Ghost House

by Alexandra Adornetto

  “What?” I spluttered, taken aback by her blasé attitude. “You can see him?” Alex lifted his almost-translucent blue eyes and fixed his gaze on the Hunt sisters.

  “No, but we can feel the cold spot in the room. Are you at liberty to share his name?” I looked to him for approval, and he gave a small shrug as if to say it was inconsequential to him.

  “Alexander Reade.”

  “Well, please let Alexander know that we only want to help.”

  “He can hear you,” I replied. “He’s sitting right over there.”

  Both of their faces lit up, ecstatic smiles stretching across their faces. May even reached up to fix her hair, like she was worried about making a good impression. I got the feeling that in all their years of research, this was the moment they’d been waiting for. They both gingerly took a few steps back toward the door, as if they didn’t want to do or say anything that might chase him away.

  “Do you think he might manifest himself to us?” May asked hesitantly.

  I looked back at Alex, who shook his head. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he answered. “They don’t have the sight.”

  “Sorry, guys.” I shrugged. “No can do.” A violent rap on the window drew everyone’s attention. I spun around. “Oh no…”

  “What is it?” May asked nervously. “What was that noise?”

  She might have been invisible to them, but Alex and I could both see her all too clearly. Isobel hovered outside the window, only inches away from us. Muddied hands clawed at the glass with a grating noise, like chalk scraping down a blackboard. Alex was on his feet in an instant.

  “Tell your friends to leave,” he instructed. “It’s not safe.”

  “You guys need to get out of here,” I said urgently. “Go. Now.” They both fixed me with a resolute stare.

  “Do you know how long we’ve waited for this?” May said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Fine,” I said, exasperated. “But if she gets in, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Mavis gave a wicked little smile.

  “But she can’t get in, can she?”

  From outside, I heard an anguished howl like a wounded wolf. Maybe the sisters were right. Alex watched as an insubstantial Isobel threw herself against the glass again and again in mounting frustration. Slowly but surely it began to crack.

  “Oh crap…” I muttered, but Mavis and May remained unperturbed.

  “Stand your ground, Chloe.” May squeezed my shoulder. “She can’t get in. Trust us.”

  I glanced at Alex. He, too, was unconvinced, tensed for a fight. I didn’t blame him. We’d gone up against Isobel before with disastrous consequences. She was a madwoman, vicious and unscrupulous. Finally, with a deep groan, all the glass panes of the window shattered, sprinkling fragments across the floorboards. I ducked instinctively. When I looked up, Isobel remained outside, locked behind some invisible barrier. Like Peter Pan when he tried to return home, the window was barred to her. In her rage, she pushed a hand through broken glass, and rivulets of phantom blood poured down her arm before she vanished with a final incensed shriek.

  “She’s gone,” I said breathlessly. “I don’t believe it.”

  Alex cautiously approached and laid a hand on the windowsill. There was an immediate sizzling noise, like meat on a barbecue, followed by a shower of sparks. He moaned in obvious pain and his outline seemed to blur at the edges.

  “Oh my God!” I rushed forward, but this time, my hands went right through him.

  “Rock salt,” he told me through gritted teeth. “It really does work.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” he said. “But I need to go now.” He faded away without another word, leaving a thin layer of blue vapor in the air.

  Speechless, I turned back to Mavis and May, looking at them with new understanding. Was that the beginnings of admiration stirring in my chest?

  “Is Alex gonna be okay?”

  “He’ll be fine. The effect is temporary.”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess you guys do know what you’re talking about. I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive.”

  “Your skepticism was entirely warranted,” Mavis replied. “You had no reason to believe in us before, but perhaps now we can work together?”

  “I think that might be the best idea I’ve heard so far,” I said slowly.

  “Then we’re a team!” May trilled, blinking rapidly, as if she couldn’t contain herself. Sometimes she reminded me of those fluffy lap dogs that got so excited, they trembled all over and ran in circles. “Us against them!”

  “Against her,” I corrected. “And it won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t you worry, dear.” She gave a sly grin. “We’re tougher than we look.” She walked over and linked hands with Mavis and me. “We’re ready for you, Isobel Reade! Let’s get this show on the road.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The following day I was woken by the sound of banging and voices carrying up to my room from the front garden. I looked at my smashed window and tried to think of an excuse that Gran wouldn’t see right through. Nothing plausible came to mind. I decided to think on it as I pulled on my jeans and a floppy gray sweater and padded downstairs to see what all the commotion was about. I found Grandma Fee in the foyer directing a group of men in lumber jackets as they traipsed inside lugging trestle tables.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Honestly, Chloe,” she scolded. “Do you listen to anything I say? I’ve told you a dozen times we’re hosting the Bearwood Winter Ball.”

  “That’s tonight?” I asked incredulously. “I thought it was weeks away.”

  “That’s because you don’t listen. Oh, that reminds me…one of our servers has fallen ill.”

  “Servants?” I repeated incredulously.

  “No, dear, like a waitress. I told them you wouldn’t mind stepping in.”

  “What?” She had my full attention now. “Why would you do that? You’ve totally ruined my plan for the evening.”

  Grandma Fee raised an eyebrow. “That being?”

  “To hide in my room and wait for everyone to leave.”

  “Don’t be so antisocial,” she reprimanded. “It’s just for one night. The proceeds go to charity, you know.”

  There was no point arguing. I slipped past her out into the yard, where I found a crew of workmen erecting an enormous white marquee strung with thousands of fairy lights. Strings of the glowing, pea-size nodules hung from the roof, transforming the tent into a glittering ice cave. I spotted Rory, trailing after one of the men, watching in fascination. He was soaking in every detail while he could. Once the festivities started, he’d be banished upstairs, where, in Grandma Fee’s words, “he wouldn’t get underfoot.”

  She appeared at my elbow with a satisfied smile on her face, checking items off a very extensive to-do list.

  “Not half-bad, is it?” she said. “Wait until you see the ballroom.”

  She was right. The ballroom had been decorated from floor to ceiling in silver and frosty white. The ground was covered in a layer of snowflakes that, when I bent to touch them, were soft and downy beneath my fingers. Clusters of glitter-covered helium balloons adorned the tables, and chiffon swathed the chandelier so that it cast a soft, moon-blue light around the room. Tree branches that had been spray-painted silver were arranged around the outskirts of the room so that it felt as if you were stepping into an enchanted wood. A giant floral arrangement of white roses formed the centerpiece for the long banquet table. It was hard not to be entranced by the wintry landscape. For a moment I felt like Cinderella, wishing I had a gown I could wear to the ball.

  Grange Hall was suddenly a different place. There was newfound buoyancy in the air, created by the babble of voices and the hum of activity. Rays of winte
r sunlight poured through the tall windows, and with the smell of pastries and freshly brewed coffee drifting in from the dining hall, I almost felt safe and cozy. At times like this it was hard to believe the house had so much darkness buried within its walls. But as I made my way through the foyer to see if Joe had arrived, something brought me up short.

  * * *

  She stands no more than a few feet away, looking nothing like her usual formidable self. In fact she looks as vulnerable as a startled deer caught in a trap. Her puffy-sleeved dress is plastered to her shoulders, and her hair has come loose from its braid and tangled at her neck. She cringes as a wind springs up and whips across her face. She’s shivering, soaked to the bone.

  “Can you help me?” she implores and takes a step forward, water squelching from her shoes. Isobel’s face is sallow and haggard now, her beauty mysteriously erased. She doesn’t seem to recognize me as she holds out a dirty bundle. I make no move to take it. “Why aren’t you listening?” Her voice is choked. “Run and fetch the doctor, Becky. There’s no time to lose!”

  She’s mistaken me for one of the housemaids. “Go quickly! Do you hear me?” Her tear-streaked face is a mask of distress. “My baby, Becky! He’s not breathing!”

  Before the vision ends I catch a fleeting glimpse, inside the blanket, of an infant. He’s blue-faced and as still as stone.

  * * *

  For the remainder of the day, there was no space in my head for anything but the vision. I felt stiff and cold inside every time I thought about it. Isobel once had a child? Why didn’t Alex tell me? What was his name? Who was the father? And how had that little baby wound up dead in his mother’s arms? Faces were racing through my mind: my own mother, Benjamin Grimes, the lifeless infant, Alex, Carter and Isobel’s decomposing face, until they all blurred into one.

  I knew what was happening here. So many significant people in my life right now were ghosts. The dead were taking over. How had I let this happen? There was only one thing they all had in common—they’d departed the earth before their time. Did that mean I was next? Was that why they’d come to me…because…because… I couldn’t breathe.

  “Chloe!” A voice brought the panic attack to a halt. I looked up to find a big-haired woman in a salmon suit inspecting me carefully.

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Pamela,” she declared. “Head of the PTA. Your grandmother said you’re going to be filling in for Lucy? Silly girl went and got food poisoning last night. Some people never think of anyone but themselves!”

  “Right…”

  “I’ve put you on drinks duty tonight. Now, I know you’re from Los Angeles, but please keep in mind that all drinks are strictly nonalcoholic.”

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? A snide remark was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it back, knowing how important this night was to Grandma Fee.

  The bossy woman steered me into the ballroom and pointed to a huge silver punch bowl. Rows and rows of crystal tumblers were lined up behind it.

  “You’ll find all the supplies you need in the kitchen.” She spoke very slowly and carefully, as if the directions were incredibly complicated. “All you need to do is serve the drinks and let me know immediately if you notice any sneaky flask-action. Do you think you can handle that?”

  I forced myself to give my most reassuring smile. “I think I can manage.”

  “Good,” she replied. “You had better get dressed. The girls will be arriving soon from Mulberry College.”

  “Don’t the couples come together?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s tradition for the boys and girls to arrive separately.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” I told her sweetly. “We don’t have many traditions in California…except alcoholism, of course.”

  She flashed me a dirty look and marched off in search of someone else to harass.

  I went to my room to get ready for the ball, throwing together the closest thing I could find to an outfit a waitress might wear—black skinny jeans and a stark-white shirt. Then, figuring I might as well commit to the part, I gathered my hair up into a tight ponytail. Through the window I could see the Mulberry girls starting to arrive. Long, white limousines were pulling into the driveway. When the first batch of girls emerged, they were all dressed in flowing floor-length white gowns, like debutantes. They’d gone all-out with ribbons and pearls woven into their hair and elbow-length satin gloves. Some were even carrying fans and dance cards as if they’d stepped right out of a Jane Austen novel. The Bearwood boys looked equally classy when they showed up in tuxedos, their hair neatly waxed and combed.

  I ran into Mavis and May on the stairs, heading up to their bedroom.

  “You’re not staying for the show?” I asked.

  “Oh no, we’ve got work to do,” May replied. “Spirits don’t hunt themselves, you know, dear.”

  “Wait, you’re not going to do anything tonight, are you?” I asked nervously. “Gran will freak out if something goes wrong.”

  “We’re just writing up notes for our blog,” Mavis assured me. “It’s called Ghosts and Grits.”

  “Grits?”

  “Yes, we like to include recipes in case our readers get bored. You should check it out sometime.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” I replied.

  “Very good,” Mavis said happily. “And don’t worry about tonight. Isobel will never show her face with this many people around.” They patted me on the shoulder and padded up the vast staircase.

  As I made my way into the foyer, I felt suddenly self-conscious. I didn’t belong here and it was painfully obvious. Tonight was like a scene from Pride and Prejudice and I was the modern California girl, sticking out like a sore thumb. When I reached the foot of the stairs, a flash went off in my face. I blinked away the purple dots to see a reporter snapping pictures like crazy. I assumed he was from the local newspaper. No offense to Grandma Fee, but it probably wasn’t so newsworthy by the Daily Telegraph standards.

  “Doesn’t Mrs. Rochester look striking?” I overheard one of the mothers ask. I looked up to see a woman who, by her demeanor, could only be the headmistress standing in the tiled foyer. She shook hands and welcomed each student by name. She was a tall woman in billowing black taffeta, her dark hair styled in a pompadour sweep. Her face was severe, and I was glad the principal of my school in California usually walked around in his jeans and sneakers, cracking jokes. The girls curtsied before Mrs. Rochester, and the boys gave a formal bow before moving into the ballroom. Everything was a blur of polished shoes, bow ties and gowns sweeping the floor. As the couples filed in, I ducked ahead of them to take my place at the drinks table. I was almost nervous about my assigned task. I felt as if spilling so much as a drop might shatter this evening’s perfection.

  “Hey, you.” I turned upon hearing a familiar voice behind me. I almost didn’t recognize Joe in his tux. I was so used to seeing him in old shirts and worn cowboy boots and smelling of hay. Tonight, with his hair combed and his cuff links glinting in the light, he looked every inch the polished En­glish gentleman. With his hair pushed away from his face, his eyes were an even more startling shade of green.

  “Not a bad effort,” I said, taking him in. “You scrub up okay.”

  “Why, thank you,” he replied as a girl materialized at his side. “This is my date, Amelia.”

  Amelia was beautiful in a wood-nymph kind of way. From one look at her, I could tell she was one of those well-connected girls with an apple-pie family who’d probably never seen a therapist in her life. She looked a whole lot less complicated than me. I couldn’t help envying her a little. Just for once, I’d like to know what it felt like to worry about ordinary things like finding the perfect dress to wear to the ball.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” Amelia’s eyes shone and she
could barely contain her excitement. Her flaxen hair had been arranged into two large coils away from her face, which made me think of Princess Leia, except for the little silver stars woven deftly into a glittering headband. “I’ve been waiting for this night all year.”

  “Well,” I said, reaching over and pouring her a glass of punch, “enjoy yourself.”

  As Amelia moved off to talk to some friends, Joe caught my arm. He lowered his voice and leaned in close. “You know she’s just my date for tonight, right?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said lightly. “You don’t owe me any explanation, Joe. This is your school ball. Have fun.”

  “I just don’t want you to think…” He trailed off as he struggled to find the right words. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “Don’t be silly!” I laughed. “I’m not thinking anything.”

  His face fell, and I mentally kicked myself for sounding like I didn’t care. I hadn’t meant it to come out like that. I liked Joe, but it wasn’t like I owned him. We definitely weren’t together, so he shouldn’t feel bad about bringing another girl to the dance. Especially after I’d rejected his invitation. Twice.

  “Okay,” he said, backing away from me as if I had the plague. “I get it.”

  “Joe, wait. That isn’t what I…” I began, but he was already moving away. I wanted to go after him, but a drinks line was already starting to form. Behind me the caterers were wheeling out a lavish array of finger food. There were platters heaped with deviled eggs, crustless sandwiches filled with a funny pink paste, mini meringues in an assortment of pastel colors and something called kilted sausages that I worked out were really just sausages wrapped in bacon. I served drinks mechanically as I was swept away by smooth notes of the jazz band’s saxophone. For the first time in weeks, I allowed my mind to switch off and my body to take over.

  Hours passed, even though it felt like minutes. I was too entranced by the dazzling couples gliding across the dance floor to keep track of the time. I saw Joe and Amelia swaying to the beat of the music. She was leaning her head on his shoulder, but his gaze was distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Their bodies moved awkwardly, not in sync at all. My gaze traveled to the other couples. Body language was telling, and I entertained myself by picking out who was in love and who was suffering through small talk.