by Lila Dubois
“When did you decide he was real?”
“I never decided that, I realized it. For six months I tried to pretend he wasn’t there. I saw more doctors, took more meds. I went to church, but there was no comfort there. My brother committed suicide, and his soul was damned.”
Tristan rubbed his face, then looked at Melissa. He didn’t see the pity or concern on her face that he’d dreaded. Instead what he saw was puzzlement and sadness.
“He spoke to me in those first months, but I never replied to him. One day I gave up and answered him. I sat there and spoke with my brother, who looked as real to me as he had when he was alive. I’d missed him. I’d missed talking to him, and hearing him laugh. We watched rugby matches, he sat in the kitchen while I cooked. The only thing he couldn’t do was taste the food I made.”
“There are people in my life I would give anything to have a chat with one last time.”
“After that I believed—and I went in search of more ghosts.”
“More ghosts?”
“If my brother was still here, I knew there had to be others. We—Jacques and I—went into the Paris catacombs.”
Melissa’s eyes widened. “If I believed in ghosts, I don’t think I would ever go someplace like that.”
“It was not a good idea,” Tristan admitted.
“I told you so.” Jacques sounded smug.
“You saw other ghosts?” Melissa was peering at him with interest.
“I saw nothing but ghosts. It was like walking in thick fog. The tunnels are packed with them. They weren’t real-looking, like Jacques was. They were gray and white, some with faces, other with heads but no features.”
“What did you do?”
“The first time? I ran. It was the most frightening thing I’d ever seen. After that, I saw them everywhere.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was.”
“Tell her what you did. Tell her why you can’t go back to Paris.”
“She already thinks I’m mad.”
“I don’t think you mad.”
“Perhaps you will.” Tristan picked up the plates. “Let’s go to the kitchen, we need to wash these.”
Melissa sat on the counter as he rinsed the chocolate from their plates. Tristan kept his back to her, not wanting to see her face as he told this part of the story.
“My brother was with me all the time, but no one else could see him. I’d forget and talk to him, as I’ve been doing now. I lost my job because of it, and then I couldn’t sleep. For months I couldn’t sleep. I was tired of having people look at me as if I were insane when I spoke to him. Jacques was right there, why didn’t everyone else see him? I decided that everything would be okay if Jacques would just come back.”
“Come back...from the dead?”
“Oui.”
“That’s…”
“That’s impossible, yes. But I thought that maybe I could do something no one else ever had.”
“Tristan, did you actually try and reanimate his body?”
“Jacques was cremated. I couldn’t do that.” He dried his hands, then rubbed his head. “I went to the library. I read old books looking for what I needed. After a month I had come up with it—the recipe that would bring him back.”
“You developed a…ceremony? A spell?”
“Both. With pieces from every culture, bits of things that made sense to me.”
“Oh.”
“I went in the catacombs with my ingredients. For two days I sat there and tried to bring my brother back. Jacques begged me to stop, but I thought he was just scared. I wouldn’t, couldn’t stop.”
“What happened?”
“The police found me. Some kids had snuck in, hoping for adventure. Instead they found me, out of my mind and chanting and screaming. I was taken to a hospital. They drugged me until I barely knew my name. I lay there, thinking it was over, and Jacques walked up and sat on my bed.”
“You poor thing.”
“I didn’t tell them I could still see him. The hospital doctors decided I was mad with grief and let me go. Too many people in Paris knew what had happened. I couldn’t get a job in a good restaurant. I ended up working at a cafe for tourists, making sandwiches and cheap crepes.”
“And through all this you could still see Jacques?”
“Yes. I learned not to talk to him when other people were around.”
“Tristan, this is really intense. I know you said you saw a psychologist, but maybe there’s someone else you could see.”
“It is not in my mind. Jacques is real. I know how it sounds. I know I seem crazy, but I am not. I don’t expect you to believe me, but that does not make it any less true.”
There was silence, then Melissa said, “Okay. I won’t mention it again.”
“Thank you.”
Tristan wiped down the counters and then put everything away. It was late and he had to be up early. The intimacy that had developed between them earlier was gone, washed away by his story. Whatever was between them was buried under her unspoken yet clear belief that he was suffering from a mental illness or defect that made him think his dead brother was hanging around as a ghost.
“I’m sorry, mon frère. It will be all right in the end.”
“I will walk you to your room,” Tristan said, ignoring his bother’s words.
“You don’t have to. I know the way.”
“Fine.” He knew he should escort her, but right now he wanted to be alone.
“I’ll see you in the morning?” she asked.
“I will be in my kitchen, as I always am.”
“Okay. Hopefully Sorcha will have some answers from Seamus.”
“Yes.”
Tristan waited for her to exit out the doors that connected to the restaurant before he bent over and rested his head on the counter. He hated that she pitied him. Hated that she would never look at him the same way again.
And most of all he hated the niggling suspicion that she was right, and there was something terribly wrong with him.
Chapter Eight
“You’re leaving?”
Tristan shoved his hands into his hair as he watched Sorcha giving instructions to the staffer at the front desk. She had a bag over her shoulder and a suitcase sat by Séan’s feet.
Séan crossed his arms. “We’re not leaving. I want to, but Sorcha won’t abandon this sinking ship.”
“You can’t leave. We don’t know what’s going on.”
“That’s why I’m taking her to my house. And when she comes to work, I’ll be here with her.”
“Merde.” Tristan shut his eyes and dropped his arms.
Elizabeth still hadn’t appeared. After their missing general manager, Sorcha was the person responsible for day-to-day hotel functions. She lived in a cottage on the grounds and handled all the problems and crises. With her off-site—and Elizabeth nonexistent—Glenncailty was in very real trouble of falling apart.
“What about Seamus?” Tristan asked. “What did he say? Did he know about Elizabeth?”
“We couldn’t find him.”
“What?”
“We checked his house and every room in the castle. We even called hotels in Trim and Navan to see if he’d gone there.”
“Do you think… Is Seamus a ghost too?” Tristan was starting to feel as crazy as Melissa thought he was.
“Maybe, but the scientist could see him, couldn’t she?”
“Yes, Melissa could see him. I still don’t understand how none of us knew about Elizabeth.”
Séan shook his head. “This place is dangerous.”
“I’m starting to agree.”
“Did you talk to Melissa, ask her why she couldn’t see Elizabeth?”
“She doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
“That’s it? She doesn’t believe? But there must be other people who’ve come to Glenncailty and met Elizabeth who don’t believe.”
“I think she’s…she’s different. She’s protected.”
Séan had been watching Sorcha as she bustled around the registration desk. His gaze snapped to Tristan.
“And what’s that, then, ‘protected’?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Tristan, if there’s something I can do to protect Sorcha, you have to be telling me.” Séan’s already thick accent was nearly incomprehensible as emotion colored his words.
“If I knew more I would tell you, my friend.”
“You never explained to me how you knew so much about what was going on in that godforsaken room.”
“I assume it’s his dead brother’s ghost.” Melissa, wearing a disposable white jumpsuit, walked up. She pushed a set of clear goggles up onto her head and unzipped the front of the suit, peeling it off to the waist and tying the sleeves around herself.
“Brother?” Séan looked between Tristan and Melissa.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed he knew.” Melissa looked Séan up and down.
“Non. I had not told him.” Tristan couldn’t even work up the energy to be angry.
“I’m sorry, Tristan. But I think he will believe you.”
“The way you still don’t?”
“I believe these things are real for you.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Séan peered at Melissa as if he wasn’t entirely sure she was real. “After what you saw yesterday?”
“That’s just it. I didn’t see anything.”
“You know we saw it.”
“I know you all think you saw something.”
Séan made a sound that was suspiciously like a growl. “I’m damned tired of people refusing to believe this place is dangerous.”
“Oh no, I think it’s dangerous. Something here is creating the conditions that allow for the sort of mass delusion that you’re all experiencing.”
“Mass delusion?” Sorcha walked up to their little group. “We need to move this conversation out of the foyer. We don’t want the guests overhearing.”
“You need to close the hotel, Sorcha.” Séan took the bag from her shoulder as they walked.
“I can’t do that without Seamus’ okay. I took the website offline so no one can register, and I’ve instructed the front desk staff to tell anyone who calls that we’re full. I can blame the website on a technical glitch.”
“I’ve told you before that this place is dangerous.”
“Séan, I know.” Sorcha ushered them into the sunlight-filled morning room under the stairs. It was staged like a drawing room with multiple seating arrangements. Primarily used for private events, it was usually closed, though when the hotel was full they opened it up in the afternoon and served tea. “I believe you, my love, but I’ve been thinking about it. Let’s say we cancel all the reservations and send the staff away. What will happen?”
“I’ll help everyone find jobs,” Séan said, rubbing Sorcha’s arm.
Sorcha shook her head, and Tristan realized the guest relations manager had been thinking the same thing he had.
“All we do if we close the hotel is lock the problem away,” Tristan said, picking up the thread Sorcha had started weaving.
“How is that a bad thing?” Séan asked.
“If Glenncailty hadn’t opened as a hotel, if you, Séan, hadn’t been possessed, would we have even looked in that room? Those souls would have been trapped forever. There is a feeling here, a feeling of…finality,” Tristan said. “As if we have to see this through.”
“Exactly.” Sorcha sighed in relief. “Thank you, Tristan. That’s what I’m feeling too. Whatever’s happening here needs to be dealt with, now.”
Séan crossed his arms, his jaw clenched. “I have no liking for this, but I also don’t want my great-grandchildren traipsing around this godforsaken building a hundred years from now after I’m dead and everyone has forgotten what we’ve locked inside.”
Sorcha flushed at the mention of great-grandchildren but nodded in agreement.
“If I may sum up?” Melissa had been watching and listening.
Tristan tried not to be offended by the fact that she treated them like subjects to be studied.
“Despite what, from all appearances, was a traumatic experience in the nursery, compounded by the apparent dissolution of your general manager during my presentation, you all are agreeing to remain here and continue your respective jobs, in order to fight and/or resolve the paranormal issues you perceive.”
Sorcha smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can understand how that might seem strange to you, Dr. Heavey, but yes, that is essentially correct. If you’ve completed the work with the bones, then I don’t believe your services are needed anymore.”
That was the politest “fuck off” Tristan had ever heard. Séan looked impressed. Tristan was a little impressed too, though he had to suppress an urge to jump to Melissa’s defense. The best thing for all of them would be for Melissa to leave. Having her there doubting everything that was happening wasn’t helpful.
But he didn’t want her to go.
Melissa tipped her head to the side. “It’s impressive that you’re able to maintain that facial expression while angry.”
Tristan snorted, pressing his fist over his mouth to cover the laugh.
Melissa crossed her arms over her waist, and Tristan noticed that she cradled her left arm with her right. “First of all, it’s clear that there’s something wrong here. We just disagree as to the source of these problems. I have a rule that I do not run away from difficult situations, whatever the cause. Second, there’s the matter of the desecrated graveyard.”
“What?” Sorcha asked.
“I didn’t get a chance to talk about it in my presentation. There’s a graveyard next to the church behind the garden wall.”
“There shouldn’t be,” Séan said. “That would have been a Church of Ireland church, or maybe even Anglican. From what I always heard, the English who died here took their dead back to England rather than be buried in Ireland.”
“I assure you there are graves there. A lost graveyard isn’t exactly notable, but I suspect that it wasn’t accidentally lost. It looks like at least one of the gravestones was purposefully knocked down and defaced.”
“That might explain what happened to Caera,” Sorcha said.
“Who’s that?” Melissa asked.
“Our special events manager. She had a ghost encounter that…well, it almost killed her. She was near the back wall when it happened, and she said that it was the ghost of a girl who hanged herself in the church.”
“We saw something out there,” Tristan said. He caught sight of Melissa’s exasperated expression and bit down on his anger. “I mean, I saw something.”
“What?” Sorcha asked.
“Darkness. Just darkness.”
Sorcha leaned into Séan, who wrapped one arm around her. “I don’t think we can deal with anything else right now,” Sorcha said. “Melissa, the graveyard will have to wait.”
“I’m sorry, but it can’t. I already called the National Museum.”
“Why?”
“Depending on the age of the graves this may be of major historical significance. I also told them about the bones and what we were able to piece together. The museum was very interested. The historical records don’t mention anything going on in this region during the times we’re talking about, and records will have to be updated to reflect what we’ve learned. Because of that, the museum has arranged for a preliminary excavation.”
Tristan blew out a breath and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Merde.”
“What?” Melissa asked.
“The last thing we need are more people here digging around and poking at bones,” Séan growled.
“Well, the National Museum doesn’t exactly have the resources to send someone out here right now. They asked a well-respected professor from Trinity to do the preliminary work and report back. They’ll send an archaeological team if needed.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving?” Tristan asked, at the sam
e time Séan said, “Who is the professor?”
Melissa met Tristan’s gaze and said, “Me.”
“You’re a professor at Trinity too?” Tristan put his boot on the lip of the shovel and pushed it into the topsoil.
“I hold appointments with several universities.” Melissa stood on a ladder just outside the string boundary of the excavation area. “I was actually thinking about staying in Dublin for a bit, once I was healed.”
“You like Ireland?”
“I do. I spent most summers here when I was growing up, then three years at UCD.”
“You sound English.” Séan dumped a shovelful of soil into a marked bucket.
“Well, I am. My father still has his Irish accent, but I spent very little time with children my age when in Ireland. People assume that vocal inflection and speech patterns, commonly referred to as an accent, comes from the parents. That’s incorrect. It actually comes from peers.”
“C’est vrai?” Tristan took his bandana from his pocket and tied it around his forehead. The air was cool, but with the sun beating down he was sweating. “Interesting.”
Melissa didn’t respond. He looked up and caught her staring at him, her tongue between her teeth. Tristan drove the shovel deep into the soil, making sure his back and shoulders flexed. His sweaty T-shirt was sticking to him, and it seemed that Melissa was enjoying the show.
“Did you…ah, say something?”
“Just that you know interesting things.”
“Jaysus.” Séan was resting one arm on the shovel, looking between them and shaking his head.
“Problem?” Tristan asked.
“I have better things to be doing today then digging holes and watching you flirt.”
“You’re one to talk.” Tristan raised one brow. “I had to watch you pining for Sorcha for years.”
“I wasn’t…it was…feck off.”
Tristan laughed, then went back to clearing topsoil from one of the square areas Melissa had marked off. It was Monday, and the restaurant was closed. He’d spent the morning in the kitchen making sure they were set up to handle the pub menu, and also that the catering order for a small luncheon the next day was prepped. Once that was done, he’d come out to serve as a laborer in Melissa’s excavation.
