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According to Google Maps, it can take almost twenty hours to drive from New York to Marion County, Mississippi. That's not even taking into consideration the stops one must make to eat, to use the bathroom or to take a photograph of whatever road-side oddity that creeps up.
There is also the realm of Morgantown to contend with on this journey. The title 'Morgantown' seems to lurk everywhere in the state - a cemetery in Foxworth; an elementary school in Natchez; a road off of MS-12, not too far from the Alabama border. As if realizing that the old adage is true, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it", the people of Mississippi obviously knew a good name when they heard it and were content to spread it around.

For an unseasoned traveler or for one who isn't just naturally methodical with their fact-checking, a trip like this could come off as a bit of a nightmare.
Spencer Carlin, though, is forever thankful for zip codes and Aiden Dennison's substantial financial worth. Before she agreed to this idea of seeking out some elusive singer in the South, Spencer made sure that her needs were taken care of, right down to pocket change for packs of gum. The airplane ticket to Gulfport? Aiden. The rental car? Aiden. Cash for a room, for food, and for assorted traveling expenses? Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.
The man's sigh was resigned and drawn out as funds were transferred to Spencer's account. She took every opportunity to remind him that this was his idea and he could always ask another writer at the magazine to traipse off to Mississippi.

However, Aiden just smiled at her fondly as he backed out the door of her office.

"I want the best on this one, Carlin. That means you." He said easily with a small wave of his hand and then he was gone.

Instead of twenty hours on the road, it is seven hours or so in the air, one of those hours being a lay-over in Houston. Instead of her blue-eyed gaze being trained to a map until she feels practically blind with weariness, it takes about two hours of following black lines upon thin paper to find her way from the Gulfport/Biloxi International Airport to the northwest corner of Marion County.

It doesn't take long before Spencer finds herself very much away from the congested streets of the city that she knows and calls home. She has even managed to lose the traffic from the airport in Gulfport, watching cars and trucks become sparser with every patch of cracked pavement that these tires tread over.

It is just Spencer and the fluttering leaves of a variety of trees that line Highway 587, with differing shades of green as each leaf turns with the wind; dark forest colors when they face you head on and a pale network of veins as a thunderhead looms from behind, signaling a storm to come.
It is just Spencer and a cassette tape sitting on the passenger seat; a fellow traveler by her side that gives up nothing and reveals no hints as to what will be found once the destination is reached.

The first raindrops start to hit the windshield as Spencer slows the rental car down, looking at the printed out directions in her hand and then looking past the glass to the front of a church.
It's the right address. It is the same address from the envelope.
But what she thought might be a house, or even a bar, has turned out to be the Morgantown Church of God.

"Dennison, what kind of ridiculousness have you gotten me into?" Spencer growls out loud to herself as she parks the car. She sits there for a couple of long minutes, staring at the church building through the steady stream of rain. There isn't another automobile in the parking lot. There isn't a light shining through the windows, though that could be hard to ascertain since the glass seems to be tinted to the point of being black.
The church is as quiet as the cassette tape and Spencer slides a glance to her mysterious companion. She picks up the case and runs the tip of one finger over the plastic edges, allowing her thoughts to drift to the voice found on this ribbon of magnetic brown.
She isn't sure if it was the method of recording that added another level of depth to the singer's voice or not, but it certainly did not hurt the quality.
The woman's voice sounds weathered and, yet, that voice sounds more alive than the hundreds of pop stars being churned out in L.A.
It is the kind of voice that carries the weight of someone who has lived through something difficult; it is the voice of a weary survivor.
It is the kind of voice that comes around once in a lifetime; it is the sound of someone's soul.

"So... where are you, Ashley Davies?" Spencer questions aloud, her words barely above a whisper as the rain continues to fall a little harder outside. She keeps looking at the cassette, almost willing it to talk back and to answer her.

In that state of mind, it is no wonder that Spencer feels her heart actually stop in her chest when a loud pounding resonates from the driver side window. The tape slips from her hold, tumbling off her lap and to the floor of the car.
"May I help you?" A man asks with a kind of forced enunciation, slowed down as if for a child, and with his wet fist still pressed against the surface of the window.
Spencer begins to catch her breath, reaching out to subtly push the button that will lock the doors but she also opens the window a tiny crack.
"I'm looking for someone." Spencer replies, making note of how the rain is sliding off the man's coat in rivulets and how each blink of his eyelids sends more nature-made tears down his face.
"Who?"
"Ashley Davies."

It's kind of a brief and strange reaction but, really, Spencer cannot be sure. She had, after all, just been spooked to the point of possibly having a heart-attack. Her own perception of things is likely colored by her nerves being suddenly shot all to hell.
Still, though, at the mention of Ashley Davies, a fleeting look of alarm seems to shadow this man's face and then it vanishes.
Maybe, Spencer quickly decides, it was never there to begin with.

"Perhaps we should go inside before we are washed away." The man states, whatever Spencer thought she saw completely gone from his person and his lips form a gentle smile.
She may have been raised in a somewhat small town in Ohio, though nowhere near as tiny as Morgantown appeared to be, but living in the wilds of New York has taught Spencer that you don't just get out of your car because some guy smiles at you.
As if sensing her dilemma, the man starts fishing around in his coat pocket and produces a driver's license. He holds it up in the gray light of this stormy afternoon for Spencer to see.
"Reverend Watson Stovall." Spencer recites and the man nods at her pleasantly enough, motioning for her to follow him as he darts towards the brick entranceway of the church.
Spencer looks at her cell-phone which, wonderfully, still has a strong signal. She puts the keys for this rental car in her right hand, letting the carefully cut ridges slip between her middle and fourth finger.
Honestly, she is not even sure why she is feeling this paranoid. There are far more dangers back in the city, with subways late at night and parties that fall in the wrong borough.
This is just Morgantown, Mississippi.

"Stop being such a pussy, Carlin."

With that determined utterance, Spencer squares her shoulders, grabs her laptop bag, and opens the door, running as she tries to avoid the massive puddles forming everywhere on the asphalt. Reverend Watson Stovall waits for her, holding the black-glass door open and still smiling warmly as she approaches.

"Welcome, Ms...?"
"Carlin."
"Welcome, Ms. Carlin, to the Morgantown Church of God, one of the oldest Pentecostal congregations in Mississippi. May the Lord bless you in your time with us." The Reverend says, his smile growing broader as he ushers her into the carpeted foyer.

She stands there, water dripping off of her at various points, as the Reverend removes his coat and lightly shakes it before hanging it up. He turns to her, rubbing his hands together.

"So, let us visit for a while, Ms. Carlin."

She takes an involuntary step backwards and chances a pretty fake smile as well, eager to fob off this Holy Roller before he can get started. There is a fixed purpose for her being in this little town and it is not to hear the ramblings of a man of God.

"Oh, no, really, I just need to find Ashley Davies. If you could tell me where she is, that would be great."
"Ms. Carlin..." The Reverend speaks once more with that deliberately slow tone, his accent becoming thicker with the lack of verbal speed. "There is a storm beating down the bushes out there and we are both soaked through to the bone. Surely you have time to dry off and to find Ashley Davies?"

It is a rush of irrational reasoning that causes Spencer to want to refute the Reverend's assertion. However, the man is right. She has nothing but time now that she is down here.
She even wants to deny the fact that the threads of this pursuit are already piquing her interest, causing long dormant flames to flare up in her body in the form of questions without apparent answers.
But the denial trick is not working for the spark is now lit.

It is the spark of a tale untold and the heat of knowing she will be the one to discover it.

It is just as Aiden predicted.

"Alright, Reverend Stovall," Spencer replies more firmly, that placid smile fading and it is replaced by one of more confidence, "let's visit then."

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