Callie

(a ghost story)

I haven’t written a substack post in a while, and I’m feeling a little guilty. I actually have about three projects I’d like to post, but they’re taking a little more care and research than usual. So, they’re still cooking…

But meanwhile, a few days, I heard Kelly Link talk in the Town Hall in Seattle. She talked about ghosts and ghost stories. And it got me thinking (as Kelly’s work almost always does) about ghosts, and memory, and justice, and the psychological afterimages of trauma. I mentioned this my granddaughter, and she told me she loves ghost stories. I never wrote a ghost story before. But it seemed like a thing something I might be able to pull off. And so, mixing together a dangerous potion of guilt, Kelly Link fan-boyism, and doting grandparent, I came up with this story.

Tell me what you think.

---

                                                       Callie
It was getting late, about four in the afternoon on a dreary
November day, as I recall. I was thinking of closing the shop; there had
been no customers since noon; nobody wanted to drag themselves to a
secondhand shop in Seattle on a day like this. I had done a brisk
business during Halloween – all the Princesses and Gypsies and
whatnot. None of them knew what the old wedding gowns and coats
were originally used for. No sense of history, of continuity. Precious
heirlooms were used as junk jewelry; cheap paste masqueraded as
crowns and tiaras.

But instead of closing up I leaned forward on the stool behind
the counter and began to sort through the latest box of fading memories.
I like looking at my shop in the failing light. Antiques and old clothing
look so much better in shadow, don't you think? Under harsh
fluorescents they look cheap and shabby, but in the dimness they
breathe a dreamy elegance.

I had bought the cardboard carton from one of the last scions of
a well-to-do family, once lumber barons, now faded like the old ball
gowns I sell. You would recognize their name if I told you. There was
little in the box that was salable: a corroding chain for a pocket watch, a
few faded photographs, a bag of buttons. But one item caught my eye. It
was an elegant tortoiseshell comb, encrusted with tiny seed pearls,
yellowing with age. It was grimy, and had obviously been stored in
some attic or lumber room for ages. But with a little care it could be
quite beautiful. I pushed the carton of junk aside, and placed the comb
on the glass counter in front of me. I imagined some elegant woman
wearing it proudly in her hair, a hundred or a hundred fifty years ago.

It was then that wind-chimes that I use as a shop bell sang. The
door opened and they tinkled a little more in the chill breeze that
whisked through the shop, stirring the gauzy fabrics on my round racks
and fluttering old theater posters.

The little girl who entered could not have been more than eleven
years old, somewhere in that nameless zone between childhood and
adolescence. She was wearing faded finery from an era some time
before the last century. No coat nor sweater. Her legs were bare
underneath a translucent slip or shift, but she didn't look cold. In the
dim light it seemed as if she had burns or livid bruises on her neck and
legs, but they shifted or vanished as she moved from shadow to shadow.

I'm always alert when a child comes into the store. There isn't
much to shoplift here, but sometimes the kids think the shiny junk is
valuable. The most expensive item I ever lost was a vintage set of Peter
Rabbit volumes. But this little girl was drawn to the most precious
items, fingering old silk, a sad mink muff, some tarnished silver
brooches. I didn't get the impression of a nervous thief; more of a vague
sadness, like a daguerreotype of a long dead family, a story told long
ago and then forgotten.

"Hello, sweetheart," I said to her. "Can I help you find
something?"

The girl shook her head. Her voice was a little hoarse, with an
accent I couldn't quite place.

"No. Thank you, missus."

"No need to be so formal, dear. I'm Mandy. Amanda. What's
your name?"

"It's Callie, missus. Calliope."

"Calliope! A beautiful old name. You don't hear of many
Calliopies now-a-days." I thought about the other muses and their
beautiful names, now fading out of memory or used as jokes. Or comic book characters.

"Thank you, Missus."

"Mandy."

She smiled. Her teeth had never seen a dentist, I thought, but it
was a good smile nevertheless. She walked up to the counter and stuck
out her hand.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

I shook her proffered hand and, falling into the mood of what I
assumed was some sort of game, I replied, "Charmed."

Callie looked through my counter, almost smudging her nose on
the glass. My fingers itched for my bottle of Windex.

"You have so many pretty things!"

"Thank you!" I said. "I like pretty things. Especially old ones.
Not too many people appreciate old things anymore."

The girl's eyes wandered over to the tortoiseshell comb and
stopped. She touched it carefully, brushing one finger across the pearls.
Almost a caress.

"I know a story about a comb like that," she said.

"Do you now?"

She nodded.

"Would you like to tell me?"

She nodded again. "Once upon a time…".

"A good beginning!"

Callie frowned. I understood immediately that I had been rude.
"I apologize. Please continue."

"Once upon a time. A long time ago, I think. There was a man
who lived in a beautiful valley, surrounded by tall, tall trees, and filled
with all sorts of wild flowers and animals.

"The man was a farmer. He came to this valley because the people
on the big island he used to live on were very cruel to him. They wanted
to punish him for not believing in the same things they believed."

"That's sad, Callie. It happens often. What did the farmer do?"

"He cleared the land. Not a lot. Just what he needed. And grew
vegetables and hunted deer. There were a lot of deer. He sometimes
hunted beavers and tanned their skins, and traded them to the people in
a little town not too far away, for sugar and tea and clothing – things he
couldn't make by himself."

"And was this farmer married?"

"Not at first. But then he met a beautiful — woman."

Callie said a word I didn't understand.

"What kind of woman?"

More slowly, "Duwamish."

"So this farmer, he lived around here? Around Seattle?"

The girl looked confused. "I don't know. Maybe. So much has
changed."

"Well, tell me more about this farmer and his native wife. Did
they love each other?"

Callie smiled her broken smile. "Oh! So much! And they had a
little daughter. And they loved her oh so much, too. The woman was
named—"

She said a word I didn't understand. All sorts of strange
consonants were in it.

"It means Little Rabbit. And his name was Robert. And Little
Rabbit taught Robert how to catch salmon and smoke them. And she
taught him all about the plants and mushrooms and berries and roots
that grew wild, so he didn't have to grow everything himself. And she
baked bread with salmon berries and a nasty kind of root."

She made a disgusted face, as if she were eating some revolting concoction.

"And were they happy, Robert and Little Rabbit?"

"Oh yes. Especially when their daughter was born. Very happy."

"You don't look as though they were happy. What happened?"

"The people in the town by the water. They didn't like Little
Rabbit or her people. They thought it was wrong for someone like them
to marry someone like her."

"That's so sad, sweetheart! People can be so cruel! Even today."
I stopped for a moment, considering whether prejudices had changed
since the Duwamish people made their homes here. "Especially today."

"There were men in the town. They made money by cutting
down trees and selling the wood. They were very rich. They wanted
Robert to sell them his land, because it was surrounded by the biggest,
most beautiful trees."

"And did he?"

"No! What do you think!" She looked offended. "He refused.
They asked and asked, but he said no! No! No!"

I felt a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I felt I knew where
this tale was going, and I hated it already. Despite the growing tightness
in my throat, I asked. "And then what happened?"

Callie was quiet for a long moment. "At last, when the moon
was dark, men came by with torches. Robert's house was made of fir
logs. It burned down so quickly!"

"Oh!"

"But don't worry. Robert and Little Rabbit escaped, and went to
live with the Duwamish people. But the bad men from the town took
Robert's land and cut down all the trees."

"But what about the little girl?"

"The little girl." Callie stared at the comb on the counter. She
didn't speak for a while. "The little girl had a treasure. Robert and Little
Rabbit were very poor, but they bought their daughter a treasure. A
comb. A pretty comb to wear in her hair. Just like that one on your
counter. She loved it so much!"

"What happened to the girl?"

"When Little Rabbit called her. When the men with torches
came to burn up their house, Little Rabbit called and called and called.
The girl should have listened. She really should have! But she didn't
want to leave her treasure behind. She climbed up to her room in the
loft, looking and looking. But there was smoke. So much smoke."

"Oh my God!"

"The little girl. I think… I think she must have died in the fire."

This was a story. Just a story that happened more than a century
ago, if it happened at. Yet my eyes were filled with tears.

Callie looked at me. Her eyes were dry but her lips were drawn
tightly together in deep sadness, or maybe regret. Regret for what?

"I have to go now, Missus."

I felt that I wanted to hug her, but I knew somehow that would
be wrong. I wanted to do something for her.

"Callie," I said. "Do you want this comb? It would look
beautiful in your hair."

She looked at me with the saddest eyes. "You are kind, Missus.

But I don't need anything. Goodbye."

And with that, she left my shop. I never saw her again.

After she left, I went back to examining the comb. A little
superglue would hold the pearls back in place, and maybe rubbing alcohol
would remove some of the accumulated smoky grime. I took out a
cotton swab and began cleaning the handle. As I did, I noticed some
shallow indentations on the inner side. I rubbed it carefully with a
chamois cloth I keep around just for things like this. I could tell that
there was an inscription. I held my desk lamp at an angle to highlight
the words: "To My Beloved Daughter Calliope."

I never sold that comb.