Scratching the back of his head, Alexander shrugged. "Man, you've been sick every other day. Maybe now isn't the time to be trolling for a girlfriend."
"Be straight with me." Bad phrasing. Shit - really crap phrasing. "She free? Or not?"
Chad scoffed - somehow always managing to listen in when I least wanted his opinion. "If you go after her, you're getting a Cheyenne. Only difference - she's a bit quieter, majors in children's lit, and a different coloring. Still demanding, annoying, a know-it-all -"
"A strong woman, you mean?" Cheyenne returned, crossing her arms over her chest.
Her and Chad - always listening. Rolling his eyes, Chad sighed. "Leilani - maybe. You? A hundred percent annoying."
Flipping her hair, Cheyenne sneered, but Leilani asked her something I couldn't hear, and - to Maddix's seeming frustration - Cheyenne returned to her original group.
"Leilani's actually really nice," Tom piped up.
Chad scoffed. "You're only thinking that because you've got cow eyes for Nina."
"Or cause she's actually okay. Cheyenne's not athlete's foot. You aren't contaminated by proximity," Tom retorted, knocking elbows with me. "If you date her, you could be my in."
"That's dumb. And he's not even flirting with her. If you like her so much, maybe you should go up there." Chad shoved me, but I stayed between him and Alexander.
"No chance."
Alexander chuckled. "He's no idiot. Better chances once Cheyenne's distracted."
Chad hummed, glaring a bit more before focusing up ahead where a woman not that much older than us held up a sign for the tour.
"Seven for the tour? Harvard crew, right?" the woman asked with a bright smile. Her purple lips shimmered beneath the streetlamp she had picked as our gathering spot. "I'm Teresa. We'll just wait a bit longer. Got a couple from Germany that should be here soon."
Putting on my smarmiest grin, I left the rest of the group to their small talk. "So - you live in Boston?"
"Yep," our tour guide replied. Her eyebrows rose.
"This your main job?"
Her lips squirmed like worms. Laughter or disgust kept at bay beneath the movement. "Nah, I'm a crime analyst. I moonlight as a tour guide." She paused, just long enough for me to open my mouth with a planned one liner when she stepped away. "You must be the Gersts. Hope you're ready for a great night!"
"And he's struck out!" Chad pitched his voice low and drawling, mimicking a sports broadcaster. When I rolled my eyes, his hand darted out to smack me. "Come on, man. Nobody's on your case."
I scoffed, blocking his next attempt to elbow me. "Whatever."
Off we went, stopping on dark corners and taking turns down dark alleys which we'd all avoid most nights. Every once and awhile, a gaggle of kids or party-goers would pop up. Frankly, the kids were more startling. Teresa got into the stories, so when she was mid-stabbing and a group of preteens charged around with pillowcases full of candy, the contrast resonated eerily.
I followed along, watching as Cheyenne started bouncing. She practically vibrated when we walked up to this old house. I might've written it off, but Maddix and Chad had joined her up at the front, waiting for her to push open the iron gate, but she didn't.
"And as our eager beaver Harvard students already know - this here is an old sanitarium from the 20th century. In 1942, a fire starting in the widow’s watch almost resulted in it being shut down; however, it reopened with a focus on drug rehab until a patient started a second fire in 1987," Teresa explained. "The second patient from 1987 surived the fire; however, the first burned alive in the watch."
Burned alive. I fought against the urge to cringe. The structure looked sound. New roof. Older foundations. Sure. But up on top, they had reconstructed the widow's peak. A single rectangle standing on the high roof, looking out toward the sea. Which was stupid because if it had ever been able to see the sea, it had been wrecked by a line of residential houses build up along the waterfront. Plus, the whole thing was marked for demolition. A red sign and yellow tape screamed caution and condemned.
"The patient, Theodore Thompson, was a famous medium who had been institutionalized since he was seven years old - dying at eighteen. A week after his father had signed the papers to remove him from the facility." Teresa exaggerated a shiver. "Some have speculated that a group of nurses trapped Theodore in the watch in hopes of hurting him enough to keep him in their institute as they had been using his renowned abilities to see the dead to make money under the table. Several arrests were made for negligence as a result of suits posed by Theodore's father regarding his son's forced labor."
"Don't we get to go in?" Cheyenne demanded.
Maddix nodded fervently. "Yeah - the description said the tour goes into the manor."
Pulling out a key, Teresa smirked. "You guys are lucky. This'll be the last year we get to do this. They're tearing it down next spring."
Filing through the gate, we all headed toward the house, which Teresa unlocked. The door creaked, swinging open as she said, "Welcome to Crables Manor."
Bile churned in my stomach. Dull and bitter in my throat. I stepped inside, following my friends who had already raced ahead, studying every bit they could. Not that it could help their projects. This was just some sick horror show to them. The rug - shaggy and brown. Cobwebs in the ornately carved corners. No shimmer mahogany. Out of place light bulbs instead of the chandelier which hung in the hall when it was Gray's home.
It was real. Crables Manor was real.
"Hey - uh - Maddix, you showed some photos of this place in your project, right?" I asked, trying to breathe.
Maddix shook his head. "My group didn't let me."
"Chad - didn't you -"
"What? Show you pictures on my phone? What's wrong with you?" Chad traced his eyes up and down me. "You gonna puke."
Cheyenne hadn't. This was the first time I spoke with her since the group presentation. Teresa walked through, pointing out features - talking about the restoration and subsequent abandonment when a patient tried - and failed - to mimic the fire in the eighties but started it in the kitchen, distracting the doctors as he took a hatchet to the locked door of the widow's watch.
But her voice faded. Facts droning as the group moved toward the kitchen, but my feet took me up the stairs. The same path. Right to Gray's room. It didn't look the same. None of the furniture remained in the house, so I shouldn't have been surprised that the desk and bed were gone, but my eyes went right to the wall. Right where Gray's room had a line of wood which separated the bland tan wallpaper from the painted white slats below. The band remained.
My fingers moved of their own accord. Running across the lip there. Testing the give. Maybe I went mad. One minute, I tested the give, and the next, I ripped a slat off the wall then another. At the base of the second, a small rectangle caught my attention. I wanted it to not be what I thought it was. I should've stood. Left it there. Forgotten all about it. But I didn't. I picked up the Ted Williams baseball card.
He was real. Crables Manor was real. Gray was real. I had abandoned him, and he wasn't in my head. A chill came over me then. The world tilted, and blinking to try to get my bearings, I almost missed the noise echoing in the back of my skull - like stones dropping into water. A tugging sensation - like when I used to snap out of the dream - followed. It was all real.
Or this was all in my head.
Shoving the card into my pocket, I ducked back downstairs. Finding the kitchen was easy enough. Everything in the places I remembered as the basic structure hadn't been changed that much. Tom gave me a once over, but I shook my head before he could say anything. Notice anything. At least until we got back out onto the street.
"Hey." I sidled up to him. "Look what I found."
I flashed the card, and his brows jumped. "Shit, man! Where was that? Is it an original?"
"Found it in room three. Right off the main staircase," I told him, tucking it into my pocket before he could touch it. My mind just kept screaming - it’s rea
l. He sees it too. It’s real.
Maddix fell back. "You went upstairs?"
"Just to room three."
"That was Thompson’s room! What did it look like? Could you feel a presence?" Cheyenne demanded, joining us.
"No," I lied. "It was just a room."
They grumbled, banding together to chat about what they'd seen and how they thought the use of a private home for a sanitarium had affected the mental health of the patients.
I kept pace, forcing my face to not show any emotion. A bland smile. Keep the eyes bright. Look interested. No thinking about how the card feels like a lead weight. Not a word about how it radiated heat. Kept the lie going all the way back to our dorm room.
Gray was real. Gray was dead. But he was real. He had been real. I wasn't crazy. He was real. Just a ghost.
That stopped me short. Believing hadn't been easy. I used to believe. Then our pastor lectured on how people like me were a sin. The Devil's work. Couldn't take it seriously after that, but now there were ghosts. Were ghosts and god mutually exclusive? Did you have to have both? I'd never shown a skill for anything supernatural. Nothing to suggest I could commune with the dead, so why now? How? How was Gray reaching me if he was a ghost?
Exhausted but anxious, I curled up in my bed, staring at the card balanced on the back of my desk. Held in place with a clip-lamp. Ted Williams - now dusted off - stared down at me. The same face.
If I slept, I could see Gray. I could ask him. I could see if the name Theodore sparked any memories. See if there was a reason he was reaching out to me. I didn't even believe in ghosts. Maybe the card was a fluke. Tom could see it, so it had to be real. It was the exact card. How could it be there? How could I know it was there?
"Hey?" I whispered, calling out to Tom, who rolled over and grunted back at me. "Do you believe in ghosts?"
He groaned, rubbing his eyes. A silhouette of limbs like tendrils in the dark. "Maybe. I don't know. Why?"
"I might've felt something. In the room."
He sat up. A faceless shadow staring at me without eyes in the dark. "Like what?"
But what could I say? I couldn't tell him I thought Gray's governess was there. That room three was Gray's room. That Gray might've been Theodore, but that meant I was dreaming about a dead psychic. A dead institutionalized psychic. Who burned alive. Gray burned alive. Oh my god, somebody burned Gray alive.
"James?" Tom called when I didn't answer. "What did it feel like?"
Burying my face in my pillow, I tried not to think about it. Tried to bury the thoughts. Push them down. They just kept coming. Burning hurt. He must've been so scared. Was that what I felt on the soccer field? Him burning alive? It was so hot. He didn't fight it. Everything hurt, but he gave up - like he knew no one was coming. Like he was better off letting the person kill him. Somebody killed Gray.
"Like drowning," I managed to get out. "It felt like I was drowning."
Chapter Fifteen
Closing my eyes, I sunk into blackness. The darkness swept me away. But where the shining mahogany usually greeted me when I wasn’t exhausted out of my mind, there was only dusty shag. Insects - out of sight but loud. Their legs skittering behind, beneath, and all around. Invisible, hungry swarms. A breeze drifted through the side parlor. Not enough to feel on my skin, but enough that the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling waved. Tattered remains of a guidon. Or a half dozen white flags marking surrender.
"Gray?" I called, racing up the stairs. "Gray? You here?"
The door to his room stood open. Rust eroded the upper hinges, leaving the door tilted backward, readying to fall as the decay encroached. His bed wasn’t there. A cot stood in its place. No sheets. Just a bare, stained mattress. Thinned from use and covered in a thick film of dust. His desk - more like a small table and chair - remained, shrouded in disuse. On the wall, where his baseball card stood regardless of time or the manor’s state, only the outline - free of dust - suggested anything had ever been there at all.
A cold sweat broke out down my spine. Rivets ran along the edges, drenching my shirt as I reached out. My fingers brushed against the edges of the gap, and electricity sparked through my hand, sending it flying back to my chest. Black tipped my middle finger.
In a dream, breathing wasn’t mandatory, but my chest heaved. Bursts of air coming in and out in quick succession as I tried to keep the lightness from clouding around my head and ending me back before I had searched every corner of the house for him. Gray was dead. A ghost. Somewhere here. Somehow, he had been reaching out. He had to be here.
Spinning, I raced from his room. Panicked blinded me. Stole away all sense. From the walls to the doors, I crashed, stumbling and fumbling my way as I banged and called out for him. Tearing the world apart for a sign he had been there. A sign he hadn’t vanished like the Ted Williams card he cherished.
"Gray? Gray, where are you?" I screamed. My voice hoarse, itching as it caught in my throat. It hurt. Like thrones had grown there. Tearing me apart each time I called out for him. "Gray? Answer me! Where are you?"
When no more doors opened for me, my feet took me higher. The third floor had no locks on their doors. Not on the inside. Decrepit, some hung on their hinges. Others - clawed or broken into splinters - covered the carpet.
No sign of Gray. So up my feet led. Up to the Widow’s Watch. Up to where Gray had died. The door and the final group of steep stairs waited for me. A small little room with windows on all sides. In the center, a rocking chair creaked. Back and forth. Nobody there to move it. Just back and forth.
Buzzing, the air thickened. Smoke churned. Swirling - invisible and thick around me, gathering with each step I took forward until I moved like resistance bands wrapped taut around my limbs, growing stronger the more I stretched them. Any moment now, they would fling me back. Throw me from the space.
In my mouth, my tongue sat heavy and dry. A useless weight meant to be calling his name, but I couldn’t even lift it to lick my peeling lips.
One-two.
Slow. Deliberate as coins flipped into a wishing well. One-two. Coming closer and closer, louder and louder as cold rushed at me from behind. Warmth brewing - building to explode before me in the small room - emanating from the rocking chair. Back and forth. One-two. Back and forth. One-two.
The toe of my shoe fell, brushing against the entrance, and I sat up, gasping for breath. Sweat drenched me. Flatted to my face, my hair stuck. Itching and knotting as I scratched myself in the hurry to get it off of me.
Over on his side, Tom rolled over with a grumbled groan, but he remained firmly asleep. His clock flashed just past midnight, so despite the tingling across my skin at the dampness, I sunk back into my sheets - burrowing beneath the blankets as I chased the wisps of sleep which had fled so quickly from me.
"Gray!" I called out in the darkness of my mind. Lips pressed tight, so I didn’t wake Tom, I screamed his name until the weight of exhaustion dragged me under once more.
Back in the side parlor, I stood in grandeur. Polished wood beneath my feet. Not a spot of dust. No skittering of insects in the walls or just out of view. Nothing to indicate the bones of that previous dream came from this place. Moreover, heat clung to the house where a drafty chill lingered once before. Food roasted - onions and garlic and spices tickled my nose, rising from the kitchen in fragrant plumes.
Though my eyes drifted to the stairs, my feet led me deeper toward the back - through the winding halls to the kitchen. Gray and I never went there together, and when I headed there alone, it hadn’t been on days when I could smell the ovens working.
Turning the corner, I pushed over the swinging door, and a flash of light brown caught my eye. Racing from one end of the kitchen to the other, a short woman worked. A mostly clean apron covering her empire waist dress from the stains of her work. The tangles of her graying red hair were tied into a bun on top of her head. Neatly and efficiently done to keep it from her round face as she cooked. With rosy cheeks and a grandmotherly plumpness to her figure
, seeing her instantly put me at ease. Another person’s grandmother had little likelihood of killing me, and her opinions on my masculinity or preferences didn’t matter. Especially not with Gray missing.
"Look at you!" the woman exclaimed, turning to face me. One hand settled on the roundness of her hips while the other stirred what seemed to be a bubbling stew. "I swear, all the young men are skin and bones. Grab a seat. Yes - yes, you!"
I stumbled back. Falling into a chair at the wooden table set back against the kitchen’s windows, I watched as she bustled about the place, grabbing this and that from the cabinets as she prepared homemade biscuits and seasoned vegetables to roast while her stew simmered.
"Do you know where Gray is?"
Maybe it wasn’t polite. I probably should have asked her name first or introduced myself, but my mind needed answers. I needed to see Gray. To know he was okay.Even though he was dead. And I couldn’t save him. Because somebody had burned him alive.
Setting an empty tea cup before me, the woman placed a large plate of scones and pastries on the table. "Here, now. You look positively ghastly. Eat." Setting a teapot before me, she tapped its side. "Let it brew some first."
I took a scone, not sure what to do or what would happen if I ate it. "Thank you."
"You’re welcome, lovey. Now, what’s this about my sweet Theodore?"
Like I’d been stabbed. Her words pierced me, leaving me scrambling though I had known - had felt that I was right before I had even come here, but Theodore - just Theodore left me wrecked.
"He’s dead. You’re all dead." The words tumbled out, bubbling up like steam from her teapot. "Somebody killed him."
Facing me, she sighed, brushing her hands off on her apron. "I’m afraid so."
"Who are you?"
Laughing, she poured the kettle, filling my cup with steaming tea. "Oh, sweet boy, I’m the cook!"
All That We Say or Seem Page 7
