The Storycatcher Read online

  Praise for The Storycatcher

  “A riveting tale of right, wrong, and vengeance. Restless souls (on Earth, as well as from the spirit world) can find peace only through justice, and at times, only by working together. Ann Hite writes brilliantly about the human condition—in this world and the next.”

  —Amy Hill Hearth, author of Miss Dreamsville and the Collier County Women’s Literary Society

  “Transports you high atop Black Mountain, North Carolina, smack in the middle of a gothic tale so haunting and with characters and voices so authentic you’d swear you were living amongst them. Ann Hite’s ability to weave the reader through the pages of the story catches you off guard with each and every spooky twist. Impossible to put it down. Brilliant!”

  —Lisa Patton, bestselling author of Whistlin’ Dixie in a Nor’easter

  “There is a powerful new Southern voice sweeping across the literary landscape, and it belongs to Ann Hite. . . . She is a born storyteller who has crafted a mesmerizing and haunting tale. The Storycatcher is one that you’ll want to put at the top of your reading stack and savor.”

  —Michael Morris, author of Man in the Blue Moon

  “Steeped in lushly drawn landscapes and teeming with mystery, The Storycatcher is a beautifully rendered story of the journey for redemption and justice that drives the human heart, even beyond the flesh—and the knots of family we tie, and sometimes must untangle, along the way. I was utterly absorbed from the first, riveted and captivated, and no more able to leave the side of Ann Hite’s haunted characters than the ghosts that are leading them toward their impossible secret.”

  —Erika Marks, author of The Guest House

  “Haunting and daring, The Storycatcher grasps readers by the wrists and pulls them into a world where the only boundary is the one of unfinished business. Ann Hite is a fearless writer who leaves her readers breathless, always looking back over their shoulders, unaware of the turn up ahead. The Storycatcher is riveting Southern gothic literature. Hite has written an unforgettable novel that is lyrical and beautiful, absorbing and graceful, proving that she herself is a master storycatcher.”

  —Karen Spears Zacharias, author of Mother of Rain

  Ghost on Black Mountain

  “Multiple female narrators add dimension and perspective to Hite’s first novel, and the sightings and visits from the spirits are often appropriately eerie. . . . Artfully woven.”

  —Library Journal

  “Will intrigue readers eager for a Southern Gothic tale, and suggests a promising future for the Black Mountain novels to come.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Twists folklore with the genres of Southern Gothic, paranormal, and literary fiction like a fine, fat pretzel, a guilty pleasure after midnight. . . . A richly layered tale of haints, hoodoo and heebie-jeebies, mayhem and murder, love and betrayal.”

  —Press-Register (Mobile, AL)

  “Hite paints a loving portrait of rural mountain life in the early twentieth century, and characters are nuanced and true.”

  —Atlanta

  “A haunting Southern gothic tale . . . wonderfully crafted.”

  —San Francisco Book Review

  “Pull up a rocker and gaze into the hills at sundown. Old-time front-porch storytelling unfolds in this dark, twisted tale where hardscrabble lives, murderous secrets, and ghosts intersect on a mysterious mountain.”

  —Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

  “Haunting, dark and unnerving, Hite’s brilliant modern gothic casts an unbreakable spell.”

  —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You

  “The authentic voice of Nellie Pritchard, who comes to Black Mountain as a new bride, wraps around you and pulls you deep into this haunted story. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Gods in Alabama

  “An eerie page-turner told in authentic mountain voices that stick with the reader long after the story ends.”

  —Amy Greene, author of Bloodroot

  “The inhabitants of Black Mountain live side-by-side with the spirits of the dead, throw spells and dig for treasure, solve their problems with careful alliances and the occasional murder. This is a story where the spookiness of a mountain village comes to life through gritty characters whose feelings and motivations seem all too similar to our own. Ann Hite captures their voices so well, you’d swear they’re whispering into your ear. . . . Captivating.”

  —Rebecca Coleman, author of The Kingdom of Childhood

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  Ella Ruth Hite

  I miss you each day.

  Jeffery Swafford

  This is my love letter to you, brother.

  Aileen Swafford Brown

  The sister I haven’t met and would love to know.

  PROLOGUE

  Dayclean

  September 1935

  Dayclean: The space between the shadows of night and the first rays of sun. A time when almost anything might happen. Tides change without warning, love hatches between the most unlikely people, a ghost devours a person’s soul.

  —Old Geechee saying

  Ada Lee Tine

  THE SALT FROM THE OCEAN hung thick and heavy in the air. The only breeze came from the boat moving. Roger and me stood together side by side at the boat’s wheel, him driving, me watching.

  Ebb tide gave me the creepy crawlers. Ebb tide was unnatural, bad, nothing but bad.

  “That sorry fool Mr. Benton is bringing his colored mistress to stay for two weeks. Mr. Tyson be letting them sleep in his house. He never struck me as one to put up with that mess, but by gosh he is. Just shows you how you never know a person. Ain’t nothing but trouble going to come. You mark words.” My shoulder brushed his.

  “How you know all this, girl?”

  “I heard the missus talking,” I explained. “Mr. Benton’s woman be colored all right, and missus be raising Sam Hill about it too. She done told Mr. Tyson he’s bringing shame and sin to their family, letting them two stay there. Didn’t stop him. He shooed her away, saying things were done and over. I hear Mr. Benton and Mr. Reynolds is the best of friends. Ain’t no chance Mr. Tyson will turn his back on Mr. Reynolds. He’d be some kind of fool.”

  Mr. Benton T. Horse, from New York City—he couldn’t stand being called his last name ’cause it didn’t get him much respect—was a big, fancy banker and best friends with Mr. R. J. Reynolds, known throughout our parts as the tobacco king. Mr. Reynolds was one rich man because he bought and paid for Sapelo Island right smack in the middle of the Great Depression. Mr. Benton was a whole story in himself. He was one of those sneaky fellows. The first time I laid eyes on him back at the start of summer, I knew he was a mule, just a plain old mule. Now, there ain’t a thing wrong with mules—they be hardworking animals—but when a man takes to being uppity and trying to hide behind some fancy words, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Mr. Benton was a sweet-talker and wore one of those big old smiles. He was the kind of white man that made a woman have to look over her shoulder lest he might give a sneak attack. Being around this man was like putting a big spoonful of sugar in my mouth. I drew up every time.

  “I think this Mr. Benton better be careful. He ain’t in New York City,” I said. “White folks down here don’t take kindly to sporting a colored woman around like she be the same. And him being a Yankee ain’t
going to help a bit either.”

  The shrimp boat scooted across the water just as smooth like we was moving on some lazy lake surrounded by big fancy homes. Whenever I worked at the Ridge, Roger gave me a ride from Sapelo Island to Meridian Dock each Monday, and then back to the island every Friday. The Ridge was a strip of marshy land that ran from Darien along the coast of the mainland where all the rich folks lived in their big fancy houses. Our arrangement went on the whole summer long. But it was the middle of September, and I should have been tucked away on my front porch or cooking at my stove, not headed for the mainland, Darien. I should’ve been weaving my sweetgrass baskets like Mama and Grandmama did before me. But Mr. Tyson needed me, and I went. My family had always worked for his, and the extra money didn’t hurt.

  “Mr. Benton’s wife will fly through him and jerk a knot on his head if she finds out about this woman. That much I know. She’s one mean soul, always screaming for me to bring her something or another.”

  Roger never took his stare off the water. “You in a mess. You in a mess,” he sighed.

  He guided Sweet Jesse through Doby Sound into Hudson Creek, where he docked just for me before he made his way out into open waters. That morning the marsh was quiet like Roger, who never had a lot to say on any given day. All that could be heard was the putt, putt, putt of the gasoline engine. Gray clouds built in the southeast sky. A big storm was headed our way. Normally we saw signs of a storm in the motion of the water and tides long before it reached us, but ebb tide was hiding what was taking place out at sea.

  “He’s paying good. I don’t even have to work next summer. I could stay on the island.”

  “What in the world would you do with yourself, girl?” Roger looked at me sideways.

  We’d been knowing each other since we was little things, running around Hog Hammock in our bare feet, seining in the canals, climbing trees, and scaring the fire out of each other by telling stories of haints and such. A hammock was a high place in a low area, and that was just what me and Roger was. We lived in a place higher than everybody else without being uppity. Nope. Just plain old happy and simple, that was us. Before Mama passed, she had a hope that I had me a husband in Roger. I never had the heart to tell her we wasn’t nothing but good friends. Of course, there wasn’t no law that said a man and a woman had to be in love to be married. Lord, that kind of thing was only for folks who didn’t have to worry about making a living. Mama died thinking her oldest child had her a husband. This gave her peace. But I was alone, while my brother took out to live a fine life on the mainland. He didn’t last hardly no time before he got himself in a mess and died. Times was enough to choke a horse, so I couldn’t fault him none for leaving. But if he had stayed put on the island, I would’ve had him to lean on, and he would have stayed alive.

  “I’d weave baskets,” I replied. My sweetgrass baskets were asked after in Darien.

  He nodded. “You should, but you won’t. You can’t stay away from Mr. Tyson and his family.” He kind of smiled. “I’d like to see you weave all summer. You make the prettiest baskets.”

  Roger and me was Geechees, Saltwater Geechees. We lived where Geechee slaves broke their backs growing rice and cotton for the big plantation. Slave blood was our blood. Geechee stories was in the sweat that poured off our heads. The salt marshes made up our bones. Our lungs wouldn’t work without salty air. We was happy to die right there.

  “Maybe I’ll just do that.” I couldn’t look at him, ’cause if I did, some sweet feeling showing in his eyes might ruin things between us.

  “Just smile and do what this Mr. Benton tells you to do. We’re both good at that.” Roger studied the sky in front of us.

  I cut him a look to make sure he was pulling my leg. “I don’t like smiling. It’s one thing to wait on Mr. Tyson and his family, but some big-bellied white fool and his uppity woman is a whole other thing.” I shook off a cold chill that walked up my backbone.

  “Shadow passing over your grave?”

  I nodded. “It’s this dern ebb tide. It takes the life right out of the air.”

  “Now, don’t go blaming ebb tides, girl. They’re made for resting. Mr. Wind takes a few hours off. The water pushes back; even the old fish keep still. It’s a good life.” He looked dreamy, like he just told me some fairy story with a happily-ever-after ending.

  “Ebb tide means bad is coming. Everybody knows that.” I watched the thick, gray clouds. We worked our way over the water to the dock.

  “Just a little storm, not no hurricane, but we could get some higher tides and flooding.” He shook his head. “I sure hope there’s some decent fishing today.”

  “I wish I had me a boat with no one looking for me to wait on them hand and foot. It’d be just me and the ocean.”

  Roger owning his own boat was like buying a piece of land, something to be proud of. He was a practical man. No root or ghosts for him. That’s where we was different. I had me a bit of whimsy passed on from my daddy’s people.

  “What you talking about? Ploeger-Abbott seafood owns my soul along with all the fishermen’s whether they be colored or white. One day they’re going to decide not to take our catches no more. Then what? Watch what I say. But they can’t beat me. I get up every morning and do what Daddy and Granddaddy did. They fished with seining nets made by their own hands without a fancy gasoline boat. The catch was pure and plentiful. Fishing is part of me like baskets is part of you.”

  I took a quiet breath and relaxed into his words.

  MR. TYSON LEFT THE OLD TRUCK at the dock for me just like he always did. His house was too far for walking. Most of the homes on the Ridge was prim and white like the snooty folks that lived in them, but Mr. Tyson’s house was big and brown, practically built in the marsh like it had sprung up from the mud during a low tide. Sometimes I liked to stand on the top floor in the little attic bedroom and smell the salt. I saw myself back on the island, walking the beach, the water churning around my feet on the pure white sand, or better yet, weaving my baskets. I loved the way my fingers worked the sweetgrass. Weaving was like thinking hard. I’d get lost in another place. My body went loose and rested in the movements.

  I passed Mr. Tyson’s house on Cowhorn Road and cut on over to Darien, where I had to get some supplies. The old houses and churches along the way gave me something interesting to look at. Behind each door was a story, whether the family was rich or poor. We all had a tale.

  I figured more than one tragedy happened in Darien. Babies was born and people passed on just like anywhere else. During the War Between the States, the federal troops burned down the little town for the pure sport of it. They even burned the homes of the very slaves they’d come to free. Now, what sense did that make? Spirits roamed those old roads, especially right before dark, a time of day we Geechees called dusk-dark. Those from long ago believed it to be a sacred time, a time when a soul stood between two worlds.

  I heard tell there was a colored woman’s ghost who walked the Ridge. She was what the old-timers called a storycatcher. Her job was to set life stories straight, ’cause the Lord only knew how many were all twisted in a knot. Her story was a big question. No one knew where she came from. Maybe it was lost or forgotten or one of them hidden stories, put away on purpose. It was said she wore a long skirt and a bonnet on her head. Folks said if she looked a person in the face, she’d own him or her for a night. In that time she’d work a story that had gone wrong. Sometimes good came, but mostly not, ’cause it was the bad stories that got wrapped in lies. One tale has a mama that beat her daughter every day for no good reason at all, just out of pure spite. The mama lost her mind the night she seen the spirit and tried to kill her neighbor with a butcher knife. The sheriff hauled the mama off to jail. Last I heard, she was still at the state penitentiary. The daughter went on to be a decent person. Thank goodness, I always left the Ridge before daylight was gone, and I’d never had the pleasure of seeing the old woman ghost in person. See, I had me this gift called sight. I saw spirits w
ho was stuck to the earth for one reason or another. Most of them wanted to give me a visit and tell me all about their troubles.

  I got my shopping done and headed back to the Tysons’. Sometimes I was sure that house sighed out loud when I came in the door, but that was pure whimsy on my part.

  Just before lunch, Mr. Benton’s shiny black car pulled in the gates and around back of the house. I opened all the windows because ebb tide was gone and the wind was blowing right nice. Mr. Benton bounced out of that car and threw open the door where that woman sat, like he was some young fellow. Well, Lordy be, no wonder he was all happy. That colored woman unfolded into a tall, slender frame about twenty-something years younger than him. She had the longest legs, them Hollywood kind. She wore a snooty city suit, complete with this little hat perched sideways on her straightened hair. I’d seen it all. The seam up her nylons was a perfect straight line. I couldn’t help but wonder how long that took. I’d never even touched nylons, seeing how the women in the Tyson house had the good sense to know how hot and sticky summer and fall could be. The silly heels that colored girl wore sunk into the soft, dark earth. So she slid them perfect feet out and left her shoes where they was. I had to chuckle at that. She was light-skinned but not so light she could pass. No, she was colored. Anyone could see it.

  “Lou?” Mr. Benton yelled.

  Now know this: Lou had never been my name or even a nickname, but that’s what Mr. Benton called all the colored womenfolk he came to meet in Darien that summer. Me, I just answered. It made life easier, even though there wasn’t one good reason for him not to remember my real name. I pushed open the screen door, and there between Mr. Benton and the colored woman was a misty-looking spirit not fully solid, a woman hunched over like she’d been down too many times to stand tall. She raised her head and looked at me straight. Not even a chill went up my spine. I was looking at her, the woman spirit that made everyone stay off the Ridge at night.