I glanced at Rory, who sighed, "Shit."
When he offered nothing else, I said, "He’s just saying ‘shit.’ Do you mean why did he kill himself? Cause, he didn’t."
Zeke shook his head. His lips wobbled, and his eyes filled with tears. "I fucking knew it," he sobbed. "I knew that dumb bastard wouldn’t off himself."
"Course not. I promised," Rory insisted.
"He says he promised you that he wouldn’t," I told Zeke, who nodded solemnly, slamming his hand down on the desk. "That’s actually kind of why I’m here. He was trying to save a kid named - "
"Gray," Zeke cut in, nodding. "Ari told me. Said Rory was going on and on about ghosts and this kid named Gray. He asked me - asked me to sneak my equipment in. I still have the drawings!"
Jumping to his feet, Zeke pulled out his wallet. Inside, there was a neatly folded piece of worn paper. When he unfolded it, he revealed a drawing of a man - back and front - covered in runes and lines. Common sense told me I was in for a full body of symbols, but the full breadth of it didn’t strike me until I saw the sketch.
"Looks about right," Rory affirmed, and my stomach sank further.
Swallowing, I nodded slowly. "You still have that."
Zeke nodded, running a finger over the edges, smoothing them down. "It helped remind me - before - about how bad things can get. After he died, I got myself sober. Proposed to Angelica."
"Fucking finally," Rory cheered. "She was too good for your sorry self."
Shaking his head, Zeke laughed almost as if he could hear him. "Love of my life. Too good for me, but she said yes." His eyes - big and sad as a basset hound - lifted to me. "You can see him, right? Is he here? Can you thank him for me?"
"He’s right there," I said, pointing at Rory who shifted. "He can hear you."
Zeke focused on the spot where I’d gestured. "I got two kids now. Morgan’s in high school - thinks she knows everything. Fucking genius. And - ah - my older one - he’s...he just got into college out in L.A." Tears gathered in his eyes. "We named him Rory."
Rory swallowed. His brows furrowed, and he glared up at the nearest light, stubbornly refusing to look at Zeke. Growling, he stomped his foot. "Damn it," he growled. "It’s not - it’s not fucking fair. I was supposed to be there. I got clean, so I could be his best man when he finally got the balls to ask. Goddamnit!"
Above us, the lights flickered, and Zeke sat forward. "Was that him?"
"It means a lot to him that you named your son after him," I offered as the ghost raged, shifting between leather and a straitjacket as his frustration and torment twisted him.
Zeke probably meant the best. He honestly seemed like a good guy. A bit gullible but that worked in my favor this time, so I couldn’t be too mean about that. But as he pulled his collar done, showing off a black bird in flight, he just made the situation all the more difficult as he said, "Got this for him too."
It was stupid. I knew the ghosts were real. If Gray was real, it made sense. These were people once. Living, breathing, walking, talking people with lives of their own and people who loved them, so it shouldn’t have struck me so hard in that moment, but I couldn’t seem to get a hold of myself. Rory raged. Zeke sniffled and looked ready to sob. I just wanted to sink right into the floor and disappear. This was too big. Worse still, I couldn’t save them all. Even if I got Gray out of there, Rory would still be dead, and unlike probably every other dead person in the world, he now intimately knew the world had moved right on without him - but for better or worse, without exactly forgetting him.
"I’ve got to get those," I nearly shouted, pushing my emotions down. Gray needed me. The guy I loved could be saved. Nothing else could matter. "There’s only one more chance to save Gray."
"In the next six weeks!" Rory snapped.
Frowning at him, I added, "And I’ve only got six weeks to get all of it."
Zeke frowned. "Okay," he said, nodding. "For Rory, I’ll do it."
"Really?"
"Pro-bono and all, but I can’t - I can’t in good conscience let you get this all at once. Six week, right? Okay...yeah, we can…" he pulled out his appointment book, righting in my name on all the subsequent Saturdays for several hour blocks in the early morning. "Chest, back, left leg, right leg, upper arms, lower arms - six weeks."
"It’s gotta be done before January 1st," Rory told me.
All the Saturdays aligned, so it was only the last one. "Can we move the last to the 30th?" I asked him, pointing at an open slot. "I have to be ready and in position on the 1st?"
"Course."
Biting my lip, I tried to put a finger on the unease settling in my stomach. Everything seemed to be going just fine, yet I’d never felt more nervous. Probably just from going into getting my first tattoo. The chest designs were intense with geometric blocks of black and runes carved up here and there.
"Thank you," I said. "For believing me."
Gesturing for me to follow him, he washed his hands before sorting his tools. "Just bring him in when it’s done. I’d like to meet the kid Rory died trying to save. He’s got to be something special."
"He is."
Chapter Twenty
Everything swirled around. Soft and yellow-lit, the gaslighting warned me as quickly as the way my lungs tightened in the thicker air. Despite the heat, the room sent chills up my spine. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I could see blue taking over beneath my nails. Still, I sunk deeper into the chair. Exhaustion pinned me, and as the fire crackled to my right, I forced my eyes to focus. Back in the study, I sat across from Dr. Ose.
"Welcome back, James," he said. Legs crossed, he reclined with his hands folded in his lap - a pen settled between two of his fingers. "How have you been sleeping?"
My nose scrunched as I shook my head. "What?"
"Narcolepsy can be a difficult condition, but it is treatable," he assured me. "Schizophrenia as well."
A slow dawning realization overcame me. "You’re - you’re acting like I’m one of your patients."
"Aren’t you?"
Fighting against the weariness in my bones, I pushed myself up. "Mrs. Hayward and Rory told me all about you. There’s plenty of articles about you and Carreau."
He smiled. His face blurred, so I couldn’t say exactly what he looked like. White and brown-haired - dressed in a suit. "I’m sure there are numerous articles. Likely more than a few about Florence Sullivan and the massacre which happened here as well." He didn’t give me a moment to respond. "Regardless, you’ll find our dear Mrs. Hayward is an eternal optimist. While well-meaning, she’s too kind. The Governess trapped your young gentleman in limbo - a terrible fate if he had any of his memories. Luckily, Dr Carreau and I were able to minimize damage - "
"You’re gaslighting me."
The black sphere where his eyes should have been blinked. The swirling movement of a Van Gogh swirled in the streaks of brown and peach across his face. If I could focus enough, I might have smeared him. Rubbed my hand across the wet paint of his face. Might even make my eyes focus a bit better.
"James, I need you to concentrate. I believe you’re having another episode," Dr. Ose said.
His tone rocked, low and rolling as he spoke, but it wasn’t nearly as calming as he likely intended. It itched. Overly prepared. A highly practiced lure - as deadly as a siren. The same voice we were told to use - objective but not too distant. Trustworthy. An absolute lie.
Something lunged at me. Ose didn’t seem to move, but a flash - like lightning - danced across the thick air. Silver. Sudden. Pain - sharp and sudden - pierced me. Dragging my mind back from wandering, pain silenced the distraction of my over-energetic mind. Carved deep into my chest, the lines of my tattoo ached. They cracked. Bleeding and peeling -
"You were saying…" he urged, but the words slurred, drawing out and slowing as the warmth in the room drained.
A flood of cold swept through. The thick air rippled, exploding and thinning and chilling as stones plopped - one-two one-two -
And I woke up - panti
ng and cold and drenched in sweat. Tom hadn’t gotten back, so Rory remained on his bed, lounging as he swayed - rocking as if he were in a hammock. When I rolled out of bed, jumping up and ripping off my shirt - he sat up.
"What’s going on?"
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. All I could do was stare at the lines. They remained pristine. Perfectly the same as they had been when I fell into bed - exhausted from the adrenaline drop after the spike of the needle repeatedly piercing my skin.
Rory swung his legs over the side of Tom’s bed. "He got in your head, didn’t he?" He hovered, inching closer toward me along the edge of the bed. "You should eat something. Sugar helps."
Sugar helps - the dead man suggested sugar. Part of me wanted to ask him what drugs would go best with my descent into madness. I’d never even had a beer or smoked a cigarette. Alcohol and tobacco didn’t seem enough to balance the panic thrumming through me as my adrenaline soared and crashed back down. The ache of the tattoos clawing at my psyche, leaving me half-convinced I had been attacked.
Tugging back on my shirt, I dug through my desk for something before giving up and raiding Tom’s snack stash. "There’s got to be a way to keep him out of my head."
"Not without risking your connection to the house and the rest of us."
"Shit."
Shrugging, Rory floated back, careening through the air. "It’s six weeks. Count it down."
Six weeks. Six weeks - and I would be with Gray again, one way or another. The twinge in my chest remained.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sitting in a test, head down and trying to keep my eyes focused on the words, but they blurred. Turning topsy twisty upside down. Syrupy thick saliva. Barely able to swallow it down before the thickness choked me. Nothing made sense. Rory whispered in my ear the answers, claiming he saw them on Cheyenne’s paper - trying to help me. Only making things worse.
Who cheats by ghost? Me, apparently. No hope of passing otherwise. My back hurt. My chest still itched. Nothing infected. Zeke assured me. Checked me over and cleaned me up like a boxer’s coach, sending me out to get smacked down again. Nights filled with clicking heels - stones plopping in puddles. Thick air and thicker lies - molasses smooth and dark in the swirling eyes that might have been embers or just the actually empty abyss of his soul. An underline in my coursework on how hypocritical doctors could be. How they said they were helping as they stitched you up the wrong way. A frustrating few who screamed while the good kept their heads down - kept working, grew restless and tired and yelled back only to be buried more thoroughly than the dead.
I’ve had good doctors. I came here to be a good doctor. Wanted to sort my brain and find people interested in reaching out, finding ways to combat the ignorance that pervaded my hometown. The desperate clinging to history because the present was too abysmal. Too depressing as all the smart kids left - the rich kids - any kid who could. I wanted to be a good doctor. Meet good doctors. Ones who I could open up to - talk about the lies and fears and repression and years of terror - knowing my father will abandon me, pretend I never existed - call me hellspawn and spit at the sight of me.
Good doctors - they existed. I met them. They taught me. Even my old pediatrician cared more than my dad - listened though I never told him the truth. When everyone talked about how it was better Reggie was gone, the doctor spoke out. Tried to reach out - and despite his wife and once lauded family life, people left his practice. Side-eyed him though they’d loved him before that. His wife - fierce and ruthless - might’ve burned us all if he hadn’t gotten a job in the city - taking them away while her eyes cursed us all for being so arrogant, ignorant, set in ways I couldn’t escape.
There were good doctors. And good people. The debate team never abandoned Reggie. I could’ve told them - Marie with her bright red lips and fierce glower, surrounded by friends like-minded and those who had sneered when in high school she had ruled with a mind made of steel. Looks left the boys melted. But she didn’t change. Swore like a sailor, refused to back down and turned the words thrown against her - the traps baited to capture her confidence and turn it into a sin - and though some drifted away, the bulk wanted to be her - wanted her to keep them safe and bully away those who stalked and bullied them that no amount of undermining lost her ground.
We didn’t speak by then. My parents would’ve disowned me just as quick if I went out with a girl like Marie - someone able to speak her own mind and control her own body. Only thing worse than that was if I were gay. So I pretended I wasn’t, and I kept my eye on the prize, citing Harvard. That mattered to them. Good son. Something to brag about - point to and cheer. If I graduated without a girl from college - then they’d be upset, but I wasn’t going home. They weren’t paying for my schooling. I just had to find the courage. Tell them. Then they wouldn’t want me to come home anyway.
"Hey," Rory hissed, tapping the paper in front of me. "Get your head in the game. Half the students left already."
All the multiple choice done. Essays to write. Can’t cheat on those. I could do this. I studied. These had been on the guide I made. Midterms hardly mattered. I had this.
Rory stalked me to the front table when I was done. He glared all around like it was their fault I had sat flustered. They didn’t know I was in pain. Inside and out. Covered in brown lines. Had thought they were black - not that color mattered, but brown, Zeke said, would be easier to hide. Easier to cover in the end. Weren’t they black? They looked so dark. Bloody even where there wasn’t any blood. Dark against my pale skin - hadn’t I been tan?
Handing the packet to my TA, I turned, heading up the stairs and out. Rory - my phantom shadow - followed. Mumbling along the way, "Finally got the courage, and the brat’s not even here."
"What?" I grumbled.
Before he could answer, Cheynne bounced over to me. Her blond hair bouncing in pigtails. "Heard you weren’t heading back home for Thanksgiving break."
"Yeah…"
Her lips twisted into a condescending smile. "Maddix told me about your research. Thought you’d like to know - I’m going back to the house on Thanksgiving."
"Going to bring the ghosts a turkey?"
Rolling her eyes, she tugged me along toward the coffee cart. "They don’t do tours of it on Thanksgiving, so we can do a seance without worrying somebody will show up."
"We?"
"She means you," Rory informed me.
Cheyenne side-eyed me. "Everyone in our group who’s staying behind. You, me, and Maddix. Probably Chad too."
Of course. I couldn’t get lucky. Chad had hung about, glaring at me with a level of suspicion. Somehow, I had become the Moby Dick to his Ishmael. Who wanted to be some weirdo’s white whale? Didn’t matter. Truth was stranger than fiction, and there was no way he would be able to figure out what was going on with me. Not like he believed in ghosts. I hadn’t. If I didn’t have the itch of healing tattoos, maybe I’d still have days denying it. Well, the tattoos and Rory.
Fuck, I wish Gray had haunted me like this. Spent nights curled around him. That was all I wanted. Him back in my arms. Rory - off wherever he planned to go when his mission to save Gray was done. All of this was for him. Tattoos, dealing with Rory, faking I wasn’t going absolutely out of my mind between lack of sleep and nightmares and hauntings by Victorian shrinks and a Civil War governess - and her cook? God, the whole thing was a mess. There were older houses. The manor wasn’t even two hundred years old. Heck, it wasn’t even a hundred and fifty. How could that sound so young when Gray being dead since the 1950s seemed so long?
"So you’re coming, right?" Cheyenne asked though I could see in her eyes that refusal would be met with nightmarish determination. I didn’t have the energy to deal with her. And - to my surprise - I didn’t want to either.
Sighing, I shrugged. "Sure. Whatever."
"Good." Turning to the barista, she ordered then glanced at me. "You want anything?"
"Nah, I’m good."
"You look like you’re going to p
ass out."
Rory shoved forward. He grabbed for a scone, but his hand slipped right through as I answered, "That was my last exam. I’m going to go crash back at the dorm. Tom headed out last night, so I’ve got it all to myself."
Rolling her eyes, she told the barista, "Add a small hot chocolate and that scone to my order."
Her pink-painted nail pointed right at the one which Rory had been struggling to pick up. My heart stuttered. Both Rory and I froze. "I really don’t need anything."
"Heard you loud and clear. The scone’s for me and I owe Angela a hot chocolate," Cheyenne informed me, and with a flip of her one pigtail, I was as good as dismissed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rory paced the length of my room. He seemed more at ease now that Tom was gone for Thanksgiving, but he eyed the door with a nearing hysterical madness. The same insanity I had seen in him when he first chased me down the halls. Maybe he had been gone too long. Spent years waiting for somebody else to be dragged into the madness. Someone else who would see Gray and understand that he needed to be saved. Or perhaps he had simply been out of the manor for too long.
"I don’t like this," he whispered.
My chest tugged, the skin a bit tight, but the pain had finally left. Even the ache off my back lessened. I had only a few more weeks left. Then I would be marked - tattooed all over as my arms reached into the void of limbo and drew Gray out. It would be good. It would be the best. My connection with the manor would fade, but my life would never be the same. Never return to what I had known. I would, in that moment, recognize who I was at my very core. The person who my parents couldn’t accept. Who I still struggled to acknowledge without self-loathing taking over. All for Gray.
But as I sat in the chair - Zeke’s needle painting my skin with the latest markings, I almost vomited. Panic swirled in my stomach, demanding to know whether Gray would love me - could love me - when he was free. Did he even want me? Had he wanted Rory? I never asked. Not really. Hadn’t been able to bear questioning whether Gray had the same relationship with Rory that he had with me. I had no right to be jealous. They seemed not to be together now, and Rory had died. Horribly. If I wasted time being jealous, I was no better than Simon, and I had seen how well such ridiculous jealousy went. Isolating Gray once he was finally free would be cruel.
All That We Say or Seem Page 11
