And then all is lost.
***
I hear the faint chirp of yulejays flitting overhead, grazing cattle lowing in the far pasture, the rye grass stirring in the breeze (at least the shoots of it that aren’t pressed firmly against the earth by my face).
My eyelids flutter open, and I press groggily up to sit, squinting into the rays of sun just peeking above the horizon. I turn to scan for Cyril. ‘Tis a good thing the campfire has burned to ash, because his body lies sprawled and soot-stained over the cinders.
“Cyril!” I scramble to his side, shaking his shoulder. He rolls lazily onto his back and sputters a mighty snore. Relief and despair hit me all at once. He is alive…but the flames have died down, taking any hope of rescuing Jakob with them. “Wake up, Cyril.” How can he slumber so soundly at a time like this?
“Let him sleep.”
My head darts up at the sound, eyes scanning the pasture. The rye grass sways tall, but not tall enough to hide a whole person. “He has had a rather exhausting eve,” says the whisperer. It’s a croak—barely a shell of a voice—but I would recognize it anywhere. I sit up tall.
“Jakob!” I feel his presence before I see him, the cold tingle shivering down my spine. Slowly, the morning shadows in the grass begin to meld into a form. It rises up into the misty figure of a man robed in wispy, flowing blue. The rays of sunrise shimmer through his face, the faint hint of a smile turning the corner of his mouth. My eyes fly wide. “Oh, you stubborn, grim-faced, dear old man!” I rush impulsively to hug him, but as always, my arms pass clear through him, my heart skipping a stunned beat at the icy chill. I’m too elated to feel silly for trying to embrace a shadowspirit. “I thought we would never see you again!”
“A rational supposition,” he nods, arms crossed in the folds of his robes, “considering the state in which you last encountered me.” He glances away. Funny, I don’t recall ever seeing Jakob looking sheepish. It lasts but a moment, and he’s back to his usual dignified self, his ghostly-blue forehead all stern creases and furrows. “It appears,” he observes soberly, “Destiny has other plans for my soul.”
“’Tis a good job it does, or Destiny and I would be having some rather heated words right now.”
“It is wasted industry to do battle with Destiny, Tadpole.” Jakob gives me a most familiar look. “We must all follow Fate’s design, whether it be agreeable or not.”
“I see a brush with eternal confinement hasn’t weakened your ardent loyalty to Fate,” I smirk, “or your ability to make that face.” Our eyes wrestle for unblinking supremacy, but eventually I yield. “Don’t think that just because you win every staring contest, it means you’re always right,” I protest. “’Tis an unfair advantage when you have no need for blinking.”
Jakob allows another tiny hint of a smile, tipping his spectral head into a polite nod. The smile fades as it always does, grave purpose darkening his brow. “You should not have entered the Crossing. Have I taught you nothing of the disadvantages of wanton recklessness?”
I grin. “Only every day of my life.”
He allows a brief groan of self-pity. “The Crossing is a dangerous place for any living creature, even more so a Talis. You are fortunate an overzealous netherphantom did not tuck you under his arm and spirit you away beyond the veil. Yes, you do well to shiver with dread,” he admonishes. “The river is savage and unpredictable, at times overflowing with raw power. What you saw this day was a subdued demonstration of its might. Once the veil claims a soul, it is most unlikely that soul shall ever return.” He cocks a forbidding eyebrow. “Swear you will never tread near it again. Not until Fate ordains it.”
I nod, my eyes trained on the grass. “I swear it.” The heat flooding my cheeks slowly begins to fade, and I look up to meet his sober gaze. “Now for your turn, Old Man. What in Sariel’s name were you doing run adrift on the rocks, bobbing in the current of this ‘savage and unpredictable’ beast? Who needs a sermon on the disadvantages of wanton recklessness?”
He looks away again, this time less sheepish than troubled, puzzled even. “I was looking for something. It is of little importance,” he dismisses it, “You need not trouble yourself over the matter.”
“A shadowspirit does not challenge an ancient grimwraith for the contents of his archives for any reason. Certainly not one of little importance,” I challenge. “I am no longer a foolish child, Old Man. Do not play me for one.”
“You were never foolish, Tadpole—only headstrong. And you are still a child in my eyes.”
“That’s because you’re hundreds of years old!” I stamp my foot. “Oh, don’t arch your eyebrow at me, Old Man. I’ve earned the right to blow steam, after what you’ve put me through these weeks.”
Stirred by my infantile outburst, Cyril snorts and sputters awake. “Henta?” He groggily shields his eyes from the rising sun, laboriously pushing himself up to sit. “Are you squabbling with yourself again?” He looks over himself with puzzled curiosity, dusting the ashes from his palms and hair. For his effort, he only manages to smear a sooty streak across his forehead. It takes a moment, but the memory of desperation and futility settles over him, and his eyes turn somber as they meet mine. “We’ll get our hands on more conveyance powder.” He’s already working to his feet. “We’ll find a way to get back to the Crossing before the day is out.”
“On my grave you will, Young Man.” For a shadowspirit, Jakob can muster a rather robust chiding when he’s really riled. “I should have you flogged for leading an innocent young woman to the brink of death.”
You’d think Cyril has just been awarded a knighthood, rather than offered a flogging. “Jakob!” His face is pure joy and sunlight, as he bounds to my side to greet his favorite person in all the world—alive or deceased. “I knew you wouldn’t forsake us! With all the mischief Henta gets herself into, we’d be doomed for certain without you.” He answers my punch to the shoulder with an impish wink.
Jakob sighs. “Clearly neither of you can be trusted to mind yourselves, gallivanting off to romp with demons and dance at the gates of the underworld.” Apparently, even while unconscious in a raging river, he sees all.
“Back to the point…” I set my sternest look on Jakob. “What was it you risked your soul to coax from the grimwraith’s archives?”
He hesitates. “A grimoire. One that was lost over a millennium past.”
I frown. “What use do you have for a dusty old, forgotten spellbook?”
Jakob’s look says I’ve missed the point. “I said the grimoire was lost…but it has never been forgotten.” The furrows of his brow deepen. “I went looking for it, so that I might ensure it would stay hidden. This grimoire was not scribed with wicked intent, but for evil purpose will it be used. Until the day it is reclaimed by its rightful owner.”
Another question is ready to leave my lips, but Jakob’s press into a tight line. He’ll say no more on the matter. He folds his arms into his gauzy sleeves, eyes silently examining me.
I shakily clear my throat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shrugs. “No particular reason. I suppose I just missed your lovely face, Tadpole. Of course, ‘tis a much pleasanter sight when you are not scowling so.”
I let the scowl linger on. “Is that your backhanded way of saying I look like hell this morn? Because you know whom to thank for that, Old Man.”
He meets my challenging gaze, not surrendering an inch. “Had I desired to be followed, I would have told you where I was going. As it happens, I took express care not to impart that information.”
“Whether it is your desire to be followed or not,” I retort, “rest assured you will never be crossing the veil alone again. How did you know you wouldn’t be stranded forever on the other side?”
“I did not know for certain,” he concedes, “but I trusted that Destiny would not allow it.”
“You know I don’t believe that life is preordained, just a stage play we’re all acting out. Our choices matter. They c
an carry us one direction or another, whatever Destiny had in mind.”
“Says the girl who boldly challenged a grimwraith ten times her size,” Cyril interjects, “on the assumption that it was not her fated day to die.”
I shoot him a look. “So maybe I believe in Fate just a little bit,” I concede, “but I still don’t want to know what lies ahead.”
Jakob nods, unsurprised. “Sometimes it is best for the future to remain clouded. If you always know what is coming, you will never make mistakes. And mistakes—and their consequences—are the surest means of education.”
“Is that your way of admitting that you let me run into that tree trunk when I was ten? So I could be educated in the godforsaken pain that comes with a broken nose?” I fight to keep a smile in check.
Jakob’s answering face is a block of stone. “Perhaps.” He clears his croaky throat. “Perhaps not.”
Cyril cracks first—he always does—clapping me on the back and breaking into hearty laughter. “Broken noses aren’t so bad. With the fourth or fifth one, your face just kind of goes permanently numb. After that, you barely feel but a wee crack.” He winks, smile brimming with mischief.
“Good to know,” I smirk, “Next time I’m feeling angry, I’ll just take out my frustrations on your face.”
Cyrils bows gallantly. “Glad to be of service, milady.”
Jakob mutters with a longsuffering sigh, “Children...”
Cyril grins, looping his arm around my neck, as we follow Jakob into the village, bickering into the dawn of a new day. Between snide remarks and petty slaps to Cyril’s arm, I breathe an internal sigh of contentment, knowing all is now right with the world.
And then the roar of a grimwraith echoes from the parish watchtower, the screams of fleeing villagers funneling down the cobbled lanes.
Yes…Life is definitely back to usual.
About M.A. George
M. A. George is an author of young adult science fiction and fantasy, including the Proximity series and Aqua. She is also a happily married mother of two adorable children. In her spare time, she works as a super top-secret agent. Oops…probably just lost that job. Writing is what keeps her up into the wee hours of the night. Fortunately, she has a lot of energy. (Read: caffeine is her lifeblood.) She has a bit of an obsession with music (which does a fantastic job of tuning out rambunctious children while she attempts to focus). She sincerely hopes people enjoy reading her work as much as she enjoys writing it. And if anyone hears of work for a super top-secret agent, she’s now available (discretion guaranteed…).
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The Little Girl
Jamie Campbell
The home looked like something out of a storybook. Two levels with large windows and a front door right in the middle. It was big, and perfect for a fresh start.
“Dibs on the bedroom at the front!” Bea squealed as she ran from the car. I wished I had her enthusiasm.
This was our fifth house in two years but I tried to remain positive. It would be different here. We’d moved towns for a fresh start, and surely things couldn’t all be bad in a place called Buttercup Bay.
“It could use some maintenance,” my mother said as she stood by my side and assessed the house. We’d bought it unseen, crossing our fingers and hoping it would work out. “But it’s nice, right?” She bumped me with her hip.
“It’s nice,” I agreed. Besides the overgrown yard, the house did look nice. It was big and spacious, giving our family of four plenty of room to move.
Bea ran back from inside the house, giggling with her loose hair flying around her face. “It’s pretty! I love it! Can we stay here forever?”
“We’ll see,” Mom said. Dad pulled up in the moving truck, backing it up so that the end was close to the door. When you moved as many times as we did, you got pretty good at it.
A bunch of kids joined us on the lawn, a few were on bikes. “Are you moving into this place?” a boy asked, he was probably about ten.
“Yeah. I’m Penny. Do you live around here?”
They all nodded. A girl younger than Bea spoke up. “Nobody’s lived in this house for years. It’s always just been here, looking sad and all.”
“I guess it won’t be sad anymore,” I replied. The little girl had a faraway look to her face, like her mind was a million miles away.
“You can play with us if you like,” the boy said.
“Thank you. Once we get settled in, maybe you could show me around?” Rule number one of moving to a new place: make friends. Rule number two: learn where everything is in town. Two birds, one stone.
The boy started peddling his bike. “Sure. See you around.”
They all took off after him, an entourage of about eight kids in total. It was probably the entire school right there, the town was that tiny.
We’d lived in cities and medium sized towns before, but this was our first small town. My parents thought it might be different if we didn’t have so much busyness around us. If everything was slower and calmer, maybe we wouldn’t have the same problems anymore.
I hoped they were right.
Buttercup Bay had a good feel to it. We could start over again and maybe be able to stay for longer than a few months this time.
A girl could dream.
I grabbed a box of my stuff and went inside. The large windows let in lots of light, flooding the house with warmth.
The kids had been right about no one living here in a while. Cobwebs were the main feature, the floor had a layer of dirt covering it, and the stairs all squeaked when you stepped on them.
Still, it was our home now and we would have it looking fresh and clean in no time. I made my way up the stairs and found my bedroom. Bea had claimed the one at the front which left mine facing the backyard.
The yard was huge and surrounded by a picket fence. Bea would be able to ride her bicycle around in large circles out there until Mom said she could ride on the road.
My eyes caught movement and saw something at the edge of the yard. It was a little girl. She held a teddy bear in her hands, gripping it tightly against her chest. Her nightgown was white and long, her blonde ringlets framed her face.
I’d seen her before.
It had followed us.
Again.
* * *
A sick feeling started in my belly and crept up my throat. I blinked and the little girl went away, leaving me covered in goosebumps.
We’d tried to get away from her so many times, tried everything possible to shake her. And yet here she was, in Buttercup Bay and still haunting me.
All the hope I’d had shriveled up and died. We wouldn’t be staying in the small town for long. The little girl would see to it until we were so desperate we would disappear in the middle of the night without mentioning to anyone we were going.
I didn’t tell anyone I saw her here. Mom, Dad, and Bea all seemed so happy and they wouldn’t be if they knew. The little girl was my problem, not theirs. For some reason she singled me out, haunting me until I was terrified of her.
Later that night I went to bed. Boxes were still stacked against the wall of my bedroom but my bed was exactly like it was in our last house. The first thing Mom always did was get the beds ready in a new place. It didn’t matter if we had chairs or silverware, as long as we could go to sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw the little girl. She was always there in my memory, showing me things I didn’t want to see.
I heard a creaking noise and closed my eyes tighter. The noise continued while I balled up my courage and peeked over my doona.
The door to my room was opening and closing. My windows were closed. The old house might be a little breezy but it couldn’t control the door like that.
Open and closed.
Open and closed.
The door swayed both ways before it slammed shut. It stayed that way, keeping me on the inside so I couldn’t run anywhere quickly.<
br />
I gripped onto my doona, holding it up over my face so only my eyes peered over the top. My heart raced in my chest while I waited to see what else the little girl was going to do.
She liked playing with me.
I was her favorite game.
My breath was visible as it puffed into the air and hit the sudden chill in the room. I shivered with the cold, reminding myself that it was actually summer in Buttercup Bay and was supposed to be dripping with heat.
Footsteps padded against the floor, belonging to invisible feet. She was coming for me and I couldn’t do anything to stop her. I braced, waiting for the inevitable horror that she could inflict on me.
It was different every time. The little girl rarely repeated the same thing, preferring to show me all her skills and terrifying abilities like it was a talent show.
The footsteps came closer, inch by inch bringing her lifeless body nearer to mine. I was completely frozen, knowing running or hiding weren’t options.
The little girl would always come for me.
No matter what.
The bed creaked as she sat down on the end. The mattress dented with the weight of an invisible body. I could feel her body against my legs, the cold chill of her skin giving me goosebumps.
Her bony hand grasped my ankle so I couldn’t move it, no matter how hard I struggled under her touch. It was like her fingers were made out of ice, burning my ankle with its coldness.
All of a sudden the door to my room burst open again and Bea ran at me, crying and sobbing like she’d had a nightmare.
The little girl instantly vanished, the dent in the bed smoothed out and I could move again. The heavy cold she had spread in my room lifted so I could breathe again.
“Penny, I can’t sleep,” Bea whined. “It feels bad.”
Spectral Tales: A Ghost Story Anthology Page 7
