Walk of the Spirits

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  But before she could answer, Jonas Hayes broke away. He jerked free so suddenly that Gage and Etienne nearly went sprawling to the ground.

  “You’re the one, Miranda!”

  The voice of her grandfather reached out to her. She could hear the desperation in it, and the sorrow. His eyes, so wild before, now fixed on her with the utmost gentleness, like a silent prayer.

  “You’ll have to do it, Miranda.” The old man’s tears spilled over. “You’re the only one who can.”

  As everyone watched in amazement, Jonas Hayes stumbled off across the yard. He half climbed, half fell up the steps of the veranda. Then the front door closed, and he was gone.

  8

  “WELL! OKAY, THEN!” Parker smacked his palms together, sounding much too relieved. “Looks like we’re through here, huh? So I guess we’ll be going now!”

  He jumped quickly into the front seat, motioning the others to hurry. Ashley didn’t waste any time. Roo followed, but seemed doubtful. Gage and Etienne stood talking for a moment before finally climbing into Etienne’s truck. As the BMW jumped the curb and fishtailed onto the street, Miranda saw Ashley waving good-bye.

  "Don’t forget!” Ashley called. “Tomorrow, ten o’clock! In front of the Battlefield Inn!”

  With a sinking heart, Miranda watched them go. How could they abandon her like this? Leave her here with this crazy old man? She turned and gazed miserably at the house. She’d had the sincerest intentions earlier when she’d offered to stay with her grandfather. When he’d recognized her and said her name, all her emotions had taken over. She’d honestly believed he was going to be okay.

  So what am I supposed to do now?

  She had no idea when Aunt Teeta would be home. She couldn’t just wait around and do nothing in the meantime. What if her grandfather got confused again, and sick, and terrified like he’d been at the Falls? She had to go inside; she had to check on him. Why didn’t I listen to Etienne? Etienne had been right—her grandfather belonged in a clinic with doctors.

  But he’s not in a clinic. And it’s my fault he’s here, and there’s only me now to take care of him.

  Miranda drew a deep breath. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the front door of Hayes House and gave a tentative knock. It didn’t really surprise her when no one answered. Summoning all her courage, she let herself in.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. In her daydreams, she’d always pictured Hayes House as a kind of small plantation, something straight out of Gone with the Wind. She knew from Aunt Teeta’s letters that the house was very old, that it had survived the Civil War but had been updated and added onto throughout all the generations. That it was close to the Historic District, located on a shady side street about a block off the Brickway. And that it backed up against one quiet area of Rebel Park.

  Now, as she moved slowly across the threshold, Miranda let her eyes wander over the hardwood floors, the wide staircase, the high ceilings. Through half-open pocket doors she could see what must be the living and dining rooms. The wallpaper looked old, the furniture was dusty, and there were brown stains on the ceiling where water had leaked in. It might have been a grand house once, but now it felt sad and tired. And it was hard to think of Mom growing up here—Mom, who loved open spaces and plenty of light.

  Miranda gazed a moment longer. Still . . . Mom would think this place has potential. Before, when Mom ran her own interior design studio, Miranda had seen her work miracles out of the shabbiest impossibilities. She couldn’t help wondering what Mom could do here.

  The muffled sound of a voice brought her back to attention. It seemed to have come from above her, though she couldn’t be sure. Approaching the staircase, Miranda peered up at the landing, then stopped and listened. Yes . . . it was a voice.

  Grandpa?

  Calling for me?

  She knew she hadn’t imagined it. For an endless moment she stood there, trying to decide what to do. He hadn’t wanted anyone to help him earlier—it would probably be better if she just left. And those weird things he’d been mumbling? What if he really is crazy, like Roo said?

  A cold wave of fear rippled through her.

  Just go, Miranda. Leave now.

  Yet she put her hand on the banister. And she started up the stairs.

  The second floor was much darker than the first. As twilight slanted in through a stained-glass window, it bathed the landing with soft, multicolored pools of light. A long, empty hall stretched out before her, and she could see heavy doors on both sides, most of them shut. She didn’t want to be alone here—she didn’t want to be here at all—but she’d reached the first doorway now, and had found what she was looking for.

  His eyes were closed. He was lying on a narrow, wrought-iron bed that took up one wall of a narrow, cluttered room. A room that might just as well have been a museum.

  No, more than a museum. A shrine.

  For it was exactly that—an overflowing, overstuffed memorial to the Civil War. Faded photographs of soldiers and battlefields. Hand-rendered portraits of officers dressed in gray. A mounted gun with bayonet, a small collection of knives. An old-fashioned doctor’s bag complete with surgical instruments. Rebel caps and a shaving mug, papers and pens, a bent pair of spectacles without lenses, a tobacco pipe. And row upon row of dusty jars, rusty tins, and musty boxes containing God knew what. There was even a sword with a dull, stained blade and a moth-eaten sash around its handle.

  Curiosity got the best of her. Quietly, careful not to wake him, she began lifting lids off the jars and boxes and tins. Eclectic assortments, she saw at once—yet everything was neatly organized. Bullets and various-style buttons. Scraps of rotted cloth. A locket . . . some rings. Gold chains of different lengths; a short strap of braided leather. Cutlery so tarnished, she doubted it would ever come clean. Crumbling pages of a Bible. Locks of hair tied up with brittle ribbons . . .

  These are real things; they belonged to real people. Real people who had lives and who used these things before they died . . .

  She picked up a small, round tin from the nightstand. As fine hairs prickled at the back of her neck, she glanced at the bed and saw her grandfather watching her.

  Miranda dropped the tin. It clattered down onto the floor and rolled noisily out of sight beneath a dresser, but she was powerless to retrieve it. She couldn’t look away from her grandfather’s face. That surprisingly powerful gaze that held her, that unsettling gaze of infinite calm and profound knowing. Another shiver went through her, though it was different this time. For a split second, it was almost as if that gaze had opened to her—allowing the briefest glimpse of immeasurable wisdom and immeasurable pain . . .

  “Miranda,” he whispered.

  His eyes began to change. Pale, blue eyes growing kind, glowing warm, with a tenderness and clarity that pierced her heart.

  This was the grandfather of her photograph.

  The grandpa she’d hoped for, the grandpa she’d prayed for and imagined for so long.

  And as his hand lifted and beckoned, she walked to his side and offered him a smile, half fearful, half shy.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said softly. “All this time. So many years. I was beginning to think this day would never come.”

  She didn’t know how to answer. His voice was still so weak, his face so chalky white. She felt his long, frail fingers close around her hand.

  “It always skips a generation,” he mumbled. “That’s why your mama won’t ever understand.”

  “Grandpa, I don’t . . .” Miranda hesitated . . . shook her head. He was obviously still delusional; she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  “They’ll come to you because they know you can see them. They’ll speak to you because they know you’ll hear.” The old man gave a restless sigh. “It’s a burden sometimes, all that listening and helping. But you can’t turn them away.”

  I shouldn’t have done this. I’m just making him worse.

  Casually, she tried to fre
e herself, but he only squeezed her hand tighter. “Promise me, Miranda. Promise me you’ll never turn them away.”

  He was growing more agitated now, more insistent. Miranda feared what he might do if he worked himself into another frenzy. Not wanting to risk it, she gave him a solemn nod.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  What have I done now?

  But the change in him was remarkable. Relief shining from his eyes . . . peace drifting over his face.

  “Good girl,” he whispered. “I knew I could trust you.”

  Glancing away, she wrestled with her guilt. She’d promised, and he’d believed her. She’d promised him something, and she didn’t even know what it was.

  “Let him help.” Her grandfather’s voice was fading. As Miranda looked down at him once more, his body went limp with exhaustion, his ramblings lowered to murmurs. She wondered if he’d already slipped into his strange, private dreams.

  "Ssh ...” Freeing her hand, she placed it gently on his forehead. “Ssh . . . just rest now . . .”

  “It’s lonely, Miranda. He’ll help you. Let him do that.”

  She stepped back from the bed, watching the rise and fall of her grandfather’s chest—his deep, easy breathing of sleep. All around them, the shadows had grown darker. They’d lengthened and thickened and crept in from the musty hall, and now they slid along the walls and over the headboard, covering the old man’s face like a death mask.

  “Oh, Grandpa,” Miranda whispered, “I wish I knew what you were talking about.”

  “I think,” said a voice behind her, “he’s talking about me.”

  9

  ALL THE STRENGTH DRAINED OUT OF HER. As Miranda whirled around, a scream rose up and caught silently in her throat.

  At first he seemed merely a shadow, one shapeless form among many. But when he shifted and started toward her, she recognized Etienne’s tall silhouette etched sharply against the gloom.

  “You’re with him. That’s good.” Etienne’s voice, like his arrival, was quiet and matter-of-fact. “I was hoping you would be, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  Miranda didn’t answer at first. Their earlier conversation—his knowing about the screams—flashed back to her, and she pressed against the dresser, trying to put distance between them.

  “Sorry.” Etienne moved closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you knew—”

  “Knew what?” Though the intrusion hadn’t disturbed her grandfather, Miranda felt wary and unnerved.

  “Knew I was here,” Etienne finished.

  “All I know is that you seem to show up—uninvited—at very weird times.”

  “Okay, you’re upset, I understand that. But I left to take Gage home. And you and Jonas needed a little time alone together.”

  “Why would I care whether you left or not? And who are you to say what I need?”

  Etienne’s gaze drifted to that elderly face upon the pillow. “It’s what he needs.”

  “Oh, really? And I suppose he told you that?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me, cher. You’re practically the only thing he cares about.”

  It was a revelation she certainly never expected. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she watched Etienne cross to the window, angle himself against the wall, and stare out at the gathering dusk.

  “Gage didn’t want to leave either,” Etienne added offhandedly. “But I talked him into it.”

  Miranda scarcely heard the remark. “What did you mean just now? What you said about my grandpa and me?”

  “Why? Is it so hard for you to believe?”

  “To tell you the truth . . . yes.”

  “Your grand-père, he’s saved every letter you’ve written to your aunt Teeta. Every picture you’ve ever sent. He talks about you like he’s known you for your whole life. Like the two of you’ve been together forever.” Etienne’s tone went thoughtful. “Well . . . maybe you really have.”

  “Why would you say that? We’ve never met each other, never communicated. For ten years I never even knew he existed.”

  For a moment Etienne didn’t respond. Then slowly he turned from the window, his black eyes narrowed hard upon her face.

  “But Jonas, he always thought—always wondered—if that connection was there between you and him. And he knew if it was . . . then none of the other stuff mattered.”

  Miranda wished he would stop; she didn’t want to hear any more. Yet at the same time, a fearful curiosity had sparked inside her, wanting to hear, needing to hear . . .

  “He told me I’d know for sure when you heard their voices,” Etienne went on. “And he said to ask you about the screams. He said only you would hear their screams at night.”

  Her curiosity vanished now, replaced by a growing panic. This can’t be happening to me. It squeezed her heart and choked her words, though she fought to stay calm. Her hands clenched at her sides. She willed her voice not to tremble. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look, Miranda—”

  “I don’t know about any voices.”

  “But you heard one in your apartment today, yeah? We both know that—”

  “No. It was a mistake. I only thought I did . . .”

  “I guess it’d be easier to believe that. Safer to believe that.” Despite her angry glare, Etienne’s voice softened. “Your grand-père, he cares about you. He knows what it’s like. He wants your life to be happy.”

  “I’ll be happy when you leave. Why’d you come here anyway? Why don’t you just go?”

  She was starting to shake uncontrollably. Deep, painful chills that ached all the way through. She couldn’t get warm. She couldn’t concentrate on what Etienne was saying. She hugged herself and tried to stop shivering, and that’s when she realized Etienne’s arms were around her.

  “Your grand-père, he wants me to help you, cher,” Etienne insisted. “So you won’t be alone in all this.”

  The chills began instantly to melt. As Etienne pressed her firmly to his chest, she could feel his faint stir of breath through her hair, the length and shape of his body against hers. Her pulse quickened; her thoughts spun. She had to escape—from this room and this house, from Etienne and the way he was holding her, from these crazy things he was saying . . .

  Miranda pushed him away.

  “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My grandpa doesn’t know anything about me, and neither do you. There’s nothing to help me with. I don’t need any help. And I’m not lonely.”

  “I didn’t say you’d be lonely.” Etienne seemed to be studying her, as if she were some unusual specimen under a microscope. “I said you’d be alone. But in this case, you might end up being both.”

  “I’m leaving. You can stay here with Jonas Hayes.”

  Shoving past Etienne, she headed for the door, but his calm voice followed her.

  “You have heard the screams, haven’t you? And he told you you’d hear things. He told you you’d see things. Things other people can’t hear or see.”

  Miranda froze with one hand on the door frame. Etienne continued, unfazed.

  “I’ve seen what this does—this gift of his. I see every day what it does to your grand-père.”

  “He’s sick!” Even as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. Feeling guilty and frightened and angry, she whirled to face Etienne. “He’s just a sick, crazy old man. We should have taken him to a doctor like you said.”

  “Miranda—”

  “You saw him at the cemetery. Is that your idea of a rational person? I mean, what was he doing running around in the woods like that anyway? He ought to be kept somewhere.”

  “So, what . . . you’re saying he should be locked up?” Etienne’s face went rigid. “For years he was caretaker at the Falls. And he still likes to go there—do some exploring, clean up the cemetery, fish a little.”

  “But that doesn’t explain the way he was acting. Everyone says he’s a lunatic. So why are you defending him? Why do
you even care about him?”

  Etienne held her in a long, cool stare. And yet there was something in his eyes that Miranda hadn’t seen till this moment . . . something distant and almost sad.

  “Because,” Etienne said quietly, “he’s my friend.”

  A heavy silence sank between them. For just an instant, Miranda felt as if she were seeing a different person standing before her—a stranger with Etienne’s face. The briefest glimpse of loss and shame and vulnerability, the cold defiance of fierce pride.

  And then it was gone. As quickly as it had come, it vanished again, leaving her to wonder at the mystery.

  She heard the crunch of tires below in the driveway, the slamming of car doors. The familiar sound of voices—Aunt Teeta’s and Mom’s.

  “You better get yourself outta here,” Etienne told her. “Before your mama finds out.”

  “How do you know about—”

  “Turn left at the bottom of the stairs and go two rooms down. There’s a side door through the pantry; I’m just about the only one who ever uses it, and it’s never locked. You can cut through the backyard—nobody’ll see you with all those trees.”

  “But what about Grandpa?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Miss Teeta knows about him.”

  Miranda didn’t waste any time. While Etienne went out the front door, she made a quick getaway, reaching the apartment well ahead of her mother. When Mom finally came in, Miranda was already sitting on the bed amid scattered piles of homework.

  “Congratulate me!” Mom greeted her. “I got the job!”

  Miranda couldn’t have cared less about the job. In light of all that had happened today, a job hardly even seemed significant.

  “Great.” Miranda forced a smile. “Congratulations.”

  “I start tomorrow.” For the first time in weeks, Mom sounded almost happy. “It’s a renovation project—one of the oldest plantations on the bayou. Belle Chandelle? You remember Aunt Teeta telling us about it? The company was very impressed that I’d had my own design studio. They said my experience is just what they need!”