The Awakening

by Amanda Stevens

  “Because of his engagement or because of his involvement with the Congé?”

  His hand fluttered nervously. “Both.”

  “Actually, that’s one of the reasons I’m here. The last time we spoke, you said you’d dropped your inquiries into the Congé. I hope that’s true. I think it’s imperative that we both keep a low profile.”

  “Yes, I think it is for the best,” he agreed. “But has something happened since our last meeting? You sounded upset when you called earlier.”

  I hesitated as I watched him closely. “I’m a little on edge,” I admitted. “I’ve had some strange experiences lately, but before I get into all that, I’d like to talk to you about another matter. I’ve found out something about the restoration that has me puzzled.”

  He waited silently.

  “Claire Bellefontaine told me that you gave the board a glowing recommendation on my behalf. But if you knew about her position with the Woodbine Cemetery Trust, why would you even put forth my name? Did you not consider that her involvement might make things tricky for me?”

  “Yes, of course, I considered it. But I was under the impression their minds were already made up. Perhaps I’m a bit too cautious these days, but I wondered if seeking my approval was some sort of test. I’ve never been hesitant to voice my opinion to that board or any other body that asks for my advice. Nor have I ever made any bones about my admiration for your work. When I was specifically asked to give a recommendation, I thought withholding my endorsement might seem suspicious. If that makes me paranoid, so be it.”

  I wasn’t certain I completely bought his explanation, but what other reason could he have for wanting me in that cemetery? “I’d also like to talk to you about the house on Rutledge Avenue. My house.”

  “What about it?” His expression remained that of gentle concern, not at all the countenance of a man who had secrets.

  “John told me that you own the property. Is it true?”

  “Technically, the Institute owns the property,” he said. “We once investigated a disturbance at that address. There were reports of strange noises and sightings from the downstairs tenant. The cause turned out to be benign—the house is built on hallowed ground, after all—but the owner was so spooked, he offered to sell the place to the Institute. It seemed a good investment. We were often in need of accommodations for staff and visiting investigators. When I met you, I knew the place would be perfect for someone with your gift.”

  “But you didn’t know about my gift then. I never really talked to you about the ghosts until we were at Kroll Cemetery last year.”

  “Yes, but think about our previous discussions. You came to me with hypothetical situations involving shadow creatures, thought forms and any number of supernatural beings. I tried to provide rational explanations because that’s what you seemed to need. But from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you had a unique sensitivity to the unseen world. I just didn’t know to what extent.”

  “I still don’t understand why you withheld information about the house. Why all the subterfuge?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you away. You seemed so determined to protect your secret, and the hallowed ground beneath the house was the only way I knew to keep you safe. And it has served you well, has it not?”

  “For the most part.”

  “We had an instant bond, you and I, and over the years, I’ve come to care for you a great deal. In many ways, you’ve become a surrogate daughter to me. But I would be lying if I said my actions were completely unselfish. I wanted to keep you close. A person in my line of work rarely—if ever—comes across someone with your abilities. But there was never a nefarious purpose in hiding the ownership of that house. I hope you can accept that.”

  I nodded, but in truth, I was disquieted by all these revelations. For so long, Dr. Shaw had been the one person I thought I could count on and now the very foundation of our relationship had been shaken. “And then there’s the list,” I said.

  He frowned. “The list?”

  “The Congé membership. You made a point of telling me about the prominence of the Devlin name on that list, but John implied that your name might also be there.”

  He looked dumbfounded. “John told you that I’m a member of the Congé?”

  “He said your family goes all the way back to the founding of Charleston just like the Devlin family. He said it is just as likely that your name would be on that list as his. He even implied that you might be trying to drive a wedge between us because of a grudge you held against his grandfather. Is it true that Jonathan Devlin was behind your dismissal from Emerson?”

  “He was responsible for a good deal more than my dismissal.” The edge in Dr. Shaw’s voice drew a shiver. “He convinced my son to pursue Mariama Goodwine. He tried to use Ethan to drive her away from John. I don’t blame Jonathan Devlin for my son’s ultimate demise, but I do fault him for preying on Ethan’s weaknesses and obsessions.” He turned to stare out the window for the longest moment before he said, “I’ve never thought John was anything like his grandfather, but the timing of his revelations is interesting, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did he speak to you about all this? How long before his grandfather’s passing?”

  “The night before.”

  “Has it not occurred to you that he might have a reason for raising doubts about me? For creating a viable suspect for his grandfather’s murder?”

  I stared at him in shock. “You can’t think he had anything to do with his grandfather’s death.”

  “I don’t. But see how easy it is to plant suspicion? Doubt can become insidious because in the backs of our minds we know that seemingly good people commit murder every day. Something snaps and you become a different person.”

  Devlin had said much the same thing, but I didn’t want to believe that anyone I cared about could be capable of murder. It was far easier to pin the blame on people like Claire Bellefontaine and Rance Duvall. Far preferable to search for monsters beyond our own front door.

  Dr. Shaw regarded me across his desk. “Have I answered all your questions?”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry if I upset you. But I knew that I wouldn’t rest until we cleared the air.”

  “I’m glad to have it all out in the open,” he said. “It would distress me to think that any bad feelings festered between us, especially now.”

  “Why especially now?”

  His gaze faltered before he glanced away. “Death always makes one appreciate those close to us.”

  “Yes, that’s true. And that’s the reason I’m here. I’ve come to talk to you about death. You told me the other day that a corpse bird needn’t be interpreted literally. It might not mean that someone is going to die. But I’ve seen more signs. Starlings literally falling from the sky. Dr. Shaw...” I leaned forward in my chair as I gripped the armrests. “I’m very much afraid someone close to me is about to die.”

  He frowned. “Someone has already passed.”

  “I don’t think the signs were warning me about Jonathan Devlin. We weren’t close. I barely knew him. And it’s more than signs. The caretaker told me when someone is about to die, a door opens to allow the soul to pass through. If the door opens too soon or the person lingers too long, bad things can come through. I’ve seen them. Strange beings perched on roofs and hanging from trees. And for the past two nights, someone—something—has knocked on my front door in the middle of the night. When I look through the peephole or out the window, nothing is there. I think it’s another sign or another warning. Something is trying to find its way through that doorway. Something is coming for me.”

  “What do you think is coming for you?”

  “Do you remember our conversation last year before I left for Kroll Cemetery? I told you about the circumstances of my birth a
nd about the evil that my grandmother sensed as she brought me back from the other side. I thought as long as I stayed away from Asher Falls, I would be safe. Evil couldn’t touch me here. But now it senses a weakness in me and it’s seeking a way into my world. It’s searching for that doorway. The longer the door stays open, the greater the danger.”

  Dr. Shaw steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he watched me worriedly. “If the door has opened because someone is about to die, then theoretically it would close again as soon as the soul passes through.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “It’s an interesting concept,” he said. “And one that has long held my interest. I’ve done a lot of research into terminal illnesses.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “My wife lingered for years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He waved aside my condolences. “She’s been at peace for a very long time. That’s how I wish to think of her. But this doorway—”

  “Dr. Shaw,” I said in alarm.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “Your nose is bleeding. Are you okay? Here, let me help you.”

  I rose quickly and went to his side. I handed him a tissue and he held it to his nose as he leaned his head against the back of his chair.

  “Are you all right?” I asked again.

  “It’s no cause for alarm,” he said. “Just a simple nosebleed. A rather messy one, though. Excuse me for a moment while I go clean up.”

  “Of course, but should I leave and let you rest?”

  “No, stay,” he said. “I want to think more about this doorway and how to go about closing it for you.”

  “I don’t think it will close until someone near to me passes.”

  “Perhaps that’s the answer,” he murmured.

  But I barely heard him. My gaze had lit on an envelope on his desk. I recognized the MUSC Medical Center logo from my mother’s stay there. But what caught my attention now was the blood.

  Three pristine drops in the exact formation as the drops I’d seen on Jonathan Devlin’s desk.

  Thirty

  I didn’t see or hear from Devlin for the next few days, nor did I contact him. I took his advice—the same advice I’d given to Dr. Shaw—and tried to keep a low profile. I worked all week in the cemetery and kept my head down. But every day before twilight, I visited the stone crib in the willow copse. I would sit quietly in the grass and wait for another sign or manifestation to help guide me in my investigation. I had expanded my database search to include the surrounding counties, but I’d yet to turn up any record that matched the birth and death dates on the crib. And I still couldn’t connect the ghost girl—a ten-year-old murder victim—to the buried infant. My best guess was still a sisterly bond, but how were they connected to my mother and aunt? To me?

  The ghost didn’t try to make contact with me again, either, although I almost always sensed her presence inside that copse. Sometimes I would see her diaphanous form in the enchanted garden, drifting among the seashell headstones or sitting on the ground with her legs pulled up, hugging her knees. The aura of loneliness that radiated from her manifestation tore at me. I knew that loneliness. I knew what it was like to feel lost and forsaken. It seemed to me that she was starting to fade. Had she given up hope of ever being found? Of ever having justice?

  “Show me a sign,” I murmured. “Tell me where I should look.”

  Nothing came to me. No fluttering wings or whispering leaves. Other than the child’s ghostly form, I didn’t see or sense anything out of the ordinary in Woodbine Cemetery. Maybe Jonathan Devlin’s death really had closed a door.

  One day, visitors came to the cemetery. I had finished photographing and logging all the headstones and graves and had just begun hauling off trash and clearing the overgrowth along the fence line. The extra help that I’d hired had already gone home for the day and I was alone once more in the willow copse. I heard voices nearby, but I didn’t rush from my hiding place to investigate. Instead, I found a place where I could peer cautiously through the leaves without being seen.

  Claire Bellefontaine and Rance Duvall were walking among the headstones, talking in low tones, but their voices carried in the quiet. They appeared to be looking for something. Or someone. I remembered everything Devlin had told me about them. The rumors that had swirled for years about Duvall Island, the girl who had come forward with accusations and then later disappeared. The mysterious circumstances that had claimed Claire’s first husband. I’d sensed darkness in each of them, but I’d had no idea the extent of their evil. I shivered now as I watched them move toward me.

  A hand fell on my shoulder and I jumped but didn’t make a sound. I turned to find Prosper Lamb lurking in the shadows behind me. He put a finger to his lips and we both turned to watch the pair in silence.

  Once Claire and Rance were out of earshot, Prosper Lamb said ominously, “You best get going before they double back.”

  “What makes you think they’re looking for me?” I asked, my gaze moving again to the scar at his neck and then to the one on his hand. Our recent interaction had only deepened my suspicions about the caretaker. He was more than he seemed. Like me, he had a connection to the other side, but I still didn’t know if he was friend or foe.

  “They’re bad people,” he said, echoing Devlin’s sentiments.

  “How do you know?”

  He moved around me so that he could keep watch while we talked. “They offered me money to keep an eye on you.”

  “They wanted you to spy on me? Why?”

  “You would know their motive better than me,” he said.

  I frowned. “Did you take their money?”

  “I know enough not to bargain with the devil,” he said sagely.

  I shivered at the look in his eyes. I turned back to search the graveyard. I couldn’t see or hear Claire and her stepbrother, but I knew they were still out there. Why they’d come I could only imagine. Surely, they wouldn’t attempt to harm me until Claire had what she wanted—the Devlin name. But they could certainly try to intimidate me and they could send Devlin a powerful warning about double-crossing them.

  I wondered where they’d been on the evening of Jonathan Devlin’s murder. And I wondered if they knew that Devlin had spent the waning hours of that tragic night in my arms.

  “I can show you a secret way out of the cemetery,” Prosper Lamb said behind me.

  I turned. “I know about the side gate.”

  “Not the side gate. An opening in the fence no one else knows about.” He motioned for me to follow. I hesitated as I had in his yard that one evening. Then I took off after him.

  We left the cover of the copse as the sun sank beneath the horizon. We had enough light to guide us through the headstones, but the deep shade along the fencerow gave us cover. I felt like a shadow being, slinking through the gloom. We slithered through a hole in the fence and I found myself on a footpath that tunneled through the overgrowth on the other side.

  The last of the light shimmering down through the canopy cast a strange glow in the thicket. A mild breeze stirred tendrils of ivy and morning glory and I could smell the fecund perfume of damp earth and rotting leaves. I swatted a mosquito that had vectored in on my neck. There was something strange and otherworldly about the place. I stopped and called softly to the caretaker.

  “Where are we? I’ve lost my sense of direction.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I know the way out.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  He stopped and faced me. “We’re headed toward the front of the cemetery. That’s where you left your vehicle, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I need to know something before we continue. Why are you helping me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I help you?”

  “After our last meeti
ng, you didn’t want anything to do with me. In fact, you ordered me off your premises. What changed?”

  His eyes were shuttered. “Nothing’s changed. I still don’t want you at my house. It’s nothing to do with you personally. It’s what you are. It’s what you bring.”

  That sounded pretty personal to me. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been in war,” he said. “I know what comes through that door when a life lingers too long. You’ve got something inside you that draws them. Maybe I do, too. I spent some time in a psych ward because of what I saw over there. I learned not to talk about it much. But you...” He trailed away, glancing over his shoulder as if to make certain no otherworldly creature had crept out of the underbrush to observe us. “You’re different from me. It’s like you’re one of them somehow.”

  I felt a chill go through me at his words. “A living ghost,” I whispered.

  He nodded. “Maybe that’s why they’re here. Maybe they’ve come to take you back.”

  * * *

  My conversation with Prosper Lamb haunted me all the way home. I’d managed to elude Claire Bellefontaine and Rance Duvall, but I couldn’t outrun my fears. Even Angus couldn’t soothe me, though he tried his best.

  I sat on the back steps and watched him mosey through the garden. He didn’t stray far. He kept coming back to my side, nuzzling my hand and pressing his snout against my knee as if to reassure me that all would be well. But he was upset, too. I could tell his senses were on high alert. Maybe he was picking up on my negative vibes or maybe he knew those things were out there in the dark, hiding among the shadows. Maybe he knew they were coming for me. Whatever the reason for his agitation, we cut short our evening constitution and hunkered down behind locked doors for the night.

  I worked in my office for a while and then tried to watch a television program that I enjoyed. My mind kept wandering and I lost track of the plot. Clicking off the set, I turned in early, but I didn’t sleep. I waited.

  Just after midnight, the knocking sounded at my front door. As usual, Angus rose to investigate, but I pulled the covers over my ears and pretended to sleep.