A Shade in the Mirror

by Tracey Lander-Garrett

  “What is it?” Billy asked.

  “I got the machine, but I think he’s calling me back.”

  “So pick it up!” Billy said.

  “How?” I asked.

  “What are you, Amish?” Billy grabbed the phone, pushed a button, and put the phone back to my ear. “Hello?” I said.

  “Hi,” said the voice from the recording. “I just missed a call from this number.”

  “I was calling about volunteering,” I said. “For the . . . ghost hunt . . . thing.” Billy made devil horns with one hand and mouthed, “Yeeeeah,” while headbanging.

  “Ah! Excellent,” the man on the phone said. “There are a few questions we have for potential volunteers. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Are you the person in charge?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m Professor Eric Gannon. I’m in the psychology department at SUNY Mount Vernon. I specialize in parapsychology, specifically ghosts. Are you a student at the university?”

  “No, I’m—”

  “That’s fine. We try to get volunteers from different walks of life. I have a few other questions I’ll need you to answer.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What do you need to know?”

  “Would you hold on a moment?” he asked. A lot of rustling happened on the other end. “My apologies. I needed to get pen and paper.”

  I must have had an odd look on my face, because Billy asked what was going on. I shrugged and rolled my eyes.

  “Okay,” Prof. Gannon continued. “Name?”

  “Madison Roberts.”

  “Age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “Gender?”

  “Uh, female.”

  “Of course. Sorry, it’s just a formality.”

  “On a scale of 1 – 5, with one being no belief and five being absolute belief, where would you say your belief in the supernatural and ghosts falls?”

  I thought for a moment, and said. “Four.”

  “Answering only yes or no, have you ever had any experiences that you have perceived to be paranormal?” he asked.

  I paused before answering, “Yes.”

  “Answering only yes or no, do you have a heart condition, epilepsy, or any other condition of which we should be aware? If yes, please explain.”

  “No.” Every time I answered yes or no, Billy happily nodded and mouthed “Yes” then shook his head and sadly mouthed “No.”

  “Stop!” I whispered, covering the phone. He cracked up.

  “Last question. Answering only yes or no, do you have any physical disabilities in mobility, sight, or hearing that could prevent you from fully taking part in this field experiment?”

  “No.” I answered, holding a finger up at Billy, who—gearing up to make some ridiculous face again—deflated.

  “Excellent,” the professor said. “Let’s see now. Age, good. Gender, also good. Belief four, okay, and then yes, no, no. Hmmm.” I heard the sound of pages turning, as he murmured to himself. “Yes, right,” he said. More pages turned. There was silence on the line a moment. Then, “Yes. We can use you. I don’t suppose you happen to know a complete skeptic, do you? Someone who would rate a one for his or her belief?”

  “Actually, yeah, I do.”

  “Could you convince that person to come with you? In addition to participants of different backgrounds, we also like to present a control group of non-believers in order to combat confirmation bias.”

  “Since he was going to give me a ride there anyway, that won’t be too difficult.”

  “Excellent. Would you have him call me, then?”

  “I’ll ask him to,” I said. I had no idea if Derek would.

  “What about me?” Billy asked.

  “Do you need any other volunteers?” I asked Prof. Gannon. “Another friend of mine is right here and he wants to know.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “Put him on the line.”

  Billy threw up devil horns as I handed him the phone.

  Chapter Ten

  “So this is a decent car,” Billy said conversationally, his voice right in my ear. We were in Derek’s Karmann Ghia, and Billy was sitting in the center of the small backseat, leaning forward to be heard over the sound of the engine.

  “Glad you approve,” Derek said.

  It was about 5:30 in the evening as we sped up the Westside Highway. The sun was just beginning to set over the Hudson River, shining between the buildings on the opposite shore in New Jersey. The sky was orange sherbet with lilac petal clouds. I made observations about the water and the sky while Billy quizzed Derek on the particulars of the car, engaging in some male conversational ritual that led to a discussion of the college basketball playoffs of the previous month. I didn’t even try to keep up.

  Soon we were past the Bronx and heading into Westchester. Trees became more plentiful and the buildings became a lot shorter. We got off the highway at the Tarrytown exit, then followed the GPS directions from Derek’s phone turn by turn for a several miles. The houses grew farther and farther apart, and the trees became thicker, taller, and more numerous.

  Our last turn took us onto a winding dirt road without markers or any houses we could see. Derek’s car bumped along slowly on the unpaved road which began to twist uphill in a series of spirals and S-curves. The setting sun spattered the woods in dappled shadows.

  “Ugh, I’d hate to get stuck up here in the winter,” Derek said. “Is there a house number?”

  “No,” I said, peering at the flyer.

  “Oh, that’s helpful,” Billy said.

  “Hey, you’re the one who was all ‘I can print the directions out’ and then didn’t bring them,” I said. “If we get lost, it’s your fault.”

  “Relax,” Derek said, pointing to the comforting blue line on his phone screen. “Unlike you amateur ghostbusters, I have faith in science.”

  “I just didn’t realize how far away it is from the main road,” said Billy. “It’s so isolated. Come on, we’re going on a ghost hunt in the middle of nowhere. This is going to be awesome!”

  I could practically feel Derek rolling his eyes. “Awesomely anti-climactic,” he muttered, straining to see through the trees. “Ah, I think we might be getting close.” He pointed ahead to a spot where pavement took over from the dirt. Everything smoothed out. The incline leveled out and our ride suddenly became smoother and quieter as the tires hit asphalt once more. The road widened and the woods opened up into a huge divided driveway, lined with pine trees on either side and a long rectangular reflecting pool filled with dark, leaf-littered water down the center. At the end was the house.

  It was tall and white. A barn-like portion with several windows faced the driveway. “Dutch Colonial,” Derek observed with some authority. Now it was Billy’s turn to roll his eyes.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Well, from that arched roof, first of all, but mainly because my mother’s a real estate agent.”

  As we pulled around a circular driveway, we were presented with four large Greek columns across the front of the house, framing its front door and wide front porch or patio. It contrasted bizarrely with the rest of the three-story building, which also had the same arched-roof appearance that Derek had said was Dutch. A white balcony with additional Greek styling loomed above the front door. It was like two architectural styles had gone to war and the house had lost.

  “Dutch Colonial with . . . Greek columns?” Derek mused.

  “Is that weird?” Billy asked.

  “Definitely weird,” Derek replied.

  Two other cars were parked on the opposite side of the circular driveway: a black SUV, and a new-looking small silver sedan.

  Derek pulled around where the other cars were and parked. Two people were on the porch, beyond the columns, standing next to a stack of cardboard boxes and black cases.

  “There they are on the porch,” I said.

  “It’s a portico,” Derek said.

  “Really?”

  “Really,”
he replied with a hint of a smile. “But that’s just a specific kind of porch.”

  I was worried that Billy’s eyes might roll into the back of his head.

  A man with glasses and sandy hair waved towards us. “Prof. Gannon, I presume,” I said.

  “He looks familiar . . . I think I might have seen him on YouTube,” Billy said.

  “I knew it,” Derek said.

  “Knew what?” Billy asked.

  “Nothing. I shouldn’t judge. I’m going to be objective.”

  “Riiight,” I said, grabbing my backpack and opening the car door.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I was going to ask him why he’d even come when Billy said, “Mom and Dad, I hate it when you fight,” and got out of the car after me.

  Out here in the country, Billy looked out of place. He wore his usual military-goth look with baggy black cargo pants and combat boots, along with a weathered black leather motorcycle jacket with three orange stripes around each bicep.

  “How do you like my Wolverine jacket?” he’d asked me the first time he’d worn it to the store.

  “That’s Wolverine’s jacket?” I’d asked.

  “You’re such a dork, Madison,” he’d replied.

  Derek and I were both in jeans and t-shirts. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt over his while I wore a navy pea coat that got itchy when worn over short sleeves.

  I took a quick survey of the house and grounds. It sounded as isolated as it looked. The only noises were a light breeze moving through the trees and crickets chirping nearby. The air was crisp and fresh. I didn’t realize how used to street noise and air pollution I was.

  The lawn area on the left side of the house featured a group of weathered white statues surrounding a stagnant fountain filled with green water. The statues seemed to be dancing nymphs or goddesses.

  “What the hell is up with this place?” Billy whispered, as though someone important might hear him. He sounded fascinated.

  The sandy-haired man in glasses approached, carrying a clipboard. He wore faded jeans and an untucked dress shirt with bright yellow and blue sneakers. He was probably in his mid-thirties and about my height. “I’m Prof. Gannon,” he said, glancing at the clipboard. “You must be Madison, Derek, and Billy?”

  We agreed that we were. He peeled a yellow sticky note off the top of the clipboard. “I have some release forms here for all of you to sign. It should only take a minute.” He handed me the clipboard and pen, and I scanned the form. It listed all the info I’d given the professor over the phone, plus a check box where I agreed the info was correct and that I had no prior knowledge of Adderley House. It also granted him permission to film me without financial recompense. I checked, signed, and peeked at the form beneath mine. Billy’s name was on it, so I handed the clipboard to him. He signed and handed the clipboard to Derek, who took an extra minute looking over the form before he signed with a sigh and handed it back to the professor.

  He flipped through the forms and nodded. “Now if I could just see some identification to confirm your ages and identities.”

  Derek glanced at me, concern crossing his face. I shrugged and opened my wallet, taking out the only ID I had: my Spring House resident pass. Billy and Derek handed him their driver’s licenses and he checked them over and handed them back. He examined them each carefully, but mine he gave special attention.

  “You don’t have anything else? Something with your date of birth, perhaps?” he asked.

  I was prepared for this. I reached into one of the zipper pockets of my backpack and pulled out a certified letter from my social worker, Linda, that she had given me as some sort of official documentation of my ID-less situation.

  Prof. Gannon’s eyes scanned over the page, comparing it to my resident pass before holding the paper up to the fading evening light and squinting at it from beneath his glasses.

  Billy watched all of this with some confusion. I could see the question forming on his face as he glanced at me.

  “Ah,” Prof. Gannon said, as if he’d found what he was looking for. He folded the letter back into its envelope and handed it back to me. “Very interesting. I suppose that’s all in order. Follow me.”

  “What was that about?” Billy whispered as the professor led us toward the door.

  “Later,” I said.

  We went up three steps on the side of the house between two white columns. Ahead of us, two dirty latticed glass doors—the kind that are called French doors—were closed. Up close, the paint on the house was chipped and cracked, though the columns and the stone porch—excuse me, portico—seemed in decent shape. A woman stood there among the black cases and cardboard. She held an electronic device of some kind and appeared to be taking readings of something.

  “This is my colleague, Dr. Nina Hernandez,” Prof. Gannon said. She was a medium height woman in her early-thirties. Her black hair was worn in a bun, and she wore a gray business suit with sensible shoes and thick black-framed glasses.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said with a smile. The smile transformed her from a foreboding professor into a raven-haired beauty. I wondered if she wore the glasses to put the focus on her brain and not her looks.

  The sound of a car’s engine and tires on asphalt reached us as a white Saab pulled up to the parking area.

  “That will be Katie Davis,” said Prof. Gannon. “She’s a student at the university, and also a volunteer participant.” As she got out of the car, I estimated that Katie was probably nineteen or twenty, with highlighted brown hair that went past her shoulders. She wore tight jeans with tall brown high heel boots and a brown leather jacket. Something about her clothing and style said money. Maybe it was the way it all fit her perfectly.

  “Hello, Professor,” Katie said as she joined us. “I’m not late, am I?”

  “Not at all,” Prof. Gannon said. “I am grateful to you all for taking part in this experiment. Before we go into the house, I’d like to acquaint you all with a bit of its hist—”

  “Wait, are we it?” Billy interrupted. “You don’t have any other volunteers?”

  “We did, until three days ago,” Dr. Hernandez said, brightly, as though trying to put a good spin on it.

  “And then we had three cancellations,” Prof. Gannon said, “and another one this afternoon. This means that my usual assistants won’t be here, though I do have one more person who should arrive any time now. Under the circumstances, and also due to our criteria, we were very lucky to have heard from you three.”

  “We lucky few,” Derek muttered, low enough that probably only I heard him.

  “As I was saying,” Prof. Gannon said, “the house has an interesting history. Did you note the gambrel roof?”

  “Yes,” Derek said. “It’s Dutch, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” said the professor.

  “What’s a gambrel roof?” asked Katie, taking notes on a small pad like a reporter.

  The professor made an arch with his fingers that resembled the roof of a barn. “Shaped like this,” he said. “The style, while not exclusively Dutch, was brought over by early settlers from the Netherlands.”

  Katie nodded vigorously and jotted something down.

  “Teacher’s pet,” muttered Billy.

  The professor continued his lecture. “Originally built in the late 1600s by a wealthy Dutch merchant making a home for his family, one Klaus Van Horn, the house passed through generations of the family and was added on to as needed throughout the 1700s. Just before the turn of the century—in 1796, that is—the house was inherited by a distant relative, a widow who reverted to her maiden name, Irina Van Horn. Irina, who with her mother had traveled extensively in Europe and the Mediterranean, had the house renovated to include the Greek Revival stylings you see here.”

  Just then, we heard the arrival of another car. A battered 1970’s station wagon with wood paneling on the sides came chugging up the driveway. A young woman with dark hair and dark eyes got out and walked towar
d us. She wore a long skirt and a shapeless long-sleeved sweater with a wide neck over it.

  “Ah. Last but not least,” Prof. Gannon said, “this is Zoe Brooks. She is our paranormal expert.”

  Zoe tucked her chin into her chest with a slight frown when the professor said “expert.” I thought she might have been in her mid-twenties, but her shy demeanor and slouchy clothes left me guessing.

  “Anyway,” said the professor, “what’s interesting about the architecture is that no one else in the country was building in the Greek style at the time. The Greek Revival period didn’t come until later, in 1803 or so.”

  Was that interesting? I mean, I guess it could be interesting for an architecture nerd, but what did it have to do with a ghost hunt?

  “Irina Van Horn and her mother appear to have only lived in the newly renovated house for two years before departing for Europe once more. It seems that small-town life did not suit them—or perhaps they left to avoid the outbreak of Yellow Fever that had ravaged the village.

  “Over the years, other members of the family moved in and out, through to 1906, when the last living member of that branch of the family, Mary Van Horn, died. Then the Van Horn Homestead, as it was then known, stood empty for thirty-two years, until in 1938 a distant member of the family deeded the house and land to a young man named Michael Adderly, a popular singer—what they called a crooner back then—who had the house renovated in the Art Deco style with all the then-modern conveniences, including electricity, and moved in with his young wife.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. Zoe was looking at the ceiling above us, but then she caught me watching her and looked at her feet. What had she seen?

  “The carriage house—which you’ll see around the back—was converted to a two-car garage. The landscaping was added, including a tennis court, pools, fountains, and statuary, at that time. However, Michael Adderly experienced much tragedy here. He became a complete recluse. He retained ownership through the early 1990s, when he mysteriously vanished.

  “His earthly estate, including the house—which by then was known as Adderly House—was to go to his nephew, a young man seen around town a handful of times in the three to four years before Adderly’s disappearance. However, no one was able to find the nephew. As a result, the estate was left in trust with a management company that has attempted to rent the house out several times over the years. Unfortunately, they have managed only to maintain it due to—well, that’s why we’re here. Questions?”