fiction by carol willis

High Hopes

The autumn air chills Jackson to the bone. High above, clouds drift like ghosts, and shadows rib the hills across the valley. The screech of a hawk echoes as it swoops down a long blue furrow.

“Are we there yet?” Jessie asks too loudly, gravel crunching under her feet. 

“Keep it down!” Jackson whispers over his shoulder. “And stay on the grass.” 

The old Lutz Vineyard Estate looms as they round the bend in the road. Jackson stops at the ancient driveway and holds his hand up for Jessie to wait. The crumbling brick posts stand watch on either side of the drive. The once-flickering gas lanterns are dark, their glass shattered long ago. Cobwebs and small bird nests fill the chinks. Jackson wades through the overgrowth to look for the engraved sign embedded in the brick. He pulls the weeds aside to show Jessie. High Hopes.

“This is it. Mom and dad used to bring us here when we were little. You may be too young to remember.” 

“What a dump,” Jessie snorts. She kicks an old aluminum can, sending it clattering across the gravel. She stares at Jackson, her defiant eyes daring him to reprimand her. 

Jackson starts to say something but thinks better of it.   

The once stately two-story clapboard house is almost unrecognizable. Weathered with peeling paint, the once-gleaming white siding is gray and mottled. The roof sags; a distressed tangle of vines claw their way up the chimney. Mold and faded graffiti stain the boarded windows and front door. The wide porch, once lined with small outdoor tables and chairs, is missing floorboards, and weeds leech through the cracks. Old crates of empty wine bottles, broken glass, and random detritus litter the yard. 

Jackson blenches as a dark figure skirts out of the corner of his eye and disappears behind the house. Only a shadow or trick of the light, maybe. 

“It’s just for the night,” he says, trying to reassure himself as well as Jessie.

When she starts to argue, Jackson cuts her off. “Terry and his goons are going to be looking for us. They’re going to find the car in the ditch. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Jessie laughs, deep and throaty. “God, lighten up. You’re just scared Terry will come after you for breaking up with his sister, little miss Tic Tac.” 

When Jackson doesn’t answer, her face cracks wide open. Her laugh is full-throttled this time. “Oh my God, she dumped you!”

“Shut up. Terry’s going to come after us because you stole his stash!” 

“He’s not going to miss it. Besides, they’re not going to come way the fuck out here.” 

Jessie shakes her head as if he’s the one being unreasonable and childish. But a sheen of sweat is lining her brow, underscoring a faltering bravado. She is waiting for him to lead the way. 

“It was three ounces. He’s going to miss it, Jess.” 

She rolls her eyes and looks up at the house. “I’m not going in there.” 

“Fine,” Jackson says, knowing it’s pointless to argue. He bypasses the decrepit house and heads out back to the old knotted vineyards, now endless rows of twisted brambles. He can hear Jessie trailing behind, picking her way through the shore of random trash and debris. 

Glass shatters against the side of the house and Jessie’s laugh ripples across the open fields. 

“What the hell? Are you trying to draw attention?” Jackson turns around just as Jessie is hurling another empty wine bottle against one of the boarded-up windows. As the bottle crashes against the plywood, Jessie has already reached for another. 

“Cut it out!” Jackson doesn’t even try to keep his voice down. 

Jessie pretends to throw the third bottle at Jackson and laughs when he ducks. “God, take a chill pill.” She tosses the bottle across the yard and it drops in the grass with a thud. “Where are we going, anyway?” 

“To the vineyard in the back. Behind the main house. At least no one will be able to see us from the road.”

Jessie rolls her eyes and shrugs.

“I wish you would take this situation a little more seriously. This is not a game. Terry is a drug dealer. You stole from him. And while making your getaway, you wrecked the car. It is smashed up and still smoking, upside down, in some god-forsaken ditch. By some miracle, we did not die. It is getting dark and we have nowhere else to go until tomorrow. If you have a better plan, please, let me know.”  

“You didn’t have to come along,” Jessie says. “You knew where we were going.” 

“You said we were going to Sonic. I thought I was getting a burger and cherry coke with my sister.” 

“That’s right, you’re innocent. I keep forgetting. You’re the responsible one. I’m just the fucked-up little sister. Who was it that introduced me to marijuana? Oh, and who was it that introduced me to Terry? Huh? Let me think.” Jessie stabs a finger at her temple.

“I made a mistake and I’m sorry.” It was a well-worn argument between them. Jackson’s so tired of it. “Look, what’s done is done. There’s no point arguing. I’m going to head around back. You can do what you want.” 

“Yeah. Okay, whatever.” Her shoulders sag, her body deflates. Stooped and tired, her face is drawn. Jackson suddenly has the impression he is looking at her years into the future as a pitiful old woman, worn and haggard. He shakes his head to dismiss the image. 

“Come on,” he murmurs and gestures with a nod of his head toward the vineyards in the back. Jessie hesitates a moment but starts to follow. He keeps close to the house, reaching out as if to steady himself. 

The wind blows and the house creaks and groans, dank and musty air from inside escapes through the loose siding. A dull tapping comes from somewhere above—the roof or the attic. He hears what sounds like footsteps shuffling along the floorboards. Then there is a soft thump. When Jackson looks up, a shutter, missing several slats, hangs askew from a dormer window. 

“Did you hear that?” Jackson asks, an icy shiver worms up his spine.

“Hear what?” Jessie asks, uninterested. 

“Footsteps. It sounds like someone’s inside.” 

“It’s just the wind.” 

“It sounded like someone was walking down the stairs. I heard it.” Jackson says, looking up again as if he might see someone, or something.

“Seriously, that place is such a rat trap I doubt even a ghost would live in there. But if you want to go inside and check it out, be my guest.” 

The house, crouched and still, watches over the clotted rows of gnarled vines. In the distance, a ridge of blue hills swallows the waning sun, carving a dark jagged line against the sky. At the far edge, a glade dips downward to a puddled bank. 

The day is made strange in the gloam. Jackson scans the darkening with blinking eyes. The grass seems to whisper warnings of a waiting, watching shade. Jackson shivers. 

“Mom used to tell us this place was haunted by the ghost of Mary Hadley, a servant from like. . . a hundred years ago,” Jackson says, glancing behind him at the main house. “Mary comes for boys that don’t protect their little sister. Remember?” Their mom was always going on like that. 

But when he turns back, Jessie’s mouth is puckered around a joint. A thin white ribbon of smoke curls upward. A ratty and torn sleeping bag is tucked under one elbow. “I can take care of myself. Here.” With a smirk, she holds the joint out to him, exhaling.

“You know I can’t,” Jackson says, annoyed.

“Oh, come on. Everyone I know is on something. Doesn’t stop them.” 

Jackson shakes his head. His therapist monitors his THC levels. She won’t prescribe Adderall if he tests positive again. He’s been off his meds for weeks and he can already feel the twitch under his skin, see the glittery fractured edges of things. He needs Adderall more than he needs to get high. 

He hears a snuffle between the rows. A scratching, rustling sound. A clutch of panic claws his insides. He takes a deep breath. “Who’s there?” But no one answers. 

When Jackson looks over, Jessie is sprawled out on the sleeping bag, oblivious. Her skin is pale, almost translucent. He imagines he can see through her. She is staring up at the dusky purple sky, toking on the joint. The sickly sweet smell fills his nostrils. Jackson suspects she is already high.

Something moves behind him. Jackson plunges between a row of vines, cowering on his knees. “Jessie!” he croaks, his throat shut and dry. His limbs are weak, blood drains from his face. With his heart hammering against his side, he peers through the thick. A cat slinks away, melting into the undergrowth. 

Jackson stumbles out of the brambles and staggers back into the open. Crows squawk from somewhere down the hill and shadows flicker at the edge of his peripheral vision. He whirls around, “Who’s there?” But there is no one. 

“You need to calm the fuck down,” Jessie says in her way that is both laconic and dismissive. She didn’t use to be this way. She used to look up to him. 

Still jittery, Jackson looks around again, reassuring himself it was just a cat. A gust of wind chills his skin through the holes in his shirt. His hands are shaking as he zips his jacket. 

He and Jessie are sitting ducks out in the open. They should have camouflaged the car with branches. If Terry and those guys find them. . . Jackson closes his eyes and forces himself to take slow deep breaths, trying to quell the rising panic. 

Still wobbly, he plops himself next to Jessie and together they watch the moon climb the far hills, limning the slivered vineyards with an eerie glow. “We used to picnic and watch the sunset,” Jackson says. The hammering in his chest has slowed to a dull thumping. 

“Spare me the trip down memory lane,” Jessie says. She closes her eyes and flings an arm over her head. 

The wind rattles a loose board, and shutters smack against the dormer. Jackson glances behind him. He gasps when he sees a dark figure hovering on the back porch, but then it renders into the shadows against the house. He stares a long while, but no one emerges. Only shadows within shadows. 

“God, you’re so jumpy. You’re being ridiculous,” Jessie says. She blows a puff of smoke up at the sky. The wind lifts an edge of the sleeping bag like a wing. 

“They’re going to smell that from a mile away,” Jackson says, looking down at her, ignoring her scold. 

“Give it up,” she says. 

“Give what up?” Jackson grabs the joint for her hand and tosses it into the brambles. 

“Hey!” Jessie shouts and bolts upright. “What the fuck, Jackson?” 

“No, answer me. Give what up, exactly? You? The stolen weed? The wreck? Being stranded out here without a car or phone or a way home, waiting for those fuckers to catch up with us?”

“No one’s coming, Jackson. I’ve already paid them.”

“You mean Terry?” 

“Yeah.” Jessie’s voice is small and hollow, like a child’s. 

“How? With what? You said you didn’t even have money for Sonic.”

Jessie is quiet. She turns her head away from him. 

“Tell me what happened in there.” Jackson feels the dark coalesce around him. It is closing in on him. “Jessie.” 

“We made a trade,” she says, finally. 

“With what?”

“Oh, Jackson. Don’t be a Tic Tac.”

He’s quiet. The shadows press him from all around. Comprehension comes like a kick to his insides. She had insisted he wait in the car. Then, the forsaken look on her face, the wrecked car, her unprecedented scorn. 

Truth crept through Jackson like a vine, wrapping around his heart and squeezing tight.

The vineyards shudder with a gust of wind; a screen door slams against the house. Shadows flit about, crowding the edges of his vision. Soft footfalls cross the back porch and descend the rickety steps, scraping across the grass. Jackson hears the folds of a long skirt swish, gliding toward him. He screws his eyes shut, trembling.

Carol Willis received a medical doctorate from Texas A&M University College of Medicine and completed her pathology residency at Vanderbilt University. She obtained an MBA in Healthcare from George Washington University and is currently a candidate for an MFA in writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Her short story entitled “Laws of Attraction” was recently named the first-place winner for its category in the first round of the NYC Midnight short story contest. You can find her short stories in Crimeucopia: Tales from the Back Porch, UnlikelyStories.org, The Cowboy Jamboree, and Inlandia: A Literary Journey.

She practiced medicine in Scottsbluff, Nebraska, and Chicago before moving to Virginia. She lives in Charlottesville with her husband and three uppity chickens.