Lifelike

by Sheila A. Nielson

  That’s what this presence felt like. Safe.

  “Is someone there?” I spoke softly to the empty room. “Emily? Margaret? Is that one of you?”

  The warm, cozy feeling seemed to intensify, taking with it all that was left of my unease. Whoever’s spirit this was, I was not afraid of them. How could anyone be frightened of something so…peaceful?

  “Did we rouse you with all the excitement?”

  I only uttered the words as a way to chase away the peculiar feeling of unnatural quiet. But the inquiry somehow took on greater meaning in the listening silence. The whole room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for someone to answer my carelessly spoken question.

  That’s when I realized that somehow, somewhere along the line, I’d become a believer. I accepted without a doubt that there really was someone there, even though I couldn’t see them with my eyes.

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you,” I spoke softly as if to a drowsy toddler being put down for a nap.

  With that, I walked calmly from the room, shutting the study door quietly behind me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knew something was wrong the minute I saw the crowd of people gathered downstairs. The ghost hunters, Aunt Victoria, Gabrielle, and even a few museum guests encircled a man and woman I’d never laid eyes on before.

  “I only turned my back for a moment!” the half-hysterical dark-skinned woman cried, rubbing a distracted hand against her cheek. “Davey has never done anything like this before. He wouldn’t just run off!”

  “If you will just remain calm,” Gabrielle said in her most professional voice. “I’m sure the boy is—”

  “Remain calm?” The burly man in a T-shirt and jeans demanded, getting up into Gabrielle’s face. “My son is missing!”

  Gabrielle moved back a step and spoke into the walkie-talkie in her hand. “Matt, we need you. Right now,” she said.

  I froze on the second-floor landing, staring down at the scene of chaos below with a half-eaten granola bar trembling in my left hand. Afraid I might accidentally drop it, I pushed it down deep in my pocket.

  “Davey might very well have been kidnapped and you expect us to be calm about it?” the distraught father continued to shout angrily from below. “Why are you people standing around instead of calling the police so they can find Davey before it’s too late?”

  The man’s words caused his wife to burst into tears. Aunt Victoria moved quickly to the woman’s side, putting a comforting arm across her shaking shoulders. That was the moment when things would’ve really fallen apart—if not for Matt.

  Gabrielle’s simple cry for help had awakened mild-mannered Matt Kutler’s inner superhero. The security guard entered the room like a general marching confidently into battle. He advanced on the group with such purpose in his stride that it made everyone stop what they were doing just to watch his approach. Even the sobbing mother hiccupped into silence with surprise. Matt seized the distraught father’s hand firmly within his own.

  “I’m Matt Kutler, head of museum security,” Matt said in a no-nonsense tone. “If you could tell me where you last saw the boy and what he was wearing we’ll form some groups and begin looking for him. I’m sure we’ll find him in no time, the little guys don’t usually wander too far.”

  Matt’s take-charge attitude had an instant calming effect on the missing boy’s parents. The young couple drank in every word he said like it was their last hope on earth. After taking down their description of Davey, Matt turned to the rest of the group deploying them like army platoons. “Gabrielle and Victoria if you would escort Davey’s mother to the back room and help her identify the child on our security camera videos, we can see which direction the little boy went,”

  Matt turned to the ghost hunters and Ms. Sarah the receptionist. “We’ll split the rest of you into two groups. This half will search both wings on the first floor. Make sure to check all the restrooms. The rest of us will search the grounds outside.” Matt gestured to the walkie-talkie in Ms. Sarah’s hand. “Call me the minute anyone finds him.”

  Gabrielle stared slack-jawed at Matt as if he were some stranger who’d just walked in off the street. She actually looked impressed.

  “Wren,” Matt cried, noticing me on the landing. “Check upstairs for a little boy, six years old. Wearing a red t-shirt and jeans. Make sure to check every room in both the east and west wings. Under every bed and in every closet, got that?”

  Still stunned by the astounding change in Matt, I could only nod in response.

  The groups quickly headed to search their assigned locations. Ms. Sarah, Cassandra, and her mother headed the first-floor charge, quickly disappearing into Postmodern Doll Room. Since the west wing was locked up tight, I decided to begin my search with the east wing.

  Having just come from the empty study, I skipped that room and moved on to the next. And the next. I opened and searched each and every room. I looked under beds, peeped behind chairs and chest of drawers. Open the door. Search the room. Close it up again. Repeat. My hand froze on the old fashion, brass door handle as I noticed a plaque hanging outside the last door.

  XAVIER KENSINGTON’S BEDROOM

  Turning the door handle slowly with my hand, I half expected the hinges to creak eerily—but Xavier’s door opened in utter silence.

  Against the far wall was a king-sized bed with a decorative headboard. Carved into its dark wood was an old-fashioned ship in full sail. A large map of the world was woven into the surface of the room’s throw rug. Had Xavier been an ardent adventurer in his secret soul, or was this stuff added later?

  I pulled back the window curtain to check the window seat and found myself looking straight out onto the lawn behind the house. In the distance, I caught a glimpse of Matt and Mr. Dale as they disappeared into the stables, still searching. The little boy had not been found yet.

  A familiar feeling crinkled and inched its way across my scalp as I stared out at the scene before me. This was the window—the one Taylee saw someone watching me from.

  I held my breath, trying to sense if there was some presence lurking about in the corners of the room. The room felt empty. As normal as all the others. So how come my heart was thundering inside me like drums of warning? I turned away from the window, eager to get out of Xavier’s room as fast as possible. That’s when I spied the wardrobe sitting against the far wall. It was dark, battle-scarred by time, and big enough to hide a full-grown man in.

  Or a woman.

  In my dream, the distraught young lady in the blue dress was locked in a wardrobe. Probably just like this one. I took a few tentative steps to examine it closer. There, barely visible in the surface of the wardrobe’s wooden door, was an old-fashioned keyhole. I tried not to imagine what it would be like to be trapped within that suffocating space for hours—wondering if help would ever come.

  Was it possible that little Davey was hiding in there? I reached out and tried the handle to see if it was locked. The door swung heavily open, its hinges creaking softly within the unnatural quiet of the room.

  The wardrobe was empty. Where was that kid?

  Closing up Xavier’s room, I headed slowly back across the landing to the west wing and unlocked the door. I searched our living apartments without hope of finding anything. How could a little boy find his way through a bolted door? But I continued searching anyway. Better safe than sorry.

  I ended the fruitless hunt in my room. Standing in the open window seat, I stared dazedly out at the cars in the parking lot.

  What would happen if the boy never showed up? Aunt Victoria’s beloved museum would be on the six o’clock news. There would be police officers and reporters crawling all over the place. The talking heads on the television would question if the museum should be held personally responsible for not handling the situation better.

  My gaze moved automatically to the butterfly drawn in the dust of the window seat and discovered to my surprise that it had now been joined by a second picture. The small profile o
f a lion with its toothy mouth opened wide in a giant roar.

  A butterfly and a lion? The fragile gentleness beside power and savage strength. What was the connection between the two?

  I could not imagine Aunt Victoria or any of the museum staff drawing the pictures. That left only one other possibility. I tried not to think about dead people creeping about in my room when I wasn’t there—and failed.

  I turned to look at the doll still sitting on the vanity. Sunbeams shone through the window, casting golden rods of light across the air. Dust motes swirled in a slow hypnotic dance. I blinked a moment as a thought touched a familiar chord inside me, like fingers finding the right keys on a piano. I found my mind wandering back to the secret closet which had hidden the groom doll from the world for at least a hundred years.

  The closet!

  I’d felt an unseen presence in the study earlier. Like someone was in the room with me. What if it hadn’t been a ghost at all? I hurried back to the study as fast as my exhausted body would let me.

  “Davey?” I called out as I entered, heading straight for the bookcase. “Are you in there?

  It was exactly three heartbeats before I heard it—a soft rustling of cloth, so muffled I could almost have passed it off as imagination. When I’d come in earlier, the bookcase had been slightly ajar. Davey must have snuck inside the closet when no one was looking. When I’d closed up the closet, I’d accidentally locked him inside. I raced to the wooden mermaid queen and gripped her head between my fingers. The shelves popped forward as I threw the door open wide.

  “Are you the birdie lady?” a child’s timid voice spoke softly from the darkness.

  I stepped into the shadows feeling around with one hand. “Davey?”

  “Neader said you’d come for me.” It was definitely a little boy’s voice. He didn’t sound frightened, more like relieved. Because of his dark skin, I could barely make him out among the shadows.

  “I can’t see you very well. Can you give me your hand?”

  I heard the sound of rustling material, just like before, then felt cold, little fingers slip into mine. I pulled the boy out into the brighter light of the study. He blinked up at me through narrowed eyes, but other than that, he seemed in good shape.

  “Your parents have been looking for you everywhere,” I said. “We have to let them know we found you.”

  Davey glanced back at the open bookcase stubbornly resisting my attempts to pull him out the door. “Neader said he’d be right back. What if he gets locked in the closet without me?” Davey asked anxiously. I had no idea what was going on inside that adorable head of his. Whatever it was, we didn’t have time for it.

  “There wasn’t anybody in the closet but you, Davey,” I pointed out.

  Davey went back over to the open bookcase and stuck his head inside. “Neader?” he called plaintively to the darkness within. Davey turned to look at me, eyes wide with childish concern. “Where is he?” The little boy looked ready to cry at any moment.

  I walked back to Davey, resting my hands gently on his shoulders. “I don’t know where Neader is, sweetheart—but right now we’ve got to find your mommy and daddy and let them know you’re safe.”

  Davey glanced one last time at the dark interior of the secret room before turning to give me a hesitant nod. I took his hand in mine and started leading him to the exit, but Davey slowed his steps as he caught a glimpse of Xavier Kensington’s portrait. The child stopped, staring up at it in transfixed silence.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked him.

  Davey turned to look at me, with wide unblinking eyes. “Neader,” he whispered.

  This was so not what I needed right now.

  I gripped Davey’s small hand tightly within my own and all but dragged him out the door and down the landing, heading for the grand staircase as fast as Davey’s legs would move.

  “Aunt Victoria!” I shouted.

  “Wren?” Aunt Victoria’s voice echoed softly from some far-off place deep within the depths of the house.

  “I found him,” I yelled in return. “I’ve got Davey.”

  There was a momentary silence, then the sound of lots of hurried footsteps headed in our direction. Davey’s overjoyed parents met us at the bottom of the stairs. They hugged him so tight I thought the kid’s head might pop off by accident. A short period of pandemonium reined as the relieved groups of searchers returned from their hunt. They wanted to know how I found him. I was afraid Davey’s parents might be a little angry when they found I’d accidentally locked their son in a storage closet, but they were just relieved he was safe.

  “Neader showed her where I was,” Davey chimed in softly before I could finish telling the whole story. “He said he would go get the birdie lady and help her find me.”

  “Not Neader again,” Davey’s father said rolling his eyes heavenward. Davey’s mom just laughed and hugged her little boy for the hundredth time.

  “Who is Neader?” I asked the boy’s parents. “He keeps talking about him.”

  “He’s Davey’s imaginary friend,” Davey’s mom said. “Neader’s been around since Davey was old enough to talk.”

  “It’s Neader who usually gets Davey into trouble in the first place,” Davey’s dad said with a wink. “Did Neader tell you to go into the secret room, Davey?”

  “No.” Davey shook his head firmly. “He came into the dark place when he heard me crying. He told me not to be scared because you were looking for me.” Davey tapped a finger thoughtfully to his chin. “Neader tried to open the door—but it was stuck. He said he was going to go get the birdie lady and if I was brave by myself for just a little while, she’d come get me out.” Davey grinned at all the searchers around him. “I was brave. I didn’t even cry while Neader was gone. Not once.”

  “Hey, birdie lady,” Matt called out to me with a mischievous grin. “Good work!”

  The horrors of what might have been were chased quickly away by the light sound of laughter. Davey and his family headed downstairs and the group of searchers followed, laughing and talking about how glad they were that everything worked out all right.

  “That’s strange, don’t you think?” Cassandra had stayed behind to wait for me. I was beginning to get used to the slightly off green color of her lips.

  “What’s strange?”

  “That he would call you the birdie lady,” Cassandra said. “Your name is Wren. That’s a type of bird, isn’t it?”

  A shiver passed through me as I thought about Davey’s reaction to Xavier Kensington’s portrait. The way the boy had whispered Neader’s name as if he were afraid the painting would hear him. As far as I knew, Xavier was the only male ghost currently residing on the premises.

  “Are you saying the spirit of Xavier Kensington was in the storage closet with Davey? Talking to him?” I asked.

  Cassandra gave a shrug of her slim shoulders. “Kids are supposed to be more receptive to ghosts. They can see what adults can’t, because they still believe in the impossible.”

  “Do you believe it?” I asked in complete seriousness.

  “I’ve been doing these ghost-hunting tours with my mom for years. Just between you and me, most of the stuff I see does seem kind of bogus.” Cassandra lowered her voice to a whisper. “But every once in a while, I see things that can’t be explained away by logic. Things that make me wonder if maybe there’s a whole lot more out there than we can possibly imagine, you know?”

  “Davey said Neader came to get me,” I said thoughtfully. “If the ghost of a gorgeous dead guy had shown up to clue me in, I think I would have noticed, don’t you?”

  Cassandra peered at me through her slightly too-long bangs “What made you think to look in the secret room?”

  “I was looking at this doll—” I broke off suddenly. Xavier’s doll! A chilly pressure touched the base of my spine.

  “A graven image.” Cassandra nodded knowingly. “There are warnings in folklore about creating graven images—you know—an inanimate object t
hat’s treated like a living thing.”

  Cassandra slowly placed her hand against the glass of a nearby display, gazing at the dolls held within. “There are religions that believe if you make an image that looks like someone, it gives you power over them, like voodoo. Mom has all kinds of theories about dolls, and statues, and things like that. She thinks objects that are created to look like living things attract the souls of the dead.”

  “Well, this particular doll definitely didn’t talk.” My laugh sounded a little forced even to me. After the things I’d seen in this place, anything now seemed possible. Even talking dolls.

  “It wouldn’t have to talk to influence you,” Cassandra said. “The spirit could have used the doll as a focus to get its message across. You looked at the doll, the spirit used the doll to make you think of looking in the secret room and—boom!—you went and got Davey out. Pure inspiration. It wouldn’t be the first time a lifelike image was used as a bridge between the world of the living and the world of the dead.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked in confusion.

  “The Ancient Egyptians believed that if you created a statue in the image of a living person, once they died a part of that person’s soul would be drawn back to reside within it.”

  “That’s a little messed up,” I said.

  “Think about what an artist does to create a work of art, like a statue—or even a doll.” Cassandra gestured toward Fiona, the doll standing guard at the base of the stairs. “They put a lot of themselves into it. An entire lifetime of experience. All the faces they have ever observed, the expressions they’ve seen on those around them—captured forever in porcelain or clay or whatever. It gives that object enough power to draw a person’s soul. At least, that’s what Mom thinks.”

  I thought of the Cabbage Patch doll with the red hair and freckles. The woman in the leather jacket had invested part of herself into her doll, making it something more than mere cloth and plastic to her.