A Shade in the Mirror

by Tracey Lander-Garrett

  “A mad aunt threw a chair out a window or something? So what?” I asked.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a chair,” Zoe said quietly. “Maybe it was a person.”

  “Oh my God. That’s right,” I said. “Didn’t one of Michael Adderly’s wives fall out of a window in the house?”

  “To fall out a window might be considered an accident, but to be thrown out would be murder,” Derek said, as if he were quoting something.

  “Murder by defenestration,” Billy concurred.

  Prof. Gannon returned from the other end of the attic and asked what we were discussing. Billy and Derek explained, and the professor examined the window. “An interesting discovery,” he said.

  “But how strong would someone have to be to throw a person out a window?” I asked.

  “Pretty strong,” Prof. Gannon said.

  “Hella strong,” Billy said.

  Vampires are hella strong, some part of my mind suggested.

  I unlocked the window and opened it. There was no screen.

  “Hey,” Billy said. “Before sticking my head out, I’d check to make sure the window’s gonna stay up. Unless you feel like playing guillotine,” he added with a sinister grin.

  “Thanks, Billy,” I said, rolling my eyes, but checking anyway. The window seemed stable enough. I glanced at Zoe. “All clear?” She nodded. The last thing I needed was some mad aunt’s ghost pushing me out the window.

  I stuck my head out, trying to see down to the ground. A roof to a lower floor slanted beneath me. I started to pull my head in when I noticed something pale among the dark shingles on the roof close to the house. I pulled my flashlight through the open window to get a better view. Several shingles were cracked and damaged, one of them cut in half, and the pale wood beneath it was what had caught my eye. I ran the flashlight from one side of the window to the other, and the cracked shingles continued in a narrow path alongside the attic to the right, disappearing at the edge of the house, as if they went around the corner. “Huh,” I said aloud.

  “Huh, what?” “What’d you see?” “What is it?” came the chorus of voices from inside. “Check it out,” I said, pulling my head back in.

  Derek and the professor both peered downwards out the window, using their flashlights to see what I’d seen.

  “How very odd,” the professor said, pulling his head back in.

  “What do you think did that?” I asked.

  “Maybe a tornado tore up the tiles,” Derek offered.

  “Where does it go? I mean, how far does it go?” I asked.

  “Let’s take a look,” Prof. Gannon suggested.

  With each of us peering through various windows on the attic level, we could see that some shingles on the other side of the second-floor roof were damaged and formed a path, too, which led off the next edge.

  “Where does that roof go?” I asked him. “I mean, what’s on that side of the house?”

  Billy’s eyes were huge and excited. “Let’s find out!” he exclaimed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The trail of damaged shingles seemed to

  end at the edge of the roof overhanging the hallway window where we’d noted the broken vase on our way upstairs.

  “And look out there,” Billy said.

  A small single-story building stood twenty feet from the house. “It’s a building,” I said.

  “No shit. Did you notice the window?” Billy said.

  I stepped back to get a better view of the window.

  “Not that window, dummy. The one on the building. Up near the roof. Use your flashlight.”

  The beam disappeared into the darkness without reaching the building. “I don’t see anything,” I said.

  “Here,” Billy said, taking my flashlight and twisting the top of it clockwise several times. “Now try.”

  The beam went much farther this time, I maneuvered it upwards along the slanted roof to the apex, and then back down the other side. There was a circular window there, and its glass was broken.

  “You don’t think . . .” I said, as the professor, Zoe, and Derek joined us.

  “I don’t know,” Billy said. “It’s a hell of a long jump, but it’s not impossible.”

  “Prof. Gannon, what’s that building over there?” I asked.

  “It was once the carriage house. It was modified into a garage by Michael Adderly, I believe.”

  “Can we check it out?” Billy asked. “We think whatever did that damage to the roof might have also damaged one of those windows.”

  He thought a moment and shrugged. “Sure, I don’t see why not,” he said, jingling the set of keys in his pocket.

  We tromped downstairs and said hello to Dr. Hernandez and Katie, who were sitting with the monitors and other equipment, chatting quietly. Billy set down the night vision camera on one of the two tables. “Battery’s dead again,” he said. Dr. Hernandez smiled politely and took it from him.

  Prof. Gannon explained what we were up to and Dr. Hernandez said, “Katie and I will stay in the house while the rest of you investigate.” I sort of got the feeling that she was keeping an eye on Katie, trying to make sure she didn’t go crazy again. It wasn’t what she said but the way she said it, with a curt air of command that indicated she was making the choice for Katie, and didn’t give a damn what Katie wanted to do.

  Just as we were grabbing our coats from the coat rack before heading outside, the lights in the house came on in the foyer and the living room and dining room. “Hooray,” “All right,” and “Opa!” were some of the cheers that various members of the team uttered.

  Zoe muttered, “Sure, give us the lights back just as we’re going outside. Nice one,” out of the corner of her mouth. Was she talking to a ghost?

  Everyone put on their coats except Billy, who left his leather jacket hanging. “It’s not far. I don’t need it,” he said. I suspected he was showing off again, probably for Zoe.

  The professor went out first, followed by Derek, Billy, Zoe, and me.

  The night air was crisp and hundreds of stars speckled the sky like pinpricks of light shining through a dark piece of cloth. “You okay?” I asked Zoe quietly.

  “Sure,” she said with a sigh. “I just get a little tired of ghosts and their games from time to time.”

  “They play games?”

  “Oh, sure. Not all of them, but some. Turning lights on and off, breaking objects, opening and closing doors.”

  “They do that for fun?” I asked, thinking of my apartment ghost.

  “Not exactly. Maybe some of them. Others do it to try to communicate or because they’re angry. But it all feels like games after a while.”

  “The ghost in my apartment does some of that stuff,” I said.

  Zoe’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know what he or she wants?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a she. In fact, I think I know her name. And that she was murdered,” I whispered.

  “Oh, you should—” Zoe began but abruptly stopped. “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered back.

  We’d arrived at the garage.

  Prof. Gannon opened the side door to the building and turned a light on inside. The room had thick wooden beams and tall ceilings, and everything seemed to be coated with a fine layer of dust. Cobwebs lurked in the corners and clung to some of the beams. The room had plenty of space, enough to maneuver around. It could keep two cars side-by-side, though there was only one now, covered by a dusty gray tarp on the far side.

  Billy was checking the floor. “Well, there’s no broken glass,” he said. The round window was on the same side of the garage as the side door where we’d come in. There wasn’t anywhere glass could hide over on this side.

  “Somebody must have cleaned it up at some point,” I said. Billy shrugged and walked over to a narrow table against the wall—a work bench, with dusty bottles and tools on it. Zoe joined him.

  Derek was lifting the gray tarp slowly, revealing a vintage silver coupe. He gave a low whistle. The car had a conver
tible top and a long hood flanked by low fenders over whitewall tires that were most definitely flat. It was a Lincoln-Zephyr. I didn’t know how I knew that it was a Lincoln-Zephyr. I just knew that I knew. Why did I know? And why so much detail? I knew that it had a V-12 engine, and that they had been luxury cars in their time—this one was from the early 1940s—and most of them had problems with oil pressure, oil sludge, or build-up.

  Sure enough, there were old oil stains on the concrete floor on the empty side of the garage where I was standing. I imagined that there were more stains beneath the car itself, even if it was sitting on a large protective floor mat of some kind.

  I knelt down to look underneath the car and my skeleton key slipped out of my shirt on its chain. I tucked it back and put my face closer to the ground, but couldn’t see any stains on the mat.

  “Madison?” Prof. Gannon asked. The unspoken question was What do you see? or What have you found?

  I shrugged. “Just looking for oil stains.”

  “Why?”

  I gestured at the old stains on the opposite side. “Just thought there might be some.” I pulled the flashlight from my back pocket and used it to scan the mat. Not a drop of oil. That I could see, anyway. Maybe the oil stains on the other side had been from a different car.

  Kneeling next to me, Prof. Gannon also scanned beneath the car, and lifted the mat next to the tire to peer beneath it. “Now that’s odd,” he said, pointing. “What do you make of those?”

  There were marks on the concrete floor from the tires. That didn’t seem strange. What did seem strange was that the marks went from side-to-side with a bit of an upward curve. Almost like a Nike swoosh.

  “Someone moved the car,” I said.

  “Sideways?” Prof. Gannon asked.

  “Well, diagonally, maybe,” I said. “But it would have to be someone strong. Someone really strong.”

  “Yeah, like a werewolf,” Billy said. “Or a mutant.” He was holding a pair of dirty goggles in front of his eyes.

  I rolled my eyes at his comment. “Can ghosts . . . ?” I let the question trail off.

  “Not usually,” replied Zoe. “Although there are always stories—”

  I interrupted, “But why move a car sideways? Why not just pull it out and put it back in?”

  “That’s what she said,” Billy said with a snicker.

  I pointedly ignored him.

  “Hmm, I would like to get a better look at those tire marks,” the professor said.

  “Can we do that, Prof. Gannon? We could back the car out, if you have keys to it,” I said.

  “I do not, I’m afraid. But we can release the parking brake if it’s engaged, and with one person steering and the others pushing, it should only take a few of us to roll it outside. Provided it’s unlocked, of course.”

  “Of course,” I repeated.

  Derek, who’d been scrutinizing the car from hood to trunk, said, “That probably wouldn’t be a good idea with the flat tires. You might damage the wheels, and this car is definitely worth something.”

  “Not a problem,” Zoe said, holding an old bicycle pump from the table she and Billy had been checking out. “We can just pump them up with this.”

  Each tire took a lot of effort to even partially fill with air. I offered to assist but was shooed away. Three sweaty men and thirty minutes later, we’d pushed the car out into the driveway. The mat seemed pristine. “Well, let’s check out those tire marks,” Prof. Gannon said, and began to roll the vinyl mat into a long cylinder, soon revealing not only the tire marks—which went a few feet sideways—but a slightly recessed three-foot square of metal set into the floor.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  “Nice!” Billy exclaimed.

  “Huh,” said Derek.

  Zoe didn’t say anything. Prof. Gannon said, “Well done, everyone. None of the other groups ever thought to check the carriage house.”

  The metal square had an inset handle as well as a keyhole. The professor peered at it closely and said, “Fishy. Hmmm,” and began looking through his keyring.

  “Did you just say ‘fishy’?” Billy asked.

  “I said Fish-ay,” Prof. Gannon replied.

  I stood very still. It couldn’t be.

  I swallowed. He’d said Fishay, but I knew that wasn’t how it was spelled. The French don’t pronounce -chet at the end of a word the way we do. It’s pronounced -shay. It was just too weird of a coincidence. I hadn’t seen any Fichet locks anywhere in the past several months—and I’d read how it was very rare to see that brand outside of Europe.

  “Do you mean Fichet?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. I clasped the double-headed sans souci key through the fabric of my shirt.

  Everyone who’d been looking at the professor expectantly while he flipped through the keys now looked at me.

  “Yes, I said Fichet,” the professor said. “Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be a matching key here . . .” he trailed off. “Are you all right, Madison? You seem a little . . . off.”

  “You don’t look too good, Maddy,” Billy said.

  I didn’t feel too good. I imagined my face had gone white.

  Derek grabbed a tall metal-backed chair and sat it down behind me. “Sit,” he ordered.

  I sat, staring at the keyhole in the metal square on the floor, rubbing my thumb against the edges of the double-headed key through the cotton of my t-shirt.

  “Hey,” Zoe said.

  I looked up at her. “This isn’t a ghost thing, is it?” she asked. I shook my head.

  “No. No, I’m sorry. I just . . . I have this old key. I’ve had it . . . well, ever since I can remember.” I glanced at Derek and he nodded, like he was telling me to keep going. “And the key actually says Fichet right on it. It just seemed strange to me. I’ve never seen a Fichet lock anywhere.”

  “That cool one you wear? Man, too bad you don’t have it with you,” said Billy.

  I curled my fingers around it through my shirt. “But I do, actually.”

  “The odds of your key going to this lock have probably got to be in the tens if not hundreds of thousands,” Prof. Gannon said.

  “I agree,” Derek said. “But would it hurt to check?”

  “No, not at all. Or at least I can’t imagine how it would. Seems a bit silly, but why not.”

  I took a deep breath and pulled the chain from around my neck and handed it to Prof. Gannon. My hands were shaking a little.

  As he took the key, he tilted his head to the side. “This is important to you, isn’t it? This key, I mean.”

  “Yes.” I swallowed.

  “I’ll bring it right back,” he said. He knelt by the metal square and inserted the key. “It fits,” he said, surprised. “But there’s really very little chance that it will—”

  “Geez, will you try turning it already?” Billy snapped.

  “Very well,” intoned the professor, and turned the key with an echoed metallic clink.

  “Holy shit,” Billy whispered.

  Zoe’s mouth was open. Derek looked worried.

  Prof. Gannon got up and came over to me. “Where did you get that key, Miss Roberts?”

  “I . . . I told you. It’s mine.”

  “You didn’t find it here, on the grounds?”

  “No. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. I told you.”

  “And how long is that? Since you were a child?” he prompted.

  “Well, sort of . . . maybe? I’m not really sure.”

  “When do you remember first seeing it?”

  “I . . .”

  Prof. Gannon grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Where did you get that key, Miss Roberts?”

  “Hey, ease off! I’ve seen her wearing that key at work. She definitely had it already,” Billy said.

  The professor released my shoulders and whirled to face Billy, looking at each of us in turn, ending with me. “But where did it come from? Do any of you have any idea of the statistical improbability that a key you just happen
ed to have just happened to work on a hidden trapdoor you just happened to find on an estate where you just happened to show up for a research study?”

  “No?” I said, timidly.

  “One in a million! One in ten million! Maybe a hundred million!” the professor shouted.

  I flinched. He was right. It was almost impossible.

  “Hey, come on now, Doc,” Billy said.

  “Prof. Gannon?” Zoe said, trying to get his attention. He ignored her, staring at me.

  Derek had been watching me, and now took a step closer to me. “I think maybe you should tell them, Madison.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Yes. Now.”

  “Tell them what?” Billy asked.

  “About just how long her memory is,” Derek said.

  I sighed. The expectant faces in the room were all pointed at me. “What’s the date again?” I asked Derek.

  He told me and I sighed again, mentally counting from October. “Just over six months,” I said. “Six months and two weeks, give or take a few days.”

  “Of what?” Billy asked, confused.

  “Of memory. That’s all I have. That’s why I don’t have a proper ID. That’s why I don’t know where the key came from. I have amnesia.”

  “And you didn’t think that would be something you should mention when I interviewed you over the phone?” the professor asked through gritted teeth.

  “I didn’t think it would matter!” I said.

  “Tabula rasa,” Derek muttered.

  “But she’s not a blank slate, are you, Madison? You believe in ghosts. Why?”

  “Because I think my apartment is haunted.”

  “How did that bring you here?”

  “Um, guys?” Billy said. “Can we just go check out what’s in the trapdoor and explain all of this other stuff later?”

  “You aren’t mad?” I asked Billy.

  “Honestly? It’s not really my business. I’m not sure I believe you, but if it’s true, it does explain why you can be such a dork,” he said.

  It wasn’t like he was the first person who didn’t believe me. Julie still didn’t. Even the doctors at Bellevue had been skeptical at first.