Ghost Peppers by Nichole Marcus
Cora hadn’t been enthusiastic about moving from the warm, elegant city of Tampa to the dull, dry rolling prairie of western Kansas; but as she stood behind her unspectacular little ranch house surveying her freshly constructed garden beds, Cora had to admit she was looking forward to some new challenges.
Having watched a panoply of YouTube videos on gardening, Cora obstinately purchased every requisite tool a gardener should have—a flat rake, trowel and spade shovels of various sizes, pruning shears and a ghastly little pair of clippers that had already pinched the web between her thumb and forefinger, leaving a purple hematoma that smarted when she opened jars. Eli, her husband, just shook his head. “Apple Cora, what are you going to do with all this? You don’t even know how to garden.”
“I’m going to try something different. And why not? Look at all this space!” said Cora, spreading her arms wide in a gleeful attempt to convince Eli. “We have a whole half an acre! This is farming country, isn’t it? Shouldn’t plants just be dying to grow here?” she exclaimed.
“With you as their tender, they will,” Eli quipped with a wink.
“Say what you will, Eli, but with you being gone all the time for work I need a hobby. I can’t spend all my time working. Have you seen the little old man next door? I’ve peeked over our fence. He’s out there every day, it seems, and there are rows of all kinds of things growing in his garden. Maybe he’ll give me some pointers,” Cora popped her lips. “This garden will grow; you’ll see.”
“I’m sure he’d love to give you something pointy, Cora,” her husband drawled.
“Stop, please—he’s got to be 80 years old.”
“Just sayin’. The man’s not dead. And neither am I,” Eli said, reaching for Cora’s bare but dirty hands.
“The name’s Frank, miss,” the homunculus greeted Cora by removing his beaten brown fedora as she opened her front door that evening. “I noticed you moved in a little while’s back, but I reckoned you needed time for gettin’ settled.”
“Cora, sir. Please–call me Cora.” Her dark brown eyes crinkled at the edges from her smile, although her skin hadn’t yet given way to crow’s feet. “It’s so nice to meet you, Frank. I’ve been planning to come introduce myself, and here you are beating me to it.”
Frank straightened up at the pleasantry; Cora noticed with surprise that for an old man with a hunched stature, he sure did have a thick, muscular neck and sinewy shoulders, visible beneath his collared cotton workshirt. She shrugged. Must be all that gardening he does. “Cora. That’s nice, miss. Well, welcome to the neighborhood. If you’re needing anything, come on by or give a ring. You might have to yell loud because my hearing ain’t so good anymore, or maybe I’m out back. But you’re welcome—”
“Yes! Thank you. I did want to ask you for some advice. I noticed you have a nice garden, and I’m just getting started with gardening and all. I was going to ask if you had any, er, pointers….” Cora blushed, Eli’s juvenile comments ringing in her ears.
“Oh, you have?” The old man’s leathery face split into a surprising grin; scar tissue not evident before pulled at his right jaw. For a moment Cora stared, following its route from his neatly shaven chin, along the jawline, until it seemed to disappear in his grey hairline. He waited for her response. Cora met his gaze sheepishly, “I’m not sure what grows well here, sir; what’s pretty easy to grow but useful? Maybe not too many things, but a couple—just in case I don’t have a lot of luck.”
“It’s Frank, Cora. Gardening makes us pals even if our ages don’t,” he said gruffly, “if you come on by later I can give you some seeds and maybe a few small plants from the greenhouse I haven’t gotten to plant in the garden yet. Give me an hour or so to gather my plants,” he nodded, turning his broad back to her after tipping the brim of his hat, “and my thoughts.”
It was nearly dusk when Cora grasped the worn iron horseshoe that functioned as Frank’s front door knocker. She didn’t hear anything but the creaking of the wooden porch under her sneakered feet and the occasional peep from a frog somewhere in the grass nearby. She banged the horseshoe cautiously at first, unwilling to establish herself as impatient, obnoxious, or generally uncouth. After several minutes, she grasped the cool metal and rapped with confidence. Did he forget I was coming and go to sleep? Cora squinted to see through the darkened panes of glass alongside the plain farmhouse door. Poor old man; nobody to keep him company and help with keeping house. So much work for an older person, even if he does seem spry… Cora’s eyes searched for any sign of movement in the house, difficult in the scant outdoor light with no visible artificial light coming from within. As she shifted her gaze lower, she flinched: two faint white orbs with black centers peered out at her—still as if in a portrait; an upturned crescent of the same pale white appeared below the orbs, so that Cora found herself face-to-face with her elderly neighbor. The overhead porch light flicked on, and she exhaled with relief, her heart thumping from unease.
Frank cracked the door enough that his balding grey head and thinning sideburns were visible; his torso blended into the surrounding void. “Cora, you came! Very good. Go around through the side gate, and I’ll meet you out back.”
The early June evening was cool and the dew was already forming; Cora could feel it soaking in through the sides of her canvas shoes and dampening her feet. The pathway to the garden, though made of gravel, was deeply overgrown with grass, so that at certain points the walkway disappeared. Cora followed the fence line Frank shared with her, passing the white siding of his house, a small wooden shed, and a low cement wall that seemed to be remnants of another outbuilding. Beyond that, the yard opened into a humongous open space, neatly divided into congruent rectangles, each with a tidy assortment of metal structures and small plants already beginning to cling to them, black in the low light. A barrier line of trees, apparently at the rear of the property, created a serrated silhouette in the background. “Cora! Over here,” Frank called, the words only slightly distorted by the distance and the old man’s efforts at a louder volume. “I’m back here by the shed. I’ll turn on the lamp.” One second, two, three, and light: a weak light above the single point of entry glowed to life.
Cora did not immediately see Frank; in fact, she had not realized there was a shed beneath the trees so close to the fence, but as she neared, the straight lines of the roof emerged from the tangle of trees. I can’t believe I didn’t notice this before; this is really tucked away. It simply disappears under the trees! The movement of a human figure off to the right of the building caught Cora’s attention. “Frank?” she questioned, quickly checking the ground for any tripping hazards. Not that I could really see them in this light, anyway; Where is the moon? Is it too early for the moon?
More loudly now, remembering Frank’s admission that his hearing was bad (or that he was, in fact, “out back,” and the back was a lot farther away than Cora had envisioned), Cora strained, “Frank!”
The figure didn’t seem to be moving towards or away from Cora, but instinct told her it must be Frank; he was the only other person there; never had she witnessed visits from boisterous grandchildren, beer-toting poker-playing buddies, or post-Memorial Day, white-wearing little old ladies checking in on a lonely old man. The figure was tall, Cora thought, and undulated in the breeze, to and fro, back and forth, emitting a strange, impersonal sound such as clothes flapping on a clothesline or the wings of a bird. A gust of wind suddenly caught both Cora’s long, unrestrained hair and the figure, which twisted abruptly toward the light straining from the shed, an expanse of fabric inflated about its bottom half. A woman?
Cora could see the curves of a narrow waist and squared bosom while the skirt remained inflated, the unnatural figure illuminated, before the yards of Mexican print fabric deflated, and the figure sank back into the inky shadow of the trees. Cora could barely make out the rounded head above the shoulders. A loud wooden thump, originating nearby and yet with an indeterminable source, made Cora jump. Frank chuckled from behind. “Ain’t you ever seen a scarecrow before? Oh, you city folk. You really are too much. I thought you’d got lost,” he said, “it’s easy enough to do out here. It’s dark, isn’t it? That’s why I ran electricity out here. Needs light. Did it myself, you know, even before I sold off all my land.”
“You had more land than this?” Cora asked, glad of the distraction. “I had no idea. Was it always farmland? Have you lived here a long time?”
“Yes, ma’am; this land has been farmed by my family for four generations; I’m the last of them to do it. When it was obvious that there wasn’t going to be a fifth, I sold it all off. Everything but this last, sorry little plot that you’re standing on.” Frank’s eyes glinted yellow in the meager light and something—was it bitterness?—seemed to bubble up inside him. “It’s treated me good, though, don’t get me wrong. Always loved the land. Loved seeing life spring up out of the dirt, every time it was planting season I thought nothing would grow; always was tickled to bits to see the green shoots a’ bustin’ through. My wife, though,” Frank snickered while he reached for the door to the shed,” she never could make anything grow,” and he opened the rickety and rusted latch, “except for one thing.”
Cora’s heartstrings pulled in her chest. “You were married, then?”
“Oh yes; she was quite the looker, she was; olive skin, dark eyes, and a bashful look, much like yourself there.” Frank grunted and pushed through the doorway, walking the few steps across the earthen floor to the cut wooden slab that functioned as an all-purpose workbench. Clearly the shed had been in use for a long, long time; across the walls hung saws with jagged teeth and well-worn axes, all covered in a thick layer of dust-encrusted spider webs. Tin cans, the logos of defunct nut and coffee companies eaten away by pitting, held an assortment of nails, bolts, and washers; everything had a patina of rust. However, in a clearing on the workbench stood a basin with peppy little plants poking up from their peat cups and plastic trays. A clear plastic bag declaring “SEEDS” in a shaky, handwritten font lay alongside.
“These are for you, Cora, dear. Lots of bean seeds, some squash, and here are some pepper plants I’ve already got goin’.” He fingered the top of the nearest one with a tenderness akin to intimacy. “The peppers are easy to grow. There are some bells and some hot ones in there. Ghost peppers, I think people call them now. I know they’re easy because they’re the only thing my wife could ever grow. But she liked to keep chickens. That she could do. We always had chickens.” Frank looked Cora squarely in the eye. “I hated those damn creatures.” And he turned to lift the basin and handed it to Cora. “Just promise me you’ll never get chickens. They may give eggs and eat bugs, but they’re a nuisance in every other way.”
Cora chuckled. “I promise.”
“Now, I mean it, missie; they cause trouble. You don’t want the kind of trouble they bring. It’s like they invite it.” Frank evidently found his neighbor’s response flippant. “Foxes, rats, pests—you name it.” Sensing his irritation, Cora demurred. “Yes, Frank. I understand. No chickens. I don’t have anywhere to keep them even if I wanted them! So, don’t worry about that.”
He looked about the shed’s interior and gestured toward the door, stopping for a moment before pulling the cord to the small bulb. “You go on and start for home. I’ll leave the light on for a bit. Just head straight out. Don’t trip,” he said, indicating a board that lay across the floor just before the door. “Old root cellar.”
On a Saturday morning, several weeks later, Eli having returned the night before from a longer trip than usual, the two wandered about their backyard enjoying mugs of coffee. Cora proudly led him toward the vermillion stalks with their tiny leaves protruding through the untried soil. Even Eli was impressed, however cautious he was in encouraging Cora, lest the plants stop flourishing because of her lack of experience. “Beginner’s luck? Or some great ‘pointers’?” Eli had asked at first, as he squatted back on his heels in his worn jeans and set his cup on the grass, ready to inspect his wife’s work.
“I’d like to say both,” Cora absentmindedly said, leaning down to yank out an unsightly weed, “but I never did get ‘pointers’ of any kind, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Because my wife is a chicken!” Eli clucked and flapped his arms like wings. “A big chicken! With a little old man, too.” He laughed. Cora wasn’t amused. “I’m telling you, it was creepy as hell that night. If you had been there, you would’ve felt it, too. I don’t know what it is about that shed, or the yard, or what, but I don’t want to go back over there. Little old man or not!”
“Maybe he keeps bodies in that shed?” Eli teased. “Or some kind of monster he’s been secretly hiding since the 60s,” he suggested facetiously.
Cora rolled her eyes. “You’re not funny. What if –” but Cora didn’t get to finish her thought, for at that moment a lumpy fedora hat waggled above the fence a few feet from her as the same little old man called out “Good morning, Cora!” then, “is that your husband’s voice I hear?”
Eli covered his face to stifle a silent laugh as Cora shot him a menacing look. She talked over her shoulder in a loud voice, her eyes still glued to her unruly husband, “Yes, Frank! Good morning to you, too. We’re just looking at the garden. Seems like some things are growing pretty well.”
The voice came back over the fence, “Very good, my dear! You’re a natural. Keep doing whatever you’re doing. If you run into any troubles, you know where to find me!”
Eli piped up, “She does, Frank! She’ll come over if she needs anything, right Apple Cora?” His face was full of mischief. “Right,” Cora replied, her gaze still stony. “Have a good day, Frank.”
“Speaking of chickens, Apple Cora,” Eli continued once it was apparent Frank had moved along, “I’ve done some research myself. Did you know they eat bugs and table scraps? They’re great in a garden.”
“Eli…”
“Come with me—I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, taking her by the hand at a quick pace. Leading her to the back of the garage, Eli ceremoniously stopped, gestured to a mass shrouded by a tarp, and plucked it away with a flourish. “Ta-dah! I give you your very own coop, for your very own chickens! I even made it myself,” Eli added with a possessive tap on its gabled roof.
Cora sighed. “It’s beautiful, honey.” We’ll just keep it our little secret. What Frank doesn’t know won’t hurt him…
It was 1:37 in the morning when Cora climbed out of bed and padded down the bare boards of the short hallway into the kitchen. She didn’t bother to turn on the overhead light, as the small stained-glass apple-shaped night light she had as a child was near the sink and shed sufficient light as a guide. She quickly checked her used water glass for an errant bug before filling it to drink and stood looking out the sink window into her backyard as she drained it. “What in the world?” Cora said aloud, perplexed by a bluish, amorphous globe that appeared and began to pulsate and hover near her garden; as she watched, the blood pumped by her quickening heart shushed in her ears. Oh, my god, what is that thing? But she knew it was not something she wanted to explore; she did not want to know about it; she did not want to see it; dear heaven, she wanted nothing more than to be back in bed, asleep, and to have forgotten about it since she couldn’t make it not have happened at all. But there it was and there she was, transfixed by an unnatural spectacle moving about her beloved garden, for no rational reason that Cora could conjure.
“Eli—“she squeaked, barely an audible sound issuing from her trembling lips. No reply came. Eli, why did you have to leave? Do you see what’s happening? Oh, how I wish you were here! The chickens were roosting peacefully; the frogs and occasional cricket of the earlier evening had long since ceased their music and now only a heavy emptiness dominated her senses.
She backed slowly away from the sink and the paltry light of the glowing red apple. There was no comfort in such a small amount of light, and Cora panicked, gripped by indecision about what to do. Should I turn on the kitchen light? Will it scare the thing out there away, or make it mad? Can I make it mad? Maybe I’m a little mad…that’s it; I’m just seeing things. Too much sun today in the heat. Go to bed, Cora… it’s just your imagination. Or maybe a glare from a passing car on the road beyond the property line?
Hunching low enough for her long cotton nightgown to brush against the floor, the frightened woman moved quickly through the dark hallway as though she were being pursued by a hostile force and leapt into the large bed, making sure she was in the middle, far from the edges where danger might lurk. You’re such a child, Cora, she chided herself. She pulled the blankets close around her face and squeezed her eyes shut. The blankets were still warm from before she had woken wanting a drink and Cora relaxed with gratitude. Just as she was drifting back to sleep, her eyes flew open at a sudden eruption of squawking. Please calm down; go back to sleep, chickies—don’t be afraid.
But the squawking continued for several minutes; the bird noises Cora had previously found reassuring and occasionally amusing were troubling. The sounds that reached her attentive ears were both pathetic and pleading. Cora sat upright, seized inexplicably with a will to investigate the cause and, if necessary, take action.
“It’s only a car,” she repeated to herself as she rummaged in her bedroom closet for her rubber gardening Wellies and a flashlight. Finding them both, she sat on the floor but placed the flashlight in the flat hip pocket of her sleepwear. “It’s only a car,” she said and yanked on the boots, resistant against her sockless feet. As she rose, she noticed that her birds seemed to be calming back down. There were perhaps only one or two birds emitting loud noises, and even then, it was no longer continuous. She hastened through the dark house, passing the kitchen and its central window without so much as a glance, pausing only at the back door to bolster her courage, whispering “You can do this,” unlocked the door and stepped out as she opened it.
Cora waited for her senses to adjust and her breathing to recommence, hoping that both would happen before reason convinced her to go back to bed. The first thing she observed, and she was very glad of it, was that she was no longer seeing a blue orb floating about in her darkened garden; the second, that a new silence had descended. Grasping the cheap, brittle plastic of the only flashlight she could find, Cora slid the switch. It clicked appropriately, but produced only a faint beam, which, to her dismay, faded to nothing almost immediately. A perfunctory shake, plus an agitated smack against her thigh, and she nearly threw the flashlight. “Useless…” she groaned. Looking out from the doorway, Cora realized that the ambient light, compliments of the ages-old moon, was plentiful and she should have no difficulty seeing her way to the garden. She set off across the yard.
As she neared the garden, Cora regretted her decision. Dirt was scattered along the flagstone path surrounding the beds; clearly plants had been torn out by their roots, leaving depressions with crumbling edges where earthworms still squirmed, disturbed, their slime glinting in the moonlight. The tall bean plants which she had painstakingly tied to their narrow poles still stood; the squashes overran the low walls a few feet away. “What would take my peppers?” Cora rubbed her forehead, incredulous. Nothing else had been uprooted. While scanning for any clues –paw prints, raccoon eyes glinting in the hedge at the rear perimeter, footprints—both hopeful and afraid of what she’d find, Cora caught sight of downy fluff blowing across the yard like lightly drifting snow. At once she remembered the awful squawking, and her heart immediately began to thump in her chest.
The small coop Eli had built with all his high-school shop class skills looked sinister in the monochrome hues of night. The miniature door Cora herself had closed and locked the evening before lay on the grass, tarred and feathered with what Cora suspected had belonged to her dear birds. Her ears strained to hear the occasional clucks of sleepy hens, but nothing, again, except that heavy silence that lent a surreal quality to the endeavor. The feathers formed a crude trail to the fence Frank and Cora shared, ending abruptly, as though it might continue on the other side.
I really need to get a dog, Cora thought wistfully, Or a gun.
A sliver of blue light appeared on the ground where the feathers drifted and snagged, prompting Cora to instinctively follow it with her eyes, up the warped lower section of the fence and along a large gap between the slats. There—she leaned to peer through it, pressing her hands against the rough boards—and her breath caught in her throat. The blue orb was on the other side of the fence, poised, hovering, between Cora and her neighbor’s gardening shed. She didn’t dare move. Instead, she willed herself to watch the orb shrink and coalesce, growing in intensity like a blue dwarf star, before it lost its hue and density, attenuating from the center to form appendages; arms appeared, legs, both missing the ends of their extremities, as though blended into the air. A head immediately followed. Long, flowing hair gathered for eternity in an unassuming ponytail atop the shoulders of a woman’s body; Cora was astonished to watch it form, complete with a full Mexican skirt that swished in a way that was not of the world of here and now.
The skirt swayed to and fro, back and forth; the locks of black hair undulated in rhythm with the movement, while the arms rose and fell, rose and fell. Striking the ground soundlessly several times, the ghost suddenly halted and turned as though it had heard a voice calling at a distance; but then in a burst of cobalt blue, it charged the fence behind which Cora hid, the eyes intensely looking but somehow still unseeing. It was the emptiness within them that caused Cora to shiver as the specter dissipated. Only the faintest mist of it seeped through the gap near Cora’s face.
In the heat of the following midday Cora returned to the crack in the fence and peered through. There, on the other side, haphazardly tossed in the grass lay the antiquated hoe that belonged dangling from a crooked hook in the shed; and there, in the freshly-disturbed earth, was a perfectly straight row of ghost peppers—each a testimony to the expert hand of its tender.
At the furthest plant in the line, wielding a shiny aluminum watering can, was Frank. He released his grip just long enough to tip his beaten fedora Cora’s way.
“If you think this is somethin’, you oughtta see what’s in the root cellar!” the old man said. And then he grinned.
