of them during his busiest year. Every autumn, he’d harvest the honeycomb, extract the honey, and then sell it to the local grocery stores and farmer’s markets. Had his own label on the jars and everything. ‘Ripple’s Apiaries.’ He made a nice little secondary income. I bet if he was still doing it today, he’d make a lot more, what with everybody into all that organic shit.”
“I’m sure. But what does this have to do with Nelson LeHorn?”
“LeHorn had bees, too. More than my dad ever did. Occasionally, my father would go over to LeHorn’s farm and buy beehive materials from him. Frames. Parts for his extracting drum. Smokers. Protective clothing. Stuff like that. It was easier and cheaper to get them from LeHorn than through mail order.”
Maria signaled the waitress, indicating another refill. “So did he ever see LeHorn do any powwow?”
“No. My old man didn’t believe in that stuff. But he did say several times that LeHorn was crazy. I remember this one time, these little microscopic mites got into Dad’s beehives. Killed several of his queens—just destroyed whole hives, you know? My dad asked LeHorn what he should do and LeHorn drew some kind of weird symbol and told Dad to paint it on each hive. It was supposed to keep the mites out.”
They stopped talking while the waitress refilled their mugs.
“Did your father do it?” Maria asked after they were alone again.
Ken chuckled. “No. He bought some pesticide. And that did the trick. When I asked him why he didn’t use the powwow doctor’s method, Dad said, ‘I’d be a damn fool to go drawing that nonsense on my beehives. The boys down at the American Legion would have never let me live it down. Old LeHorn is nuttier than your grandma’s fruitcake.’ And he was right. Another one of my dad’s friends was cutting down a Christmas tree near the hollow. Back on the pulpwood company’s land. He damn near cut his finger off. LeHorn came across him as he was walking out. The old guy told him not to go to the hospital—said he could stop the bleeding by ‘laying on of the hands’ or something like that.”
“Faith healing,” Maria said. “Did your father’s friend take him up on the offer?”
“Shit, no. He ran to his car and got the hell out of there.”
Maria snickered, then laughed. Smiling, Ken dumped a container of cream into his fresh cup of coffee. Maria composed herself and asked the next question.
“So, will your attraction feature anything based off the LeHorn legend?”
“Not directly, no. At least, nothing about the murders or anything like that. LeHorn’s kids are still alive. That just wouldn’t be right, capitalizing off their mother’s death or their father’s mental illness. There are enough weird stories connected to the hollow without getting into the LeHorn stuff. Bigfoot. Demons. The Goat Man. Native American spirits. We can do stuff featuring them.”
“What about the more recent murders; the witch cult and the mystery writer?”
“Adam Senft?” Ken shook his head. “No. Again, it wouldn’t be right to capitalize off something like that. Like I told you earlier, this whole thing is to honor Deena’s memory. What she stood for. Her strength. She wouldn’t want me using other people’s misfortunes like that.”
Maria reached out and turned off the recorder.
“You really miss your wife, don’t you?”
Ken nodded, glancing down at the table. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper.
“Yeah, I do. I thought it would get easier with time, but it doesn’t. It just gets worse. I feel haunted.”
Maria arched an eyebrow. “Her…ghost?”
“No, nothing like that. I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. I just mean her memory, you know? I’m haunted by her memory.”
“Perhaps that’s what ghosts are,” Maria said. “Maybe they’re just memories.”
“Could be,” Ken agreed.
“I’m sorry. Hope I didn’t offend you?”
“No, not at all. It’s something to think about, I guess. I’ll tell you, though. Sometimes, I wish there were ghosts. I wish I could believe in them.”
“Why?”
“Because then maybe I could see Deena again.”
Ken reached out and picked up the check. Then, before they could continue the conversation, he excused himself and slid out of the booth. Maria watched him walk to the register. She collected her recorder and purse and smiled politely at the waitress. On her way to the ladies’ room, Maria mulled over the last part of the conversation, wondering what ghosts haunted her.
The girl didn’t stop until well after midnight. Levi followed her, his dread increasing with every mile. Even before she’d reached her final destination, Levi had guessed where she was heading.
LeHorn’s Hollow.
He knew it well. Nelson LeHorn and Amos Stoltzfus had been peers and associates, if not friends. Occasionally, their individual endeavors had given them cause to consult with each other. LeHorn had called upon the Stoltzfus farm several times when Levi was growing up, and his father had traveled to York County once or twice to visit LeHorn. His father had passed away five years before the events at LeHorn’s farm.
Levi knew what most of society thought—that Nelson LeHorn had gone insane, believed his wife was consorting with the devil, and then pushed her out of the attic window, killing her. Then the old man had disappeared, and no one had heard from him since. Twenty years passed. And then, in a bizarre twist of fate, a local author named Adam Senft became obsessed with the story and committed a copycat murder, slaying his own wife. Now he was a guest at the White Rose Mental Health Facility—a fancy, politically correct title for what amounted to an insane asylum.
Those were the facts, as far as the public was concerned. But the public was wrong. Levi knew the truth. It had
