by Kelly Creagh
College, though, meant distance. From my family, my friends, Moldavia, and from him.
For now, that hurt too much to think about. Not in the debilitating way my heart had burned during those moments when I’d been certain I’d lost his forever, but enough to make me go to him and welcome myself into the arms that enfolded me only after I wound him in my own.
He always embraced me with reverence, like every hug was our first. Or maybe his fear was that it would be our last. But the bond tying us together was stronger than that. Strong enough to override a curse, and restore a soul. Two souls.
I guess, though, he still needed some convincing that we weren’t destined to unravel.
Perhaps, ironically, he just needed time to figure it all out. And maybe I did, too.
Our whole situation did seem so . . . incredible. And I wasn’t sure how it was all going to work. But, simultaneously, I was certain about one thing.
And that was that it would.
Pressing my cheek to his silent chest, I closed my eyes and breathed him in, relishing the feel of something I’d been missing for far too long—that indefinable feeling of home.
That had been another thing I’d lost when I lost Mom, who Charlie now knew about. The questions had come pouring from her almost as soon as she’d been returned to us, delivered to our arms by those of a mother—one whose mere existence had made her want to know where her own had gone.
The buried pictures and mementos came out shortly after and, with them, all the pain Dad and I had tried to run from, out-maneuver, and deny.
Charlie had struggled with the news, but she was doing better now that Dad had returned to counseling and was getting some help on how to handle her grief and confusion as well as his own.
And the pain of loss. I still carried it, too. As I always would.
I opened my eyes again, though, arrested by the realization that, in that moment, the faraway and deep-seated ache I harbored within wasn’t entirely my own. Pulling back, I focused on the sapphire pin embedded in the black satin of Erik’s cravat.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to play tonight,” I said. “Or if you’d want company.”
He tucked a gloved finger beneath my chin, tilting my face to his mask. “How could I stay away when my solace, my heart, is here?”
I smiled in spite of both of our aching and, taking his hand in mine, turned to draw him to our preferred place of retreat—of respite.
“So that means you’re still up for teaching me this crazy middle part, right?”
I seated myself at my super-early and super-enormous Christmas present—the piano Dad had, at my behest, restored.
Eager to begin, my hands went to the keys. Starting with that low booming A that pounded like a heartbeat, I then layered in the chords that spoke of approaching doom. In other words, my favorite part.
Faltering in the same place I had yesterday, and the day before, I began again.
“That would be good,” Erik said, taking his place next to me. “If it wasn’t so dreadful.”
“Hey,” I said. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“I’ve heard worse,” he allowed, reaching across me to correct the position of my fingers on the keys. “Just yesterday, I think it was.”
Settling his hand over mine, his fingers aligned with my own, eclipsing the silver and ruby-eyed skull ring I still wore.
“I’m going to let that one go,” I said.
“Ah, you’re kinder than your playing,” he said, making me laugh this time. He pressed his pinky down on mine, and the repeated heartbeat note filled the room, beautiful and resonant.
Normally, whenever Dad was home or Charlie was about, I’d cross to his side for practice sessions, or just to talk. Sometimes, though, when Dad was out and Charlie was sleeping, we’d meet in my parlor. Always, we had the piano, our music, and each other.
“This seems like the easy part,” Erik said, “but it’s not. The single repeating notes, they must stay constant through the chord progressions. Or the whole thing falls apart.”
My right hand flowed through the chords while he guided my left through the repetitious single A. When it came time for my left hand to switch, he released me and let me go on.
The moody middle of “Für Elise” stormed on from there, the lighter notes intertwining with the dark ones to become two halves of one whole.
“Beautiful,” Erik remarked when, arriving at the place where our last lesson had ended, I had to halt. “Now again. From the beginning.”
Replacing my hands on the proper keys, my fingers moved with a new and hard-won fluidity as they tiptoed over the somber notes my mom had ushered me through in my younger years. Next, I waded into the lighter ones that Erik’s instruction had helped me to grasp. He let me play on, his right hand interceding at the point when all the high notes came flying out one after the other in the sequence we’d yet to take on together.
Then the dark part arrived again, and this time, he let me take it all on my own.
I made it through without a lapse, grinning to myself when I did, and then his hand again swept in to play the climbing and falling section.
After that, the both of us played, each of us carrying a half all the way to the point where the end of the song came to mirror its beginning.
And then, when we were done, as we always did, we began anew.
Acknowledgments
Over the course of several years, this book has transformed many times and each version, each draft, revealed more and more to me regarding the story I truly wanted to tell. This is that story. As a result of this journey, which has brought incredible rewards—not the least being that I get to share this book with the world—I have many people to thank.
An enormous and heartfelt thank-you goes first to my incredible agent, Janna Bonikowski, who worked tirelessly to help me refine this book and also to find the perfect home for it. Janna, I want to thank you for believing—in me as well as this story. Your guidance, dedication, passion, and tenacity paved the way for this project to become a reality. I am immensely grateful for all you have done and, as well, to have you in my corner.
Additionally, it has been my great honor to collaborate and conspire with my incredibly talented editor, Dana Leydig. Dana, your leadership, thoughtful input, ideas, and love for this story have helped to shape it into all I have ever hoped it would be. Your direction, dedication, intuition, and expertise enabled me to polish (and, at times, reign in) an ambitious retelling. Thank you for encouraging me to dig deeper and also to chip away and let go of the things that didn’t belong. You heard the music of this story so clearly, and it now sings because of you.
On that note (yes, all my puns are intended), I would like to thank my incredible team at Viking for their talent, time, and attention. Books always bear their author’s name on the cover, but each page within bears the invisible yet invaluable influence of those working behind the scenes. I am deeply appreciative to you all for working so hard to usher this dream of mine into the realm of tangible reality. Thank you to my copyeditors, my authenticity readers, my design team, and to all who have lent their minds and magic to push Phantom Heart toward success and to deliver it to the hands of readers. For your input, thoughts, time, and artistry, I am profoundly grateful.
When I began writing this book, Stephanie’s voice came quick, easy, and fast. Zedok, on the other hand, lurked onto the page in a far more mercurial and amorphous way. My dear friend Katie McGarry was the first to agree with me regarding his potential. What was more, she did so with an enthusiasm that fed my own. I am indebted to you, Katie, for encouraging me to follow my phantom through his dark world, to seek after his voice, and investigate his past. In particular, thank you for your help in shaping THAT chapter. You know the one. The one that changed more times than Zedok has masks. And thank you also for believing in my monster. You were right about him. As always, you were righ
t.
Sometimes when I pass by a bookshelf, I catch myself imagining what trials each author went through to see their books become a reality. And I know there were trials. Both successes and setbacks inevitably pepper the path of anyone who strives toward any worthy goal. Immediately after one deeply discouraging moment on my journey with this book, I got a knock on my car window. When I looked up, I found my good friend Gina Possanza peering in at me. She had pages in her hand—pages of this book, which she had read and loved. Gina, after banishing my despair, you told me to keep going. Thank you. I am so very glad I did.
I am fortunate in so many ways and one of my truest blessings in life has come in the form of my exceptional critique group. Together, its members comprise a powerhouse of knowledge, expertise, creativity, ingenuity, passion, and heart. A tremendous thank-you goes to Kurt Hampe, Bill Wolfe, Colette Ballard, Bethany Griffin, and again to Katie McGarry. While reading through the various drafts of this book, I would always smile at all the moments each of you helped me to include and refine. Thank you all for cheering me on through this project, for encouraging me, for believing in me, and for continuing to sharpen me into a better writer.
While writing this book, I have also received support and encouragement from many incredible friends. Thank you, April Cannon, for reading every single version of this book and for offering such wonderful input. I appreciate your friendship, your advice, and your willingness to read, reread, and read yet again, more than you will ever know. Thank you as well to my good buddy and sounding board, Nick Passafiume, who also read multiple drafts and who lent an ear to long rants about plotting. I’m so glad we get to sit at the Slytherin table together.
Thanks also go to Marcus Wynn for checking in on me, for believing in me, and for being a constant and enduring source of the best kind of inspiration. Just about every word you say is gold, my friend. Oh, and judo chop.
During the last rounds of this book, I struggled to come up with a particular line of dialogue, which required a touch of brilliance. Good thing I happened to meet up with the ingenious Lindsey Carter Palgy, who solved the issue right quick due to being a comedic mastermind. Thanks, Lindsey. It was the perfect one-liner.
Thank you also to Megan McIntosh, who kept telling me to chase this story, inspiring me all the way by chasing her own stories. Your tenacity rubbed off on me!
A huge thank-you goes as well to my friend Andrew Buchanan, a gifted musician. The first time we met, you were dressed as one of my characters. From that moment forward, you have continued to shower my creative endeavors with galvanizing exuberance and enthusiasm. Thank you for singing about it, dancing about it, and for literally cheering me on. Also, for lending your musical knowledge and for sharing your expertise regarding the piano.
I wrote the earliest drafts of this novel while living in the preservation district of Old Louisville, where the grand historical Victorian homes helped to inspire and mold my vision of Moldavia. But I’ve also been lucky to have another source of inspiration in the form of lush and beautifully written books by my friend, fellow author, and Old Louisville historian David Dominé. David, thank you for your wonderful research and for always encouraging my writing.
Jeannine Buhse. You might not remember that day years ago when we were outside your old apartment talking about my crazy dream of becoming an author, but I do. I carry that moment in my heart like a good luck charm. Thanks for believing I could do it, for following me on all my field-research escapades, for being my friend through it all, and for encouraging me through yet another book. Also, for making me the best bracelet ever.
Writing this project required research into many subjects, which included parapsychology and ghost hunting. I have so enjoyed listening to The Paranormal Podcast by Jim Harold; Jim Harold’s Campfire; and Beyond the Darkness and Darkness Radio, hosted by Dave Schrader and Tim Dennis. Jim, your shows are so engrossing and I appreciate your meticulous approach to conducting interviews as well as your enthusiasm for so many different subjects surrounding the unknown. Thank you also for writing back to me regarding my question on closets. I now take care to always close mine at night.
Dave and Tim? Your knowledge, candor, and gift for humor inspired me to create a fictional ghost-hunting team infused with the same attributes. When listening to your show, I am always either scared, laughing, or some delicious combination of the two. Thanks for creating such wonderful, entertaining, inspiring, and thought-provoking content.
Extra-special thanks go to my teenage nephew, Ethan Creagh, who listened to several plotting sessions and offered ingenious solutions and input. I know I embarrassed you that day in the grocery store when I kept ranting about open portals, alternate sides of houses, ghost-hunting Lindy Hoppers, and masked figures running amok. I didn’t know I was talking that loudly, but now that I think about it, I suppose there were a few stares . . . Anyway, thanks for putting up with that excursion, for still being seen with me in public, for taking the time to pop your head in when I was writing to see how it was all going, and for schooling me on swing-eighths.
I would also like to extend my deepest gratitude to my family, who have offered their support and encouragement through all of my writing endeavors. In particular, I would like to thank my mom, who has always believed in me and my projects and who also fostered and encouraged my childhood obsession with the arts and with The Phantom of the Opera. Thanks for buying me the book, the theater tickets, the music, the fancy programs, and all the art supplies I used to obsessively draw characters from this classic tale that, to this day, remains my all-time favorite. Mom, you truly are the best.
To my readers: thank you for reading this book. I am immensely grateful to all who have taken the time to fall into this world and visit with these characters I have created. Your support and enthusiasm bring me limitless joy.
Finally, I wish to thank God, who has gifted me, along with so much else, a talent for storytelling and wordsmithing. To honor this gift, I use it. Some days that is difficult. Others, the act of writing is joyous, easy, and enthralling. Years of experience in both craft and faith have taught me that God is there through it all and that sometimes it’s those really tough days that serve as the stepping stones that lead to experiencing the best days. And today, a day in which this project, so dear to my heart, nears completion?
Well, it counts as one of the very best.
About the Author
Kelly Creagh is the author of the Nevermore trilogy, a contemporary paranormal romance heavily influenced by the life, works, and mysterious death of Edgar Allan Poe. Nevermore (2010), Enshadowed (2012), and Oblivion (2015) were all published in hardcover by Atheneum and still enjoy a strong fandom and readership. Buzzfeed named Nevermore one of 21 Amazing Young Adult Series That Ended in 2015. Nevermore has been published in multiple languages and countries including Poland, Brazil, Germany, and Hungary. Kelly Creagh is a graduate of Spalding University's MFA in Writing program. She teaches creative writing workshops for children, teens, and adults, and is a regular guest speaker and lecturer for the Louisville literary community and local libraries and schools. Kelly has also guest lectured at the SCBWI Midsouth conference and is a current SCBWI member.
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