But she only gets to watch me for a block or so before we hit Xenon Street, the farthest I’ve ever gone from campus, and I feel the familiar dizziness set in, the awful feeling someone is tugging on all the little threads of my being and, if I take even another step farther, I’ll start to unravel like an old sweater. I stop, helpless, in the middle of the road, my head swirling like water above a drain as I watch the car slide around the corner and out of sight.
Saintly is gone.
Well, I think, good. Maybe she’ll be safer, but of course that’s not how I really feel. I stand for a long time, just staring after the car, so lost in my thoughts I almost let a city bus plow right through me. I manage to sidestep it at the last minute so only the corner of the bumper passes through my hip, and then I trudge back toward the center of campus. Every step takes effort, and I feel heavy and cold. I want to just let myself go unconscious, but of course it doesn’t work that way; I don’t get to choose when I lose time any more than an epileptic chooses when she seizures. The more I wish myself away, the more I feel tethered to this moment.
Well, at least the horrible unraveling feeling has gone away, but as I near the center of campus, it’s replaced by the hollow fear I always feel whenever I walk near the clock tower.
I ignore the feeling. I want to go to the library, and that means passing by the clock. It watches me like a giant, golden eye as I pass beneath it.
I hold my breath. It reminds me of when I was a kid and I used to hold my breath whenever I walked past a graveyard because my cousin told me if I didn’t, I might breathe in a ghost. Now I’m the ghost, but I still hold my breath, as if the clock tower is one giant tomb and it might breathe me in.
But it just sits there, watching me, and in a minute I’m past it and stepping through the locked doors of the library. I breathe a sigh of relief. I was never much of a book lover when I was alive, but in the last two decades the library has become my haven. No one else knows the place like I do—twenty years’ worth of exploring has taught me how to find pretty much anything here, and right now I’m looking for one thing: Charlotte Croft. No, not her ghost—I’m hoping I won’t run into her and have to face more questions about Saintly and her boyfriend—but I am looking for any reference to her in the library’s records. She said she was local, after all, and if that’s true I’m pretty sure there’s something about her here somewhere.
It’s dark and safe in the stacks, the books like bricks in a fortress wall. Ordinarily I would stop and savor them for a minute, breathe in the smell of them and at least read the titles on their spines, even if my hands don’t always work well enough to actually open them and read them. I like reading the titles, challenging myself to imagine the stories inside. Sometimes when my hands aren’t solid enough to turn the pages, I can still manage to lift the books themselves. I stack them so that the titles make little poems. I don’t think anyone ever notices.
Tonight, however, I don’t have time for that stuff. I’m on a mission. I slip down the stairs to the basement, where the archives are stored. Ignoring the files of microfilm, I go straight for the real deal: filing cabinets of newspapers and school records that go back over a century. Maybe if I find out what happened to Charlotte and the other ghosts, I’ll know what they want with Saintly and Deveraux.
It’s slow going at first. It takes a while for me to even turn on the light, since my hand keeps slipping through the switch, but eventually I manage and start thumbing through the yellowed scrolls of newspapers and the musty yearbooks. It’s not hard to find mentions of Charlotte’s family. The newspapers are full of pictures of her dad—one posing by the door of his hotel on opening day, one dressed in a fancy suit at a church function, one shaking hands with a well-dressed man in a bowler hat. But what I want is a clue about Charlotte. I switch to checking the obituaries, but there’s no mention of her. How can that be, I wonder? Charlotte came from such a prominent family, it seems only natural her death would warrant a big obituary, but—nothing.
I’m about to give up. I’ve been at this for hours and I’m pretty sure it’s close to dawn. I want to be out of the library before anyone else shows up. Besides, I’m getting tired. It takes a ton of energy and concentration to make my fingers solid enough to turn the newspaper pages and, as my concentration wanes, moving the weathered pages is getting harder and harder. I decide to call it a night and shut the paper I’m reading.
And there it is, splashed across the front page: Local Businessman Offers Reward In Disappearance of Daughter. Above the headline is a date, Jan 2, 1900, and below the article is a picture: Charlotte, dressed just as she was when I met her. Even looking at the yellowed black-and-white photo, I can still picture the red of Charlotte’s hair, the shiny copper color of her dress. Only her face looks different: instead of the cold, bitter expression she wore when we met, the Charlotte in the picture is smiling.
But it isn’t Charlotte I’m staring at. My attention is caught by the well-dressed young man standing beside her, smiling down at her fondly. His suit is old-fashioned, his hair shorter, but there’s still no mistaking him. I scan the caption under the picture, sure I must be wrong, but there it is: “Miss Charlotte Croft and her fiancé Mr. Deveraux Renard, both last seen Dec 31, 1899.”
My tired mind rebels. It can’t be him. How could it be? Deveraux isn’t a ghost. I’m sure I could tell if he were. Besides, I’ve seen him talk to Saintly’s friend, and she couldn’t see him if he were a ghost, right?
No, Saintly’s boyfriend is definitely alive. So how am I looking at a picture of him over one hundred years ago, looking almost exactly like he does today?
My mind scrambles for an explanation. Could it be a relative of the same name? That would make sense. Whole families have come through this college, right? Grandsons, named after their grandparents, following in their footsteps…
But the resemblance is too uncanny. I skim the article. “Well known socialite Charlotte Croft was reported missing when she failed to return home after a New Year’s Eve celebration at the home of Miss Cynthia Winton. Also missing is her fiancé, Mr. Deveraux Renard. The two had become engaged only two weeks prior and were planning to wed in the fall of the new year. Although there has been some speculation that the couple eloped, police suspect foul play…”
Foul play. My heart is beating fast. Even as I try to explain it away, a creeping feeling in the pit of my stomach is spreading like a blood stain. Something dark happened to Charlotte Croft. Something that has everything to do with Deveraux Renard.
What if Charlotte wasn’t trying to warn Deveraux about something? What if she was trying to warn Saintly about him?
I have to talk to Saintly, now.
But how? I just let her leave with the chief suspect, and I have no idea where they went.
And even if I did know, would Saintly talk to me again? And if she did, would she believe me? I think of the way she looked up at Deveraux Renard, the admiration in her eyes. Why would she listen to my suspicions about someone she loves?
If I want her to listen to me, I’m going to need more information. I have to talk to Charlotte, and I need some concrete proof.
Mustering all my concentration, I manage to keep my hand solid long enough to tear the picture from the newspaper, leaving a long jagged scar down the center of the page. Then, holding it as carefully as I can, I hurry up the stairs and towards the front door of the library. I step through the door, as always—and realize I’ve left the picture behind.
It can’t go through the door, of course.
Damn it!
I slip back through the door and find the picture lying on the floor. I spend ten more minutes trying to grasp it again, feeling the paper slip through my fingers over and over. It’s like trying to grasp water—or to grasp something solid with water, to be more accurate. I swear a lot, and kick the door (which is totally unsatisfying, because my foot goes right through) then finally get down on all fours and use my finger tips to push the damn thing under the door. Ju
st when I’ve gotten it good and wedged under and I think I can go through the door to the other side and tug it through (maybe), I hear the sound of a key in the lock and the damn door opens right through me and the scrap of paper gets caught by a gust of wind and goes skittering down the sidewalk.
I dodge around the librarian as she comes through the door and dart after it, chasing the scrap as it cartwheels down the path.
And that’s how I spend the next hour, sometimes catching it, sometimes chasing it like a kitten—like a kitten who swears a lot, a really angry kitten. I’m getting tired, but I can’t rest because I have to keep an eye on the picture. A fresh gust of wind grabs it, sending it spinning in the other direction, right toward the clock tower.
I hesitate. I can’t help it. And that split second is all it takes for the wind to snatch the picture out of my reach. “No!” I yell and leap to catch it, but there’s no way. The harsh December wind drags it up and out of sight in seconds.
I freak out. I call myself every name in the book. I kick at the snow and throw a fit like a two-year-old. That was the only clue I had! How am I going to make Saintly believe me now? God damn my stupid hands! Why can’t I ever hold on to anything that matters?
For a long time, I just stand there, staring up at the gray sky, wishing to vanish the way an insomniac wishes for sleep.
But I stay put.
So I decide to search for Charlotte. She may not be able to tell me what’s going on directly, but maybe she can still confirm my suspicions about Deveraux Renard. Maybe she could answer my yes-or-no questions with nods or…okay, I don’t know what, but do something to give me a clue. At the very least, I should tell her I found her picture, let her know that I know she disappeared. Charlotte may not be the friendliest person, but she is trying to warn Saintly, and that puts us on the same side. She deserves to know someone cares what happened to her all those years ago.
But even from my lookout on the arch, I can’t see any sign of her anywhere. And, for all I know, she’s nowhere to be seen. Charlotte isn’t bound to campus the way I am. Maybe she followed Saintly and Deveraux to wherever they went. Maybe she’s trying to warn Saintly right now.
I’m about to climb down from the arch again when something catches my eye. It’s just a motion, something dark slipping around a corner of the arts complex, but it’s swift enough to seem out of place, just a little too quick to be human. On a hunch I lower myself off the arch and sprint across the frozen playing fields. As I round the corner of the theatre wing, I catch sight of it again and my heart begins to pound.
It’s a ghost, all right, but definitely not Charlotte. This woman is African American, with long legs that look even longer in her short denim skirt and high fringed boots. Her back is to me, so I can’t see her features, but judging by her fluffy halo of hair I’m guessing she died sometime in the ’60s or ’70s.
I trail along behind her, careful not to draw attention to myself. It feels strange, having to worry about being seen. I’ve spent so much time watching living people who can’t watch me back—so much easier than stalking ghosts who could see me if they looked! I’m not sure why I feel the need to hide, but some instinct tells me to keep quiet. Maybe it’s the memory of Charlotte that makes me hesitate, the way her voice seemed to multiply into a ghostly chorus.
Or maybe it’ just that this woman seems like a person to be reckoned with. She walks with the confidence of a general, the fringe on her boots swinging with each leggy stride. We’re headed for what the art department euphemistically calls “the sculpture garden.” It’s really more of a sculpture graveyard, a vacant lot behind the visual arts wing where they stash the students’ senior projects. In warmer weather, students come back here to work and the air is filled with plaster dust and the chink of chisel on stone and the whirr of pottery wheels, but this time of year the lot is abandoned. Snow covers the half-finished sculptures like a shroud, mutating them into strange, half-recognizable shapes.
It’s enough to give a ghost the creeps.
But it also gives me plenty of places to hide. I duck behind a reclining nude, now dressed in a parka of snow.
The woman I’m following doesn’t share any of my unease about this place. She walks confidently to the center of the lot and stands there, one fist on her hip. “Charlotte Croft, where are you?”
“Here.”
I jump at the sound of Charlotte’s voice, so close I’m afraid she’ll see me. But she doesn’t. She just seems to materialize out of thin air, a few feet in front of the woman. She looks like she did before, of course—red-blonde hair in ringlets, long copper-brown dress—but the expression on her face is very different. All the haughty pride is gone. Instead, she looks nervous.
The woman frowns down at her. “Have you warned her yet?”
Charlotte tugs anxiously at the edge of her gloves. “We’ve done our best, Leticia, but you know there’s only so much we can do. The spell keeps us from saying anything to her directly, and we’ve tried every other way we can think of—showing her passages in books, speaking to her in songs on the phonograph. I’ve even appeared to her in dreams, but everything comes out garbled and she’s too afraid to make sense of it.”
“Meanwhile, she and Deveraux just get closer and closer.” Leticia snaps her gum so hard it makes Charlotte jump. I wonder what it’s like to be stuck with the same piece of gum in your mouth for eternity. “And where is she now?”
I straighten a little in my hiding place, eager to hear Charlotte’s response, but she only bows her head, ashamed. “We’ve lost her, I’m afraid. She seems to have left campus, and we don’t know where she’s gone.”
“With him? She left with him?”
Charlotte nods, her eyes on the snow at her feet.
Leticia lets out a colorful string of swears and snaps her gum rapid fire. She stamps her foot in frustration, so hard it seems strange it doesn’t leave a mark in the snow. Then she sighs, a resigned, defeated sigh. “Well, we both know what this means.”
Charlotte looks up suddenly, her eyes wide. “But there’s still time!”
Leticia shakes her head. “Just two days! It’s not enough. I’ve seen the girl with Dev, and she’s already too far gone. We can’t warn her. We gotta do her like we did the other one.”
The other one? What other one? Do what? My stomach feels like it’s wringing itself out slowly.
Charlotte’s voice is quiet. She keeps her eyes on the snow. “I don’t like it, Leticia. If we kill this one, too, how are we any different from him?”
“We are not like him!” Snap snap snap, the sound of the gum echoes off the stone, like a whip cracking. “We kill one or two, and only to keep him from killing how many more? Hundreds? Thousands? It’s a necessary sacrifice.”
“It’s uncivilized! There has to be some alternative!”
Leticia turns away from Charlotte, and I can see her face. She looks tired. “The alternative is she dies anyway. You know that. At least if we’re the ones to kill her, she won’t be trapped forever. At least she won’t be this.” She gestures helplessly to herself. “Or worse, caught in the castle forever.” She turns back to Charlotte. “I don’t want to do it either. Believe me, I don’t. But this is the strongest we’ve ever been. This is our only chance. We kill her and Dev is finally done. We kill her and she can go to her rest.” She looks Charlotte in the eye. “And maybe—just maybe—we can go to ours.”
That’s what does it. The expression in Charlotte’s eyes shifts, and I can see a longing there, a hope. She nods slowly. “Very well,” she says quietly. “If there is no other way.”
Leticia pulls herself up to her full height, her expression as hard as the stones that surround us. “Tell the others, then. The plan has officially changed. By midnight New Year’s Eve, Mariana Santos has to die.
Mariana Santos has to die. The words echo off the icy stones and they echo in my mind, too. The world swirls around me. I don’t know why, but they’re going to kill her, the only living being who
cares I exist, the only one who sees me, and they’re going to kill her. Instinctively I reach for the stone sculpture to steady myself, but my hand passes through it. I sink down to my knees in the snow.
Long minutes pass before I can force myself to stand again. When I do, I see the other two ghosts have gone. I stand in the shadows, letting the snow blow around and through me in little circular eddies, listening to my thoughts as they go around and around, too, in the same panicky questions. What should I do? I have no allies now. Charlotte isn’t on my side. The only good news is that Saintly is gone, and Charlotte and the others don’t seem to know where.
The bad news is that I don’t know where she is, either.
I’m not a problem-solver. I’m not even a problem-facer. If I were, I would have turned around and faced my own problems back when I was a student here, instead of doing what I did. There’s an icicle dripping off the roof beside me, adding its own cold sculpture to the graveyard. The drip drip drip reminds me of the ticking of a giant clock. How can someone else’s life depend on me when I couldn’t even handle my own?
Keeping people alive is not what I do best.
But I have to try. I don’t know why Charlotte and the others have turned on Saintly, but they have, and I can’t let her die.
But God, I’m so tired. Being dead, it seems to me, is like being a convalescent. I’ve spent twenty years trying to recover from my own death, and I’m still not strong.
But I can’t disappear just yet. I decide to try to find Saintly’s room. Maybe I’ll find some clue as to where she went, come up with some way to contact her and tell her not to come back. Or, at the very least, I can camp out in her room so I’ll be there when she does.
I’ll admit, the thought of being in Saintly’s room makes me feel flushed. It has been a while since I’ve been in a beautiful girl’s room. I mean, I could, technically, just let myself into people’s rooms all the time and they wouldn’t know any different, but I decided early on that, no matter how bored and lonely I got, I wasn’t going to act like a perv. When you aren’t physical, you pretty much have to set up boundaries for yourself and decide what stuff you will and won’t do, just to stay you, if you know what I mean, and I guess for me that means acting as alive as possible and playing by the rules as much as I can. Which means I’ve pretty much kept to the common areas and respected people’s privacy.
Kissing Midnight Page 14
