by Joanne Dahme
But Mr. Geyer said it. “Jen and Tom, are you spiritual people? Do you believe in the afterlife?” He removed his glasses to wipe them with a napkin and quickly put them back on, as if to see Mom’s and Dad’s reactions.
Mom’s eyes widened. She looked at Dad, who leaned against the kitchen counter, blowing on his mug. His short red hair looked spiked after the rubbing he gave it. Another time, I would have laughed at the look on him, but not today. Dad lowered his drink slowly to rest it on the counter. “What do you mean?” he asked, his eyebrows rumpled the way they do when someone tries to sell him something.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Tom?” Mr. Geyer suggested. His voice was as warm as the chocolate. “I want to tell you and Jen a bit more about how my daughter and I got involved with the cemetery.” He looked at Margaret and smiled at her reassuringly. “Although we’ve known you all for only a short time, you have been good friends.”
Margaret and I shot a questioning look at each other. I wondered if Mr. Geyer had seen the ivy or the witch in the cemetery.
Dad grabbed his mug and pulled a chair next to Mom. She patted him on his knee as she spoke. “What is it, Christian? What else do you need to tell us?” She cocked her head, truly interested. She glanced at her notepad on the kitchen counter but stayed seated.
Mr. Geyer didn’t tell them everything, but he told them enough. He told them about Prudence and her missing remains, about Christian’s journal and his quest to bring his daughter back to life. And he told them about the ivy that had been carved in the basement last night practically at our toes. Mom and Dad both threw me a look but allowed Mr. Geyer to continue.
“After Christian died,” he finished,“that quest became a legacy for all of Christian’s descendants, with one important difference.We know that we cannot bring Prudence back to life. It would be . . .” He squinted behind his glasses as if the thought hurt him. “. . . sacrilegious to even attempt such a thing, and useless in the end, as Christian is dead. That is why we are bound to unite father and daughter, not in life, but in death.” Mr. Geyer paused to let this information sink in. Mom and Dad stared at him blankly. He cleared his throat to continue.“His descendants have been charged with burying them side by side. Only then can Christian and Prudence rest in peace and can their descendants live their own lives.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment until Dad blurted out, “You’re kidding, aren’t you, Christian?” Dad attempted a laugh. “It’s a nice ghost story, but I don’t think you need it.Your campaign—the history of the cemetery and Murmur, the stories about the stonecutters and those they carved for—is good enough.You don’t want to scare people away with a tale like that.They’ll think the story—”
“Farfetched?” Mr. Geyer interrupted. His voice suddenly sounded so tired. Margaret shimmied her chair closer to Mr. Geyer. Her green eyes were stern. She gave my dad a fierce look.
“This story is not a part of our campaign, Tom. I felt I owed you and Jennifer an explanation for recent events.” Mr. Geyer raised his chin, the same way that Margaret did when challenged. “It would be dishonest of me not to tell you our secret. Not if I call you my friends.”
Then Margaret stood up. “I want to go home,” she declared flatly. Her whole body trembled.
“Wait!” I yelled, pushing my chair away to stand beside her. “If you don’t believe Mr. Geyer, why don’t you go into the basement to see the ivy for yourself!” I couldn’t tell if I sounded angry or hysterical. I didn’t want my parents hurting Margaret or Mr. Geyer.
Mom stood up next. “Let’s do that,” she agreed.
Dad was silent, his features now a mask. He was more the scientific type, who liked to understand a theory. He shook his head. “All right. Let’s go look at the basement, but I’m sure we will be able to come up with a reasonable explanation for whatever is down there.”
Margaret and I stood shoulder to shoulder, and she held my hand as we both listened to the adults walking down the basement steps. The duration of the squeals told us that they were taking the steps slowly. We both strained to hear their conversation when the creaking stopped, but all we heard was the soft rise and fall of voices aiming to be careful.
“Look at the ivy, Courtney.” Margaret pointed to the window. “Does it look to you as if it is shaking?”
Shaking, trembling. It was doing all of those things under the pounding it was taking from the rain. “I think it’s just the weather, Margaret,” I replied.This time....
They were not down there long.We heard their weight press against the basement steps again, but this time faster. I pictured Mom taking the steps two by two.
“Courtney, why didn’t you tell us about the ivy before?” Mom stood beneath the arch between the kitchen and the dining room. Her hand was splayed right above her heart. Her face was white.
I suddenly felt hot and shrugged. “I couldn’t,” I replied feebly. “I was worried about today.”
Dad and Mr. Geyer appeared behind her. Dad ran his fingers through his wet hair, a gesture I recognized as a warning when he is frustrated. “I’m sure there is a way to explain this that takes it out of the realm of ghosts.” He was almost glaring at Mr. Geyer.
Mom turned to Dad. “The ivy wasn’t there yesterday morning, Tom. I was in the basement, doing the laundry.” She reached for Dad’s hand. “Christian, what does all this mean?” she asked. She glanced at me with one of her probing looks to make sure I was okay.
“The ivy, in whatever form it takes—plant or carving—is a sign,” Mr. Geyer rushed to reassure. “It won’t hurt anyone, but I don’t know yet why it has appeared this way.”
Dad raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but said nothing. He just shook his head. Mom turned around to confront Mr. Geyer.
“What or who is powering the ivy, Christian?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“Someone who cared for Prudence and Christian, and had knowledge of the spiritual powers of nature, endowed the ivy to become the earthly manifestation of their life forces—their spirits. It’s supposed to protect them where they rest and lead us to them.” This time it was Mr. Geyer who stole a glance at the ivy at the window. “At least, that’s my hope.”
He did not mention the witch or my own personal encounters with the ivy in the woods. He raised an eyebrow at me. I passed. I was not ready to tell my story.
“Christian, I admit that the ivy carvings in the basement are a bit unusual, but do you really believe that there is some ghostly force behind them?” Dad asked. His arms were crossed now, the towel over his shoulders looking like a cape. At least he wasn’t drumming his fingers the way he does when he can’t hide his impatience.
“Not ghostly,” Mr. Geyer corrected in a friendly tone. “But spiritual. The forces are what you might call the life energies left behind when a person moves on to the afterlife. They are a cry for help, or perhaps a clue, made by a being who has not completely given themselves up to the . . . beyond.”
Mom looked intrigued and worried at the same time. She had been biting her lip while listening to Mr. Geyer and Dad. “Is that the reason you are fighting for the cemetery? Because Prudence may still be there somewhere?” she asked.
Mr. Geyer nodded slowly. “Partly. I am hoping that Prudence and Christian are buried somewhere in those grounds. I also think it is important to protect all of those who are buried there and have been resting undisturbed. That land is sacred,” he added solemnly.
Margaret had tears in her eyes. She grabbed my hand under the table, making me jump in my chair.
“Courtney?” my dad asked. “What is it? Did you want to say something?”
“Yes,” I said. I hoped my voice did not sound as panicked as I felt. “I think we need to help Mr. Geyer and Margaret bring Prudence and Christian together. I know I want to help.What about you, Mom?” I asked, looking her directly in the eyes.
Mom looked at Dad and then back at me. “I believed that the fight to save the cemetery was a good one from the mo
ment Christian told me about it,” she replied evenly. “I’m not as sure about what is going on in our basement, but I’m going to trust you, Christian, that whatever is happening, it is benevolent.”
I flashed her a smile. “And you, Dad?” I was not ready to leave him off the hook.
He looked at us both, slowly shaking his head. “I do respect your dedication to your family’s history and the history of Murmur, Christian.” Dad glanced back at the basement door and scowled. “However, I’m going to have to give some thought to what you shared with us today.” His face softened a little bit. “But if this search will keep that tenacious ivy from growing all over our house, then it might well be worth it.”
Mr. Geyer stood and then bowed slightly, as if he were still in his Puritan role. “Margaret and I thank you for your kindness and camaraderie. I think it’s time we went home now, to change into dry clothes and to begin planning our next strategy.”
We all stood then and hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to say.
“Christian, do you mind if I call on you if I have a few questions about my next article?” Mom asked.
“Of course not,” he replied warmly.
“And I will see you tomorrow, Courtney,” Margaret said, giving me a quick hug.
I did not want to let her go. I had not had the chance to tell Margaret about my theory that Christian and Prudence were buried somewhere near us. I hoped that she would read my mind and come looking for me tomorrow morning.
I wandered over to the kitchen window to watch the rain as Mom and Dad walked Mr. Geyer and Margaret to the door. The rain fell in ferocious slanting waves, and a ground-clinging mist hovered inches above the grass. At the edge of our yard, at the rim of the woods, the fog was thicker, I guessed because of the extra heat emitted by the bark and leaves of the trees.
Something moved along the border of the grass and trees. I saw a number of things flashing in and out of the soupy mix of mist and rain that hemmed the woods.
Only after I continued to stare did I realize that it was the cats, pacing along the edge of the woods, brushing against one another, as if in a dance. Their tails, ramrod straight, briefly relaxed to caress one another.They stopped for a moment simultaneously, to look expectantly toward our kitchen window at me. They had an impatient air about them, as if they were waiting for the thing or person that meant so much to them.
Not this time, I silently said to myself and to them.
AFTER MR. GEYER AND MARGARET WENT HOME, DAD, Mom, and I went upstairs to change our clothes. We then somehow all migrated back to the kitchen table as if it were the only safe spot in the house. Rain continued to throw itself on our roof in waves instead of drops.Thunder rolled like crashing surf.
Mom poured us a second mug of hot chocolate and we stared at the floating marshmallows as if they were tiny life preservers. For a long time, we hung out in the kitchen, me sipping loudly, trying to kill the silence. They kept looking at me, prodding me with their relentless staring to tell them something. Finally Dad caved.
“There’s got to be some explanation,” he said.
“You mean, beyond a hand from the grave?” Mom tried to joke but she sounded nervous. Dad didn’t seem to hear her.
“You saw this ivy carving itself into the floor as you stood there, Courtney?” Dad asked gently.
I nodded. “Margaret said that it was a sign, just like Mr. Geyer said,” I replied, as if that explained it all.
“I don’t know what to think about Christian’s story, Jen,” he said to my mother, even though he was looking at me. “I mean, they’re nice people and the cause is a good one, but doesn’t this all sound like an episode from Tales from the Dark Side or something?” He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his red hair. He obviously had not bothered to comb it while he was upstairs.
Mom paused thoughtfully. She was wearing her comfortable pink robe.“I don’t know,Tom,” she said slowly, using her finger to push a marshmallow below the surface.“Sometimes I get a funny feeling in this house. I will be doing the dishes and I get the weird sensation of somebody watching me. Then I turn around and all I see is that ivy.” She stopped to stare at it, now plastered against the window. “Of course it sounds crazy, but how do we explain the new growth of carved ivy in the basement? It wasn’t there yesterday morning.”
My eyes darted between my mom’s and dad’s faces as if I were watching a tennis match. It was Dad’s turn and he was frowning.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but surely there is an explanation. Maybe it’s some sort of mold,” he offered weakly.
“That chisels itself into walls and floors?” I asked sarcastically, unable to help myself.
Dad gave me the evil eye.“I know it sounds far-fetched, Courtney, but until we have a good explanation, I don’t want you going into the basement, okay?” His face softened with concern, and I felt bad.
“I was just kidding you, Dad. Don’t worry. I’m not going down there without you guys.”
Mom sighed heavily. “Okay. Let’s tackle one challenge at a time. I still think we’ll have a good cemetery story. People seemed really interested during the tour. So first thing tomorrow I’m going to write the story and get those photos developed. Right now, it’s all a jumble in my mind.” She cleared her throat. “I think I need to put a little time between my article and what Christian shared with us this afternoon.” She smiled. “How about we go into town for dinner tonight? I know I could use the change.”
Dad and I nodded our agreement. It would be nice to join the present for a little while. If nothing else, downtown Murmur at least would look normal on a Saturday night.
It had finally stopped raining and we ate dinner at one of the Main Street sidewalk cafes that blossomed like dandelions in the good weather.That was Dad’s simile, as he did not like to eat his dinner outdoors, unless it was a barbecue. For that reason the tables and chairs that sprang up along the sidewalk reminded him of those cheerful weeds. Mom and I loved cafes, though, and marveled how even Murmur, Massachusetts, could look like Paris on a warm summer night. The sidewalks and curbs were crowded with people flowing in and out of stores or simply sitting on the curbs with a coffee or soda in hand. The streetlamps provided a soft light to the thick summer air. Although this was small-town America, as Dad liked to point out, here on Main Street the witch and her ivy seemed worlds away.
I did not get that nervous tickle in my stomach again until we got home. Mom tried to scoot me right up the stairs, but not before I saw Dad draw the latch on the basement door. For some reason, that made me all the more nervous, because I expected Dad to not take any of this seriously. I wanted him to scoff at the notion of spirits and ivy.
Even as I lay in bed, watching my ceiling fan hypnotically whir and wobble above my head, I was unable to relax. In the darkness of my room, the day’s events unfolded before my eyes, saving me the trouble of having to dream. And although I did not want to relive the basement scene, I saw in my mind that ivy budding on the basement ceiling and floor.
I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke, I heard the clock in the hallway chiming one. And then I heard what sounded like humming somewhere outside my bedroom window. A girl’s voice was sliding up and down a tune I did not recognize.
I tugged on the sheet, turning over so that I was facing the window. I listened harder and only heard the crickets, a sound I always found comforting in the middle of the night. Then it came again, weaving in and out of the crickets’ rhythmic breathing. I sat up slightly, still drowsy.The humming grew louder.
My heart began to speed up. I got out of bed, walked the few feet to my window, and sat on the ledge. I peered down into the yard at the grass glowing softly in the moonlight. Beyond, the cemetery spread out as if it were infinite, replacing all homes, roads, and fields. The tombstones gleamed like macabre night-lights, simultaneously inviting and warning all who dared to both enter and stay away. The humming became faint again but I could still detect it. Where was that sou
nd coming from? Was it coming from the woods?
I realized I was trembling and felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Then a thin figure dressed in white with long sleeves and a long, billowy skirt hopped over the cemetery wall into our yard.Without looking back, she ran to the shed and stopped.
My mouth moved but no sound came out. I wanted to step back from the window but felt my nose pressing against the screen. I watched her dart to the edge of the woods, standing on tiptoe as if she could see into the darkness. She acted as if she were playing hide-and-seek with herself at a frantic pace. The tune she hummed sped up when she did and slowed when she stopped to inspect the grounds around her.Then she dashed across the yard to our basement window, stopping to drop to her hands and knees to peer in.
And then she looked up, as if she could feel my eyes following her every movement.
This time I did cry out at the sight of the face looking up at me. It was a girl about my age with black hair pulled into a bun and piercing green eyes. She looked like Margaret, or as Margaret would have looked if she dressed like a Puritan. Her face was thinner, whiter, and more angled than Margaret’s.
“Prudence?” I called out, my heart banging so hard that I had to grab hold of the windowsill to keep my balance.
She cocked her head at me and stared, squinting at first until her face softened into a smile. She raised her arms to me like a little kid does to her parents when she is tired of walking.
As Prudence stood in the yard, I thought I saw another movement behind the shed, but I was not sure. It was so dark and the shed was shielded even from the moonlight by the trees. It was like a shadow skirting along the edges of our yard, keeping within the blackness of the tree canopy.Then the witch stepped into the moonlight.
She took her time approaching Prudence. I watched, fascinated, as the soft summer breeze played with the long tendrils of the witch’s unbound hair. She gripped the edges of her cape with both hands. I was afraid that she would look up at me, but she only had eyes for Prudence.
