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microphone.
    â€œHe handles snakes in his services,” I coaxed.
    â€œI don’t take to it, raised a Methodist.”
    â€œYes,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “You don’t go to his church. But he tells you about it when he comes home.”
    â€œI reckon.”
    â€œAny good stories lately?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAll right.” I moved the mike closer to her, still looking down in my log. “Any stories at all?”
    â€œNothing but foolishness.”
    â€œYou think your husband’s religious ideas are foolish.”
    â€œHezekiah’s ways mean something to him, I don’t deny that,” she cranked up, “but the Bible is clear. Taking up serpents and drinking lye, it’s just a show to me. God don’t care for a show. He wants it plain.”
    The perennial enmity between June’s quiet faith and her husband’s flamboyance had done the trick. She was no longer paying attention to the tape recorder or her suspicions and had launched a campaign of education.
    â€œThe Bible says,” she explained to me, tapping her index finger into the palm of her other hand, “‘That ancient serpent who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world.’ Why’d I want to mess with that?”
    â€œWhere does it say that?”
    â€œRevelations.” Her favorite book, Hieronymus Bosch meets Clive Barker.
    â€œYou sound angry, June.” No angrier than usual on the subject, but goading always worked. “Has something happened recently?”
    â€œThat old man,” she plowed on, “thinks he can scare me with his talk, and I won’t have it.” Another flirt with the kitchen door. “I shall fear no evil.”
    â€œI see; he’s trying to scare you?”
    â€œCome home last night and would not keep shut about that graveyard.”

    â€œLet’s clarify,” I said to the microphone, my voice steady despite my anticipation, “that your husband goes to his church up on Blue Mountain every evening, close to the public cemetery.”
    â€œThat’s right,” she said, elbows on the table, “and every night there’s fools up in the church house with him, listening to what he says.”
    â€œWhen he came home last night …” I circled my hand.
    â€œCome busting in the house,” she went on, “going on about that boneyard, top of the mountain.”
    â€œOn about what?”
    â€œOh, usual mess.” She dismissed it all with the flick of a hand, sitting back in her chair. “Scary noise, moving shadows. Ain’t even a story.”
    â€œMaybe he’s revving up for Halloween.”
    â€œYou know better’n that, Fever.”
    June and her husband, as did many older people in town, eschewed Halloween as a celebration of the demonic.
    â€œYou prefer to stick to the truth about revenants,” I teased her.
    â€œI do,” she answered without a hint of irony.
    â€œDidn’t you have some story about your Uncle Hiram?”
    â€œWoke up one night.” she confirmed, “shortly after he moved into his new house in Blairsville. Every lamp in the parlor was lit. Come in and found a bouquet of dried flowers on his rug. Doors were bolted from the inside, all the windows locked. Found out an old widow woman died in the house. She was buried with that bouquet, they said, because she had no man to give it to. Hiram reckoned she give it to him because he took such good care of the house and garden. She didn’t have a husband in this world but found one in the next.”
    â€œAnd that’s a true story.”
    â€œPeople leave behind all sorts of things when they die, son. Some leave furniture, some letters. Once in a while, a body forgets part of the soul. They leave it behind, and it’s got to wander for a time.”
    â€œBut that’s different from what Hek’s talking about.”
    â€œHe’s trying to