The Skull

          Martha Millett halted breathless under a majestic oak in awe of the wintry scene before her. Through all her fifteen years of life, she had loved this season for the stark beauty it brought to the landscape. Today was another frigid day. If the temperature could be raised one degree, the frost on the branches would have melted, but now, the trees stood shivering, crackling, and naked, for the dead of winter reigned, even if the creek still kept flowing.

         Unlike most people who made their intentions known right away, the creek took a course of its own, snaking among the boulders in the bottom of the ravine and chanting. It carried ice particles and snow drifts along its course, sometimes depositing them to amass on the fallen logs and branches, other times sneaking them under man-made, low, wooden bridges, without heeding the scepters of summer that stirred with the wind inside the dead, rust-colored leaves on the banks of the water.

         Maybe this was the result of the original sin and not the changing seasons or the ghosts that stirred among the trees, inside the dead leaves, or under the ground. For the people of Nora's Creek, it was the devil's wind that made their breaths visible.

         For them, no ghosts existed except for the Holy Ghost...until someone witnessed those seven ghosts that danced and sang before dawn, even before the roosters crowed. Those seven ghosts descended on Nora's Creek when the angels halted crooning on the mountains to practice the songs they were scheduled to sing on Judgment Day. When the "hallelujahs" of the angels--only heard by those powerful in spirit like Pastor Ross--stopped, the residents of Nora's Creek became concerned.

         When Michael Owens--the town drunk who momentarily espied the seven ghosts' presence--related his story, no one believed him. Michael said the leader of the ghosts told him, "Get away from here unless you want to catch hell," while the other six ghosts grunted in agreement.

         But then, who would believe a man like Michael who woke up most mornings curled up around a shopping cart and started to drink again to sleep even more? Afterwards, when several woodsman returned from cutting wood stark naked and told the people that ghosts ripped their clothes off of them, people concurred these seven ghosts could be some evil beings from Gehenna.

         'At the end,' Martha thought, snuggling into her snorkel, 'Folks believed Michael. But then, they also accepted the pastor who obviously lied about hearing the angels sing.'

         Surely, the pastor had something to gain from his lie, like the opportunity to influence and exploit mindless folks. Didn't the news of divine goings on easily fool people into submission? Martha didn't care much for the boring church or the pastor who wore rimless spectacles.

         Yet, Michael had nothing to gain but ridicule by saying he saw those ghosts, and thus, Martha came here to investigate if the rowdy ghosts really existed in the woods. Who else but Martha could figure out what really went on?

          There was something about Martha even her adopted parents didn't know. When Martha was four years old, her biological parents, the gypsies, came to her in a vivid dream. They showed her where she was born...a tent with a multicolored interior.

         Martha believed her dreams more than anything; the teachers, the newscasters, the weathermen, or any of the so-called experts. And she was right. Her dreams always came true.

         After that first dream in which she met her gypsy parents, Martha started to see auras around people and the apparitions of the dead who visited their kinfolk, even if no one caught on to their existence. Once, when Martha talked about what she saw, her adopted mother slapped her and told her whatever it was that she thought she saw, she'd better keep it to herself, or she would go through the wrath of the church and Pastor Ross.



         The leaves crackled under her boots, as Martha trudged along the creek's sloping banks. She watched where she stepped so she wouldn't slip on the ice and fall into the creek.

         When an unusual feeling came over her, she lifted her head and looked at a clump of trees in amazement. Their trunks had twisted and gnarled like faces contorted with fear. Even stranger, some of them were without bark; yet, they were perfectly alive.

         Martha took off one of her mittens and laid her bare hand on one of the trunks. Yes, she could feel the sap running. She examined the trees carefully, but she saw no hack marks. What had caused the trees here to display such trepidation?

         Martha stood upright and said out loud, "Okay, out with it! In the name of the people of Nora's Creek, I ask you to reveal yourselves." She waited a second or two; then, she added, "I'll find out if someone can help you."

         Martha felt a stirring among the trees' branches, but she espied no ghosts. She could have turned back and gone home, but she knew to be patient with ghosts. Also, she hated to see things get half-done.

         Still, nothing happened. As she was about to leave, from a clump of trees, she heard a hoarse whisper.

         "Wait!"

         Martha squinted to see. When she perceived a small transparent whirlwind-like motion, her heart started a fierce beat, moving suddenly into her throat and giving her a choking sensation, but she controlled herself.

         An eerie shimmer swirled in front of her to form into a nearly fluid apparition neither solid nor transparent. The apparition held a wooden arrow pointed to the ground. A bow made from a branch hung from his shoulder.

         More than fear, curiosity sharpened Martha's senses, making her become aware of every line and blemish on the man's face and body. Yes, this was a man all right, and the light of the waning day reflected off of him as it would any object. His form had a reddish brown skin, as if sunburned. His torso was bare, and he wore only a skirt of reeds.

         This vision was no hallucination but something otherworldly. A ghost, it had to be. Martha stayed put and waited.

         The apparition took a step forward toward Martha; as he did so, other swirling figures began taking shape behind him. A strain of indecision took hold of Martha. Was she being outnumbered? Should she run away?

         She had witnessed nothing like this before. Except for the baker's great grandmother who always emerged dancing the minuet in a hoop skirt, other ghosts she had seen earlier wore outfits like most anyone in town. Other ghosts never carried bows and arrows and made themselves visible while half naked.

         The seven ghosts advanced toward her as if being swept by an unseen wind.

         Martha focused narrowly on the motions of the ghosts until she was oblivious to fear, a practice inborn in her like other gifts.

         "Someone from your town has a skull; a skull that belongs to one of us," boomed the voice of the ghost in front.

          Martha played along. "What a shame! Who'd do a thing like that?" she moaned, as if making a statement rather than asking a question.

          "The skull is here, in Nora's Creek. You need to return it. Or else."

          "Where did the skull come from?"

          "From the Andes, and it has to be found." The ghost in front pointed to another ghost. "He feels his head is here." Strangely enough, that ghost in the back lacked a head.

          "I'll see what I can do," Martha said, although she didn't know what she could do. But she understood that one should never take anything away from ghosts, for they had a way of spooking people and playing with their heads.

          The ghost pointed to the trees. "You return the skull; we'll return the barks. If the skull is not returned to its proper place, your people will lose their skins."

          Martha nodded. "Let me ask around," she said. "And please, wait before you do anything."

          The ghosts raised their hands and disappeared the same way they had materialized a few minutes earlier.


          As Martha trudged back to town, she evaluated how to approach the subject. Should she talk first to the mayor or to the elderly Mrs. Gillels who was always so kind to her? Or should she bring up the subject with her parents? 'Maybe my mother,' Martha thought, 'Even if I risk getting a good scolding from her.'

          "From the Andes," the ghost had told Martha. Who in town could have brought a skull from the Andes? Next day all through the school hours and later at work in the Coffee Shop Diner, questions kept circling inside Martha's mind.

          That evening she asked her mother, "Do you know anyone here in town who has been to the Andes, Mom?"

          "To the Andes? What a rare thing to ask...Why?"

          "Just a school project."

          "Hardly anyone leaves the state here. Let alone the Andes. Why don't you pick another topic for your project?"

         "Thanks. Maybe I will."

         Next day, Martha asked the same question to a few other people, but their answers were similar to her mother's. Not knowing what else to do, she pondered if she could get more information from the ghosts themselves, but hesitated on this possibility, too. These ghosts made her hold her breath and clench her jaws with dread. The other ghosts, ghosts of the townsfolk who sometimes came to visit their next of kin, were mild-mannered. In contrast to most other ghosts she had seen, the ghosts in the woods materialized slowly, dressed oddly, and they threatened with violence.

          Just to show her they meant business, hadn't they skinned the trees already? A chill climbed slowly up Martha's spine, warning her of an impending danger. Still, Martha had to face them again, because they could do what they threatened to do or even more.

          Feeling uneasy and somewhat foolish, Martha turned around after she had walked up to a block away from her home. While she was rounding up a corner, a sudden siren and the skidding sound of a truck startled her. When she looked ahead, she saw an emergency vehicle in front of a house. A deep-chested bawling of a child followed a woman's cries. "I don't know what's happening to him? His skin is coming off in layers."

          Martha's uneasiness immediately swelled into terror. The ghosts were at it.They had begun to wrap their wickedness around Nora's Creek. Martha started running towards the woods.

          If it weren't for her optimistic nature, Martha could run home instead and huddle inside the patchwork quilt on her bed, but then, it wasn't just her optimism. A menacing quality, a jagged distortion lurked in the flow of normal life in Nora's Creek. What if the ghosts' deeds were not stopped?

          Martha recognized the farce in this situation. She--Martha--only a young girl, who was she to stop such a horrifying threat? And a threat most sane people would find preposterous?

          The swishing of an arrow and the sound of fluttering leaves startled her as soon as she reached the woods. She felt only the backlash of an arrow's swift grazing of her forehead.

         "Fear nothing!" She heard her gypsy mother's voice in her ears. "It's only an illusion." These words intrigued Martha in spite of the tidal wave of trepidation that enveloped her .

         "Are you suicidal?" she yelled into the woods. Then, she answered her own question. "No, how can you be? You're already dead." She paused to catch her breath. Then, she added, "You are just being wiseasses. You sink an arrow into me and who can help you?"

         Formidable and fierce, the eerie shimmer swirled in front of her into form slowly. "We can't be too patient," the ghost said with a faint voice. "You are taking too long."

         Martha took a step forward to show that she didn't fear him. "What else have you got but wait? You could skin the entire town, but the skull won't be found if I don't help you."

          Her words must have had a troubling yet perverse effect, because the other six ghosts, too, swirled into shape. "I need my head," begged the headless ghost. "Please, let her, Chief."

          Amazing! The ghost without the head could talk; although, each time he said something, his voice drew steadily away. Then, didn't ghosts always had something to say or to display? Otherwise, why would they be ghosts?

          "Do you know who took the skull? And why?" Martha asked. "Do you know where I can find it?"

          "A grave robber," the headless ghost answered, tapping his feet. "Several grave robbers came and took our belongings from the graves. In addition, they took one of the skulls, my skull." His voice dimmed.

          "We traced after him," their chief continued. "That man took the skull to a building far away from here where they measured and tagged it. We stayed with that man, trying to make him take it back, but he collapsed in a mad frenzy and died in the burning building."

          "All your doing?" Martha asked, feeling the goose flesh break out on her arms. She tried to concentrate, to use her gifts, so she wouldn't panic, but they didn't seem to be working anymore.

          "It had to be done," another ghost said.

          "A second guy who worked in that building carried the skull out of the burning building and kept it," the headless ghost said. "That fellow lives in your town and the skull is here." The headless ghost was getting paler and paler. What little life force he summoned was draining off.

          The chief took up the story again. "It is difficult for us to stay noticeable by you. But it is the story. The skinning will continue until you bring us the skull."

          "What's that man's name?"

          The question was too late. Martha thought she heard a faint name starting with a B, but she wasn't sure, and the ghosts vanished.

          "You have to give me time," she screamed after them, but to no avail.

          They weren't joking for sure, these ghosts. Inside herself, Martha felt their iniquity. She didn't know if trying to find the lost skull made her stupid and overly sensitive; however, she understood one thing: Nora's Creek was in trouble.


          After weighing her alternatives, Martha decided to ask Pastor Ross about the man who burned alive inside a building, the man who had taken the skull. After all, Pastor Ross knew everyone--well, almost everyone--in Nora's Creek and its surroundings.


          When Martha entered the church, she heard Pastor Ross telling someone from the congregation, "The hardest part of living out the Gospel of Christ is taking the first step out of one's comfort zone."

          'So true,' Martha thought as she slipped on to a pew. On his own, Pastor Ross would come near her. She knew that, because he had been encouraging her to attend church and take part in the youth group activities.

          Martha had guessed right. "So nice to see you, Martha," the pastor approacher her. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

         "I have a question, Sir. Is it a sin to take dead people's skulls? In case, I study medicine someday..."

          "Good question." Pastor Ross weighed his words. "In case of medicine, well, I wouldn't know; well, maybe with the deceased's consent, before his demise, of course."

          Oh," Martha said, "But what about grave robbers? Are they in trouble?"

          "I don't know about trouble, but the dead should not be disturbed." Pastor Ross nodded seriously. "Your question reminds me of the Institute of Liandonville. It burned down about ten years ago, with people in it."

          "Institute of Liandonville?" She had to be calm about her questioning, even offhand. "I remember something like that. Wasn't the institute a part of the Liandon State College?"

         "Yes, folks spread an outrageous rumor about it. They said the place was cursed because of the skulls, some of them prehistoric. Silly, of course."

          "Did anyone survive that fire?"

          "One person. I know it because he lives here now, in Nora's Creek."

          "How interesting! Who's he?"

          "Robert Brandt. He attends our church. He lives close to your place. In the Fairvista Apartments. Now about the youth group..."

          "Say when, Sir, and I'll attend." Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she stood up. Her mother would be pleased now, for sure.

          Martha clutched the slip of paper with Brandt's address and hurried toward Fairvista Apartments. The phone book in the library had finally served a purpose.

         Excited with the prospect ahead, she knocked on Brandt's door. Seeing the doorbell later, she rang it several times. Just as she was about to leave, the door to the next apartment creaked open.

         "Looking for Bob?" An old woman asked as she held on to the collar of a small terrier with white shaggy hair.

         "Yes, but I can come back."

         "He was suddenly taken to the hospital this morning. Poor guy! It has something to do with that skin epidemic in town."

         When Martha found out that the hospital denied visitors to the skin-epidemic patients, she approached the subject in a different way. "I would like to become a candy-striper," Martha told the woman in the information desk. "When can I begin?"


         The nurse gave Martha an uncertain glare, when she walked in to Brandt's room, in her candy-striper's uniform, rolling the book cart. "He's in no condition to read," the nurse said, in desperation. "We're shorthanded and I can't even leave him alone to see the other patients or call home to check on my kids."

         Martha reached for her shoulder in a friendly manner. "I'll watch him while you make a call; take your time." The nurse hesitated. "No one needs to know," Martha reassured her. "I'll ring the station if something goes wrong,"

         The nurse left in a hurry.


          "Mr. Brandt," Martha called to the patient whose eyes had dulled with horror and shock. "I know of a way to make you feel better."

          From inside his grisly blood-stained mummy-like wraps, "Leave me alone," the man groaned.

          "Look, I don't have much time to explain, but the skull you took from the institute, the Liandon Institute, is causing your pain and this epidemic. If you still have it, it needs to be sent back."

          Robert Brandt stared wildly into Martha's eyes. "I took it...just to save it from burning." He coughed, spitting blood. "It's a Chachpoya skull, cloud warrior skull from the upper Amazon. Professor Massiculp had brought it."

          "Well, that seems to cause a lot of trouble."

          "How do you know this?"

          "From a person who knows these things."

          "I should have sent it to the Museum of Natural History." Robert Brandt coughed again. "Too late now."

         "I can take care of that for you."

          He looked relieved. "It's in my apartment. The key..."

          At that moment the nurse walked back in. "He should not talk too much," she said crossly. "But thank you, anyway."

          "Just one thing nurse, please," Brandt said. "Give this young lady the key in the drawer. The object is inside the glass case on the wall unit in the living room, Miss."


          The woods turned darker and denser, and the creek slushed over its banks along its long tangled corridor. Carrying the grocery bag with the skull inside, Martha walked as fast as she could, and with each step, a headful of scary ideas flooded her thoughts. Why were her gifts, the ones she was born with, not working?

         Somehow, something did not feel right. Martha felt the hint of a foreboding, but possibly, a nervous feeling resulting from the strain of the emergency vehicles, the sirens, and the people losing their skins.

         The clouds began to rumble and Martha looked up to the sky, then lowered her gaze to the shadows inside the woods. "I brought it," she yelled, putting the grocery bag down and taking a few steps backwards.

         The eerie glow swirled and spiraled into the form of the ghost chief.

         "This won't do." His hoarse voice implied sorrow. "The skull must be taken back to where it came from. Otherwise the warrior will be headless through infinity."

         "You didn't tell me that. I don't even know where it came from. Even if I did, I have no way of taking it there." She was barely aware that she said all those words in one breath and that she was shouting at him.

         "We know you tried and we thank you. What must be done, however, must be done."

         Martha raised her hands and clapped them over her ears. She didn't want to hear any more threats.

         When she brought her hands down again, the ghost had disappeared. She took a last look inside the shopping back. The skull had turned onyx black with red rims around its eyeholes.

         Martha was too scared to cry. "Go home," her gypsy mother's voice whispered in her ear. "Go home and stay inside." Martha bolted to her feet and ran, trembling all over at the edge of panic.

         On the horizon, the sky opened and closed repeatedly, as if clapping her while she ran. Lightning pierced the sky, casting patterns of light and shadow on Nora's Creek, and the shadows of the sky appeared to be taking the forms of amcient Andean warriors.

         Under the gray rain, Martha lurched forward fast and blindly without watching the sky. Her legs let go with relief when she reached the door of her house, but soon, her relief gave way to dread.

          Had Martha raised her eyes once more as she ran, she would have seen the dark, mammoth funnel-cloud hovering over Nora's Creek.

          The real terror had just begun.

--------

         When the relief workers reached Nora's Creek, they found the town razed to the ground. The tornado had done away with an entire community, showing mercy only on one house.

         Inside that house, the traumatized Millett family was waiting for them, clutching their teen-age daughter, Martha, who babbled in shock about Andean ghosts and a black skull.