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“They’s some houses that’s got something inside ’em, and some houses that don’t. Don’t you know that?” “You mean like a ghost?” “No! They’s no such thing. They’s just some houses that got something inside ’em—a spirit like. No ghosts, no such thing as dead people coming back. Dead people go to heaven, dead people go to hell. They don’t hang around. Nothing like that. They’s just something that’s maybe inside a house.”
“How do you know if it’s there?” “Oh, you just feel it! How else would you know! You walk in a house, and you know right off. Don’t mean it’s dangerous or anything, it’s just got something in it.”
“But it’s not ghosts,” she said, “they’s no such things. It’s just the spirit in the house, trying to make us believe in ghosts. The spirit wants you to think that the dead come back, and you can talk to ’em
“Clock and calendar’s gone remind her she’s dead. I broke that cup—I hated to do it, but it was a extra—broken cup’s gone tell her she’s dead. Those shells gone speak to her of water. The dead got to cross water.” “And the pills? What about the ’scription bottles?” “They gone remind her who she was. Dead come back, they don’t always remember who they was. Your mama reads her name there, Mr. Dauphin, and she’s gone say, ‘Why, I’m dead, I’m gone go right back inside and not bother nobody!’” “Odessa, you’re talking crazy. You’re making me real scared. I want you to take all this junk out of
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The Alabama foliage was grotesquely lush; trees seemed absolutely weighted down with leaves. The flowers in the gardens—hydrangeas, lilies, and showy annuals—drooped with blooms.
