Strangers Among Us

by Kelley Armstrong

  They don’t speak of the narrow gash across the well-cared-for leather, the jagged cut no longer than a dagger’s length willfully dragged against the grain. They don’t speak of how the leather stretched thin for hours like the bond between adoptive father and disowned son, until it buckled under the strain and snapped. For how could they know how such a small incision could bring down an army of darkness? It’s simpler to give the credit to a regal elven prince and his cheering army of light, their golden banners arcing through the air.

  For what harm could be done by a boy like that? What harm, after all.

  HOW OBJECTS BEHAVE ON THE EDGE OF A BLACK HOLE

  A.C. Wise

  Maggie sat on the end of her bed and aligned the x-rays—three ghost-white views of her sister’s spine, bruised dark with the cancer that had recurred after over a year of remission. A pink post-it note stuck to the topmost x-ray read: I’m tired. It wasn’t much by way of suicide notes, but there wasn’t much else to say.

  Maggie slid the x-rays back into their envelope, keeping aside the business card mailed with them. Connor Barston, her sister’s boss, director at the South West American Nuclear Research Facility—SWAN. He’d found the x-rays in Jan’s office and sent them to Maggie as her next of kin.

  Maggie hadn’t cried yet. She imagined Doctor Parsons telling her that was perfectly normal—everyone processes grief differently. As if Maggie didn’t know. She’d said goodbye to Jan a long time ago. The wound wasn’t fresh, only a pale, faded scar.

  Even so, that scar twinged.

  Maggie moved to her desk, scrolling through her email to the last message Jan had sent her. The first in nearly a year, but possibly one of the last emails Jan had sent. Period.

  Not a cry for help. Not even a goodbye. Jan didn’t want to be talked out of her suicide. Once she’d made her mind up about something—whether it was her opinion of Maggie, or her decision to empty her bank account and book an appointment at an underground Death with Dignity clinic rather than face another round of chemo—she didn’t change it. Not that Maggie blamed her; after her first bout with cancer, after watching their mother die slowly of the same, it was a reasonable choice.

  But between Jan’s death and her last email, it was the latter that interested Maggie more. A sound file and a single sentence: Thought you might find this interesting.

  After a year of silence, after a lifetime of being strangers to each other, Jan had set aside her professional ego and reached out to Maggie.

  That, more than Jan’s suicide, shocked Maggie.

  Since their respective graduations, their careers had run parallel. Maggie had chosen engineering, things that could be touched, quantified, and explained. She’d even been part of the design team working on the collider at SWAN, where Jan worked, but Maggie had never been to the facility in person. Her career and Jan’s were truly parallel—never intersecting.

  Jan had made her career in particle physics. Ghost science, as Maggie thought of it. Spending a lifetime studying what could only be observed indirectly by the effect it had on things around it.

  So what Jan thought Maggie might ‘find interesting’, she couldn’t imagine. The sound file was labeled SWAN Recording - 10-14-31. Maggie hadn’t opened the file when Jan first sent it, but she played it now.

  Her fingers crept to the back of her neck, tracing the patch that settled just below her hairline, covering the first few knobs of her spine. The patch that keep her dosages regular, her brain chemistry in check.

  A slow, deep sound filled Maggie’s bedroom. It had a stretched quality. Thin. Just above where Maggie’s fingers skirted the edges of the patch, her skin puckered tight. A sound, a vibration, a note played directly into the bones of her skull—hauntingly familiar, and yet utterly strange.

  The clip came to an end, and Maggie breathed out.

  What the fuck had Jan meant by sending it? A problem she finally—at the end of her life—couldn’t solve, but thought Maggie could give her insight on, somehow? Her sister had never followed up with an explanation, and now it was too late for Maggie to reply and ask.

  Before giving herself time to fully think it through, Maggie booked a flight to Arizona, then sent an email to Barston, Jan’s boss: I want to see where my sister worked. I was part of the design team on your collider. I can get security clearances if you need them. My flight arrives tomorrow morning.

  Was this why Jan had sent the email, to intrigue Maggie enough that she’d cross the continent to see for herself what Jan had been working on? Or had she simply meant to needle Maggie one last time by sending her a puzzle without a solution? Maggie bit her lip, worrying chapped skin. Was there any chance sending Maggie the sound clip had been some sort of a strange peace offering? She’d never been particularly good at guessing Jan’s motives. For anything.

  She pulled a spiral bound notebook from the bottom drawer of her desk. On the first available blank line she wrote: April 13, 2032: Twenty-one years, three months, and nineteen days. I am not being haunted by my sister’s ghost.

  The same sentence filled every page, repeated daily, the date changing, but nothing else. There were notebooks before this one, an archeological record tracing Maggie’s handwriting from her eleven-year-old block print, to the back-sloping experiment with cursive, to now—a hybrid mix, barely legible, even to her.

  Maggie ran her fingers over the indentations made by the ink, tracing the shape of each letter, blushing her skin pale blue. She tucked the program from Jan’s funeral between the pages, closed the notebook, and returned it to the drawer.

  I am not being haunted by my sister’s ghost. For the first time in a very long time, an inkling of doubt crept through the walls she’d spent more than twenty-one years building. Had the words ever been true?

  October 19, 2011

  Maggie watched as the ghost placed her fingers precisely over indentations in the puzzle box that neither she nor Jan had been able to find. Real-Jan, at least. Ghost-Jan seemed to have no trouble. Because the ghost was Jan; Maggie had no doubt about that. Her sister slept peacefully in the bed beside hers, and her sister also sat cross-legged on the end of Maggie’s bed, not denting the covers. One Jan in two places, both equally real.

  Which meant it was okay to open the puzzle box. When Gran had given it to them, they’d promised to open it together. Ghost-Jan withdrew her hands, tilting her head to say, now you try.

  Maggie fit her fingers exactly where the ghost’s had been. A faint click, and the box slid open.

  “What are you doing?” Jan sat up, glaring at her. “You opened the box. You promised you wouldn’t.”

  “But you helped me.” The words slipped out before Maggie could stop them.

  Her sister narrowed her eyes; Maggie recognized the look, but she wasn’t fast enough to explain—of course Jan had helped her, they’d opened the box together, couldn’t she see? Jan lunged. Maggie pulled the box back, trying to protect it. Jan grabbed the edge, a tug of war between them, then the box slipped, catching Maggie in the mouth.

  The light snapped on; their mother stood in the bedroom door, weary gaze moving between them.

  “She opened the box without me.” Jan spoke first, pointing an accusing finger.

  Maggie opened her mouth to object, glancing over her shoulder so Ghost-Jan could back her up, but the end of the bed was empty. Panic gnawed at her. Her lip throbbed. She touched it, smearing her finger red.

  “I’m bleeding.”

  Jan whipped around to glare at her, the word tattletale burning in her gaze. Maggie clapped her hand over her mouth, ignoring the pain. She didn’t want to get Jan in trouble; it would only make things worse.

  “Let me see.” Their mother tugged Maggie’s hand away from her mouth. “It’s not bad. We’ll put some ice on it.”

  Jan’s cheeks flushed, her eyes bright—caught between anger and tears.

  “I’m sorry.” Maggie pushed the box toward her sister as she slid off the bed, but Jan shoved it angrily away.

&nbs
p; “I don’t want the stupid box.” Jan turned her attention to their mother. “You always take her side!”

  “I’m not taking anyone’s side.”

  Jan followed them as far as the bedroom door and then slammed it the moment they were in the hall.

  “I hate you!”

  The words were barely muffled by the wood. Maggie flinched; she had no doubt they were meant for her.

  In the kitchen, her mother handed her ice cubes wrapped in a tea towel. “This will make you feel better.”

  Maggie sat on a chair and dutifully pressed the ice to her sore lip, but if anything, it made her feel worse. Her eyes stung; Jan would never forgive her. She hadn’t meant to do anything wrong. It made perfect sense at the time. Jan had helped her open the box while Jan was asleep in bed. But now, in the bright light of the kitchen, it all jumbled up in her head, putting a tight feeling in her chest, hitching her breath.

  “Want to tell me what happened?”

  Maggie shook her head. She pressed the ice harder against her mouth, trying to distract herself with pain.

  Her mother crouched, her face level with Maggie’s. “Maggie.” Her tone was soft, but there was an edge to it; her mother expected the truth.

  Maggie couldn’t stop the tears this time. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. Jan’s ghost helped me with the puzzle box, then Jan woke up and got mad.”

  Maggie wanted to lean against her mother’s shoulder, but her mother held her at arm’s length.

  “You were pretending there was a ghost?” Lines creased the corners of her mother’s mouth, and something flickered in her eyes that Maggie didn’t understand, but it frightened her.

  “No.” Maggie shook her head hard enough to make her jaw hurt. “There was a ghost. Jan was sleeping, and she was a ghost at the same time.”

  “Maggie.” Her mother kept the distance between them, instead of letting Maggie burrow against her, looking at her intently. Maggie wanted to squirm under the pressure of her gaze. “I need you to tell me the truth. No fibbing. No pretend. What did you see?”

  “A ghost. I saw Jan’s ghost.” Maggie’s voice rose, her breath stuttering in uneven gasps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make Jan mad. I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  She fought to get her breathing under control, which only made it worse.

  “Oh, baby. I’m not mad. Come here.” Her mother’s expression softened and she pulled Maggie close, but not before Maggie saw her frown deepen, worry creasing her forehead. It made her mother’s next words sound even more like a lie. Maggie had seen Jan’s expression; she knew her mother’s words weren’t true. “It’s not your fault, baby. No one’s mad at you.”

  April 14, 2032: Twenty-one years, three months, and twenty days. I am not being haunted by my sister’s ghost.

  Maggie drummed pen against notebook as the plane whisked her to Arizona. Her free hand crept toward the back of her neck. Catching herself, she deliberately gripped the armrest instead.

  The words she’d written were true. She knew they were true. But that didn’t mean Jan’s ghost wasn’t real. Real in the sense that her brain chemistry showed her things that weren’t objectively there. Or convinced her that her body didn’t belong to her; someone else was controlling her, and if she could just find that person, everything would be okay. Or gave her the feeling of a void opening up beneath her, threatening to swallow her whole, until pain allowed her to focus and make it stop.

  The patch kept all those things at bay, regularly adjusted and fine-tuned, checked by Dr. Parsons at each appointment. Maggie trusted in her diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. She knew what happened without her medication. She knew the ghost wasn’t—objectively—real.

  But once upon a time, she’d known Jan lay asleep in the bed beside her at the same time as she showed Maggie how to open the box. And even now, twenty-one years, three months, and twenty days later, a tiny part of her still wanted both things to be true. Ghost-Jan had been kinder. She’d been patient. She hadn’t hated Maggie for no reason.

  Maggie rubbed at a tension knot in her shoulder. Twenty-one years, three months, and twenty days—she was still crap at deciphering her sister’s motivations. Death hadn’t changed anything between them. Jan was as much of a stranger to her as she’d ever been.

  Maggie tucked the notebook into her bag, slipping her feet into the shoes abandoned during the flight. They’d be landing soon.

  Once she’d gathered her bags, Maggie took a cab straight to SWAN. Connor Barston met her in the lobby himself. Maggie still had his business card tucked in her pocket. The way he stepped forward, hand out, ready to shake, pushed her guard up. The tight expression around his mouth and eyes didn’t help him.

  “I don’t need the full tour. Just show me where my sister worked.” Maggie ignored his out-stretched hand.

  Barston faltered, but his smile came back too quickly. It was an effort for Maggie not to grin, watching the complicated contortions of Barston’s expression.

  “Follow me.” Barston pivoted.

  Maggie followed him to a hallway filled with identical doors. One bore Jan’s name, and Barston unlocked it without stepping out of the way.

  “I’ll be fine from here. Thank you.” Maggie pasted on her sweetest smile, making sure to show teeth.

  Barston actually stepped back a pace, and Maggie saved herself from laughing by stepping around him into the tiny office and pulling the door closed. Jan’s office was made smaller by book shelves lining two walls. An old-fashioned wooden desk dominated, topped by an old-fashioned computer surrounded by precarious stacks of paper.

  At least they had one thing in common.

  A corner of Maggie’s mouth lifted, but the familiarity didn’t last. Aside from physical paper, there was nothing else here to link her to Jan. No photographs on the walls, no personal effects at all, nothing to accidentally remind Jan she had a life outside this sterile building.

  A sense of absence, of disassociation, haunted the whole room. But more than that, something felt specifically missing. Maggie’s gaze settled on the corner of Jan’s desk—a space conspicuously clear of paper.

  The puzzle box.

  Alone in the room, Maggie snorted a laugh. She had no evidence Jan had even kept the puzzle box, let alone brought it to work. Except the empty space at the corner of Jan’s desk seemed to call for it. The box belonged there, like a pulled tooth.

  Maggie opened desk drawers. Old-fashioned paper files, no sign of their Gran’s gift. Supplies: pens, highlighters, paperclips. They both still liked to write by hand. Maggie quelled an impulse to reach for her bag and pull out the notebook. She quelled the urge to touch the back of her neck. Breathe. Stay calm. In and out.

  She leaned against Jan’s desk. Her hand brushed the mouse, another old fashioned touch, waking the computer screen. It wasn’t even password locked. Maggie blinked, surprised. Maybe Barston had been in there before her, snooping around. Either way, the computer was open to her now. Maggie sat.

  Sound files littered the desktop, all like the one Jan had sent her, but with different dates. Pulse tripping, Maggie chose one at random to play. Like the file Jan had sent her, it reminded Maggie of a whalesong, but less musical. Something bent and warped out of true. Something hauntingly familiar she couldn’t place.

  She turned the computer’s speakers all the way up. The sound reverberated inside her skin, shivering her ribcage, pressing a hand to her lower back. Her jaw ached.

  Maggie tapped the patch clinging to her skin—restless, tracing its edges. She played the next file, and the next. Her skin itched. There was something there, but she wasn’t sure what it was. Not yet. Why the hell had Jan sent her the file? What did she expect Maggie to understand?

  Maggie clicked on the next file. A video popped up. She hadn’t even noticed the different file type, but Jan’s face filled the screen.

  Tired. Shadows bruised Jan’s eyes—stubborn no matter how the light hit them—and lines etched the corners of her mouth. S
he looked like a woman who’d accepted death, but still walked, talked and breathed.

  Jan’s ghost recurring—pale, washed out, and stretched thin somehow. But this ghost’s eyes weren’t as kind. They weren’t cruel, just weary. This Jan hurt, through and through, but rather than turning that pain against the world, she held it all inside.

  A tremor started near Maggie’s feet. She leaned back in Jan’s chair, crossing her arms around her body, holding herself in, letting the video play.

  “The sound showed up right after we fired up the collider for the first time.”

  On screen, Jan was framed by her office, sitting in the same chair where Maggie sat now.

  “I wish we could call it a result, but there isn’t anything conclusive to link the sound to the collider start-up.”

  Jan leaned forward. Though the webcam didn’t show her arm, it was clear she’d opened one of the sound files. The sound washed through the speakers, doubly ghosted, a recording of a recording.

  “We’ve captured three instances of the sound so far. There’s no clear pattern. It could be a glitch in the equipment. It could be a flaw in the structure of the collider itself.”

  Maggie flinched. But Jan’s words weren’t directed at her. For once. They were simply the words of a frustrated scientist running out of time.

  “So far, nothing we’ve done has predictably caused the sound to manifest. Maybe it has nothing to do with the collider. It could be pure coincidence. Fuck it. Maybe the goddamn building is haunted.”

  The recording cut off. Maggie let out a breath. She counted the files labeled sequentially on Jan’s computer—thirteen in all. Plus one more video file.

  Maggie played it. More of Jan’s frustration. She nearly closed the last video without letting it play out, but Jan’s words stopped her.

  “The only theory I’ve been able to come up with . . .”

  The recorded ghost of Jan paused, swallowing, then shook her head.

  “I’m not going to rehash it. There’s no point.”