by L. T. Ryan
The thoughts sprinting around inside her brain were harder to control. She wasn’t scared of the woman in her bedroom, but she was surprised. It had been so long since she’d seen a figure besides the little boy that her body thought the best way to handle the situation was to run away. Now that she had some distance between her and the supposed danger, she started to understand how she felt.
The first emotion to reach the surface was anger.
Why now? It had been months, and the day Detective Harris had reached out to Cassie, her usual visitor was gone and replaced by a woman she had not seen. Cassie couldn’t be sure, but she would’ve bet money that the figure was one of the missing girls. People were murdered every day and not even one of them had come to Cassie. Was it because she had started to investigate it herself? Was it because she let herself care about the outcome of the case?
Tears sprang to Cassie’s eyes as the next emotion hit her square in her chest. Sadness gripped her heart and squeezed until she thought she would explode by the sheer force of it. One shallow breath chased another until she found herself hyperventilating into the granite tiles.
Apollo paused a few feet away from her and gauged the situation, sauntering forward and nudging her head with his nose. She sobbed harder and he flopped down against her arm, purring and nudging until she was able to sit up and wipe her eyes.
The pain in her chest faded, but the panic attack and sudden drop in adrenaline left her emotionally and physically exhausted. The tips of her fingers and toes tingled.
Apollo brushed against her and offered her a sweet meow.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice raw from crying. She bent forward to pet him and he arched his back against her touch. She could still hear his purring when she stood back up.
Cassie took a deep breath and looked at the clock. If she hurried, she could still make it to work on time. Or she could call in sick and spend the rest of the day in bed. But as tempting as that sounded, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep at all with the spirit of the dead woman hovering around her.
Cassie drank a full glass of water and set her mind to go to work. She returned to her room with caution and found it empty. The woman no longer being there set Cassie more on edge.
Yesterday’s bravery was long gone, so Cassie pulled out a lightweight long-sleeve shirt and matching black pants. She threw on her most comfortable flats and ran a brush through her hair without bothering to eat breakfast.
When she arrived at work, Jason greeted her with a hearty hello. She tried to offer him the same energy in return but didn’t have any to spare. The crease that formed between his eyebrows was enough to make her pause and come up with something close to the truth.
“Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Bad dreams?” he asked.
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Anything to do with what that detective wanted?”
Cassie’s mouth opened to respond, but she found herself caught between answers. If she said yes, she might have to explain why the detective had wanted to talk to her in the first place. If she said no, she would have to come up with a believable lie.
Jason shook his head and offered a sheepish smile. “I’m being nosy. I’m sorry. Ignore me.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Cassie took a deep breath. “It did have something to do with that. It’s just difficult to talk about.”
“Are you in any kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?”
Jason’s concern made Cassie’s chest ache in a different kind of way. “I’m not in any trouble, I promise. But I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”
Cassie thought she caught disappointment on Jason’s face, but it was replaced with his trademark smile. “Any time, Cassie. I mean that.”
Cassie retreated to her workstation. With a big cup of coffee and a protein bar, she sat down intending to stay so busy she wouldn’t be able to think of anything other than what was right in front of her. Nothing else would exist for at least the next eight hours. No detectives. No murders. No ghosts.
Less than an hour later, however, there was a knock on her office door. Cassie’s head snapped up so quickly she felt her neck crack. For a split second, she was terrified she might see Detective Harris standing there again. Or worse—the woman from this morning.
Instead, the collections manager, Jane Livingston, stood there with her head cocked to one side and an eyebrow raised in question. She was over six feet tall with short blond hair and red-rimmed glasses. She was a cookie-cutter replica of what Cassie always believed a female executive powerhouse would look like, but her warmth and professionalism were unlike anything Cassie had ever experienced. She didn’t look down on her subordinates and always did the most to make everyone feel welcome and supported.
Jane’s voice hinted at a British upbringing. “You all right? Didn’t scare you, did I?”
“A bit.” Cassie rubbed the back of her neck and laughed. “Sorry, I was in the zone.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Jane leaned against the door and offered a charming smile. “You’ve done a great job cataloging the new Vera shipment. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. We received a lot of exceptional pieces in this time.”
“I know, right?” Jane’s whole face lit up. “A friend of a friend works at the Met and we got first dibs on the pieces they were looking to pass along. Might’ve gone over the budget, but it was worth it.”
“Magdalena said it’s one of our most popular exhibits, so I’m sure everyone will be excited that we’ve got something new to look at.”
“I suppose I should thank you for that.”
It was Cassie’s turn to cock her head to one side. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve done an incredible job organizing some of our modern pieces and making sure they get the attention they deserve. You have an eye for presentation, and I appreciate how diligent you’ve been about keeping everything neat and clean.”
“Oh.” Cassie was at a loss for words. “You know, it wasn’t just me. The exhibition team—”
“—has all done a fantastic job, yes. And I’ve told them as much. But every one of them have sung your praises. Take the compliment, Cassandra.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound apprehensive.”
Cassie blushed. “I’m either about to get a raise or a larger workload, and I don’t think it’s the former.”
Jane threw her head back and laughed. It was loud and raucous and contagious. It seemed too big for her lean figure, and for that, Cassie loved it more.
“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.” Jane’s eyes sparkled. “You’ve done such a fantastic job with the modern art that I’m hoping I might have you switch gears for a few months. We’re about to get a truckload of new pieces in for our 19th- and 20th-century photography collection, and I want to overhaul the whole exhibit. Do you think you could spend the next day or two familiarizing yourself with our current collection and get back to me in about a week with some ideas of how we can incorporate a couple hundred more photos?”
Cassie knew Jane wasn’t asking. So, with absolute dread already filling the pit of her stomach, Cassie gave her boss the answer Jane was looking for.
“Yes, I can do that.”
Eight
Cassie had been standing outside the 19th- and 20th- Century Photography exhibit for a good ten minutes when George Schafer, the museum’s curator, walked up to her with ease.
“Ms. Quinn.” He greeted Cassie with a smile.
“Dr. Schafer.”
“Did you know this is one of my favorite exhibits in the museum?”
Cassie turned to face him. He was in his 60s, with watery blue eyes and wire-rimmed glasses that made him look both ancient and eternal. He was still in excellent shape, but his wide array of sweaters and a tendency to always carry a book in one hand made him look more at home in a cottage smoking a pipe than the modern atrium of the museum.
“No, I
didn’t,” Cassie said. “I thought you weren’t supposed to pick favorites?”
George’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he clutched a copy of Frankenstein to his chest. “True, but there’s something about photography that has always captured my attention. ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’ They’re like little windows to other parts of the world, with real people and real places. And they’ve been transported here, to Georgia, for us to enjoy.”
“I have a feeling there’s a lesson here.”
George chuckled. “A lesson? No. But maybe a question.”
“Such as?”
“Why do you hesitate to enjoy these little worlds?”
That was a complicated question. This wing housed over a thousand photographs—many of which were over two hundred years old. When Cassie had applied for her job at the museum, she made it known that she wanted to work with modern pieces. Despite her concentration on the Classics in college, she told George, Jane, and the other bigwigs in the room that she was most interested in how current trends reflected the ancient foundations of art.
It was a complete lie.
Cassie needed to stay as far away as possible from anything old and historic. When her abilities were at full power, she didn’t need to touch an object to pick up the tragedy, remorse, and pain of the soul attached to it. Walking through some of the older exhibits, Cassie could be inundated with spirit noise.
Not every item in the museum gave off a tragic aura, but for every two or three pieces that had no effect on her, another dozen or so would reach out to her ability and latch on until she investigated further or found the strength to push it away. It was exhausting, to say the least.
George cleared his throat, catching Cassie’s attention.
“I’m a bit overwhelmed.” Cassie was surprised by the truthfulness of the statement. “Art can be an intense experience for me, and I feel a lot of pressure to make sure I don’t disappoint Jane. Or you.”
George hummed his acknowledgment of her statement and rocked back and forth on his heels a few times. He took longer to respond than most people, but Cassie had found it was worth the wait.
“I like that art has that effect on you,” he said. “I think that’s what makes you good at your job, Ms. Quinn. I think it’s also what makes our collection here so special. Imagine looking at a stationary object and having that fill you with emotion. What an incredible talent to possess.”
Cassie smiled. It’s why she fell in love with art to begin with. There was so much to analyze and feel; so much to learn when you looked at a piece of art. And every person took away something different from each piece. Their experiences, mindset, and emotions all played a role in how they interpreted what they were looking at.
“I think you should embrace being overwhelmed.” George turned to Cassie who was overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare. “It will be uncomfortable but imagine how much you could learn about yourself in the process. Imagine what you could learn about the effect these photographs have on our patrons. Jane has complete faith in you, and so do I. If you’re willing to try, I think you could bring something unique to this exhibit.”
Cassie took a deep breath. It was shaky, but George’s encouragement meant the world to her. “I’m willing to try.”
“Good. That’s all we can ever ask of other people.” He drummed his fingers against the cover of his book. “Now, I have three meetings to attend today and I’m going to see how much of this I can sneak in between each one.”
George winked at her and continued his stroll through the atrium, stopping every few feet to chat with someone for a minute or two. Everyone wanted to say hello to him. She hadn’t known many curators in her lifetime, but she imagined most of them were haughty and pretentious. George was warm and welcoming in a way that made her feel like she wasn’t just another employee, but a valued member of the museum team. He and Jane were the kind of bosses one dreamed of having.
That feeling was enough to make her venture forward with her chin held higher. There were a few people milling about, looking at the photographs, but for the most part, Cassie had the exhibit to herself.
She noticed how silent it was. The normal buzz of supernatural energy dissipated. It wasn’t as calming as she would’ve expected. Instead, it felt like a void. Something was supposed to be there.
That set her on edge.
Still, she started at the front of the room and wound her way through, looking at every single photograph and reading every single plaque. It didn’t take long for her to drown out the rest of the world.
The photographs took her back in time to a world not so far removed from her own. Most of the images were in black and white, but her mind tried to fill in the colors. Were the models wearing sapphire blue or ruby red? Were the trees the color of sage or did they have young chartreuse buds? Was the sky cobalt or turquoise or indigo?
Cassie was not an artist as much as she appreciated other people’s talents. She couldn’t draw or paint or craft, but that was why she loved it so much. She understood how difficult art could be. It would take her years—decades, even—to come close to the ability these people had.
And though photography wasn’t her medium of choice, she couldn’t help but cherish the way the photographer told a story. They played out like a movie in front of her eyes despite not moving. She was reminded of George’s words which brought them more alive. She could hear the bells tolling from a church that stood tall in Nova Scotia. She could feel the cool breeze that accompanied a colored photograph of a couple in a red convertible. She could smell the dust kicked up by a man shoveling dirt across a series of pictures.
A hand touched Cassie’s shoulder and she jumped. But when she turned—ready to apologize for her nerves—she was met with open air. She heard the quiet murmurings of people on the other side of the gallery but there was no one within sight, let alone anyone within reach.
The faint smell of blood wafted through the air, and though it was subtle, Cassie had smelled the scent too many times to mistake it for anything else. At the realization, the hair on her arms stood on end, and that half-forgotten electric buzz of energy swept over her body.
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut and took several long deep breaths. She could feel the panic rising in her chest, but she refused to give in to the feeling. Not at work. Not with other people around. She didn’t want pity or kindness or attention.
She waited until the hum of energy subsided to open her eyes. No one had noticed her odd behavior, and she would make sure it stayed that way. Instead of running out of the exhibit, she walked further away from the entrance. Her concentration wasn’t as absolute as it was a moment ago, but she refused to give in. She ignored the electric buzzing, she ignored the goosebumps on her arms, and she ignored the tingle along the back of her neck.
But she couldn’t ignore the flickering of the lights or the silhouette of a woman who appeared when the room went dark.
Cassie looked over her shoulder. An older couple walked into the exhibit, and neither one of them looked alarmed. The lights were a hallucination made for Cassie.
Sometimes ghosts could control what happened on her plane of existence. Other times, it was like she could see through the veil to their side. She was the bridge that connected the two worlds, allowing her to walk from one side to the other without anyone knowing.
When Cassie turned back around, it took every ounce of her willpower to swallow back the scream that clawed at her throat. She planted her feet and locked eyes with the woman standing in front of her. It was the same spirit who had been bent over her bed a few hours earlier.
Cassie could see her with clarity. Her hair was wet and clung to her face in clumps. It was once dark brown, now faded and lifeless. Her face was round, and her eyes bright against her pale skin. They locked onto Cassie with an intensity she had not felt before.
Having finally been noticed, the woman’s mouth opened and closed. Her lips formed the words, but no sound came out. A single tear
fell from her eye, dripped down her cheek, and clung to her chin. When it was shaken loose, Cassie followed the trajectory until her gaze stopped on the gash across her neck and down to the hole in her chest where her heart should have been.
The scent of blood grew stronger before fading like it had been carried away by the wind. Cassie returned her gaze to the woman’s face. The figure was still trying to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, hoping no one would see her talking to thin air, “but I can’t hear you.”
The spirit put her hands to her own face and let out a silent scream. She dug her fingernails into her cheeks and if she had been corporeal, she would have drawn blood.
“I’m sorry,” Cassie said again. “I can’t help you.”
It broke her heart to say those words, but what else could she do? She was starting over, starting fresh. And without the ability to communicate with the dead, how could she ever expect to help them find peace?
“You’ll have to find someone else,” she whispered.
The woman stopped clawing at her face and reached for Cassie. There was a desperation in her eyes that grasped Cassie’s heart and squeezed until she struggled for breath. Had this spirit found a way to physically affect her? Or had the guilt in Cassie’s heart caught up to her?
When Cassie’s fear forced her to take a step back, the spell was broken. The woman dropped her arm, and her shoulders sank with disappointment. The lights flickered once more, and there was a small gust of wind, like the air had been displaced by an invisible hand.
Between one breath and the next, Cassie’s world returned to normal. The lights were steady, her goosebumps retreated, and the smell of blood no longer hung in the air.
The one thing remaining was the guilt gripping Cassie’s heart.
Nine
The air inside the museum was oppressive. It was hot and stale and clung to Cassie’s skin like a damp blanket. She couldn’t catch her breath and the fear of having a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the museum’s atrium was enough to send her vaulting out a side door into the fresh September air.
