The Unquiet past

by Kelley Armstrong

  The nightmare snapped away in the blink of an eye. Tess ran her fingers over the gouges as her heart thudded so hard she could barely draw breath.

  “Not me,” she whispered. “It wasn’t me. But who?”

  “Stéphanie won’t go in the box.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  “Aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît. Je suis désolée.” Once again the voice floated in from the hall, knocking Tess from her memories.

  She rose and turned toward the door. This time she didn’t hesitate. She started for the hall, resolve slowing her heart rate.

  She’d seen the worst—her nightmare come to life—and she’d survived. Whatever happened now, she could handle it.

  Tess strode down the hall, flashlight beam ping-ponging off the walls. She followed the crying to…

  The room with the closet that was not a closet at all. The one where she’d been momentarily trapped. The crying came from that closet across the room. Then, as she listened, a long, slow scrape, a single nail against wood.

  “Laissez-moi sortir.” Let me out.

  “S’il vous plaît, laissez-moi sortir.” Please let me out.

  Fists pounded the door, making Tess jump and drop the flashlight. It hit the concrete and went out. She scrambled for it as the pounding continued, seeming to rock the entire room. Her shaking hands found the flashlight. She flicked the switch, but it was already in the On position. She turned it off and on, whispering, “No, please, no.” She banged it against her leg, and it blinked once, then came back on.

  The pounding stopped. Tess crouched there, flashlight aimed at the door. Then, again, one fingernail slowly scraped down it. A voice whispered, almost too faint to hear.

  “Laissez-moi sortir.” Let me out.

  “Je serai obéissante.” I will behave.

  A chill slid down Tess’s back at those last words.

  Another slow scratch on the wood, and Tess squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for the pounding again. This was so much more chilling. After a moment, she inhaled deeply and pushed up. She walked to the door.

  “Can you hear me?” she asked. Then, in French, “Vous m’entendez?”

  Quiet crying followed.

  “Je veux vous aider.” I want to help you. “Parlez-moi, et je vous aiderai.” Speak to me, and I will help you.

  No answer. She didn’t expect one, but she’d wanted to make the effort. If this was a ghost, and if she could hear Tess, surely she would reply to that. If she did not, it proved these “visions” could not communicate.

  Tess turned the handle and pulled open the door. Inside she saw nothing but darkness, and the crying had stopped. As with the box, as soon as the door opened the ghost—or whatever it was—disappeared.

  Tess stepped inside. This time she was careful to keep the door propped open with her foot. She shone the flashlight over the inside of the door. Sure enough, there were scratches. That’s what this room was, this tiny room with no shelves and no rod: an upright casket-sized box.

  She fingered the scratches. No blood here, but—

  A shriek sounded right outside the room. Tess startled and lost her footing. The door swung shut. She pushed.

  It wouldn’t open.

  Tess swung the light down. There wasn’t a handle on the inside. Of course there wasn’t. She shoved the door harder, struggling to control her pounding heart.

  It couldn’t be locked. There was no lock. It was just stuck. All she had to do was—

  The flashlight went out.

  Tess banged it against her leg. She flicked it on and off. Her pulse raced, her breath coming fast and shallow, but she kept telling herself she would not panic. Would not panic. When the light didn’t turn on, she kicked at the door. Then she threw her shoulder against it.

  Another shriek, this one right at her ear. Tess screamed. She couldn’t help it. She heard her screams echoing the ghost’s, and she doubled over, eyes squeezed shut.

  The woman kept screaming. Horrible screams of terror. Absolute terror. Like nothing Tess had ever heard before. Then the room tilted. Tilted backward, and she knew what was happening and told herself it couldn’t be happening. That it was impossible. But all the reasoning in the world didn’t change what she felt. Or what she heard. The room tipping backward. The screams of the terrified woman, mingling with her own. Then somehow, over that, the patter of dirt on the wooden lid.

  Tess screamed until her throat was raw. She pounded on the lid. Pounded and pounded, until her fists ached, and then she began to gasp for air. Gasping, wheezing, fighting to breathe, until—

  A whoosh of air. Light. Flickering light overhead. She looked up to see a flame. Behind the flame, a hand. Then a face, shadow and firelight playing over it.

  “Tess!”

  A hand grabbed hers, and she felt a moment of complete disorientation. One second she’d been lying on her back, and now she was looking up at a light and a stranger’s face, and she wasn’t lying down at all but huddled on the floor.

  “Tess.” Then “Thérèse,” the voice urgent as she was pulled out into a room. A curse and a quickly waved hand, the flame going out. The hand released her, and the voice told her to hold on, just hold on. The scratch and hiss of a struck match. The face returned, and with it her shock fell away, and she saw Jackson with a match in one hand, her arm in the other, his face lowered to hers, saying, “What happened? Tess? Can you hear me?”

  She shook him off and backed away.

  “Whoa! No. Hold on.” He grabbed for her again, but she backed against the wall and stared at him.

  What is he thinking? What must he be thinking? Shame filled her.

  “I think you were sleepwalking,” he said. “Do you do that?”

  Yes, she wanted to say. I sleepwalk and I came down here, and I don’t know what happened, but I got myself in that closet and I must have been having some kind of nightmare. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Thank you for coming.

  Such an easy lie. But when she opened her mouth, she heard herself saying instead, “Ghosts. I see ghosts. I saw them, down here, and—”

  She clapped her hand over her mouth. He stared at her, his face screwed up, and in that expression she saw not confusion but revulsion. She darted past him.

  “Whoa! No! Tess!”

  She kept running, tearing down the pitch-black hall, her hands bumping and scraping against the walls as she felt her way. Jackson ran behind her, yelling for her to hold up, that she was going to trip, going to hurt herself.

  She reached the rope and started up. He was far enough back for her to make it almost to the top before he reached her.

  “Tess! Hold on! You can’t—”

  A sudden blast of light illuminated the way. Jackson muttered, “Finally,” and shone the flashlight beam up at her. “Whatever happened—”

  The flashlight went out again. She was at the top of the rope now, the moonlight coming through the windows enough for her to see by. She raced to the back door and opened it. Then she stopped. She turned. Jackson tore into the library after her. Seeing her there, in the doorway, he skidded to a halt.

  “Thérèse,” he panted. “Just—”

  “I’m all right.”

  “No, obviously you are not—”

  “No, I am. I’m all right. I went down to explore, and I got stuck in that room. The flashlight broke and I panicked. I’m—I’m going to leave. You don’t need to come after me. I’m fine.”

  “The hell you are.” His face gathered in a scowl. “You’re racing out in the middle of the night. That’s not fine, and I will come after—”

  “No. Please.” Her voice shook, and she struggled to keep it even, frantic to convince him she was all right, to let her leave. Let her take her humiliation and panic and just go.

  He stepped toward her. She backed away.

  “Tess,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t want to chase you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Talk to me.”

  She shook her head vehemently, h
air lashing her face.

  “Then I’m going to follow you,” he said. “To make sure you’re safe. Either I follow or we talk.”

  Talk. She remembered standing in the same doorway where he was now, watching him sleep, wishing he’d stir so she could talk to him.

  She imagined a perfect scenario, where she’d blurt out what had happened downstairs and he’d tilt his head in that thoughtful way, the gears of his mind turning, and say, “That’s interesting. Well, it could be…” Then he’d list all the possibilities, as if she had described symptoms of a physical ailment.

  She imagined that and her knees shuddered, weak with the relief. That’s what she wanted. To blurt it out and analyze the facts, and not be analyzed herself, not be treated as a freak, treated as crazy.

  Then she thought of his face in the basement. Revulsion. She was certain that’s what she’d seen. She imagined the scenario again, where she’d blurt out what had happened in the basement and this time he’d back away, disgusted and a little bit afraid. When she ran, he would not follow. He’d want the crazy girl as far away as possible.

  “I—I’m going to leave,” she said.

  “Then I’m going to follow.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “If you really wanted to run, you’d be gone by now.”

  That stung, and she straightened. “I stopped because I’m trying to be mature about this. I don’t want to race off and make you chase me. I’m asking you not to.”

  “Something happened down there, and you’re upset, and if I wasn’t going to let you sleep outside alone tonight, I’m sure as hell not going to let you tear through the forest at 2:00 AM. That man—”

  “—is not lurking in the forest waiting for me,” she said with a hint of exasperation, some of the fear sliding away.

  “Are you sure? I’m not. So I won’t take the chance. You go, I follow. Or we talk.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You said ghosts. That you saw…” He trailed off. “No, you said you see ghosts and that you saw them. Which means you spotted one downstairs, and you’ve seen them in the past. Is that right?”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but she still tensed, not wanting to slide into the trap of thinking he might actually listen to her.

  She could back out now. Avoid all potential embarrassment by claiming she’d been sleepwalking and had had a nightmare about ghosts. He would accept it, and they could continue on as if nothing had happened.

  The easy way out. The dishonest, cowardly way out.

  “I don’t know if I see ghosts,” she said carefully. She steeled herself and met his gaze. “I’m not crazy.”

  “Did I say you were?”

  “You will when I explain.”

  His face hardened. “Which you know for a fact? You met me a day ago, Thérèse. Might I suggest you don’t know me nearly well enough to jump to any conclusion about how I’ll react.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  His face stayed tight for a moment, and then he nodded. “I would never call you crazy. Well, I might, but not in that way. Not seriously. That word gets tossed around, and I’m guilty of using it too, but it isn’t the same thing and you know that.”

  “What if I am crazy?” she asked quietly.

  “It could be schizophrenia,” he said. “Which does strike in early adulthood and can manifest in visual and auditory—” He cut himself short and flushed. “Sorry. You don’t need that.”

  “No,” she said. “Go on. Please.”

  When he hesitated, she said, “I want to know.”

  “I’m not saying that’s the automatic diagnosis for anyone who sees visions. But I’ll be honest: if that’s what it sounded like, I would suggest you get help. It’s a serious illness, and it can be controlled. However…” He studied her for at least thirty seconds before saying, “I just accused you of not knowing me very well after a twenty-four-hour acquaintance, so I’m not going to jump in and say, ‘You’re obviously not schizophrenic,’ but I haven’t seen any other signs of it. You aren’t paranoid or delusional—I had to convince you that jerk really was after you. Your thinking is clear enough. Same as your speech, even if you could use more French lessons.”

  A small smile, as if he was trying to calm her. When she didn’t reply, he continued, “You aren’t violent, and your hygiene is just fine—you harped on me enough about showering to prove that.”

  She still said nothing. Her mind spun, finding something to grasp but afraid to do it, afraid to trust it.

  His mother was a psychologist. He seemed to know a lot about mental illness. He’d made it clear earlier that he didn’t treat the afflicted like crazy people who should be locked away and forgotten. If she wanted someone to talk to—and to get an honest and unbiased reaction—Jackson could give it.

  Still, she held back. She wanted the truth. What she didn’t want, if she was being perfectly honest, was Jackson thinking there was something wrong with her. She’d spent her life being Tess Stacy, orphan girl. That label had colored how everyone in Hope treated her, how everyone she’d ever met treated her. The only worse label would be Tess Stacy, crazy girl.

  For once in her life, she had the chance to be simply a girl. A girl with a boy, and it didn’t matter if she exasperated him and frustrated him and annoyed him. It didn’t matter if they would never be more than a boy and a girl passing at this point in their lives. Whatever he thought of her, it was based on her—how she acted. No labels. Just Tess Stacy.

  “Tess?” He took a slow step toward her. When she tensed, he stopped and lowered his voice another notch, his accent adding a soothing lilt to his voice, like he was coaxing a stray cat from the doorway. “You said you’re not crazy, and I agree. But it sounds as if you’re not sure what this is and whether it’s a problem. You need answers.”

  It was as if he’d pulled the thought from her mind, and she nodded. “I do.”

  “Then come inside and talk to me.”

  She gripped the doorjamb and looked over her shoulder into the woods. No answers there. Just more darkness. She’d had enough of that for one night.

  She followed him into the house.

  Nineteen

  THEY RETURNED TO the library. Tess huddled on the chair, her shoes off, feet pulled up under her, as Jackson started the fire. He took a couple of apples from his bag.

  “We’re getting to the bottom,” he said, holding one of them up. “They’re a little battered. Is that all right?”

  She nodded, and he tossed it over.

  “I’ll need to go into town tomorrow,” he said. “To buy food and a new flashlight.”

  “I’m sorry about the flashlight. I dropped it.”

  “That wasn’t an accusation, Tess. It might just be the batteries anyway.”

  She nodded. She hadn’t noticed his tone—she’d been paying too much attention to his words. He’d go into town. Not they. This partnership would end come morning.

  Her only consolation was that she doubted her behavior tonight had scared him off. He’d never had any intention of sticking with her past morning.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said. Now his tone was nonchalant, trying not to rush her, but he couldn’t disguise the note of his usual impatience.

  “I’ve always seen them,” she said. “For as long as I can remember.”

  “Ghosts?” He answered his own question before she could. “No, you said you aren’t sure they’re ghosts. But you see people? Visions?”

  “There are two kinds,” she said. “Some seem like ghosts. I see people from another time. But I can’t communicate with them in any way. They don’t notice me. They’re just…doing whatever they’re doing. Completely unaware of me, even if I talk to them or stand in their path.”

  He nodded and said nothing.

  “The other kind is like I’m the ghost. One second I’m here, in the regular world. The next, I’m in a different time, with people from it.”

  “Can you communicate with
those people?”

  She shook her head. “It’s the same. Except in those ones, I can’t move anything, like opening a door.”

  “Is it the same place? I mean, if you were to pop into one of those visions now, would you be here? In this library?”

  She nodded. “Exactly where I am now. Only the time period changes.”

  “Always into the past?”

  “Yes. It happened downstairs. Tonight. I…I went down to see if anything would happen. I’ve never done that. But I thought maybe I could get answers if I did. If I envision one thing, and we find a completely different answer, then…” She squirmed in the chair. “Then I know for sure it’s not real. That I’m hallucinating.”

  “You said the people don’t talk to you. Don’t ask you to do anything.”

  She paused. “I heard a woman downstairs. When I fell through yesterday, and again tonight. She was asking for help, but when I answered, she just kept asking.”

  “She’s not asking you then. You’re just hearing her cries for help because that’s what she’s doing. Like the others. They just keep doing what they’re doing. Paying no attention to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you were schizophrenic, they’d be asking you to do something. Demanding things or talking to you.”

  “Wouldn’t ghosts do the same? Why show themselves if they aren’t going to communicate?”

  He said nothing.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked.

  He considered for a minute. “Logically, no. I’ve heard too many stories about grieving relatives hoping for contact. Or groaning pipes and bad electrical connections. I don’t completely deny the possibility though. And I’ve certainly heard stories where ghosts don’t interact. They’re just there. It’s the ‘stepping into another time’ part that doesn’t fit. You said you heard voices last night. Did you see anyone?”

  “No, I just heard a woman crying. Asking for help. Saying she was sorry. Tonight…tonight I followed the voice. It led to the room with the boxes. She was…”

  Tess started shivering convulsively.

  Jackson leaped to his feet. “Tess?”

  “She was in one of the boxes. Trapped. I opened it. I knew she wasn’t really there, but I had to open it. The box was empty.”