Talitha

by Rachael Rawlings

  They finally retired upstairs, Claire going across the ballroom and taking the stairs at the far end of the hall to avoid the main staircase. If she had to go out of her way to avoid the resident ghosts, she would. Neither of her companions commented on it, and she hadn't honestly expected them to.

  She took a late-night shower in her bathroom, dressed in her nightclothes, and settled down in bed with a book. The history text about the house mocked her from its place on the desk, but she wasn't about to begin that project now. The last thing she needed now was to find names to fit the ghosts in her dreams.

  She didn't know what woke her, perhaps just the draft of cold air coming from the French doors that stood slightly ajar. As she sat up, she became aware of a visitor.

  Oh, God, but it was not her bird, not her little dove.

  A woman hovered at the foot of her bed, pale as the moonlight, her figure wavering like a candle softly blown by a draft. She appeared unnaturally still, with features blurred like a character from an old black and white movie. Her dress was plain and dark, falling in stiff folds to sweep the floor. Colors were indistinguishable in the pale light, but she seemed young with unlined translucent skin and delicate light-colored curls escaping a modest cap to frame her face. She seemed completely unaware of Claire as she walked quickly to the wardrobe and pulling up a ghostly chair, as faded and transparent as she, stood upon the seat and deposited something on top of the big piece of furniture. She climbed back down and slowly turned in Claire's direction, her gaze seeming to light upon Claire's frozen face. But under the loose cap, her eyes were blank, and Claire felt only intense relief turned away from the bed again and moved toward the door to the hallway. In the moonlight, her figure seemed to flicker and then fade like a dissipating puff of smoke leaving nothing in her wake.

  Claire lay back down against her pillow, eyes wide, concentrating on breathing. She waited in complete stillness for any other visitors as her mind raced about what she had just witnessed. A ghost. She had seen a ghost.

  She deliberately tried to replay the little scene in her mind, tracing the path the specter had taken as she had moved about the room. This was not the owner of the room; she felt sure of that. Her dress had been too plain to have been anything but a servant on the estate. Doubtless, her rooms would have been on one of the floors above, far smaller than these chambers. But she had known her way around and had come for a definite reason. She had carried something. Something she had placed on the top of the wardrobe many years ago, and she wanted Claire to know that.

  The idea that the apparition had come to essentially communicate with her was shocking, but then again, perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Long ago, she had seen these spirits, had talked with them, had lived with them. It was only with disbelief and fear of being ridiculed Claire had forced them to fade with time. Like fairies, it seemed when she had ceased acknowledging them, they had fallen away.

  But had they gone away? And who had been the fool? She had gone along with her family, her doctors, her psychologist, and buried away the spirits with facts and realities. And when the crack in her reality had broken, that night at the abandoned house, she had cracked with it and it had taken months to put her back together again.

  She shook her head and looked ruefully around the room. Reality had definitely taken a turn to the weird side. And she didn’t even feel afraid this time. When it seemed apparent no other apparitions were going to show themselves, she rose and turned on the small bedside light. Another mystery to solve, on top of all the other mysterious happenings. She couldn't say it would surprise her to know there was more than one spirit inhabiting the house. It was large enough to contain a whole legion of them, and the atmosphere was gloomy enough to make any of them feel at home.

  But to have one visit her room made her nervous. She had grown used to the sensation of being watched, and the message on the mirror hadn't been too disturbing, at least upon retrospect. But to see them moving around in the room was disconcerting. Her little guardian Leta was one thing, an earthly being, but this was something completely different, not of this time or place.

  She stood and went to the French doors, closing them with a little too much force and pulling the curtains closed. She hadn’t opened them. She knew for sure of that. So who had? She double checked the door to the hallway, glanced back at the French doors to see if they remained securely locked, and then tugged at the doors of the massive wardrobe. Nothing but her clothes, including the pitiful black skirt and white blouse she reserved for funerals. No other entrances, no visible means of access besides what she could see clearly in front of her.

  Rubbing her eyes, she slipped back in bed. She propped herself up with some of her extra pillows and opened a book in her lap, deliberately leaving all the lights burning. Sleep was not going to come visiting, she was afraid, but she feared more what else might show up in the night. Even though she remained attentive, she heard nothing more in the night, not even the flutter of wings. She sat in silent vigilance and didn’t nod off until the sun was streaking the sky with slices of color.

  When Claire heard movements, she swung her legs over the edge of her bed. She blinked her tired eyes and wiped her face with her chilled hands. Forcing herself to wake up, she dressed quickly, choosing fitted blue jeans faded to a soft gray/blue and a light weight purple sweater that fell down below her hips. She yanked a brush through her silky hair and braided it in a long rope down her back. When she was finished, she immediately took her heavy chair from in front of the fireplace and dragged it next to the wardrobe. Gripping the side of the piece for support, she reached up and ran her fingers along the top. The dust had accumulated into a thick felt that crumpled as she dragged her fingers along it. She wasn't surprised when she felt the hard object beneath the dust and picked it up gingerly.

  "A key,” she said softly, holding it up to the light. It was large, big enough to fit any one of the doors in the house, with an ornately carved top. The metal was blackened, tarnished from years of disuse.

  Someone wanted her to have this key and had gone to quite a bit of trouble to point it out to her.

  Stuffing it awkwardly in her pocket, she headed downstairs, going the long way to avoid the main staircase and foyer.

  When she got to the kitchen she discovered Noel had already left for class. The note she had placed on the table, weighted down with the salt shaker was brief, something about being back as soon as she could, and warning Claire to be very careful. No workers were inside, no staff buzzing around, no Cole Edwards shadowing her, so she ate a solitary breakfast. She decided to spend the rest of the morning cleaning up all the bathrooms before sitting down to read the book about the house. Although the library would have been the more suitable place to settle in with a book, she instead chose a kitchen chair with all the harsh lights of modern day. After a few minutes, she retrieved a spare notebook from the little table next to the telephone and hunted for a pen. Taking notes was something school had drilled into her, but she knew that with all the recent events, she was likely to get some of the names and dates confused she had found in the little book. Almost two hours later, she marked her page with scrap of paper and jogged upstairs.

  She was surprised when she reached her room to find it slightly rearranged. The crystal cap had been taken off the top of her perfume bottle, and the subtle floral scent greeted her at the doorway. Her powder was also opened and a light layer of it dusted the top of the dresser where it sat. One of her lipsticks was uncapped and a nail polish lay toppled on its side.

  But most noticeable was the bed which had been neatly made. Lying atop the spread was an old church dress taken from the wardrobe, the pale-yellow chiffon skirt spread out against the cover. It was something she rarely wore; finding dresses uncomfortable and impractical. But there was just a glimmer of the girl she had once been who had ached for a princess dress and a prince charming to go with it, and so she had kept it. The ultra-feminine concoction was the result of this impulse buy, and no on
e was more surprised to see it out off its hanger than her.

  She paused in the doorway, fingers tapping on the doorframe. Who would have done this? True, the house was now alive with workers and had been for the last two hours, but most of them were strangers to her. The majority of them had returned to the third floor in the afternoon to work on the bedrooms now that the second floor was completed. But all of them were men who would not have shown the slightest interest in her belongings.

  On the other hand, just that night a possible ladies’ maid had been prowling around her room. Had the specter returned in the light of day to get a better look at the occupant? Or had she simply resumed her duties in the room she had once cared for? Claire had seen other ghostly effects at times in her life. Chairs rocking, doors closed, locks turned, and objects moved about. Had she inherited a ghostly caretaker who would continue to care for this particular room even years after death?

  She shook her head briskly and rehung the dress. As shocking a sight as it was, she found she was becoming somewhat immune to some of the occurrences in the house. She found she was slipping easily into her old role she held as a child. She was the sensitive one. The one whose imagination had run away with her, causing her to live on an edge between this world and the one beyond. The difference was, now she knew a little more about that world and she wasn't so sure she was ready for it anymore.

  Slowly she went around the room, picking up mislaid objects and putting away her cosmetics. Her clothes she had thrown on the floor that morning she found in her wardrobe, neatly folded. She pulled them back out and dropped them into the laundry hamper in the bathroom. That completed, she ran downstairs to drag up her cleaning supplies that had come to feel almost like an extension of her arm. She carefully dusted the furniture and cleaned the glass on the windows, doors, and mirrors. She took an extra few minutes to climb on the chair and check the tops of the wardrobe, bookcase, and ledges over the doorway. Nothing but dust. Next, she dust mopped the floor and finished up by cleaning stray cobwebs from the ceiling. Her chore completed; she sat down at her desk with the book and began reading, not stopping until she heard Noel return from her classes.

  "So, what did you find out?" Noel asked, gesturing to the book as she sat on Claire's bed.

  "A lot. This thing goes into detail about how the house was built, at least from Cole's family’s perspective. But it doesn't mention anything about the former owners or what happened to them."

  "Have you talked to Cole?"

  "No. I know," she held up her hand to stop Noel's complaints. "I will talk to him tonight, but I just haven't had the time."

  "The time?" Noel said incredulously. "Claire, this place may be hazardous to your health, or your sanity, and you're saying you couldn't fit it in your schedule?"

  Claire sighed, irritated by her own cowardice. "I know. And I have a feeling it won't be a huge surprise for Cole either. But things just seem to be happening so fast..."

  Noel got up and sat next to Claire on the footstool. She looked seriously at her friend, noting the tired eyes and small creases between her brows.

  "We should move. You know we should. It can't be good for someone as sensitive as you to be living in a place like this. I talked to Ben and he said anytime..."

  Claire held up her hand, her chin raising an inch.

  "Now wait. It's only a week and a few days until Thanksgiving break, and I'm going home for that. It should give us some time to cool down. By then maybe we can find an alternative place to stay. We could still come here and clean and just sleep elsewhere."

  "Do you hear what you're saying? You want to keep coming here even after everything that's happened? Look at you. You were pushed down the stairs, you passed out from one ghost, and I hate to remind you, but John DIED here. I think you should run away from here as fast as you can and never look back!"

  "No!"

  "But, Claire?"

  "No. Look. I've lived with this, this thing for a long time.” Claire’s hands were making unconscious gestures like flattening her doubts with a push. “And now for the first time, I’m really accepting that I’m not crazy.” Claire’s voice was intense, strained with emotion. “I have to get over it, or figure out how to deal with it. I’m not running away because I hear things, or see things. I have to learn to live with this, and now is as good a time as any to figure out how."

  Noel sighed and looked down at her hands, tensely clasped in her lap. “Okay, so I can understand that you don’t want to just run away. And I know you won’t give up. It’s not in your nature to do that. But have you said anything to your parents?"

  "No,” Claire hesitated. "I stopped telling them about all of this a long time ago. I certainly don't want to spring it on them now. They're trying to put their lives back in order, and I won’t mess that up. You can tell Ben if you want, and I’ll speak to Cole later, I promise.”

  Noel nodded but didn’t look happy.

  After dinner, during which Cole was conspicuously absent, Noel said she would finish the dishes while Claire went looking for him. Noel was being insistent now that the decision to stay was made.

  Claire ran up to her room first, telling herself it was just to straighten her hair. She cautiously opened her door, but found it in perfect order just as she left it. She slowly brushed her hair, pushing it back off her face but letting it fall in a loose sheet down her back. Her jeans were stained from cleaning, so she quickly changed into a better fitting pair and a light grayish green top that complimented her eyes. She hastily checked the mirror a second time and slicked a light pink gloss on her lips. Studying herself in the mirror, she was satisfied she didn't look like a woman who was hallucinating or worse yet, making up some story to destroy a man's dream.

  With one last glance back into her room, she headed down the hall to the far stairway. She hurried through the ballroom, looking neither right nor left, fearing she might be accompanied on the dance floor by ghostly dancers swirling to their own music. The soft tinkling of the piano led her though to the music room. She paused in the doorway, listening intently and frowning in confusion. The sound seemed to be coming from the parlor.

  "What now?" she murmured aloud. She had followed the music on other evenings, tiptoeing into the library and sitting quietly as the unseen player in the music room next door serenaded her. Cole seldom played the calm or comforting, but he always played well. The music was often passionate, sobbing pieces, which varied from classical to blues. She was always impressed by his playing.

  This music was classical but poorly played with halting rhythm and missed notes. As Claire listened, she realized it was also not being played on Cole's piano. Someone else was playing music, and she strongly suspected it wasn’t anyone who still lived.

  Chapter Twelve

  The room sat empty, the piano covered except for heavy clawed feet. But the air hung heavy and the odor, ripe and putrid, greeted Claire so strongly she took a staggered step backwards. She stood a moment longer, knowing instinctively she was not alone. Her eyes skimmed the shrouded furniture and the gaping fireplace. The smell persisted, familiar now, the same as she had smelled the first day she had seen something shadowy in the house. She stiffened her spine, standing stubbornly. They were not going to run her off, not yet. As she watched, the empty air seemed to distort, then ripple. Like smoke from a chimney, a form developed, dark and dense, blocking the pale evening light from the windows. The figure grew and spread, its height reaching well above Claire’s 5’4”, and widened until two separate forms could be detected. Like a whisper of shuffling leaves, a voice seemed to emanate from the walls of the room.

  LET ME GO. LET ME GO.

  The two figures remained twined, wound into each other in an intricate braid.

  Claire felt her heart pound, the fragile bones of her chest vibrating like thin reeds, the beat of her own blood rushing so loudly in her ears it almost managed to drown out the external sounds. Then the whisper rose to a roar and the figures grew, losing all human form a
nd growing into something indecipherable.

  Claire stood transfixed, unable to move or speak, her throat closed tight, painful. The heat of them was there, fighting with the chill of death, freezing her, burning her to the core. Her muscles felt like water, her stomach churning, her eyes burning. She felt the overwhelming fear, the knowledge that they could get her, take her.

  Claire found her voice then, as the stench rose around her and the heat hit her in the face.

  “No.”

  She felt herself grabbed from behind by some very real, very solid arms. Her voice sobbed into nothing as she sagged back, her legs giving away beneath her.

  She was shaking and crying all at once. Never had they touched her, invaded her. She had never felt as though they could harm her, not until she came to the house.

  She knew it was Cole again who had held her, even before he turned her, easing her to the floor as her knees buckled. Her hands clutched at his shirtfront, pressing her wet, stinging face against the smooth material.

  “Easy, easy, you’re all right. I’m here,” he chanted, his hands easing up and down her back.

  She laid against him, giving up, for once, the control she had tried so hard to maintain. She realized gradually that the odor had cleared. Her ears buzzed with the silence.

  He continued to hold her until she pushed away, carelessly wiping her face with her sleeve. He pulled her arm down, his fingers following the curve of her cheek.

  “I think they burned you,” he said softly.

  Her fingers felt like ice as she touched her hot forehead and cheeks. Then she looked at him; really looked closely into his eyes.

  “You saw them. You know.”

  He paused and slowly stood up. He looked into the empty parlor, his hand going warily over his face.