Phantom Heart

by Kelly Creagh

  I touched her cheek in return just as the wind rushed up between us, carrying off her hat. As if I had never missed a moment between the last day I had seen her and this one, I rose immediately to go after it. But I was struck still and dumb by the sight that awaited me.

  Two figures now stood in the distance.

  Mother. Father.

  Arm in arm, positioned exactly as they had been in their wedding photo, my parents watched me with their own matching set of sad smiles, their expressions far from condemning.

  My mother waved. Taking hold of my sister’s hand, I started toward them.

  My family. They had come. Despite what I was. What I had done.

  I swallowed against the bitter taste of Myriam’s previous words. Her claim that I could not return home.

  So then . . . what was to happen now?

  “Erik.”

  My sister came to a stop—forcing me to do the same. I wheeled around to look at her, panicked for the first time.

  “You cannot come with us,” Myriam stated.

  Hell. This was when she would tell me where I would go. The boy had been right. But could the devil do any worse than I had done to myself? It was true I had blighted my own existence. Yet I wanted it also to be true that Stephanie had winged me at last to release.

  “Why?” I asked, fear and anger ripping through me anew. “Why can’t I?”

  “Because.” Myriam stepped up to me, placing her warm hand over my sternum. “Your heart. Your true heart. It beats on.”

  She shoved me. Lightly. But the small effort on her part was all it took to send my spirit floating back from hers. Up. Over and above the poppies.

  Toward the sun that had not been a twilight sun at all, but one of dawn.

  My mother and father. Both waved to me now.

  As they did, Myriam ran to where they waited, Mother holding her hat.

  Then the light that had brought me here took me into its embrace a second time.

  A beautiful voice beckoned to me from within it, urging me to wake up.

  But then that voice began to hum, and the risk of losing its beauty made me hesitant to heed its command.

  Immediately, I recognized the ballad as my own—our own.

  And the voice. I would know it anywhere.

  I opened my eyes to find hers closed. Tears coursed from beneath her fringed lids, trailing down to fall upon my naked face. Though her pain destroyed me, I could not bear the thought of missing even one tear.

  And so, I commanded my hand to move. My fingers merely twitched at first, and then . . . my arm found the capacity to lift.

  She gasped at my touch, those brilliant blues bursting open with shock . . . and hope.

  Stephanie. My heart.

  The meaning behind Myriam’s words at last became clear.

  Stephanie had become my heart. By bequeathing me hers.

  Had not the bleeding stopped the night she had given me the rose? The night she, the rose, and I, the briar, had become as one?

  The night her actions had done what I thought only her words could.

  The night she had said “yes” without either of us truly knowing.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Lucas

  “Woh-kie dokie,” said Sam as he arrived at our usual table. “Let’s ssssee here, burger special and ketchup with a side of fries.”

  “Lycopene is my friend,” said Patrick, who now sat next to me, seeing as our seating arrangements had unofficially undergone an official change.

  “Street tacos and nachos for the lovebirds. Safe to say that’s on one check, Darthemort?”

  “Did you hear what he called you?” Wes asked Charlotte as he accepted the plate they’d ordered to share. Just like the booth seat, where they now were cuddled up to one another. It was a little absurd. What with Wes drenched in his usual ensemble of solid black and Charlotte in tones of honey and cream, her blonde hair secured in a high ponytail and accented with glittery heart-shaped barrettes.

  “Because, between the two of us,” said Charlotte in her trademark monotone, “I make a way more passable dark lord.”

  “Should I defend your honor?” asked Wes.

  “Don’t you have to have your own first?”

  Wes grinned. Like that retort was all he’d wanted. “One check’s good,” he told Sam, who fought off his own grin as he plucked up the final item on his tray: a huge soda-shop-style milkshake in a tall old-fashioned fountain glass.

  Though I expected him to cart the shake off to one of the surrounding tables, he instead set the dessert in front of me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a vintage-style milkshake,” replied Sam.

  “But I didn’t—”

  “You said you didn’t want anything,” Sam said, cutting me off. “Usually, when a customer says that—especially one of my normally hungry regulars—it’s because they’ve recently missed out on something they did want.”

  I blinked at him, my stomach twisting, my heart giving an extra painful thump.

  “Now,” Sam continued, “ice cream can’t fix that. But it’s on the house and it tastes good, and sometimes a small, sweet reminder that good things are still in the pipeline helps to ease the sting of whatever didn’t work out.”

  With that, he left me to stare laser beams into the milkshake he’d made special for me.

  No one said anything. But I was sure all my friends were staring at me.

  I really had meant it when I’d told Sam I didn’t want anything. I’d even made an effort not to sound as dejected, defeated, or lost as I felt. But he’d still seen right through me.

  Next to me, Patrick lifted his burger and took an enormous bite. Across from me, Charlotte and Wes dug into their tacos.

  I sighed, then took an obliging sip. Though the coldness brought a sting to my eyes, it wasn’t the bitter sort I’d been fighting the last two weeks since Stephanie’s return. And something about the icy, familiar vanilla taste brought a comfort I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to feel again. And Sam had been right. The milkshake did taste good.

  As if my acceptance of the treat lifted some kind of gag order on the group, Wes cleared his throat.

  “So, food’s here. Shall we officially commence?”

  Usually at our meetings, the rule was that we could shoot the breeze on non-SPOoKy stuff until the food came. After that, we shifted to official business. I was usually the one who called us to order, but I didn’t mind Wes taking the reins this time. Really, it came as a relief.

  “We’ve gotten a few emails while we’ve been, uh, busy,” said Charlotte, thumbing through her phone. “One from this couple who just moved into a house in J-Town. Then we got an inquiry from this antique shop called Time and Again. Turns out they heard about us from that investigation we did at that little bookshop on Bardstown Road last fall.”

  “List of complaints?” prompted Patrick before chomping another bite of his burger.

  While Charlotte started rattling off purported phenomena that might have been impressive to us at one time, I zoned out, my focus trained on my milkshake, mind spiraling back through time. To the glass house when I’d plunged Erik’s knife into his chest.

  I’d meant to end his misery with the action. I’d meant to end Stephanie’s. And mine.

  I’d meant to do the right thing.

  And at the time, violent as the action had been, it seemed like it was. But how and when had right and wrong gotten swapped? At what point had Erik become Erik again and Stephanie no longer mine . . . but his?

  Stephanie hadn’t been in school for the past two weeks, which wasn’t surprising. I hadn’t heard from her much, either. Her father was home with her now, cleared of all charges and almost halfway through recuperating from his injuries. Charlie was back, too, returned from her stay with friends. Step
hanie’s family had been pieced back together, another member seemingly added, unbeknownst to all but Stephanie herself.

  I wasn’t sure yet how Stephanie had explained away her absence to her father or the authorities. Probably, she’d tell us when she was back. When she returned. To us. Her friends.

  Friend.

  It wasn’t what I wanted to be to her. But being someone’s friend meant you’d be there for them when it was hard. Or impossible.

  Erik and Stephanie. They struck me as so impossible.

  How could they be together? Even if they did love each other? How were they going to share a life when, technically speaking, only one of them was alive? What was going to happen with stuff like prom and graduation? What about college? What about seeing the world? Those weren’t things they were going to get to do together, were they? Maybe, though, since they shared a heart now, they would.

  But I guessed the answers to those questions really weren’t for me to know. I wasn’t part of their one-plus-one-equals-one equation. And I guessed that now, as Stephanie’s friend, it was my job to be okay with that.

  Really, what was the alternative?

  “Lucas?” asked Charlotte.

  “Yep.” I glanced up and took another sip of the milkshake.

  “That’s all the info about the emails,” she said. “But we were wondering if you’ve heard anything from Rastin.”

  I nodded, certain they knew I hadn’t paid a lick of attention to Charlotte’s email debriefing. But they were being patient with me, and friends made a habit of doing that for each other, didn’t they?

  “He called me,” I said. “Asked for a check-in, and I hope you don’t mind I gave him the rundown on each of us. He also asked who would be turning eighteen by summer and who would need official parental permission.”

  “Why would he ask that?” prompted Patrick, the table going silent.

  I inhaled deeply. “He might have mentioned something about featuring us on this new show he’s signed on for, Phantom Stalkers,” I said in one breath.

  Charlotte’s eyes bugged. Patrick’s head swiveled my way.

  “Uhhhh,” said Wes, pausing with his glass half lifted to his mouth. “Come again?”

  I smirked. I hadn’t been holding out on them. Just waiting for the right moment. The one in which I could deliver good news with something akin to cheerfulness.

  “He said he’d fly us out.”

  “Shut. The. Freak. Up,” said Charlotte as she gripped Wes’s arm.

  “Ow,” said Wes. “I mean wow.”

  “I know you aren’t messing with me right now,” said Patrick.

  “He has a case in mind for us,” I went on, forcing more eagerness into my delivery of the news than I felt. Maybe, though, by the time the opportunity arrived this summer, when we’d all graduated, I would be excited. “He wants us to help him investigate the Waynesfield Wraith.”

  The table erupted into noise. Then faces split into wide grins. And with good reason. Because the Waynesfield Manor was known for being one of the most haunted locations in the United States. That everyone seemed to be on board meant that Moldavia had strengthened us way more than it had weakened us. Also, if we played our cards right, we might actually—if we were lucky—launch an official career for ourselves.

  I smiled at my friends, which wasn’t so painful now that the split in my lip had finally healed. From there, I just listened to the conversation that careened into unbridled elation, everyone gushing and throwing out speculations over what the summer was going to bring. And here it was, one of those sweet in-the-pipeline deals Sam had mentioned. With whipped cream and a cherry on top.

  When it was apparent their excitement wasn’t going to be something I could wait out, I tapped a spoon against the side of my glass, calling for order.

  At once everyone sobered, eyes shifting to me. The seriousness of my expression caused Charlotte’s brow to knit.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The last official order of the day,” I said.

  “Which is?” Patrick prompted.

  “Stephanie,” I said.

  To that, no one said anything. Pain flickered across my features, but I wasn’t interested in hiding it. I’d seen the damage masks could do.

  “She’s not an official member of the group,” I said. “But she texted me that she’ll back to school on Monday, and that got me thinking.”

  “About?” Charlotte asked.

  “Holding a vote.”

  “On Stephanie joining us officially?” asked Patrick.

  “That’s the protocol we decided on,” I said with a shrug. “So. Those in favor say ‘aye.’ Those opposed? Well, you know.”

  My friends all shared uncertain glances with each other, until Wes suddenly spoke.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Patrick.

  “Duh,” remarked Charlotte when I flicked my eyes to her.

  Her response made me smirk.

  “Aye,” I heard myself say.

  Then everyone’s smiles became more lopsided. Like they wanted to be happy about this but weren’t sure if I was ready for that. My heartache wasn’t theirs. But that they were willing to share it with me still slapped a bit more balm onto all the hurt.

  “A toast?” said Patrick, lifting his soda. “To SPOoKy?”

  “And its newest member,” added Charlotte, raising her lemonade. “Finally, another girl.”

  “To Stephanie,” said Patrick.

  “And to looking soooo damn good.” Wes. Of course.

  I picked up my milkshake glass. “Hear, hear,” I told my friends.

  Because that seemed better than telling myself, “There, there.”

  And then the four of us clanked our beverages together—a sound like old things breaking away. And like new ones coming together.

  EPILOGUE

  Stephanie

  December Twenty-First

  I finished placing the last ornament, settling it into the fragrant branches of the live Christmas tree Dad had yanked into the house and erected in front of the parlor’s bay window.

  Together, the three of us had piled on lights and filled the boughs with memories.

  Still, the tree had never seemed complete. At least, not until now.

  In between Dad’s yellow hardhat and Charlie’s purple octopus, and directly next to my music note, there now hung the rose ornament I’d smuggled home that afternoon.

  I took a step back, eyeing my handiwork, at last satisfied that each of us had a place on the tree.

  Tick, tock, tick . . .

  We didn’t have a clock in the parlor on our side of the house, but the ticking floated to me through the walls the same way his music did, though I never had to strain to hear the piano or the violin. Or that voice . . . calling to me.

  I glanced in the direction of the mantel and smiled at the fireplace’s in-progress state.

  Now that his leg was better, Dad had restarted work on the house. The doctor had advised him to begin with smaller projects and tackle the bigger ones in the spring. Currently, he was out of the house. On a hunt for supplies with, of all people, Ms. Geary, the school librarian. The single school librarian.

  This wasn’t their first excursion, either, and somehow during their last one, she and Dad had found ceramic tiles with birds on them. Though they weren’t the same as the originals, Dad had matched them closely enough to make my heart flutter with happiness.

  Eventually, Dad did ask about Lucas, like I’d known he would. In answer, I’d told him truthfully that the two of us had decided to just be friends. He’d pressed for more information, of course, so that’s when I turned around and started asking a few of my own questions about Ms. Geary. After that, he stopped prodding so much. I returned the favor, and in that way, we reached an unspoken truce about not p
rying.

  Now the bird tiles he and Ms. Geary had scored sat in a small pile next to the fireplace A few of them had already been set. Dad had also located the figurehead of the deer for the center, which he’d promised to let me install when the time came.

  I still found it interesting that even after I’d convinced Dad to let us stay here—to keep this house—he continued to take the greatest care with its restoration. Aside from slowing down and accepting a construction job in town that would start in the spring, nothing had changed regarding his plans for Moldavia.

  And maybe that had something to do with the fact that Erik still sent him dreams.

  I still had dreams, too. Except I knew they weren’t dreams.

  Wanting to check on Charlie, who had returned to sleeping in her own room after I’d delivered the news that Zedok was no more, I spun toward the open pocket doors—and jumped to see him standing there.

  Erik’s gaze gave nothing away as it beamed at me from behind the familiar mask—that of Valor—that he still wore, though more for his sake than mine. His face, unchanged from the one I had revealed that day when he’d played for me, wasn’t one I would have cringed or shied from. Still, the barrier helped him to navigate a reality—or rather, a love—where all others had been obliterated.

  Pressing a hand to my thundering heart, I released the breath I’d almost swallowed.

  Despite our connection, he still held the power to sneak up on me.

  “Have you chosen a school yet?” Erik asked, nodding to my laptop, which lay open on the coffee table next to an accompanying stack of college catalogs.

  I shook my head. Because I hadn’t. Stanford had been my original first choice, but after some discussion, Erik had convinced me to also apply to Carnegie Mellon and Juilliard—schools with legendary singing programs.

  “Legendary programs for a legendary voice,” he’d said, making me yearn to see myself the way he did through those two bright lights.

  He made me feel like I could do it all. What was more, our daily practice sessions made me believe I could.