“Freya is your birth mother?”
“Was. Someone murdered her on the night I was born.”
“My dear, how tragic,” he said in a hushed voice.
I was a little uncomfortable accepting condolences for the loss of someone I’d never even known. The woman who raised me—Etta Gray—was my mother. Freya Pattershaw was just a name and a face in a photograph. And yet as I conjured her image, I felt the sting of tears behind my lids. “Actually, she died before I was born.”
“Before you were born?”
“As I said, it’s a very long and unusual story.”
“Please go on.”
“Tilly found Freya just moments after she’d been murdered. The body was still warm, Tilly said. So she cut me from Freya’s womb and resuscitated me.”
Dr. Shaw looked truly flabbergasted, which said a lot considering the tales he must have heard during his years at the Institute. “I don’t know what to say, Amelia. What an extraordinary story.”
“Oh, there’s more. I’ve barely scratched the surface.” Which was true, but I didn’t know how to proceed. I’d sought Dr. Shaw’s advice often in the past about various abnormal matters, but I’d never told him outright about the ghosts. Discretion had been ingrained in me for far too many years and walking on eggshells had become a habit.
But now I once again experienced that inexplicable urgency to lay bare my secrets. I had so many doubts and worries about my future, so many dark thoughts tumbling around in my head and no one to help me make sense of them. If I could unburden myself to anyone in the world without fear of ridicule, it would be Dr. Shaw, a man who had devoted his life to the study of strange goings-on.
Still, I hesitated. “I’m not sure what any of this has to do with the stereogram, let alone Louvenia Durant and Nelda Toombs.”
“Perhaps nothing,” he said. “But your resemblance to the woman in the window is remarkable, and as you said, there are no true coincidences. There must be a connection. We have to keep searching until we find one.”
I glanced at him doubtfully. “The thought of that frightens me.”
“Why?”
“Unless you know my whole life’s history, you probably wouldn’t understand.”
“You can tell me as much or as little as you like,” he said. “But I’ve always thought it far better to embrace the unknown than to fear it.”
Spoken like a man who’d never had a netherworld creature nesting in his cellar.
“Maybe you’re right.” My voice dropped to a near whisper as my gaze flitted once more to the open door where a small shadow crept across the patio. I felt the tingle of cloves on my tongue, so weak and ephemeral I couldn’t be certain the sensation was even real.
Dr. Shaw followed my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. For a moment, I thought... Nothing. It was just a shadow,” I said with a shrug. Or a materialization of my fear. Maybe Dr. Shaw was right. Embracing the unknown could take away some of its power.
“You look as though you could use a little fortification,” he said. “Shall I ask Vivienne to bring us some tea? Or something a little stronger perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” Although a cup of chamomile would not have been unwelcome at that moment. “If I seem a little flustered, it’s because I’ve never told this story to anyone. Some of it will sound far-fetched, but I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”
“My dear, do you forget to whom you are speaking? My whole life’s work is based upon the fantastic. Please continue. You have me enraptured already.”
“I hope you still feel that way when I’m finished.”
“So you were cut from Freya’s womb,” he prompted.
I nodded, taking a moment to sort through my thoughts. “When Tilly resuscitated me—pulled me back from the other side, so to speak—she felt a presence...a force. She said it was as if something evil had hold of me on the other side and didn’t want to let go. When she finally brought me back, she felt this terrible rage.”
A snowy brow peaked, but he said nothing.
“Tilly was so terrified she got in touch with Papa, a man she hadn’t spoken to since he’d gone back to his other life seventeen years earlier. He drove up to Asher Falls, buried poor Freya’s body and then he took me away from that place because he and Tilly were worried for my safety.”
“He believed her about this presence?”
“Oh, yes.”
Dr. Shaw leaned back in his chair, observing me intently. “Was Freya’s killer ever caught?”
“Eventually.” I couldn’t help but wonder what my life might have been like if my birth mother hadn’t been murdered. Would I have grown up in the woods with Tilly and Freya, or would my birth father’s family and their terrible legacy have claimed me at an early age? I hated to think of the person I might have become without Mama and Papa’s gentle guidance.
Dr. Shaw still watched me thoughtfully.
“Do you know what a caul birth is?” I asked him.
“Yes, of course. A baby born en caul has the amniotic sac still wholly or partially intact. It’s not very common, but an infant born with a caul is even more rare. In those instances, a thin membrane actually loops around the ears and attaches to the face. But—” he paused “—something tells me you already know the distinction.”
I nodded. “Caul births run in my family.”
Curiosity flickered in his blue eyes. I could almost see the questions churning inside his head. “Do you know if the membrane was preserved?”
I hadn’t expected that question. “I have no idea.” Such a thought had never occurred to me and, truthfully, I was a little repulsed by the notion.
Dr. Shaw chuckled. “I can appreciate your distaste, but it was once customary to save them as protection against witches and demons. Cauls were also highly valued by seamen because they were thought to prevent drowning.” He glanced at one of the bookshelves behind me. “I’m sure I have a copy of David Copperfield around here somewhere. You may remember that passage about his caul being advertised in the newspaper for the low price of fifteen guineas. He was offended that the only taker was an attorney rather than a sailor.” His eyes danced with merriment.
I wasn’t quite as amused at the prospect of selling skin casings as he apparently was. “How does one go about preserving a caul anyway?”
“In the old days, the midwife rubbed a sheet of paper across the baby’s head and face, pressing the membrane onto the parchment. Of course, given what you’ve told me of your birth, I doubt your grandmother had sufficient time even if she’d been so inclined. The veil would have been removed quickly in order to start resuscitation. I’m surprised you don’t have scars from the attachment points.”
I touched a finger to my hairline. “Maybe they’re just hidden.” Like so many things in my life.
“That’s certainly possible. However, you’ve always been a keen observer so I can’t imagine they would have escaped your notice. Nor do I think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Actually, I don’t know that much about cauls. I only found out last fall about my birth and I’ve been busy with Oak Grove ever since.”
“I see. Well, apart from the membrane itself having magical properties, caulbearers are believed by some to be spiritual guides and healers, as well as seers.” His gaze on me deepened. “Are any of these attributes at all familiar to you?”
“Are you asking if I have ESP or the ability to heal? No. But ever since I found out about my birth I’ve had this odd sense of...” Again my gaze strayed to the garden doorway. I saw nothing this time but the brilliant flicker of sunlight through the live oaks.
“Go on.”
“Destiny,” I finished reluctantly. “As if my course has already been charted.”
“What do you think your destiny is?”
“I don’t know.” I thought of all those ghost voices in my head at the hospital, all those grasping hands in my dreams. “I’m afraid to know. It’s as if I’ve been waiting for something my whole life. Or something has been waiting for me. But I never realized it until now. Maybe because I was so sheltered and protected. Looking back, I’m convinced that every decision, every milestone, even my every thought and dream has led me down a predetermined pathway.” I paused, grappling with a concept I didn’t fully understand. “It started with my birth, I think. I was brought back from the other side for a reason. I believe I was chosen.”
The word hung in the air, suspended on a stray gust that blew into the office, ruffling the papers on Dr. Shaw’s desk.
“A loaded word,” he said softly. “Chosen for what?”
“I’ve no idea.” I rubbed my arms, trying to restore circulation to the frigid veins. “I was born dead to a dead mother. That has to mean something. I’ve been told I have power because I was born on the other side of the veil.”
“What kind of power?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me in such a way that I felt almost breathless with anticipation. Or was it dread?
“What is it, Dr. Shaw?”
He hesitated, his thumb tapping an idle rhythm against the surface of his desk. “Tell me, Amelia, did you have imaginary playmates when you were a child? Did you see things others couldn’t? Visions...apparitions...”
“You mean ghosts?” I asked.
“Yes, ghosts. As I said earlier, you can tell me as much or as little as you want, but I’ve always known there was something special about you. You have the inner radiance of someone attuned to the invisible world around us, and you seem to attract more than your share of unusual phenomena.”
“Which you’ve always been able to explain away,” I reminded him. “You’re the one person who can help make sense of everything that’s happened to me.”
“And there may well be an explanation for what you’re experiencing now. I don’t discount any possibility. You said you feel as if you’ve been waiting for something all your life. That you’ve been chosen.”
I drew a breath and nodded.
“In some cultures, people believe children who see visions and apparitions grow up to become death walkers.”
“But I never said—” I stopped short as another chill shot through me. “Death walkers?”
“You’re not familiar with the term? It isn’t as dire as it sounds, although I suppose it depends on one’s perspective. Death walkers are those rare individuals who have the ability to help souls pass from this world to the next. They serve a unique and powerful purpose in the circle of life. Perhaps your unusual birth has bestowed upon you this gift.”
I remained silent, my stomach in knots as I resisted the inclination to press my hands to my ears, once more blocking out what I didn’t want to hear. What I couldn’t bear to comprehend.
“Think of it as a vocation similar to your grandmother Tilly’s,” he said. “She was a midwife, yes? Only you aren’t meant to help souls enter this world. Your job is to help them leave.”
“That’s a very frightening prospect,” I said on a ragged whisper.
“To the contrary,” he said kindly. “Some would consider it a high and noble calling. It’s what the shamans refer to as a midwife to the dead.”
Twenty
After I left the Institute, I parked downtown and walked over to the Unitarian Churchyard, one of my favorite cemeteries in Charleston. A glimpse through the rear gate might lead a first-time caller to conclude the graveyard was abandoned or badly neglected, but the paths were meticulously kept, allowing visitors to wander at will through the deliberately overgrown shrubbery and wildflowers.
The heavy oaks provided a welcome respite from the heat of the street and I took my time reacquainting myself with the centuries-old headstones and ironwork. Some of the secluded corners reminded me of Rosehill Cemetery, especially this time of day with the heady scent of flowers hanging on humid air. Now and then I could hear a strand of organ music from inside the church, normally a perfect accompaniment to meditation and reflection, but my mind was much too chaotic to settle. Today, nirvana was not to be found among the primroses.
As I strolled along the shady trails, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Shaw’s speculation regarding my birth and my destiny. Death walker. Midwife to the dead. No matter the term, I didn’t want to consider the possibility that I might have such a calling. What a nightmarish thing to even contemplate.
And yet had I not tried to find some rhyme or reason for the ghosts in my life? Some higher purpose for this terrible gift that could justify the loneliness and isolation of my existence?
“Set aside the grimness of the terminology and imagery and allow yourself to explore the possibilities,” Dr. Shaw had advised. “Remember what I said about your grandmother’s calling. This is not so different.”
But it was different, and all I could picture was a dark-shrouded skeleton ferrying the dead across the River Styx.
“A death walker might best be described as a conductor of souls. A shepherd of the dead, if you will. According to shamanism, someone born with this gift has an inner light that guides the lost to them. A spiritual magnet that attracts the lingering life force released into the universe when someone passes. Perhaps that’s why you’ve always felt so at home in cemeteries and why you’ve chosen to spend so much of your life in and around them. Graveyards aren’t just repositories of decaying flesh and bone, but of the unbound energy of death. All you need do is open yourself up to this force.”
“But what if I don’t want anything to do with that kind of power?” I’d asked. “What if all I want is to be left alone to lead a normal life?”
“A true calling should never be ignored, my dear. It invites disruption and makes for an unsettled life.”
Easy to say if one hadn’t an inkling of the parasitic nature of ghosts or the evil that lay in wait on the other side. Guiding the dead through the veil might well be a noble endeavor, but it would require someone with far greater courage than I.
A couple of tourists had stopped on the path and they spoke in hushed, excited tones as they pointed to a grave. I thought at first they might have spotted a small animal scurrying through the underbrush, but then I detected a low drone that grew louder as I approached. When I passed them on the path, I heard one say to the other, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
I glanced in the direction where their gazes were pinned. A swarm of honeybees had gathered on one of the headstones, covering the surface so thoroughly that on first glance the monument appeared to be moving. It was a very disconcerting illusion, and I stood there awestruck until I realized the incessant buzzing reminded me a little too much of the drone of ghost voices in my head. I nodded to the pair and hurried away.
I walked on, deeper and deeper into the green coolness of the cemetery. Where one path crossed another, I saw a shadow on the pavers as someone came up behind me. Ever cautious, I glanced over my shoulder.
A young man had stopped a few feet away to gaze down at a headstone. He stood in deep shade and I could see only his profile, but I recognized his slight form and the silvery-gold curls falling down over his forehead.
My first instinct was to confront Micah Durant and demand to know why he had followed me to the cemetery, but suddenly I was seized by the strangest sensation. It was as if I had the power to peer past his angelic facade all the way down into his soul, and the blackness of his essence shocked me.
He turned then, a half smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he started toward me. Neither of us spoke even when he drew even with me on the path. I opened my mouth, to say what I wasn’t quite certain, but he put a finger to his lips to silence me as his other hand moved to the side of
my neck.
A scream rose to my throat. I thought surely he meant to assault me, but when he drew his hand away, I saw that a honeybee clung to one of his knuckles. Bringing the insect to eye level, he examined it closely as he rotated his hand. Incredibly, the bee shifted so that man and insect remained face-to-face. They stayed that way for the longest time before the honeybee finally flew away.
And then Micah Durant turned without having uttered a word and strode down the walkway toward the King Street gate.
Twenty-One
“They say everyone has a double,” Devlin said a little while later as he peered through the viewer.
I’d arrived home to find him once again waiting on my front steps. He was a welcome sight after that odd encounter at the churchyard. And as always, he smelled divine. I resisted the urge to press my nose to his neck while he studied the stereogram.
After a few moments of scrutiny, he glanced up. “Is she a relative?”
“I don’t know. She’s almost certainly the woman named Rose that Nelda Toombs mentioned yesterday at Oak Grove. Nelda said we bore an uncanny resemblance and she seemed convinced that Rose and I were somehow connected. But what I’d really like to know is how that card ended up in my cellar.”
From past experiences, I knew that searching for a practical answer in my impractical world was often a futile endeavor. Better just to accept that some things could never be explained. But that didn’t stop me from longing for a rational explanation of recent events. If anyone could uncover the logic in any situation it was Devlin. His disdain for the supernatural wouldn’t allow him to consider the alternative. So I let him unwittingly play the role of devil’s advocate, hoping that he could open my mind to other less disturbing possibilities.
“Are you certain it couldn’t have fallen out of a box of your belongings?” he asked. “Maybe the card got mixed in with some of your things when you moved out of your parents’ house.”
“That was years ago and I’ve moved around quite a bit since then. I think I would have found the card before now. Besides, I don’t ever recall seeing any stereograms or viewers in the house, let alone any images of a look-alike. When I was little I used to spend hours and hours poring through family photograph albums. If I’d seen that picture or that woman, I’m certain I would have remembered.”
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