by Amy Cross
“What's wrong?” I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on Suzie as Mum hurries over to the mushrooms. “It's okay, you can tell me. Did something happen?”
Suzie pauses, and then finally she blinks a couple of times, almost as if she's coming out of some kind of trance. She swallows hard, her frown flickers away for a moment, and finally she offers a faint, cautious smile.
“No,” she whispers. “Nothing happened.”
“But -”
Before I can finish, she turns and slips away, stomping between the trees as if the only thing that matters now is the mushrooms. Still, I know my little sister, and as I glance around to make sure there's no-one else here, I feel damn certain that something freaked her out in those few minutes when we couldn't find her.
***
“Oh, she's fine,” Mum says as we make our way back toward the house a few hours later, carrying baskets full of chanterelles. “You fuss too much, Laura. Your sister's probably just tired.”
I turn and glance back. Suzie's keeping pace with us, albeit several feet behind, bu the look on her face is still worrying me. She's staring down at the ground, almost as if she's scared to look anywhere else.
“What the hell?” Mum says suddenly, putting a hand on my arm to stop me going any further.
“What is it?” I ask, turning and seeing that the back door to the house is wide open. A shiver ripples through my chest before my mind has even caught up and registered the problem. “Didn't you shut that?”
“I locked it,” she replies, her voice filled with tension. “And the front door. I know I did.”
“I saw you,” I tell her.
She pauses for a moment, before setting her baskets down. “Okay, you two girls stay right here, I'm just going to go and take a look.”
“No way!” I hiss.
“I'll be careful,” she says firmly, giving me that expression that I know is supposed to make me remember I'm just a kid. “Don't worry, I just want to make sure there's not some kind of misunderstanding. Maybe I got the lock wrong or something -”
“How would you get the lock wrong?” I ask, watching the windows of the house. “Mum, if there's an intruder -”
“There isn't,” she replies, taking a step forward. “I want you girls to wait here while I go and make sure everything's okay.”
“We should call the police,” I tell her.
“Just wait!” she hisses, heading over toward the house. When she gets closer, she grabs the trowel she was using earlier, as if she thinks she can use it as some kind of weapon.
“Oh God,” I mutter, feeling as if the whole world is becoming increasingly insane. Glancing down at Suzie, I see that she's standing right next to me with her eyes fixed on the house. “You okay?” I ask, tapping her shoulder. “Don't worry, I'm sure nothing's wrong, Mum probably just locked the door wrong, that's all.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know how weak and empty they must sound, even to a child like Suzie. I mean, she's a kid, not an idiot.
Turning to look back at the house, I watch as Mum heads inside with the trowel in her left hand.
“This is nuts,” I whisper, reaching into my pocket and taking out my phone. I'm tempted to call the police right now, but instead I simply bring up the emergency number and wait, ready to make one final tap if I hear so much as a bump from the house. The next few minutes grind pass with agonizing slowness, and I can't help wondering if Mum's okay in there. Finally, however, just when I'm thinking that I might genuinely have to call for help, I see one of the upstairs windows swinging open and then Mum leans out, smiling and waving.
“All clear!” she shouts, before pulling back inside.
“What was it?” I call out, but she's already gone.
Leading Suzie to the back steps, I watch as Mum comes out and sets the trowel down.
“What was it?” I ask again. “Why was the door open?”
“Must be something wrong with the latch,” she replies, taking a look at the handle. “I'll have to call someone out to take a look, but there's definitely no-one inside.”
“You don't know that,” I reply. “What if it was a burglar? What if they're hiding?”
“Where would they hide?” she asks. “We barely have any furniture. And before you say it, there's no way anyone is lurking in the gaps behind the walls.”
“But Mum -”
“Not in front of your sister!” she hisses, reaching down and taking Suzie's hand before leading her inside. “We have a lot of mushrooms to get ready, so I think we should forget all the silly talk and just get on with some proper work. Work always clears the mind, don't you think?”
Making my way up to the back door, I watch as Mum starts setting out the first baskets. Suzie is standing nearby, watching with that same dark expression that fell across her face in the forest, and I can tell something's wrong.
“Laura,” Mum says after a moment, “can you get some sage from the bush out the front?”
Sighing, I head through to the hallway and then out the front door, and I tear away some sage from the plant before making my way back inside. I swear to God, Mum's like an ostrich sometimes, sticking her head deep in the sand so she can ignore life when things go wrong. Pushing the front door shut, I make my way past the stairs, filled with frustration and -
Suddenly I realize I can smell lavender again.
And then I hear a voice nearby.
Stopping, I turn and look toward the front room, and there's definitely a male voice whispering something. I want to go and get Mum, but at the same time I feel as if I should at least take a look first. Edging cautiously over to the doorway, I keep telling myself that I won't see anything untoward. When I peer through, however, I find that the room is completely different, filled with furniture and other items, and the priest from my dream is sitting at the table, whispering as he reads from a leather-bound book. Kinner, Kinsey... Darian Kinner, that was the name.
I stay completely still, waiting to see if he'll notice me.
“Hello?” I say finally.
He continues to whisper, not even looking up from the book.
Taking a deep breath and trying not to panic, I step forward, tense in case he suddenly makes a move. Instead, however, he simply continues to read as I approach, and finally I'm close enough to see that he's holding some kind of prayerbook. I stop at the other end of the table, well within his line of sight, but he clearly doesn't see me at all. After a moment, I hold my hand up and give him a gentle wave, hoping to attract his attention.
“Hey,” I say cautiously, “are you... Can you see or hear me at all?”
He continues to whisper, and after a few seconds he turns to the next page in the book.
“Mum!” I call out. “Mum, get in here!”
I wait, with my eyes fixed on the priest, but there's no reply. Finally I turn and look over at the door. “Mum, can you please come and look at this?”
Again I wait, but again the only sound is the priest's low whisper as he continues to read from the book. I turn back to him and see that there's fear in his eyes, as if he's trying to gain some kind of strength from what he's reading. Stepping closer, I keep expecting him to finally notice me, but I manage to get all the way to his end of the table without him so much as looking up at me.
“You're the priest, right?” I say finally, crouching next to him and looking up into his face. I wave my hand, but still he doesn't look. “I don't know how this works,” I continue, “but if there's any way for you to hear me at all, please try to listen. I don't know how I'm seeing you but -”
Suddenly he turns to another page in the book, still whispering to himself as he reads.
“It was you the other night, wasn't it?” I ask. “In the wall, in my sister's room? Please, if you're a ghost, try not to scare her, she's just a kid.”
I wait, fully aware that I must sound ridiculous, but I don't know what else to try.
“Can't you see her?” a voice says suddenly.
Turning, I see little Jessic
a standing in the doorway.
“See who?” the priest asks, having evidently heard her, at least.
She pauses, with her eyes fixed on me. “There's a girl right next to you,” she says finally. “She's dressed very strangely, like nothing I've ever seen before.”
I turn to the priest and see that he's looking around, as if he's trying to see me but can't.
“She's right there,” Jessica continues, coming around the table and pointing at me. “She's down low, like she's trying to see your book.”
This time, the priest almost looks at me; his eyes dart around, coming so close to meeting mine but not quite managing.
“Why can I see her,” Jessica adds, “and no-one else can?”
“He can't hear me either,” I tell her.
“Did you hear that?” she asks.
“I heard nothing, child,” the priest replies. “Why don't you sit with me a while and tell me what you think I'm missing? I could use some company.”
She continues to stare at me. “She's quite pretty,” she says finally. “She's older than me, but younger than Mother. She has good teeth, I noticed that right away, and her hair is clean. In fact, all of her is clean, and she doesn't seem to stink. I don't think she's a peasant.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“She has a different way of speaking,” she continues. “Is she a ghost?”
“The Lord does not leave stray souls to wander aimlessly,” the priest tells her. “He looks after his children. Those who have served him faithfully, at least. Those who have not are consigned to another fate, but I do not believe any are left to trouble the living.”
“But I can see her,” Jessica replies, still looking at me. “She's right next to you.”
“What does she say?”
“Ask him where he's from,” I tell her.
“She wants to know where you come from.”
He pauses. “Tell her I am Darian Kinner. Tell her I'm a priest, originally from Kirkbride. Tell her I studied at a foreign seminary before returning to England to preach God's word.”
“His name is Darian -”
“I heard,” I reply, interrupting her. “Tell him... Tell him my name is Laura.”
“That's a pretty name,” she says with a faint smile, before turning to the priest. “Her name is Laura.”
“Tell him that where I am,” I continue, “the year is -” I pause, suddenly realizing that maybe I shouldn't say too much. After all, what if these people aren't ghosts but are some kind of echo? What if anything I say to them might actually be heard by people who lived hundreds of years ago? The idea is crazy, but no less crazy than most of the other things that have been happening around here lately.
“You have a very vivid imagination,” the priest says suddenly, getting to his feet. He pats the top of Jessica's head as he makes his way to the door. “You must enjoy playing alone very much.”
“Is he coming?” she asks, turning to him.
He stops and looks back at her. “Is who coming?”
“The man I heard Mother and Father talking about.” She waits for him to answer. “They were talking about a man who might come looking for you. They said it would be bad if he came to the door.”
“You mustn't worry,” the priest replies, with a flicker of concern in his eyes. He looks down for a moment at the prayerbook in his hands, as if he hopes to find strength, before turning to her again. “The Lord is watching over us all and he would not allow harm to come to your family. I shall be gone from this house long before anyone comes looking for me.” Another pause, and then he smiles. “Go and play, child. Talk to your imaginary friend if that is what pleases you.”
As he walks out of the room, Jessica turns to me. She seems nervous now, as if something is troubling her.
“Are you real?” I whisper, making my way around the table. I reach out to touch her shoulder, but I'm scared of what might happen either way. Finally I set my hand on her arm, and a shudder passes through my body as I realize that I can feel her. I take a deep breath; if this is a dream, I'm impressed by how real I'm making it seem.
“Can you feel me?” I ask.
She stares at me, before looking at my hand, still resting on her arm. After a moment, she nods.
I pull my hand away.
“Are you imaginary?” she asks, with her eyes fixed on me.
“I don't know,” I reply, before realizing how dumb that sounds. “I mean, no, no I'm not imaginary. I was hoping you...” My voice trails off, and suddenly an idea occurs to me. A crazy, far-out, ridiculous idea, but still one that I figure I should try, one that'll prove to me whether or not this is all a dream. “Do you know the wooden boards above the door that leads to the basement?” I ask, thinking back to the boards that Mum told me were part of the original house. Almost all the wooden parts of the building were destroyed in a fire many years ago, but those boards are supposed to have survived.
She nods.
“Can you... Can you carve something into the wood?” I continue. “Not yet, but when I'm gone. Just carve your name or something.”
“Why?”
“It's a test.”
“I'd get into terrible trouble if Father found out.”
“Then make sure he doesn't,” I continue, feeling a rising sense of panic in my chest. “Just carve your name in the corner, make it small so that someone would only notice it if they were really looking. Can you promise you'll do that?”
She pauses, before nodding.
“Come on,” I continue, hurrying to the door, “I'll show you exactly where to put it. That way, you can -” Turning back, I suddenly find that she's gone, and the room is once more bare, waiting for all the furniture that hasn't been delivered yet. I take a step back, suddenly feeling dizzy, and it's a few seconds before I feel as if the world is steady all around me. At the same time, the smell of potpourri reaches my nose again.
“Laura?” Mum calls through. “Did you get the sage, or are you just messing about?”
“Yeah,” I reply, staring at the spot where I last saw Jessica, “I -”
Suddenly I remember what I told her to do, so I hurry through to the hallway and then to the door under the stairs, the door that leads down to the basement. Grabbing a nearby box, I climb up and start looking at the wooden panel above the door. At first I don't see anything, but finally I spot a set of markings in the top left corner. Looking more closely, I feel a shiver in my chest as I find four simple words that look to have been carved into the wood long ago:
My name is Jessica.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself that there are other possibilities, that maybe I subconsciously spotted these words before and somehow incorporated them into my dream, but I really don't think that's what happened. Looking at my hand, I remember how it felt to touch Jessica's arm, and I realize that the sensation felt as real as all the times I've touched my own flesh-and-blood sister.
Feeling something sharp in my left hand, I look at the sage I picked a few minutes ago, but to my surprise I find that it has dried out. When I touch one of the leaves, it falls to dust.
“There you -” Mum starts to say as she comes through to find me. She stops, frowning. “What are you doing, Laura?”
I pause for a moment, before realizing that this isn't something I can keep to myself. “Mum,” I say finally, “I have to tell you something, and you have to promise not to think I'm crazy.”
Chapter Twelve
Daniel
“He died in his sleep,” the man says, as I watch an old sheet being placed over Joseph's face. “After all this time, finally he just...”
His voice trails off, and after a moment he makes the sign of the cross against his chest.
“May God forgive us for everything,” he whispers, closing his eyes and lowering his head for a moment. “We kept waiting for a sign, for some clue as to what we should do with the boy, but none came. Sometimes I even felt as if...”
I wait for him to continue.
&nbs
p; “As if what?” I ask finally.
He opens his eyes and turns to me. “As if God had forsaken us. Or worse, as if God...” He pauses, as if he can't complete the sentence.
“As if God doesn't exist?” I ask.
He makes the sign of the cross again. “He must have given us a sign and we missed it,” he says quickly. “That must be it, it's the only possible explanation.” He turns to look back over at the bed, where the boy's body is now laid out under the sheet, waiting to be taken out and buried. Already, the sheet is stained with some of the bed's foulness, and I can't help but notice the number of flies in the room. “He's at rest now,” the man continues. “We can all rest. Perhaps Offingham can start to live again.”
“Has a doctor seen him?” I ask. “Has a cause of death been determined?”
“There's no doctor around here,” he replies. “It would take days for one to come. My wife drove a needle through the boy's foot, however, to ensure that death had claimed him, and it had. We shall bury him in a marked grave, and that will be the end of it all.”
Stepping over to the bed, I look down at the sheet and see that a pale brown stain has begun to soak through from the boy's eyes, leaving two dark shadows on the fabric; there's another stain around the mouth, but this is redder, as if his mouth was bleeding at the end. The last thing I want is to see his face again, of course, but at the same time I feel I must force myself to witness another example of the misery that has been wrought upon this world by Nykolas Freeman. Reaching down, I brush a couple of flies from the sheet before starting to pull the fabric aside.
“What are you doing?” the man asks from the other side of the room.
“You can turn a way if you'd rather,” I tell him.
“But... The boy is dead. Surely that is all that matters?”
Ignoring him, I pull the sheet away and wince as I see the boy's empty eye sockets staring up at me. I had forgotten that even in death, those gaping sockets would be open and bare, and a moment later I spot another fly crawling out of the hole on the left, pushing past what remains of a tattered eyelid. I brush the insect away, before looking down at the boy's neck and seeing that fresh crosses were carved into his neck at some point during the night. Whatever finally ended his life and carried his soul away, I can only hope that he is in a better place now, far from men like Nykolas Freeman. Sometimes I find my faith wavering, almost as if one day it could be gone entirely, but at this moment I am filled with certainty that somehow the boy has been released from his pain and is now reunited with his mother.
