by Brian Mercer
"And then it turns to me and whatever it was, it didn't have a face, just this dark mass where its eyes shoulda been. And the whole time I'm scared. I mean, I've never been so scared in all my life. Before then I couldn't even imagine bein' so terrified as this. I mean, I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe.
"Then this thing moves closer to me, until it's right there, up next to my bed, and it bends over my pillow. And now I think I do see a face or eyes or somethin'. I can see this old lady lookin' down at me with these crazy eyes, the kind of face that even if you saw it in the brightest of noontime days it would scare the crap outta you, but in the dark like that, it melts all my insides.
"She bends over me and I can feel her breath and smell it, like the stink from the swill at the bottom of a garbage can. I can feel the puff of cold air on my face. And she says one word, like the hiss of air comin' outta a busted tire. And she says, 'Tys-s-s-son. Tys-s-s-son.' Just like that. 'Tys-s-s-son.'"
I stubbed out my cigarillo on the floor boards and put the remnants in my shirt pocket. I studied Rex's opened-mouthed gaze. "And that, my friend, is how I got into 'ghost huntin'."
The drone of crickets filled the silence and for a full minute Rex sat mute beside me. He'd started to reply when a report crackled over my headset.
"Ty, this is Jake. Are you moving around up there?"
"Negative. What you got?"
"Footsteps. Sounds like boots. On the second floor, in the main hallway."
"We're on the upper gallery. Do you want I should check it out?"
"Stand by, Ty. Give us a minute."
I'd left the French doors open leading to the hallway. Despite Jake's request that we stay put, Rex and me crawled carefully to the threshold of the doorway and peered inside. It was completely dark by now and we could only see the barest of abstract shapes, a vague outline of the hallway, doors on either side, the faint form of the balustrade leading to the staircase.
We waited in the silence and murk, every sense keyed for movement or sound. It started as an indefinable shifting of wood, the creak of floor joints pulling at one another. Then we heard it, the faint but steady cadence of heavy heels on oak planking. Thump. Thump. A pause. Thump.
Gradually it advanced, closer and closer, until whatever it was seemed to come to a halt just a foot or two in front of us. There was perhaps fifteen seconds when neither us moved or even breathed. My heart was motoring in my chest, repeating in my head. I didn't trust psychics or eyewitness testimony. I liked to rely on firsthand evidence and what I could record on my arsenal of instruments, but right then I did feel the presence of something standing there before us, watching.
Then I caught it, a feeble yet distinct outtake of breath, what amounted to a sigh. The intonation was human, clearly feminine. There was emotion behind that sigh. Sadness. Loneliness. Desperation. Despair. You couldn't hear it without feeling wholehearted compassion for whoever or whatever had made it.
For several minutes we waited in silence. For what, I don't know. Finally, I looked at Rex and smiled, making my eyebrows dance at the edge of my forehead.
"Okay then," I said. "Time to go to work."
Chapter Seven
Sara
London, England
October 10
Our horses might once have looked perfectly at home here in Kensington, moving from Bathurst Mews, around Sussex Square to Brook Street, and so on to Hyde Park's Victoria Gate, were it not for the heavy traffic speeding down Bayswater Road. My cousin Charlotte and I were dressed identically on this brisk autumn morning: black velvet-covered riding helmets, red coats, snug khaki breeches, and tall black riding boots. As we passed through Victoria Gate, the broad expanse of Hyde Park opened up before us that, together with Kensington Gardens, covered over six hundred and twenty-five acres of woods, fields, and paths.
"You think you're so clever, just because he's texted you a few times," I observed. "It doesn't mean anything."
"You're just angry because he fancies me," Charlotte replied haughtily.
"Psht," was the only sound I could manage as we trotted onto the north riding path. Normally hard-packed earth, today the trail was the consistency of stiff chocolate mousse, the consequence of recent autumn rains.
"Admit it," Charlotte persisted. "You thought he liked you. This proves you wrong."
"It proves nothing." I bit my lips together to prevent saying something I might later regret, kicking at my horse's haunches. The animal, a young chestnut gelding named Black Friar, increased the tempo of his gait.
The previous evening's party returned to me in all its formal elegance — the ride in the grey limousine with my parents and sisters, the walk up the long, red carpet, the reception with its black-coated servers circulating with gleaming trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. I'd felt so marvelous in my black satin dress, black tights, and matching silk hair ribbon and patent leather flats. For the first time in my life Mummy had lent me her pearl necklace and matching earrings and I'd loved the way they highlighted my glossy, flaxen hair. I'd felt so pretty and refined and grown up.
Some two hundred people had filled the grand house, family and old friends whom I had known all my life; aunts, uncles, cousins in first, second, and third degrees. I leaned against the threshold of the old ballroom with Charlotte and our cousin, Henry, holding my fluted glass of champagne and scanning the crowd that drifted between constantly shifting clusters over the ornate parquet floor. I recognized almost everyone; noble families from the British aristocracy. No surprises here.
That's when I'd spotted him. Tall and handsome in a sleek, navy blue suit and crisp white dress shirt open at the throat. He was slightly older than I, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. He'd stood with his hands in his pockets, slouching comfortably, smiling at the old married couple with whom he'd been conversing. Something about his tidy haircut and the ease with which he leaned there, alternately nodding and laughing, made my breath catch in my chest so that I'd felt momentarily light-headed. All the sound in the room had grown hollow and echoey and for just a second I seemed to be sinking.
Deep in conversation, he glanced up at me, looked away, then quickly back again. Our eyes met, locked on each other, and then it happened. He flashed the most brilliant, happy smile that prompted my heart to expand, making breathing suddenly impossible. There was a silver electric zing that shot up the back of my legs and a shiver that reached down into the small of my back.
"Who is he?"
This from Charlotte, whispered in my ear, and all at once I wondered if the smile had been aimed at me or at her or, indeed, at either of us. Perhaps he'd simply been reacting to something that had been said, for he was laughing now, apparently oblivious to anyone but the old couple standing before him.
For the next hour and more, I'd circumnavigated the room, catching up with old friends, nibbling on canapés and other savories conveyed on polished sterling trays, making every effort to meet this unfamiliar boy's eye. By then I'd been convinced that I was the object of his attention. His gaze tracked me around the room and at every invitation to acknowledge me, he'd smiled back. Charlotte had been nowhere in the vicinity.
Finally, when he was at one end of the room's wide opening and I at the other, he looked at me with a significant tilt of his head, indicating that we move off together into the next room. It was a small library that I knew well from many other visits to the house, a quiet little nook where we might meet in private. I was anxious to finally learn his name.
He moved away and down the hall. After a discreet pause, I followed but was foiled by a horde of partygoers who'd been admiring recent revisions made to the upstairs bedrooms and who had all at once descended from the upper landing and into the main foyer. Quickly backtracking, I retreated across the ballroom, looking to take the long way round. Progress had been tedious, however, mired as I was for several maddening minutes by tight swaths of guests eager to engage in small talk.
At last I reached the corridor outside the l
ibrary. The room itself had been dark, illuminated only by light thrown in from the hallway and the remnants of a fire glowing in the enormous hearth at the room's far side. The idea of meeting the handsome new boy in a shadowy niche simultaneously frightened and thrilled me. My heart thumping wildly, I slipped inside, wondering if I looked as good as I felt, hoping my jitters wouldn't show.
I moved toward the fireplace until the glowing orange light touched the edge of my face, wondering if the boy might be studying me from the shadows. There were two leather wingback chairs angled toward the fire here, a small table and brandy decanter poised between them. I was startled at first to see movement on the lap of the nearest armchair until I recognized Sebastian, Uncle Alex's orange tabby, bathing fastidiously in the hearth's warm glow.
"Kitty!" I gasped, the boy momentarily forgotten.
Sebastian knew me but, spooked by the crowd invading his space, hesitated. I fell on him before he had a chance to affect escape, however, sinking my fingers into his velvety fur and massaging his neck. He was an elderly cat, yellowing at the edges of his formerly white paws. He emitted a musty smell, like dusty old books.
He mewed in protest when I hugged him and kissed his head, but settled comfortably back into the seat in response to my continued caresses. I sensed the presence of someone else in the room now and took a deep breath to settle my nerves.
"Sara, what are you doing in here?" an old man's voice echoed from the shadows. "I should think it's too early to be tired of the party."
A yellow light flickered near the mantle, a bright match-strike that illuminated the old man's face as the flame brushed the bowl of his pipe and glowed orange. Spicy-sweet tobacco smoke filled the darkness.
"Uncle Alex!" I exclaimed, a little startled not to see the boy from the party. "Where did you come from?"
"Fleeing my own party, I fear," he replied, moving into the firelight. "Seeking sanctuary with the old man here." He gestured toward the cat.
Uncle Alex's broad smile parted his silvery grey goatee. The hearth's orange flames reflected in his thick, black-rimmed glasses. Technically my great uncle, Uncle Alex was the patriarch of the family and head of Waltham Manor, the old family estate in northwest England. This was his residence in London. Once the family's only surviving male heir, he'd inherited the bulk of Alistair Waltham's extensive holdings. Now he ran some sort of school on the old family property. I thought him quite ancient. To everyone else he was Sir Alexander Bray. To me he was simply Uncle Alex.
"Not tired of the party," I insisted. "Not at all. I was just... I'd just thought... I was just looking..."
Uncle Alex grinned, as if in on some private joke. "You look absolutely radiant tonight, my dear. I daresay you've caught the eye of every young man at the party."
"Well, I'm not sure about... I don't feel..." I could feel myself blushing. "Thank you, Uncle Alex."
"Are you enjoying the festivities?"
I looked toward the door, trying not to look guilty, wondering now what had happened to my admirer. "I am. I am."
Uncle Alex nodded as if he'd known something was up. "No need to worry, my dear. I won't keep you long. But I did want to speak privately with you."
"Oh? With me?"
"Is everything all right at home. No upsets?"
I shook my head. "All's well."
"What about school? Everything's going smoothly?"
I never really thought much about such things. "It's good, I suppose. It is what it is."
"You have friends there?"
I shrugged. "Kathryn. Lauren. You know."
He nodded, studying me. He took a few draws from his pipe and let it out in a long, slow exhale. There'd been an omniscient quality about his deep brown eyes. It wasn't so much that he could look inside you but, rather, that he already knew what was there.
"How do you feel about change, Sara?"
"You mean like a new wardrobe?"
He laughed a little under his breath. "Yes, something like that."
I nodded thoughtfully. "It's good. Change is good."
He took another puff on his pipe, his eyes moving from me to the cat to me again. "Sometimes change can be frightening," he went on, "especially when you're not expecting it. It is frequently alarming because it so often involves a very clear loss of some kind, when what's gained from the loss often isn't completely clear."
"All right," I replied, not certain what he was getting at.
"The most important thing about change is trust," he explained, "trust that where you're going will ultimately be for the better. But trust can be a difficult thing to invoke when the ground under your feet, something you've always relied upon, has just shifted unexpectedly."
"Sure, Uncle Alex. Whatever you say."
"Trust, Sara. Know that things happen for a purpose. There are no accidents. Not really."
"All right."
He smiled and whatever vague shadow had passed over his bright features lifted. "All right, my dear. Run along now. You're missing the party."
I felt warm inside. I returned his smile, hugged him, and made my way back to the lighted hallway, concerned about the boy and why he'd never made an appearance. I'd discovered why a few seconds later, when I entered the foyer to find that Charlotte had cornered him against the recess under the stairs. The boy, Collin, a distant friend of the family, politely introduced himself, but it was clear that Charlotte had already plunged her fangs into him.
That had been last night. Now, as Charlotte and I left the muddy trail of Dorchester Ride, walking out thoroughbred-mixed Welsh ponies on the brief span of pavement toward Rotten Row, Collin had already texted Charlotte a half dozen times. They were tentative messages expressing his pleasure at meeting her, his hopes that they might talk again soon. He might be expressing genuine interest or he could be merely being polite. He had, nevertheless, contacted Charlotte and not me, when he had both our mobile numbers.
I cantered my horse until I reached the broad expanse of The Row, hoping to put a little distance between me and my she-devil cousin. The towering maples that lined the left side of the muddy trail arched overhead, forming a canopy of green and yellowing leaves. The park had once been a private deer sanctuary for Henry VIII. A century or so later, Rotten Row had been The King's Private Road, the fashionable place for the affluent to be seen. These days the sandy track was little used on account of so few stables in the vicinity. This morning Charlotte and I had it all to ourselves.
"I don't see what you're on about," Charlotte called out, urging her horse to keep up with mine. "It's not like I stole him from you."
"It's not fair," I said, standing in the saddle. "He saw me first!"
"What do you mean he saw you first? He likes me best. He's had just as much of a chance to text you as me. I don't see him ringing you up this morning."
The speed of my chestnut was definitely pressing park limits. Charlotte fell behind again. I knew without looking that Blackfriar was stirring up great saucers of mud in his wake and dearly hoped that they were landing on Charlotte's breeches and splattering across her wool coat.
"There's no need to be nasty," she cried. "It's not my fault that he likes me better than you."
"Likes you—" I replied through gritted teeth. "It was you putting your greasy claws all over him."
"Greasy? Claws?"
"You treacherous, evil, back-stabbing bum crumb!"
I spurred my horse hard, sending him into a full gallop. Not to be outdistanced, Charlotte aped my gesture. Big clods of mud flew from our horses' hooves as they fought to advance. A cool, autumn wind pressed against my cheeks. I'd never ridden so fast and didn't know quite how I might stop, but I didn't care. All I wanted to do was beat my cousin who all my life had been undermining and betraying me.
Park stewards had seen us galloping and were waving their arms for us to slow down, but I urged my horse faster anyway. Charlotte had gained a length on me and was pulling ahead. Argh! I couldn't even beat her at this!
That
was when I saw him, up ahead, standing alongside the trail. His garb immediately struck me as odd. He was dressed entirely in black: A robe of black broadcloth, black hose, black leather shoes, a black skull cap. In one hand he held a tall walking staff and around his neck hung an ivory crucifix. Everything about him screamed religious fanatic.
At first I assumed that he must be an actor, for London's theater district was only a mile or two away and his costume was clearly out of another age. Then I saw his face, the long countenance, drawn features, sunken, hollow eyes that instantly reminded me of wood carvings I'd seen of medieval nobility. This wasn't the face of someone from the twenty-first century but a being out of time entirely.
Long, wispy white hair curled out from around his skull cap, framing an expression of pure anger and malice. He despised me, that much was clear. He seemed to hate what I'd been, what I was, and what I would become. I was no stranger to him, no random park-goer upon whom he had suddenly unleashed his rancor. No, he seemed to hate me personally and with great wrath. Mere death wasn't good enough for me. Torture was too temporal. He seemed to demand my utter and eternal damnation.
My reaction was instant. It was as if all the air had been sucked from my chest and the weight of tons of gravel and debris had collapsed upon me. Suddenly, I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
My horse must have seen it, too, or leastwise felt it, for Blackfriar halted abruptly, skidding over the uncertain footing in order to avoid the wall of pure hate. Entirely unprepared for the sudden stop, I flew out of the stirrups and past the animal's neck, carried up and over by the momentum of the race. The last thing I saw as my body connected with the trail was the old man's furious black eyes promising punishment in the flesh what his anger alone could not deliver.
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