Mary Jane's Grave (7 page)

The next morning, I got the girls off to school before heading to work. Sean, who usually went to kindergarten in Cleveland, was staying with us for a few days while Vanessa went out of town. We’d hired a babysitter to watch him while the rest of us were out during the day.

I decided to call the county health department rather than drive over there because I knew what I needed from them would take some time. In addition to the birth and death certificates, I wanted them to give me a list of the oldest living people in the county, preferably those who remembered their own names.

I was pleasantly surprised when the fax came in less than twenty minutes later. Evidently, the health department folks kept a list pretty close at hand. The employee I had spoken to had written a brief note on the title sheet of the fax, explaining that the list helped the county know when residents hit their magical nintieth and hundreth birthdays. Having survived so long, these super-seniors were rewarded with a card. Personally, I’d rather get a nice check in the mail, but hey, at least it was something.

I immediately faxed the list to our Communications Center to check and update all the addresses. To my amazement, I was faxed the list back within forty- five minutes. This might turn out to be a good day after all.

Scanning the list, I highlighted the top five. The list showed which residents had been born in Richland County. I wanted to start with those who lived in the southern part of the county first, as older people tend to stay with familiar surroundings, and I was hoping to catch a break.

I crossed out three of the top five and found another two who lived south. I grabbed the list and headed out the door. The first three stops were useless; one person was in a nursing home, one had died five days ago and the other had Alzheimer’s. It was at my fourth stop that I detected a shred of hope.

Eighty-seven-year-old Walter Morris lived just south of the town of Bellville, about two miles from Mary Jane’s Grave. He lived in an old, battered farmhouse that sat a couple of hundred yards back from the road. A large red barn that appeared to have survived a century of storms stood directly behind the house. Surprisingly, the lawn was well manicured. Someone was obviously taking care of it.

An old Lincoln with a white hardtop sat in the driveway. I ran a check on the license plate and was somewhat surprised when the dispatcher told me the car was registered to good old Walter, who still had a valid driver’s license. Eighty-seven and still driving—God, I found that scary. On the flip side, though, at least I knew he’d be coherent.

I knocked loudly on the front door several times before I heard signs of life from within the house. As I heard the slow shuffling of feet moving toward the door, I tried to peer through the front windows. It was pretty hard to see anything through the inch of dirt on them. Finally, I heard the door rattle and a moment later it was opened by the oldest man I’d ever seen.

Walter Morris, I presumed. The man looked as if he were two-hundred years old. This isn’t going to work, I thought. I’d be lucky if this guy could tell me his birth date. He might’ve been tall once, but I couldn’t tell since he was bent in half over his walker. He was completely bald except for a light covering of gray fuzz. He reminded me of an ancient baby chick. He squinted at me over the frames of his two-inch- thick glasses.

“Walter Morris?” I asked the obvious question.

“Yes. And who are you?” His voice was surprisingly deep.

“I’m Sergeant Gallagher of the Richland Metropolitan Police Department, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.” I held out my badge, which he peered at over his glasses.

“They lettin’ you gals carry guns now?” he asked affectionately. When he smiled, he revealed a gleaming pair of white dentures.

“Yes, sir, for a while now,” I joked back, and immediately found myself liking him.

“Well, I’ll let you in since you’re so pretty.” He reached over to the door to push it open, but I grabbed it quickly to prevent him from falling over.

“Have a seat over there, young ‘un.” He pointed to a couch in the living room, but I kept standing close to him to make sure he’d make it into the room without any help.

“I know what you’re thinking, but sit, young lady! I’ve been gittin’ around on my own for twenty years now, and I don’t need any help.” He was still smiling, clearly proud of his dental work.

I sat and waited as he made his way over to an old lounge chair in front of a window. It took a few minutes for him to turn himself around, put the walker to the side and sit down.

“There now, I ain’t the quickest draw in the West, but I’ll get there eventually. Now what can I do for you?”

Despite his physical deterioration, his mind appeared quite sharp for his age. I got the impression that he didn’t receive many visitors, since he seemed thrilled to have someone to talk to.

“Mr. Morris, I—”

“You can call me Walt. No need to be formal.”

“Okay, Walt. How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life. I grew up in this here house,” he said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice.

This was exactly what I’d hoped for. Maybe Walter Morris could answer my questions after all.

“Now, what’s this all about?” he asked, his gaze turning sharp.

“Mr. Mor—Walt, I wanted to know if you remember any of the Hendricksons, some folks who once lived around here. This would have been close to sixty, seventy years ago, so I can understand if you don’t.”

Walter’s shiny dentures disappeared as his mouth tightened when he’d heard the Hendricksons’s name. I hoped I hadn’t hit a nerve. By the look on his face, I knew he remembered his former neighbors very well.

“Listen, young lady, I know what you’re getting at, but take some advice from an old fart like myself. Some things are best left alone.”

“Walt, I was just asking if you knew them, that’s all.”

He leaned forward. “Again, I know what you’re getting at. I know all about the witch crap. I know what happened a couple of days ago, too. I still read the papers. Far as I’m concerned, the place has been and always will be evil.”

“Now, Walt, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?” I prodded. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as I waited for his answer.

“Wouldn’t know. I only know what happened when I was a child and that was enough for me to believe in that place. I never went back again.” He let out a loud, gassy burp. “Sorry ‘bout that. These kids nowadays don’t know what their messin’ with. They think it’s fun and all, but look what just happened.”

“What do you think they’re messing with, Walt? Please tell me whatever you can. A seventeen-year-old girl was brutally murdered, and the killer is still walking around. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

“That girl is dead because she disrespected sacred grounds.”

I silently groaned. I wondered if Walter was one of those superstitious people who never walked under ladders or used the number thirteen.

“I ain’t superstitious, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, startling me a little. Was the man a mind reader, too?

“I wasn’t implying that you were,” I said defensively.

“You had that look on your face, like you think I’m some fruit loop or something. I’m fine and I know what I know, and that’s it,” he grunted.

“Okay, Walt. Can you just tell me what you know?” I leaned back against the couch, trying to curb my growing impatience.

“I’ll tell you what I remember,” he began reluctantly. “But I was just a boy, maybe nine or ten, so my dates are kind of fuzzy. Me and the nigger kid…Oh!” He looked surprised. “I forgot you don’t call them that anymore. One day, me and the colored kid that lived down the road was out catching crawfish and frogs down at the river. He asked me if I heard about the witch, and I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. Well, he told me that a witch had been buried at the cemetery, and he dared me to walk back there with him.”

I sat forward. “I’m assuming you went?”

“Yup. Worst mistake I ever made in my life. It was near dark when we made it down there. I knew I’d be gettin’ the board on my bare ass when I got home, but I didn’t care. I remember standing there and looking at that tree when I heard the crying. The colored kid, don’t remember his name, maybe Eddie? Edgar? I saw him get a scared look on his face like I’d never seen before. I turned my head to see what he was looking at, and there was the woman. She was standing at the edge of the woods. I even remember what she said.”

My heartbeat went into overdrive. “She
spoke
to you?”

“Sure did. She was quiet enough, but I heard it. She said, ‘I forbid violence.’” He stared off into nowhere as if he were reliving it. “She was crying when she said it. Normally, I wouldn’t have been so scared, but she just didn’t look like she was real or alive…. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Not really.” I wasn’t too convinced, and I asked what he meant to avoid hearing another ghost story.

“I’m not gonna explain it to you, then,” he growled, his eyebrows furrowed. “All I know is we ran home as fast as we could. I was so scared that I even told my folks. The kicker was that they weren’t surprised. All they said was to never go back, and to tell no one who or what I saw there.”

I wasn’t following him. “What do you mean, ‘who’? Did you know the woman?”

“Oh, I know who she was all right. I found out years later. Don’t expect me to tell you, though,” he grumbled. “I’m eighty-seven, and I’d like to make it to eighty- eight.”

“Walt, no offense, but what does all this have to do with the Hendricksons?” I was more lost than when I’d arrived.

“You’re not listening. The Hendrickson house stood inside the cemetery—it was a small family plot back then. What they didn’t know then, and this is mapped on county documents, is that the ground directly behind the cemetery was used by the Mohawk Indians as a burial ground.”

I couldn’t help snorting. “My goodness, that’s quite a busy place. Not only was a witch buried there, but an Indian burial ground? I bet if we kept digging, we’d find the first aliens buried next to Jimmy Hoffa.”

Walt wasn’t amused. “This wasn’t meant for your entertainment, missy. You asked and I’m telling you.”

I put my hands up in apology. “I’m sorry, Walt. Please continue with your story.”

“All I know is the original Hendrickson place burnt down, and Mary Jane’s daughter, Madeline, lived with the Secrists until they died. She stayed on after they left her the house.” He took a deep breath. “She was a strange woman, a recluse according to people around here. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I found out Madeline had a daughter, Maryanne, living there with her. No one knew anything about her, and there was no mention of a father. Maryanne died in the late 1980s, I believe. That house has been empty ever since. However, there was talk that Maryanne had had a child, but no one has ever seen him or her. I do know I saw the girl around the Second World War and she looked so pregnant I thought she was gonna bust.”

I waited for more, but Walt stayed quiet, staring off into space. I hoped he wasn’t on the verge of falling asleep in the chair. I wanted to keep him talking.

“Walt, is there more?” I asked quietly.

“Not that I’m able to say. I’ve told you all I’m allowed. People have kept quiet for over a hundred years, and it was meant to stay that way.”

I couldn’t help it. I was getting frustrated. “Walt, for crying out loud, you said yourself you’re not superstitious. Why can’t you just tell me everything?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He sighed deeply. “There’s only one thing I can tell you…. If you want to find out everything, start with Ceely Rose.”

I was now thoroughly baffled. “Ceely Rose, as in the Malabar Farm murderer Ceely Rose?”

“That’d be the one. That was one evil woman. She’s the one responsible for this whole mess.”

I was shaking my head. “Walt, please, I’m really confused.”

He began standing up and reaching for his walker. “Sorry, young lady. I may have said too much already, but if you’re as smart as you look, you’ll figure it out on your own.”

I looked at him, incredulous, as he made his way to the front door. I didn’t want to leave yet. He had me so puzzled I almost wished I hadn’t come. As he stood at the door, I finally got off the couch. When I went to walk out, Walt put his hand on my arm.

“Listen, young lady, I like you. You’re good people—I can feel it in my bones. No matter what, just remember to be careful.”

“Thank you, Walt, you take care of yourself, too,” I said, disappointment obvious in my voice.

I sat in my car for a long time going over everything Walt had said. I had taped the entire conversation, but I didn’t need to listen to it right now; everything was still fresh in my mind. I think what threw me off guard the most was the mention of Ceely Rose.

I didn’t know much about her except the basics. She had lived with her family on Malabar Farm back in the 1800s. Malabar Farm was a large, rolling estate nestled within the foothills. Bought by author Louis Bromfield in the 1930s, Malabar Farm served as the wedding site for Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart. Bromfield left the entire area to the State of Ohio upon his death. Now a state park, it sits less than a mile from Mary Jane’s Grave.

The Ceely Rose ghost has also been a local favorite. However, her story was quite real. Ceely Rose, a physically unattractive woman, lived with her family and had no friends or acquaintances. She was befriended by a local boy who felt sorry for her, and she mistook his friendship for a marriage proposal.

Not wanting to hurt her feelings, the boy said he couldn’t marry her because her parents didn’t approve of him. Angry and distraught, Ceely took flypaper, soaked it in water to extract the arsenic, and poured it over her family’s cottage cheese. They all died. The county sheriff cornered her and got her confession, and she lived out the rest of her life in a mental institution in Lima, Ohio, where she’s also buried.

The story goes that Ceely’s ghost haunts the farm. If you drive past the house where she and her family lived, you can allegedly see her in the upstairs window. I remember taking a field trip to the farm in the first grade and hearing the story. It became so popular that a play was written and shown at the farm every year. It was simply called
Ceely
.