Read Online Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter - Free Book Online Page B

read the tea leaves in their cup,” said Lenore. “I also interpret horoscopes. My grandmother taught me everything I know. She was a full-blooded Gypsy.”
    â€œMaybe you should tell Lenore about the hand,” said Prescott, half teasing.
    Gil was just getting up to help clear the plates. He could see that Lenore shot his grandfather a glance.
    â€œWhat sort of hand?” she said.
    â€œAsk Gil,” said Prescott. “I didn’t see it.”
    Lenore gave Gil an encouraging look.
    â€œIt was a skeleton’s hand … I guess,” he said. “We found it in an old mailbox at the town dump. But when we went back, it was gone.”
    â€œJust a hand?” asked Lenore.
    â€œOnly the bones,” said Gil. “The fingers and thumb. It was cut off at the wrist.”
    â€œDid it have a bad smell?” Lenore asked with a serious expression on her face. “Like rotting flowers?”
    As soon as she said this, Gil felt as if a bucketful of ice cubes had just been poured down his spine. “How did you guess?”
    â€œIt wasn’t a guess,” she said, pushing her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. “Despite what your grandfather thinks, I do have a certain clairvoyance for these kinds of things.”
    â€œHave you ever seen the hand?” Gil asked.
    â€œNo, but I’ve heard about it …,” she said mysteriously. “Come help me clear the table.”
    Gil followed Lenore into the kitchen. He rinsed the plates as she filled the dishwasher.
    â€œDo you know whose hand it is?” Gil asked. “Was it someone who was murdered?”
    Lenore shook her head and smiled.
    â€œNothing as awful as that. Of course, there are a lot of stories around here about ghosts and spirits, from pirate shipwrecks and that sort of thing. Most of them aren’t true.” Lenore’s voicesounded perfectly normal, as if she were talking about the weather. “But the spinster’s hand—that’s what it’s called—belonged to a woman who died years ago, unmarried … alone. A sad sort of story.”
    â€œIs the hand dangerous?” said Gil, imagining the bony fingers strangling his throat.
    â€œNo, I don’t think so,” said Lenore with a shrug. “The hand belonged to a woman named Camellia Stubbs. She was in love with your ancestor Ezekiel Finch, who built the Yankee Mahal. Of course, that’s not a story your grandfather would have told you, is it? He doesn’t believe in these sorts of things. They say the spinster’s hand is still searching for her lost lover. Camellia’s bony fingers will never rest until she finds Ezekiel’s grave, so she can finally clasp his cold, dead hand in hers.”
    Gil nearly dropped the plate he was rinsing. The thought of two skeletons holding hands creeped him out.
    When they returned to the glassed-in porch, Prescott had shifted his chair around to look at the sea. The sky had darkened and the horizon had almost disappeared, but there was one faint speck of light in the sky.
    â€œLook,” said Lenore, pointing. “There’s Mercury.”
    Gil could barely see it, a distant glimmer.
    â€œWhen’s your birthday, Gil?” Lenore asked.
    â€œSeptember eighteenth,” he answered cautiously.
    â€œSo you’re a Virgo,” Lenore said with a frown, as if she were calculating things in her head. “Your star sign is governed by Mercury, which is in retrograde.”
    â€œDon’t believe a word she says,” Prescott warned him.“Mercury’s just a planet, nothing more. There’s no truth in astrology!”
    â€œCome on, don’t be so cynical,” said Lenore, putting a hand on Prescott’s shoulder. “Poets are supposed to be sensitive to the mysteries of the world.”
    â€œWe also try to tell the truth,” Prescott muttered.
    â€œIsn’t Mercury the messenger?” Gil