Phantom Heart

by Kelly Creagh

  I dipped my hand into the trunk and withdrew the sepia-toned image of a wealthy-looking Victorian family. Posed against a nondescript backdrop, they seemed to watch me through the crackled window of time and space.

  Well, three of the four figures did.

  A pretty woman in an elegant lace gown with Gibson Girl hair held center place in the photo. A cute little girl who might have been eleven or twelve stood in front of her dressed all in white, her own hair done in braids. To the woman’s left stood a glowering man with dark hair and a matching handlebar mustache. To her right, there stood another male figure. A young man by the looks of his one visible hand. I couldn’t tell for sure because a black blotch that seemed to be part of the photo itself obscured the whole of his head.

  Maybe the heat or cold of the attic had damaged the photo? Or maybe just time.

  I rooted through the papers and, in addition to a faded ocean liner ticket from London, I found another small full-body photo—this one almost halfway blacked out.

  A single figure—the same young man from the family photo, I guessed—posed as the portrait’s subject. He wore a long black dress coat open over a waistcoat. One hand held a violin. The other gripped its bow. Above that, the photo dissolved into the same blackness that had ruined the previous photo. Again, the blotching obscured the man’s face and head. All except for the very edge of his sleek and longish black hair.

  My immediate guess was that he had to be the son of the couple. Which would make the little girl his sister. Could the family be the original owners of the house?

  I looked up as a breeze rushed in through the window, sending a flutter of loose papers over the attic. In the distance, a rumble of thunder sounded.

  “Great.” Dropping the photos, I hurried to the window and cranked it shut, eyeing the storm-darkened clouds above.

  If Charlie woke and the power went out, she was going to lose her mind.

  I made a beeline for my phone, but paused when my foot encountered one of the papers the sudden gale had sent scattering off a nearby desk.

  Sheet music?

  Bending, I plucked the yellowed paper from the floor. Then turned to find another pair of papers filled with more music, the notes of which had been etched onto the lines by hand.

  No name or signature headed or footed any of the papers. Still, the romantic in me wanted to believe the long-gone mystery violin guy had been the composer. The paper felt and looked old enough, but the notes themselves gleamed crisp and fresh. I ran my thumb over a quarter note, causing a faint smudge that, if nothing else, proved the intricate piece to be unquestionably modern.

  Forgetting my phone for a moment, I took to the task of gathering the other sheets. Though I told myself it was because the ballad was handwritten and therefore original and possibly one of a kind . . . I knew that wasn’t the real reason.

  Mom. She was the true reason.

  For the second time that day, a wave of crushing sadness washed over me. And there I went again, careening backward through the years until I was once more seated on a piano bench next to my mother, my small, Charlie-sized legs kicking in time with the metronome while Mama sang . . . and played.

  That bench. It was a spot she and I shared well into the years my feet no longer dangled. And those were the years when I had done the singing.

  That morning, it had been the memory of her music—something that I recalled now better even than her face—that had killed me.

  Now? In this moment? It was the fact that Charlie would never have her turn on that seat.

  And this music, like that old piano, was what screamed these brutal truths at me in a way that refused to be ignored.

  At the same time, the collection of carefully placed notes beckoned to me in their hidden language, a vernacular that my mom had taught me to decipher and translate through the sweet mixture of sound and soul.

  I’d stopped singing after she died.

  Well. I’d stopped taking lessons.

  Sometimes I still sang. Usually when I was in the house by myself. Or to Charlie at night before bed. I never told Charlie the songs were Mom’s. I just sang them so that she would have some pieces of Mom, even if she couldn’t know those pieces for what they were.

  Dad and I. We did what we could to keep Mom out of Charlie’s daily life. Far enough out to keep her from asking too many questions, the answers to which were bound to cause pain.

  One day soon, though, Charlie would find out the truth.

  It was a day I wanted to hide from, and one that Dad wanted to run from.

  I sighed, scanning the notes, refusing to blink so that my tears would dry before they could fall.

  “So. You had some reasons to be sad, too, huh?” I asked the music, the melody of which could have scored a tragic romance.

  Flipping through the pages, I hummed a few bars of the haunting ballad, quietly, just in case Dad happened to be near.

  Though my love of music had survived my mother’s death, Dad’s had not, and that’s why I did my best to leave him out of it.

  He never said anything, but I could tell that music—certain types that included my singing—bothered him. And yet, he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to evict the old, broken, and tuneless grand piano sleeping under that dustcover in our ancient new parlor.

  I might have taken that as a sign he was finally starting to heal. If I wasn’t so afraid it happened to be a sign of just the opposite.

  “Steph?” came my father’s voice from the base of the staircase, startling me into silence. “Mind coming down and giving me a hand with something?”

  “Coming,” I called, grabbing my phone.

  Then, unable to help myself, I rolled the sheet music into a tube, taking it with me.

  Because, for the same reasons Dad needed silence . . . I found myself needing a song.

  SIX

  Zedok

  This time, when Stephanie dreamed, against all odds, she did see me.

  My plan to appear to her not as I was, but as I once had been . . . worked.

  Though the curse had disallowed the survival of even a single untainted likeness of my former self, I had never forgotten the face that could have once been found in any mirror.

  The face was not one easily forgotten. Nor, for that matter, easily ignored.

  This dream of Stephanie’s had begun similarly to the last one I’d attempted to infiltrate, the school setting unfurling from the darkness of her unconsciousness. She entered through the dissipating void, her attention fixed on something ahead of her—someone. Yet a fleeting scan of the crowd showed no trace of the yellow-haired star of her previous fantasy.

  As Stephanie approached, I let the scene unfold as it would, resisting the temptation to take hold of the dream and spin it my way. Instead, I took my place amid the other phantom players, ironically the least phantom among them.

  Eyes locked on me where I stood close to one metal-compartment-lined wall, Stephanie gaped at me as she passed. Her steps slowed, retreated, and then abruptly halted in front of me.

  We stood but a few feet from one another, and I watched her as she watched me—as the hallway cleared of students and noise far faster than it would have in reality.

  At last, her complete concentration had become mine.

  I waited, leaving first words to her, for allowing her to initiate our conversation would help to embed me more firmly in her dream. And in her mind.

  Her first utterance, though, left much to be desired.

  “Uum,” she said. And then nothing more.

  Ah. Erik. He had always had this effect on people. On debutants in particular—those elite young ladies of my day. The girls who, each fancying herself the ingénue in a play full of villains, had volleyed against one another to win a more favorable union than her rivals. Which one of them would not have poisoned the other’s punch f
or but a single dance with Erik?

  “Where did you come from?” Stephanie asked, before sending a glance around the vacated hall, as if she’d only just noticed we were alone. Then she gestured to the rapier I wore. “Are you with the drama club or something?”

  Her casual demeanor suggested she had yet to realize this was a dream. I had hoped that my dated wardrobe would help hurry that part along.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” I said with a small nod. “Though we are not yet formally acquainted, you should know our paths have crossed before. That is why I am here.”

  She frowned, her hands clasping tight the strap of her shoulder-slung bag.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “Last I checked, I was the only new student here. Besides, I think I would remember someone . . . British.”

  An involuntary smile touched my lips—Erik’s perfect lips. Because, while I was sure I would never know, I assumed my nationality had not been the first word to spring to her mind.

  Had I really forgotten how much power lies in beauty? It was a power I missed. And one that apparently held even more sway with Stephanie than I had initially wagered.

  My smile faltered, which suggested that some part of me had been secretly hoping Stephanie would prove herself different from the girls I had once known. That she would surprise me.

  All the better, perhaps, that she did not.

  “I am not a student of this school, Miss Armand,” I clarified. “My formal education, in fact, was acquired over a century ago.”

  She took a sudden step back from me. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

  “I am,” I answered quickly, “the rightful heir and lord of the estate your father has just purchased.”

  She squinted at me before again inspecting the hall that held none but the two of us.

  “The truth is,” I admitted, “I have endeavored to garner your attention for some time. And now that I have it, it is imperative that you absorb every word of what I am about to tell—”

  “This has to be a dream,” she mumbled suddenly, providing the answer to the riddle as it occurred to her. Her eyes returned to mine. “You can’t be real.”

  “Though this may be a dream,” I hurried to say, “I’m afraid I cannot agree with your second assessment.”

  Now that Stephanie had become cognizant in her dream, the likelihood of her waking and severing our connection increased. Contrary to my assertion, she still believed me to be a figment. If I said just the right things, though, I could now, perhaps, begin to change that.

  “Every word your sister has uttered about the presence on the estate is true,” I said.

  “Presence?” Stephanie took another retreating step. “What are you talking about?”

  “There is an unfathomable darkness in this home,” I said, reclaiming the distance between us. “The product of a curse. An infection that extends through the manor’s walls as well as its grounds. As a result, you and your family are in grave danger. I do not wish for any of you to be hurt or worse. And that is why you must all leave. Immediately.”

  “Leave,” she repeated in a deadpan tone that insinuated I had not heard the lunacy imbued in my own words.

  “The monster your sister speaks of is real,” I told her. Which, just as everything else I’d relayed to her, was true enough.

  Stephanie drew a breath. Then she started to say my name. “Zedo—?”

  I raised a finger to stop her—boldly pressing it to her lips. Keeping my stare fixed on hers, I waited to be certain I had her silence. Only then did I withdraw my finger, which I pressed for one moment to my own lips.

  Awed, and perhaps a bit shaken by my gall, she merely blinked.

  When I spoke again, I chose my words with the utmost care. “Take caution with that name,” I said. “He will hear you whenever you or anyone dares speak it.”

  “Riiight,” she said, unconvinced as ever. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  “I am Erik,” I said, lying to her for the first time. And I did consider it a lie. For though I had once been Erik, I was no longer. And had not been for over a hundred years.

  “Erik,” she said, repeating the name in a way that made me flinch. For, though there was one other person who insisted on referring to me as such, to hear that name uttered aloud was to be reminded of everything I had lost. Everything I no longer was, and could never be again.

  “I must go,” I told her, my central aim now achieved. “But you should heed my warning. Get out. Leave Moldavia. Or, one way or another, he will make you.”

  I ended the dream there by opening my eyes—casting their glow upon the hearth I had seated myself in front of prior to my meditation.

  And now I was back. On my side of the house. Once more locked within the shell of the thing I had just warned her against.

  SEVEN

  Stephanie

  I woke up at four fifteen that morning—right after the dream ended.

  I didn’t even try to go back to sleep, either. I wouldn’t have been able to. Not with that face—that voice—still echoing in my mind.

  With the hope of grounding myself in reality, I got up. Clad in T-shirt, pajamas pants, and robe, I padded downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee. Four sips in, though, and I was still asking myself the same ludicrous questions. Why, for the first time since I’d entered it, did the house feel so . . . off? And why had that dream felt more real than this moment that was real?

  I pressed the tips of my fingers to my lips, where the sensation of his touch lingered. Though no one had touched me at all.

  The mind was a funny thing. Scientists wanted to say that outer space was the final frontier, but I would argue that it was the human brain. And mine? Between yesterday and today, well, it had somehow fallen into a black hole.

  Two cups of coffee and almost a half hour of total silence later, though, and I managed to sort the dream out in its entirety. Well, nearly.

  The tall, dark, and molten-hot stranger standing at the lockers? Nothing more than a fancy chimera Frankensteined together by my subconscious, which had excavated the parts both from yesterday’s interaction with Lucas and those freaky faceless photos I’d found in the attic. How could I be so sure? Because Sir Steamy McDreamy had referred to the house as “Moldavia.” And Lucas had been the first person to utter that name to me.

  Boom. Mystery explained.

  The dream had also revealed another layer of my inner world that I couldn’t help but examine now, too.

  This Erik guy. I might not have even stopped to pay him any attention in the dream if he hadn’t been sooooo . . . Well, for lack of a better term, beautiful.

  Even now that face reverberated through my memory as sharply as it had in the dream.

  Gripping the handle of my coffee mug, I frowned into the cooled light-brown liquid.

  My attraction to the dream figure . . . Did his appearance mean I legit had the hots for this Lucas character? Like, without even realizing it with total waking-mind coherence?

  I could totally admit Lucas was cute. But was the dream telling me I wasn’t letting myself admit just how attractive I thought he was? Or was the entire interaction with Erik just supposed to highlight how conflicted I felt about kind of being into someone who had also kind of been creeping on me?

  Tired of Sigmund Freud–ing myself, I finally shoved the coffee away and stood.

  It would be six soon, and Dad would be up and I wanted to make him and Charlie breakfast before we all dug into the day’s projects. Which meant I had an hour left to satisfy one curiosity, at least.

  * * *

  PRE-MORNING DARKNESS STILL swathed the estate by the time I got dressed and made it out the back door.

  Flashlight in hand, I stepped down from the dry-rotted, wraparound porch and into the milky mist that enshrouded the grounds. Just down a short path, the m
etal frame of a gazebo-shaped conservatory poked through a tangle of bramble and brush.

  While the intact panes of the glass house shone opaque in the starlight, the missing ones gaped black, making the thing look like some giant bug with too many open mouths and even more sightless, cataract-clouded eyes.

  Though I had forgone exploring the property until now, I’d already inspected the conservatory, which had been just as overrun by plants on the inside as on the outside.

  Of course, there’d also been evidence that the glass house had once been truly beautiful. An oasis of plants and peace.

  Had the lady of the house hosted tea parties there? What sorts of plants had she grown?

  Almost certainly, there had been roses. Victorians loved their roses, right?

  Dad would raze the glass house for sure, but I couldn’t help wishing he would restore it. A functional conservatory wasn’t something that could drive up the home value enough to cover the cost of its restoration, though. Or counteract the fact that there were dead people buried thirty yards away.

  My eyes slid to the shadowy line of the woods.

  I wanted to believe simple curiosity led me to investigate the graves. But there was no denying my sudden interest in them had more to do with my dream.

  I couldn’t bring myself to say that I was “scared.” Things were definitely odd here, though.

  But accumulating weirdness aside, you couldn’t get much more concrete than graves. Graves had dates and names. Graves had facts.

  Steeling myself, I trudged toward the thickest section of tall grass, the soles of my rubber Wellingtons tromping over leaves and twigs. So far, the heavy Maglite I’d brought hadn’t been a huge help, what with the mist deflecting the strong white beam, dispersing the light.

  As I got closer, I veered in the direction of a set of oddly spaced trees. That was, they weren’t part of the forest. Thorn bushes huddled around their bases, while downed limbs and twigs tangled in the weeds.