Gretchen shook her head, her eyes closed against his chest. “Just now. I’d forgotten—but now I remember.”
“What else?” His voice was a whisper, faint and strange to his own ears.
“I remember those things.”
“The seekriegers. Sirens.”
“And … Asia was there. Wasn’t she?”
Will couldn’t speak. He nodded.
“And they all died. They died in the fire.”
Will nodded again, still mute.
“But—” She looked up at him with those limpid blue eyes. “Why was Asia there? Was she one of them?” Her face was a shifting kaleidoscope of confusion, fear, pain.
“No,” Will said.
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“But—why was she there?”
“She was …” Will’s tongue felt heavy. He wasn’t sure what to say. “She was trying to protect you.”
Gretchen watched his face carefully. “But she was something.”
“She was a Siren,” Will admitted. “But she wasn’t one of them.”
“She died because of me.”
“It isn’t your fault.” He pulled her to him, trying not to remember the blood-red eyes, the monster Gretchen had become when she lit the surface of the bay with fire. That wasn’t Gretchen, he told himself. He pulled her into a kiss, and at the moment their lips met, Will forced himself to think only of the present moment. Not the past, which he couldn’t change, and barely understood. Not the future, which he couldn’t guess at and which he had no control over. Just the floral scent of Gretchen’s hair, the smoothness of her skin, the sweetness of her lips.
Just the now.
Chapter Eleven
From the Walfang Gazette
Walfang Ghosts to Be Subject of Documentary
Citing a spate of local paranormal activity, Alex Kichida has announced plans to film the next installment of his Phantasm documentary series in the city. “Phantasm seeks to investigate several historical claims in and around the Walfang area,” read an official press release. “Placed in the context of letters, diaries, and news clippings, the film hopes to substantiate the presence of several known ghosts.”
Tom Stressland, Long Island historian, stated that there are several stories about apparitions that have become local legends. Moreover, the police department confirmed that there has been an increase in reported destruction of property that remains unexplained.
“Usually, unexplained nocturnal activity corresponds to an increase in the raccoon population,” said Chief of Police Finbarr (Barry) McFarlan. “I’m not sure it’s going to make for the most exciting documentary.” But Kichida is undeterred.…
Gretchen sat in the kitchen, debating whether or not to heat up her lukewarm coffee, when a light rap at the front door made her nearly jump out of her chair. She’d had a restless night and had woken with the same ugly feeling of dread she’d felt so often lately, as if there was another presence in the room, someone watching her.
So she’d called Mafer.
“Hey, Gretchen,” Mafer had said when she’d picked up the phone. “What’s up?”
“Listen, can you come over?”
“Just tell me where you live,” Mafer had replied, and that was the entire conversation.
Now Gretchen headed into the front hall, but her father had already pulled open the door. He was laughing at something Mafer had said.
“Gretchen!” Johnny said with a smile. “Your friend is here.”
“Hi.” Mafer gave Gretchen a wink. She wore a long, thin gray scarf looped around her neck, plus her usual off-white jacket. “I’m here and ready for action.”
“Are you two working on a project?” Johnny asked.
Mafer turned to Gretchen with lifted eyebrows.
“Yes,” Gretchen said.
“Okay, well, have fun.” Johnny beamed from one girl to the other like a goofy dad on a 1950s sitcom. It made Gretchen want to laugh, but also touched her heart. Her father worried about her, she knew that. He wished she had more female friends. He was more delighted by Mafer’s presence than Gretchen was.
“Come on upstairs,” Gretchen said.
Mafer followed her down the cramped hallway and up the stairs. “Hm,” she said when she stepped into Gretchen’s room.
“What is it?” Gretchen asked. She closed the door behind them, cognizant that her father might be below them, listening.
“You’re messy,” Mafer noted, which made Gretchen laugh. “I just wasn’t expecting that. You seem like the tidy type.”
Gretchen looked at her desk, strewn with charcoal and an open sketchpad. There were clothes and books all over the floor. The bottom of her closet was littered with shoes, one on top of the other like rats jumbled in a cage. At least her bed was made—crooked, though, and lumpy. “I can be tidy sometimes,” Gretchen said.
Mafer took off her scarf and jacket and dropped them both onto Gretchen’s bed. She crossed to the window and looked out. “You can see the house next door.”
“Will lives there.”
Mafer didn’t react to this news. Perhaps she knew it already, Gretchen mused as her friend walked over to the bookcase. “Oh,” Mafer said suddenly. She rubbed her arms, shivering, and looked over at Gretchen. She peered at the ceiling. “Not good.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“Something?”
Mafer locked eyes with her. “There’s a presence here.”
Gretchen nodded. “That’s why I called.”
Mafer rubbed her arms again and frowned at the corner of the ceiling. Then she walked over to Gretchen’s bed and perched on the end of it. “Are you afraid?”
“Sometimes,” Gretchen admitted. She was still standing near her bureau, unsure whether to sit down. “Should I be?”
“Maybe.” Mafer cocked her head. “So, what do you want?”
Gretchen sighed, and she felt as if all of the air whooshed out of her at once. “I don’t know. I want it to go away, I guess.”
“We could ask it to leave.”
“Will that work?”
Mafer shrugged. “I don’t know. What else should we do?” Her dark eyes watched Gretchen, serious, unafraid. Gretchen realized that she had been hoping that Mafer would have an answer—that she would be psychic enough to know what to do.
“There isn’t some way to get rid of it?” Gretchen’s voice was almost pleading.
Mafer giggled, then clamped her hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just—I’m not a witch, or something. I just get feelings. I know things. That’s all. I don’t have, like, mysterious powers. If there’s something here, I can’t just order it around. I don’t even know if I can talk to it.”
“Could you try?”
She glanced up at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay. Do you have a candle?”
Gretchen went down the hall to the bathroom and brought back the scented candle she’d bought the year before and a box of matches.
“Ooh, gingerbread.” Mafer sniffed the candle, and Gretchen couldn’t help wishing that her friend would be more serious, or mysterious, or magical, or something. She wished that they had a beeswax candle, or maybe a scent like sage.
But Mafer didn’t protest that she couldn’t talk to a spirit with a gingerbread candle. She just sat down on the floor and lit the wick without any fanfare.
Gretchen settled across from Mafer as the wick caught. Mafer blew out the match, and the smell of sulfur filled the air. Mafer watched the smoke rise from the charred splinter and then looked at Gretchen. “Did you see that?” she asked.
“The smoke?”
“The face,” Mafer replied.
“No,” Gretchen admitted.
Mafer shrugged. Then she shut her eyes. It was late morning, and light streamed in through the window. It didn’t seem like the proper setting for a séance. Is that what we’re having? Gretchen wondered. A séance? The word raised images of slumber pa
rties and eight-year-olds. I’m such an idiot. What am I doing?
“We sense your presence,” Mafer said aloud. “Is there something you would like to tell us?”
Gretchen waited, but she didn’t know what for: for the windows to blow out, for books to fly off the shelves, for the walls to bleed? But none of that happened. Nothing happened at all. Mafer just sat still.
Then, suddenly, the candle flared. Gretchen’s heart leaped into her throat, and she had to strangle a scream.
“Please leave this place.” Mafer’s voice was firm.
It was then that Gretchen realized that her friend wasn’t simply sitting there, motionless. She was listening. Mafer could hear something. Or she thought she could.
Gretchen’s whole body was tensed, like an animal that fears it may have to dart away at any moment. After what seemed like an age, Mafer opened her eyes. She blew out the candle and ran her hands through her long dark hair.
“Did you—did you hear anything?” Gretchen asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it gone?”
“No.”
“No?” Gretchen wasn’t prepared for this answer. Tears burned behind her eyes; her throat swelled.
“Gretchen.” Mafer reached out and took her hand and pressed it reassuringly. “It wants to protect you.”
“Protect me?” Gretchen’s voice was almost a shriek. “That thing is scaring the crap out of me!” She thought about the golden-eyed waterspout, the attacking dog. “It tried to kill me!”
Mafer shook her head. “Not this presence.”
“How do you know?”
She looked down at the floor. “I just know.”
“Who is it?”
Mafer pressed her lips together, then looked Gretchen full in the face. “The spirit doesn’t communicate in that way. Like I said, I get feelings. I know things. That’s all. It’s someone who cares for you and wants to protect you—that’s all I’m sure about.”
Gretchen studied her friend’s face. Mafer looked pale and tired, as if communicating with the dead had sapped her. Mafer held her gaze a moment longer, then looked away. There was something about the way that Mafer had held her eyes that felt forced, and once the gaze was broken, Gretchen was besieged by doubt. How did she know whether Mafer was telling the whole truth?
Mafer stood up and walked over to the window. “Whose room is that?” she asked, gesturing toward the house across the creek. “Across from yours?”
“Will’s. Tim’s was on the third floor.”
Mafer nodded. “You and Will are close. You’ve been close a long time.”
Gretchen felt herself blush, and Mafer cocked her head but didn’t ask why. Perhaps it was obvious.
“You trust him,” Mafer said, but Gretchen sensed that the statement was more of a question.
“Of course.”
Mafer nodded and returned her steady, thoughtful gaze to the window, and again Gretchen had to wonder at the inner workings of her friend’s mind. It seemed unfair that Mafer knew things that other people didn’t. How did she decide what to share and what to hide?
“How’s it going?” Gretchen asked as she stepped behind the counter.
“Fine.” Kirk shut his notebook with a snap, closing the door on another distressing image of a shadow-eyed woman. His huge dark eyes looked guilty, but Gretchen couldn’t imagine why. So far he’d been an ideal busboy, efficient and unobtrusive. Even Angel had said that Kirk was “doing better than expected.” Nobody minded if he snatched a moment or two to work on his drawings. But Gretchen couldn’t think of a way to bring this up without embarrassing him. She shifted her weight awkwardly. “That’s good. Listen, we’re closing up soon. You can take off after you go bus table twelve.”
“All right.” Kirk grabbed the gray tub and headed for one of the booths that lined the side of the diner.
Gretchen got to work filling sugar jars. She jumped as someone banged on the door. “We’re closed!” she shouted reflexively, reaching for a rag to wipe up the sugar that had spilled on the counter.
“But I’m giving you the big, sad eyes!” Angus pressed his face up against the glass. “I’m looking so adorable that you can’t possibly resist me!”
“Don’t let anybody in!” Angel called from behind his window as Gretchen moved toward the door.
“This isn’t anybody, believe me,” Gretchen said as she twisted the lock and pulled the door open.
“Thanks! Hi, Angel!” Angus waved cheerfully.
Angel frowned beneath his red mustache. “I’m not hanging around here all night.”
“I’m doing great, thanks!” Angus chirped. He turned back to Gretchen. “I was just down at the Gazette. Had a meeting with Dahlila Jackson.” He waggled his eyebrows, as if Gretchen should be impressed.
“Who’s that?” Gretchen asked.
“What? It’s Dahlila Jackson! The Dahlila Jackson. Hello, Pulitzer Prize winner? New York Times? Ring any bells?” Angus hopped onto a stool and reached over the counter, helping himself to a coffee mug.
“No,” Gretchen said.
“Well, she’s a big deal,” Angus explained, waving his empty mug. “She had a nervous breakdown and moved out to Walfang. Now she’s recovered and is taking over the editor-in-chief spot at the Gazette.”
“And she wanted to meet with you at ten at night?”
“Newspapers have crazy deadlines. Even small-time newspapers.”
Gretchen took the mug and filled it with coffee, then handed it back to Angus.
He took a sip. “Wow! Love the coffee here. It’s like getting slapped in the face.”
“I’d be happy to give you a real slap in the face,” Angel offered.
“Don’t be so cranky,” Angus told him.
“How can I not be cranky when I’m missing my favorite TV show?” Angel demanded.
“So go home,” Angus told him. “What are you waiting around for?”
“Gretchen has to count the drawer,” Angel grumbled, “then I’ve got to take the money to the bank.”
“I’m almost finished.” Gretchen popped open the cash register and started counting one-dollar bills. She had already counted and recorded the larger bills. Next up was the change.
“Why can’t Gretchen take the money to the bank?” Angus asked.
“She might get mugged,” Angel growled. “It’s not safe.”
“I’ll walk with her,” Angus volunteered.
“You?” Angel scoffed.
“Sure. Why not?” Angus drained the last of his coffee. “I’m full of energy after this mug of tar.”
Gretchen smiled at Angel’s dubious expression. He clearly couldn’t think of any reason that Angus shouldn’t escort her to the bank. After all, he was over six feet tall and well built, and his uncle was the chief of police in Walfang. Besides, the town wasn’t exactly a hub of crime activity.
“Fine,” Angel said at last. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Thanks.”
“You see?” Angus whispered as Angel left through the rear door. “Nobody can resist my charms.”
“Hm,” Gretchen replied. She went on counting the dimes.
“So—where was I? Oh, right. Editor of the Gaz. Anyway, Dahlila told me that I should feel free to submit stories to the paper for possible publication.” Angus cleared his throat importantly. “That is a direct quote, my friend. Straight from the top.”
“Twenty-three pennies,” Gretchen mumbled, recording the number on the deposit slip. “Are you an intern again?”
“Nah, but this might even be better. I can get some clips, put them in with my college applications …” Angus droned on.
Gretchen glanced at the final tally on the receipt. Off by thirty cents. That irritated her, but she wasn’t about to recount the drawer. Close enough, she told herself. She looked around, but the diner was empty. Kirk must have slipped out while I was counting the drawer.
Gretchen took Angus’s empty mug and washed it out. Then she went and locked the back door while Angus
flipped off the lights. The only illumination came from the red neon Bella’s Diner sign outside, and it cast strange shadows over the booths as she tucked the blue vinyl deposit bag under her arm. Gretchen could hear the neon buzz as she opened the door, let Angus step through, and locked it behind them.
“Everything looks different in the dark,” Angus observed.
An image of Kirk’s drawing—the eyes in shadow, endlessly watching—popped into Gretchen’s mind. “I know what you mean,” she said.
Their footsteps echoed, breaking the silence as they walked up the street. Walfang was a tourist town, and after Labor Day the September nights were quiet, even Saturday nights. In August, the streets would have been alive with activity.
The bank drop vault was a block and a half away. It was a small steel door set in the side of the wall—Gretchen had never noticed it before she began closing at Bella’s. All you did was open the box with the key, pull down the handle, and drop the vinyl bag into the slot. Easy as sending a letter or returning books to the library. Then you locked the door again, and the deposit would sit safely at the bank until morning.
Up the street, the lights at the Gazette offices glowed brilliantly. Gretchen had never thought about the kind of hours that journalists keep before. But there they were, grinding away, checking facts, following up on leads, and they would keep on doing that, even after everyone else in town was fast asleep and dreaming.…
“Angus,” Gretchen asked suddenly, “would you look into something for me?”
Angus fiddled with the zipper on his olive-green jacket. “Sure. What?”
“Would you find out some information about someone? She would have been living in Boston about seventeen years ago. Her name is Saskia Robicheck.”
“How do you spell that?”
Gretchen told him, and he nodded but didn’t bother to make a note. He hadn’t asked why she needed the information—maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe he didn’t need to. She wasn’t sure why she said it, but she whispered, “Don’t tell Will,” and Angus nodded as though he understood completely.
They walked on in silence for a while. “So how much is in there?” Angus asked, nodding at the bank bag beneath Gretchen’s arm.
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