. She was hurting the people who had loved her and nurtured her through who-knows-what. And it was driving Belle crazy, too. The sleepless nights trying to piece the clues together and trying to will memories to the surface were costing Belle her sanity and life. Belle resolved to let it go and be thankful for what she had. She threw herself into work, building a design business that was finally coming into its own. Sure, there were those days when the questions would creep back into her consciousness, but she resolutely shut them back out. It clearly was a losing battle.

Now this.

Against better judgment, Belle cancelled her plans with her mother—making up a needy-client emergency—and jumped into her car for the long drive out of town. The mile markers streamed by unnoticed while Belle’s mind raced with the possibilities of what she could find. But the abandoned house and childhood toys were not what she expected. And Belle was further alarmed by the mystery caller on her cousin’s phone. She could not make the connections. With her heart beating like a drum she bent down to pick up the dolls. She gingerly inspected them, wondering what she was looking for. The blue beaded eyes looked vaguely familiar as did the faded calico dresses. But was it all from a dream, or some memory desperately trying to make it to the surface? Turning the dolls over, she saw a link to the girl twenty years before. The name “Jessie” was scrawled in permanent ink on the dolls’ plush bodies.

-Angela

Chapter 3

"What?" Belle felt enveloped in a fog of confusion and she tried to clear her head. "And just where do you think I'm supposed to be?" she asked as irritation crept into her voice. She hadn't discussed her plans with anyone, especially not with Taylor. Her annoying cousin would have blabbed the information all over the place, alerting her mother who would feel deceived, and then he would tell her a better way to go about searching for her past. If it wasn't for the fact that he was an expert with computers and her own was old and temperamental, she would delete his number right out of her cell phone.

"The green house. Are you there yet?"

Belle's head snapped toward the neglected house in front of her. "Who is this?" she asked as her mind seemed to clear and had her on alert. "Who are you?"

"Who do you think it is?"

It wasn't Taylor, Belle knew that for sure. The voice, the mannerisms, the way he wasn't rushing through his words and ignoring hers, was evidence enough. "Where's Taylor?"

"Who?"

"Taylor. You're using his phone. Where is he?" she demanded.

"He must have lost his phone."

Panic began to take hold of her. Not only had she rushed out and followed the clues on an anonymous e-mail, but had somehow managed to get Taylor involved too. How, she didn't know. "Where's Taylor?" she asked again. "What have you done to him?" As much as he annoyed her, Belle had no desire to see any harm come to Taylor. Besides, his involvement, whatever it might be, would only complicate matters.

"I told you, I found the phone. What do you think of the house? Have you gone inside?"

Belle stared at the huge lock on the front door and wondered how she'd go inside even if she wanted to. And right now, she didn't want to. She wanted to crawl back into her car, drive far away from there, and drop the entire search. "Who are you?" she repeated firmly.

"A friend. An old friend of the family."

"What is your interest in me?"

"I'm trying to help you."

"Why?"

"You deserve to know the truth."

"What is the truth?" Belle asked in a tentative voice.

"I can't tell you. This is your search."

"This is nonsense," Belle said as a semblance of common sense took hold of her. "You send me an e-mail, you call on my cousin's phone, and refuse to identify yourself. You're up to no good and I'm disconnecting the call."

"Look on the porch steps, and good luck."

The phone suddenly went dead. Again, Belle stared at the pitiful sight in front of her and wondered if she dared to take a few steps forward, just enough to see if there indeed was something to be seen on the sagging porch. She quickly glanced around her to see if she was alone. She didn't feel alone, but as she looked and listened, she could hear nothing but the occasional wind gust.

Slipping the phone back in her bag and pulling out her keys, Belle stepped around the car and craned her neck. On the lower step of the porch she saw two shapes that she couldn't make out. She took another step forward, and then another. She gasped. She didn't know what these images had to do with her past, but in their present neglected and forgotten state, they looked as if they belonged on the steps of the weathered house.

Belle continued to stare as her mind tried to solve the riddle. What did faded ribbons, and chewed limbs, and a missing arm, and torn clothing on two discarded dolls have to do with Belle's life?

Chapter 2

Belle turned away from the house. Feeling foolish and angry, she just wanted to jump back in her car and speed down the road back to her normal life. She was blessed and mostly happy by anyone’s observation, why did she have to go on this fruitless paper chase? Believing an anonymous email seemed so preposterous now. No one had ever been willing to help Belle find her roots—why would someone now have an interest? But, really, it was the desire to know the truth that motivated her to follow any lead, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. Unfortunately, the house was just another roadside relic, unknown to her and her secrets. Another dead end.

The wind picked up as Belle reached for the car handle. Her loose brown hair blew in front of her face, obscuring her vision, just as the passing current lifted the screen door on the side porch. The door swung slowly on its hinges then snapped back to its frame. Belle’s hand relaxed and then fell at her side. She felt woozy…disoriented…then she slipped away.

*****

“Good Heavens, child! How many times do I have to tell you to close the door softly? It just rattles my bones every time.” Uncle Rueben always said this when Jessie came in the house. She had heard it so frequently that it was just white noise to her.

“Well, you came in just in time. Supper is almost ready—I’ve tried a new recipe. And…” Long pause. “Your mother called. And…well, she is in town and will come get you tonight. So, get your hands washed—I want those nails super-shiny clean—and we’ll eat and pack your bag.” And with a twirl, Uncle Rueben returned to the oven to retrieve the roasted chicken he had prepared.

Jessie stood by the door stunned. But why? Wasn’t this the routine so far in her little life? Random houses and questionable motels had provided her shelter since she was born. The only mainstays were her sporadic visits with Uncle Rueben—and even with those, she never knew when her mom or some stranger would swoop in and take her away. Uncle Rueben’s house was the closest thing to home that Jessie knew. And even then things weren’t white-picket perfect.

The brother of Jessie’s mom Sylvia, Rueben was kind to accept these unexpected visits of undetermined length. While he provided some stability for Jessie, he could not give the time and attention the six-year old needed. Sure, there were the nutritious home-cooked meals and the room of her own; but Rueben was preoccupied and misguided. Instead of holding a steady job, he chased one get-rich-quick scheme after the other and spent any additional time and money on the home shopping channel—filling his dilapidated home with gaudy trinkets, jewelry, and clothes. The meager inheritance he had acquired fostered this lifestyle of mild extravagance, but the money couldn’t flow forever. He gave no thought for tomorrow—his top priority was satiating his own tacky tastes and securing his position of fairy godfather of gifts to his small circle of friends. Thankfully he had a passion for cooking and ensured Jessie’s stomach was filled. But meals were spent in front of the TV set with some blonde pitching the latest cubic-zirconian treasure.

But Jessie was accustomed to the loneliness. She spent her days at Uncle Rueben’s neglected house roaming the fields and poking around the overgrown garden in company with the bevy of cats Uncle Rueben kept. Just today she had made a little house under some unkempt bramble for the two dolls her uncle had bought her. It was quiet and calm and a world of her own design. Now, she was being snatched away yet again and had no idea where she would lay her head tonight.

Jessie’s stomach churned at the thought. And, it didn’t help that she was overcome with the pungent scent of If-You-Like-Giorgio-Then-You’ll-Love-Primo perfume as she entered the bathroom to wash her hands. Uncle Rueben practically bathed in it. And while it was nauseating at the moment, it seemed to smell like home.

*****

Belle’s slumped body jolted upright as her cell phone rang. She scrambled to find it in her bag. Finally, with the phone in her hand, she turned it over to see that it was Taylor. “Hey,” she barely found the strength to answer.

“So are you there yet?”

-Angela

Chapter 1

Belle pulled off the narrow country road and stopped her car on the rutted lot of a deserted gas station. The e-mail she'd printed was on the seat beside her. She read over it again, making sure she was following the directions it gave. It was clear to her that this remote part of the world was exactly where she was supposed to be. The deserted gas station with it's ancient pumps was one of the landmarks listed. According to the instructions she was given, her destination was only a few miles away on a road that seemed neglected and forgotten. She gazed at the narrow stretch ahead of her and wondered if she was doing the right thing.

The anonymous person who had sent the e-mail knew what she had tried to hide from others. This person knew she was searching for her roots and seemed to believe the answer was ahead, just around another curve or two in the road. Belle had no idea who this person was or even if this person could be trusted. Wouldn't an honest person reveal a name or a reason for contacting her? And most disturbing of all, what would her mother think if she knew about Belle's current mission?

Her mother. Joan Marshall would be hurt and understandably so. She'd taken Belle into her heart and home when she was eight years old. She nurtured, and loved, and protected Belle as if she'd given birth to her. The remainder of Belle's childhood had been filled with all the normal things like school, and friends, and activities that kept her on the go. Always busy, never time to look back to her first eight years of life. What had they been like? she wondered often. Why were there hazy patches in her memory? Sometimes an image would almost form in her mind, only to disappear a second later. And why did her mother avoid all her questions?

"Oh, Belle," she'd say, "why must it matter now? You have a home and a family who loves you. The past is unimportant."

"But who am I," Belle persisted. "I have a right to know."

"You are Anabelle Marshall, my precious daughter, that's who you are." Joan would smile and tweak her nose and the subject would be dropped.

Belle stared at the road ahead of her. She had come this far and saw no harm in driving another mile or so. If her destination triggered no memories of her former life, she could just keep on driving. Nothing said she had to investigate. Yet, the anonymous e-mail said the answers were there.

She pulled onto the road again and carefully avoided the potholes as she made her way down the winding path. Autumn was making an early entrance and the wind was constantly rearranging the leaves that rained in front of her. She slowed as the road curved while her eyes keep darting from one side of the road to the other. The directions told her the road would end at her destination. Patches of grass jutted up where the worn asphalt had once been and some sections of the road seemed to blend in with the natural surroundings of the area. Belle slowed for another curve and ahead of her she saw the end of the road.

A piece of rusted fence marked the dead end and Belle stopped within inches of it. To her right, was the house she was told about in the e-mail. It was hardly visible from the road and she would have missed it if she hadn't known it was there. Thick underbrush concealed part of it from her view. What she could see were windows that were partially boarded with rotted wood, a sagging porch, and a door with a heavy lock on it. Most of the paint had peeled away from the house, but there were random curls of green paint, a color that would obscure the house when summer was in full bloom. Belle stared at the delapidated house and wondered what secrets it held. Where would she begin to look? The place had been deserted years before. Any secrets that might have been there could easily have decayed along with the structure. And, anyway, Belle didn't know what she was looking for.

She suddenly shivered as she stared at the old house. She tried to picture it new as it might have been when she was younger. Still, it had no appeal. It offered nothing. And Belle felt no signs of recognition as she stared at it. Who sent the e-mail that directed her to this place? What secret could be found among the decay? For a brief moment, Belle wondered again about the wisdom of this search. Maybe she should be content to be Anabelle Marshall, Joan's precious daughter. But something told her she had to learn the truth.

-Peggy