Shades

Another day of searching had led Coulson deep into the countryside of North Georgia, where the land was half forest and half pasture with an even sprinkling of chicken houses here and there. His little red car stuck out against the earthy landscape and otherwise bulky vehicles that all seemed to be headed the opposite direction. Phil himself was a sleek, composed contrast to the ruggedness of the land and the people here.
He had been to the local courthouse the previous day in search of records on the Turner family. There was something to be said for investigating the old-fashioned way, particularly in this area of the country, where everyone had some inkling of everyone else’s business. It was easy to get the secretaries talking with a few simple questions, and in no time at all Coulson found more information than he really needed.
During that conversation Coulson had mentioned his intention to talk to Eden’s parents himself, however, they had apparently died exactly three years after their daughter’s disappearance, to the date. The eldest secretary, a wiry woman with unsurpassed spunk, told him he should try talking to a man named Oliver Weston.
“He owns the Turner’s old house along with his own,” the woman had said. “Never could understand why he’d keep the place, especially after his wife died. No sense in a man of his age trying to care for two houses, much less pay property tax—!”
Coulson had agreed, and asked for Weston’s contact information. The secretary seemed hesitant but eventually relented, as Coulson insisted it was a matter of national security.
“I’ll warn you, Oliver hasn’t been himself for a while now,” the secretary had shaken her head with a tut. “No one has seen him about in months, which is strange for him. There’s nothing he loves to do more than talk. Sometimes we ladies from the church bring him meals or groceries, and he seems just fine, but I can’t help but wonder what’s keeping him away from us.”
Coulson thanked her for her time, took the post-it note with Weston’s number and dialed it on his cell phone before he had even reached the parking lot. There was no answer, so Coulson left a brief message about the Turner’s and their house. Since he felt pressed for time, he toyed with the idea of looking for Weston’s place immediately, but the elongated shadows reaching over the streets said he hadn’t enough time. He’d have to start early the next morning, whether Weston returned his call or not.
Coulson did awake to a voicemail, but there was too much static to make out a message. He didn’t bother sending it in to be processed and cleaned of excess noise to get the underlying message— he could drive to Weston faster than that. And faster still, it seemed, thanks to the winding roads and pleasant view.
With so few houses around it was hard to miss the one you were looking for. Coulson saw the rusty mailbox with the faded writing that used to read 237 Shady Ln. He parked Lola at the end of the gravel driveway, opting to walk the remaining stretch in lieu of risking a single scratch on her pristine paintjob. As he approached the weathered farmhouse, cluttered with trinkets and car parts, he saw an elderly man leaning over the exposed engine of a truck by the detached garage.
“Mr. Weston?” he called out. The man turned casually about, oil stick and rag still in hand. He squinted, whether from the sun or mood, but quickly smiled and replaced the part. He wiped his hand on the rag before extending it to Coulson.
“Agent Coulson I assume? How are you this fine morning?”
“Well, enough,” Phil answered, a bit curter than he intended. “I trust you got my call.”
“I did, I did,” Weston nodded. “You’re looking for answers to the Turner family mystery. I’d be more than happy to help in any way I can. It’s about time someone came looking for answers.”
Weston dropped the hood of the truck and tossed the oiled rag onto an open toolbox that probably hadn’t been shut for months.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but what exactly is your relationship to the Turners? Were you their landlord?” Coulson asked.
“No— well, yes and no. I was Ruby’s second husband. Her first died while Zeke was in high school. She didn’t think he should grow up without a father around,” Weston explained.
“Zeke being Ezekiel Turner?”
“Yes, my stepson. And a damn good one if I might add. Couldn’t have been prouder if he were my own flesh and blood.”
“How well did you know his daughter, Eden?” Coulson asked. Weston’s face darkened.
“Everyone loved that little girl. She was such an angel. A bit of a tomboy, and insisted we call her Denny,” Weston said, smiling at the ground. “Denny’d come over almost every evening, there across that hill, and would bring wildflowers to Ruby. Most of them were just pretty weeds, but Ruby didn’t care. Next to Zeke and Sophie, she was the most affected by Denny’s loss. But nobody really ever moved on after that. It was just too sad, too strange. We didn’t ever get a proper explanation for what happened.”
“Were you there the week Eden disappeared?” Coulson asked, suddenly wondering why this man didn’t seem familiar.
“No, I was visiting my brother in the hospice. He died not long after Ruby called to tell me that Denny was missing,” Weston shook his head. “I can’t help but wonder, could I have done something if I were there?”
Weston wiped his nose and sniffed, looking towards the hill. Coulson braced himself should the man start to cry, but tears never came. Instead Weston beckoned Coulson over to the front porch were he grabbed a coat off the railing and a set of keys from a flowerpot by the door. Coulson did not speak, only listened to Weston as he led the way across the yard.
“I remember a time when all these deaths were fresh on the minds of the people here. It’s amazing how superstitious people are even in this day and age. There were rumors that the Turner family was cursed. That they’d transgressed against God and Heaven. I tell you, what has happened to that family was the work of devils. No loving God would do that to His children.
“I remember the night that Zeke and Sophie went back to the lodge to put some flowers out for Denny. They were on the verge of divorce after they lost her. Denny was the only child that Sophie could ever bare into the world. They thought that it would be best, though, if they continued to go together to memorialize their daughter’s loss. They had asked if we wanted to come, but Ruby had a cold and didn’t think she could make the drive. I stayed home to watch her. When the police called to say that they had driven off the road and burned to death in their own car, Ruby couldn’t take it. She never got better after that. It was heartbreaking to see my wife waste away in her sorrow. No man should have to live through that.”
“It seems to me that your stepson and his wife were hopeful Denny would come back,” Coulson remarked as they reached the crest of the hill. “Did you think there was any chance of that?”
“For a long time we all did,” Weston sighed. “I admit, when Zeke and Sophie died, I thought…I just hoped that they would all be together at last, you know. But Ruby wouldn’t give up hope. She was the one who insisted we not rent the house to anyone else. We never moved anything in or out of that house.”
“You’ve left the house intact for over a decade?” Coulson repeated with some disbelief. “That’s an awful lot of money wasted, isn’t it? If I may ask, of course.”
“You sound just like that Worley woman,” Weston chuckled. “It is a lot of work and money, but how would you Suits put it…It’s evidence. Evidence shouldn’t be tampered with, should it?”
“No, it most certainly should not.”
Weston tabbed through the keys before stepping up to the door of the Turner’s home, which despite what was said, did not look very cared for.
“Mr. Weston—”
“Please, call me Oliver.”
Uncomfortable with that kind of change, Coulson continued without readdressing Weston. “Has any other family come by asking to take some belongings, or even try to push for more answers to these deaths and disappearances?”
“Zeke was an only child,” Weston answered. “Sophie’s family lives up North…or, they did, if they are still around. But no, any family close enough to care stopped looking for answers after a few years and were content to mourn in silence.”
With some effort the door was jostled open. A cloud of dust and a dead spider fell to the ground after being freed from their resting place on the doorframe. Coulson peered around the main room without crossing the threshold.
“I’ll leave you to look around for yourself. Take what you want or need. Just be sure to lock the door behind ya when you leave,” the old man requested.

Notes