But there was something...
Anna furrowed her brow, trying to puzzle it out.
Ignore the hat. What if her hair weren’t in a pompadour? It could be brown or blonde or... red.
She imagined the woman with long, red hair well past her shoulders, in a braid hanging over one shoulder. With a sudden realization, Anna dropped the picture. It fell to her lap, where it lay as she stared at the image, unable to take her eyes off it. She knew that face. She’d seen it that morning.
But how could the woman from the cemetery be Nanny Mae Workman? The picture looked exactly like her, as if she hadn’t aged a day. Anna tried to find some rational explanation. Perhaps the person Anna had seen was a close relative, like a daughter.
But Nanny Mae never married and had no children.
Maybe the woman at the cemetery was her sister.
She had no family at all. But if she had, any living sister would look much older than that.
Anna set aside the unsettling memory of the woman seemingly hovering above the ground; that bit had to have been her imagination.
But there was no getting around the fact that the woman at the cemetery had recognized Anna. Had smiled and called to her. Anna tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry as sand as the details all came together.
Was the woman at the graveyard Nanny Mae’s...
Anna cut off her thoughts before the word ghost— not that that did much good. The woman died exactly a year ago today. And today was All Hallows’ Eve.
As she tried to repack the crate, her shaking fingers refused to obey, making her drop several journals and notebooks and sending the stack of dance cards all over the floor, near the podium and under the bench. She dropped to her knees to pick them up, needing to get the crates back to the closet right away. Needing to leave. An urgency to escape came over her, even as part of her mind whispered that if the spirit of Nanny Mae could find her at the graveyard, she could find her anywhere. That there could be no escape.
The more Anna tried to hurry, the more she fumbled with the papers and books. The lamplight flickered, making her look up. No draft or breeze had passed through the room to cause such a thing. It flickered again. Gooseflesh broke out across her arms.
You’re far from home, she thought, shaking her head disdainfully. You’re tired. And you’re imagining things. Now clean up and get back to the house.
All well and good, but the lamplight flickered a third time, and now she heard footsteps in the hall, drawing closer. They moved fast, as if the person was jogging.
“Mr. Sorensen?” she called, but it came out as a squeak and likely didn’t make it past the doorway. Would Mr. Sorensen have come so far into the building while covered in dirt and mud? She highly doubted that. Then who was it?
Or what?
Her throat tightened, making each breath difficult and shallow. She hugged a notebook to her chest and waited.
Another squeak of the floorboards. Closer this time. Drawing nearer and nearer. Someone— or something— was approaching. Fast.
Chapter Three
Charlie Beck strode along the street as he headed home from a long day’s work in Mr. Mitchell’s apple orchards. Harvest time was always the busiest of the year, so Mitchell hired extra workers. Charlie clasped his hands behind him and arched to crack his back, then tilted his head, one ear to shoulder and then the other, to stretch his tight muscles. It felt good, but he knew from experience that come morning, he’d be extra sore all over. At least he had the day off tomorrow; not all hands were so lucky as to get Saturday free.
The sun had just dipped behind the horizon behind him; the edges of long shadows began blurring as dusk gradually took over. When he was a dozen yards from the corner across from the church, a yellow glow spilled onto the street from the arched window above the side door.
Odd. Maybe Sorensen’s fixing something inside. Usually the elderly man worked the grounds, but there was no reason to think he couldn’t be making repairs inside— except that Mr. Beckstead from up the street was the one always called on for such matters. He knew about electric lights and fixing plaster and such.
Nothing about the situation was suspicious per se, but some quality of the air or the night made Charlie slow his step and stare at the glow. Was something amiss? Maybe he should check the grounds to be sure Sorensen wasn’t lying somewhere, hurt.
Charlie stood on the street corner, ready to cross, when the light in the upper window increased until it became so bright that he had to shield his eyes and squint. Even so, he peered at the arched window, which showed the balcony of the second floor.
There, clear as day, stood a young woman carrying a candle with a flame far too small to account for the intense light. She seemed to glow as she stood on the balcony, holding the wooden railing with one hand and the candle with the other. Transfixed, Charlie took in her long, red braid hanging over her left shoulder and her white gown, which appeared to be a nightdress. Who was she? And what was she doing on the second floor of the chapel, alone, in her nightclothes?
She moved suddenly, turning directly toward the window, and looked out. Charlie felt her gaze land on him as if it were a weight.
She can’t see me from there, he assured himself. Even so, he took a step back and nearly twisted an ankle on a stone. Outside, it’s twilight. Where she is, it’s light as day. She can’t see me.
Except he knew that she had. She still looked right at him. Smiling broadly, she pointed at Charlie; he could almost feel the touch of her finger through his shirt. Nothing about the moment made sense, yet it felt as real as picking apples had minutes ago. The woman turned her hand palm up and bent her fingers, inclining her head to the side at the same time— beckoning him to come. He raised his eyebrows. Surely he’d imagined that.
She laughed— somehow he could hear it. She beckoned again, then said, “It’s you. Come.” She turned and ran down the hall. She and the light vanished.
Charlie shook his head, wondering if he’d passed out and was dreaming, or if some of the men at the orchard had given him something stronger to drink than cider. Maybe some of them were playing a trick on him. Whatever it was, he felt compelled to investigate.
He drew his shoulders back, took a deep breath, and strode across the street with purpose. If the chapel door was locked, he’d know it had all been his imagination. He’d go home and to bed, never mentioning the matter to anyone. But if that woman was inside and needed help...
She had told him to come. And seemed to recognize him...
At the base of the steps, Charlie’s attention was caught by a different glow. He paused and looked at the two tall stained glass windows that bordered one side of the meeting hall. Was it his imagination— again— or did he detect a faint light behind the windows? Maybe the woman had fled there.
He hurried up the steps and tried the door. The knob turned easily, so Charlie pushed the door open and went inside. He glanced up at the second-floor balcony and shivered slightly before hurrying down the long hallway. He passed classrooms and offices and kept going, heading toward the meeting hall.
He reached the main entry to the building, then turned toward the chapel door. Sure enough, lamplight spilled over the threshold. He hurried over and peered inside. A lamp sat on the lectern, which explained the faint light he’d seen through the windows. He did indeed find a young woman, but not the one he’d been looking for.
Instead of red hair, this girl’s was a chestnut brown. She wore a simple navy dress rather than white. And she stared at him, clutching something to her chest. Was she, too, a phantom? He didn’t recognize either woman. At least this one didn’t glow or run from him.
He stepped into the chapel and asked, “What are you doing here?” Her eyes widened further. Only then did he realize that his tone might have come out sharp and unkind. He tried again. “I mean, do you need anything?”
The girl’s face seemed to drain of all color. She looked at something on the floor, and then her face snapped ba
ck up to meet his. “You!”
Before Charlie could say another word, her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she fainted to the floor. He rushed into the chapel and knelt beside her. Not knowing what else to do, he rolled her onto her side and put the back of his hand to her forehead as he’d seen physicians and midwives do. Was she sick? Delirious? She had a swelling bump on her forehead— no doubt from where she’d hit the floor. It would turn into a good-sized, multicolored goose egg. Good thing she’d been kneeling on the floor instead of standing, or she might have been hurt far worse.
He pushed away all thoughts of the specter he’d seen through the window and focused his attentions on the young woman who’d collapsed. She’d seemed genuinely frightened. Maybe she saw the other woman. But what had sparked the sudden fear and exclamation of “It’s you”? She was clearly afraid of him.
It’s you. The red-haired woman in white said the same thing. Was this unconscious young woman really a ghost or some otherworldly apparition?
He’d held her arm to roll her. He’d touched her forehead. No shadow from other realms could feel corporeal— solid, warm— could they? A little pink slowly returned to her cheeks and lips; surely phantasms from the beyond didn’t pale with fright.
So she is real, he thought. Had they met before? He didn’t think so, but then, how did she recognize him?
Her eyelids fluttered opened, then blinked once, twice. She stared into the grays and purples of the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, and her eyebrows came together as if she couldn’t figure out where she lay or what had happened.
“Are you all right?” Charlie asked quietly, hoping to avoid terrifying her into another fainting spell.
She closed her eyes again without looking at him, then put a hand to her forehead and took a deep breath. “What— what happened?”
Charlie almost didn’t dare speak, knowing that as soon as he did, she’d open her eyes, see his face, and be scared again. The idea shot a distinct sense of disappointment through him, though he couldn’t have said why. He didn’t know her— not even her name. Yet he knew he’d never forget her face or the feel of her cool skin under his hand as he’d checked her forehead. He eyed the mess of papers on the floor and turned to picking them up. He could help tidy what she’d been cleaning up.
“You fainted,” he said with his back to her so he wouldn’t frighten her again. “You’re in the chapel. I saw a light and came inside to make sure nothing was amiss.” By the time Charlie finished, he’d gathered a hefty stack, but the corners pointed every which way. The papers would never fit into the crate in such a state. He sat on the floor, legs splayed, and began sorting his load, adjusting individual pages so they were oriented correctly. He purposely kept his head somewhat bowed.
“I feel so queer,” the girl said weakly. “Almost as if I had a dream, but I wasn’t asleep, was I?”
“Not unless you can dream in ten seconds,” Charlie said in an attempt to lighten the mood. He lifted his gaze to the windows. What dim sunlight had remained when he’d been walking home was fading fast; the stained glass windows didn’t glow with pinks and golds as it did during meetings held at sunset. Instead, long shadows from the pews created varying shades of gray throughout the room, shades made starker by the light coming from the burning lamp.
Someone or something could easily be hiding in such shadows. He shoved the worry away. He was a grown man now, not some schoolboy who played at ghosts and goblins.
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” Charlie said cheerfully. “It’s getting dark, and I imagine you want to get home soon so you aren’t walking alone in the dark.”
The girl moved to sit, but then groaned and touched the swelling goose egg at her hairline, grimacing. She didn’t lie back, though; she leaned against the bench seat and closed her eyes again.
Charlie had picked up most of the mess— all but a few photos and cards sticking out beneath the girl’s skirt, but he wasn’t about to collect those until she moved. He might have a face ugly enough to scare a girl silly, but he was a gentleman. He stayed close, with his arms at the ready to catch her if need be; her clear lack of strength made him uneasy.
“Where you do live?” he asked. He didn’t trust that her constitution was strong enough to get her home unaccompanied. The city had only three or four thousand people, so the fact that he didn’t recognize her meant that she didn’t live in the immediate area. Every resident knew everyone else within several miles in all directions.
“I live on Main Street,” she said, sounding a bit stronger now. Steadying herself on the pew, she gradually pushed herself from the floor and sat on the bench. “With the Ingersolls. I’m their niece.”
“Ah. That explains it.” Charlie gathered the final papers that had been beneath her skirts and tucked them behind the rest of the stack as he sat beside her on the bench, resting the papers on his lap. “I know exactly where they live. I’d be happy to see you home to make sure you’re safe. I don’t have one of those fancy automobiles like your aunt and uncle, but I’d be happy to walk with you— after you have your strength back, that is.” He held out a hand. “My name’s Charlie, by the way. Charlie Beck.”
She would certainly look straight at him now; there was no avoiding that. If she fainted again, he’d catch her.
“Anna Brierley.” She shook his hand and looked into his eyes. And didn’t faint. She also didn’t pull back in horror. Even better, she didn’t withdraw her hand. Instead, she kept it nestled in his and studied his face. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, no,” Charlie said, quite happy to hold her hand and be in close proximity to a beautiful girl. She seemed to grow prettier by the second, and only part of that could be attributed to the fact that he was seeing her by moon and lamplight. “I apologize for startling you earlier. I was on my way home when—” But stopped there. No need to mention what he’d seen; Anna might think he was delirious. “That doesn’t matter. I do apologize. I certainly didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Anna said. “I must still be tired from traveling. Or maybe I caught a cold from being out in the rain.” She smiled as she spoke— a pretty smile with curving, pink lips he had a hard time looking away from. Charlie had an urge to make her smile wider— at him.
What would it be like to kiss that mouth? That thought was quickly followed by another. What are you thinking? You’ve only met her— and you terrified her half out of her wits. And he here he was thinking about her pretty smile? About kissing her?
Control your thoughts. That sounded like one of his father’s admonitions. Good advice.
Charlie cleared his throat and forced his gaze away from her smile. “Are these your family records?” He lifted the stack from his lap. While gathering them, he hadn’t paid attention to what the papers were, but he now looked down at a photo on the top of the handful— a photo of three people, two women and a man. And it was his turn to feel faint.
The man was obviously his father. He didn’t know the woman on the left, but the other one... She had the very same face as the woman he’d seen through the window minutes before. He’d have known her anywhere— the dark, piercing eyes, thin eyebrows, heart-shaped mouth. Her hair was in a pompadour instead of a long braid, and she wore a fancy dress that looked like the ones in pictures of his parents’ youth.
The photo had yellowed, and the edges were worn. This wasn’t a new photograph. It couldn’t be explained away as young people dressed up in a previous generation’s garb. If he’d had any doubt as to that, one detail confirmed it: a sign off to one side read Mitchell’s Orchards, but there weren’t half as many trees as there were now, and the trunks were much thinner. Besides, the man in the center was clearly his father, only younger, twenty-five years younger, he guessed.
Does this mean I really did see a...
He grasped the back of the bench with one hand and looked away from the picture, his mind feeling muddled and unsure.
“Are—
are you well, Charlie?”
Anna’s voice sounded much stronger now— stronger than he felt. She placed a hand on his forearm— a gesture of concern he appreciated, but even so, he flinched slightly. She pulled away as if she’d touched a hot stove, and he immediately wished he dared ask her to put her hand back.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he said with as much bravado as he could. He forced his lips into a smile. Judging by her raised eyebrows and cocked head, he wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’ll be fine,” he amended.
He glanced at the photo again, shuddered, and moved to put the papers away, but Anna stopped his hand.
“I remember now,” Anna said. “It was that photograph.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mind felt like pea soup when I first woke, but now I remember what scared me. I saw that picture, and then you walked in, and…” She studied the photograph, and Charlie took the opportunity both to avoid looking at it and to admire Anna’s profile.
She looked at him again and scooted a few inches closer, so they almost touched, although she didn’t seem to notice that part. He most certainly did, and welcomed it. “Do you know who they are?”
Charlie pointed to the man. “I recognize my father in the middle, but I don’t know the women.”
“This one is my mother, and I think the woman on the right is Nanny Mae Workman. These are her belongings I was asked to sort through.”
He looked at the woman again and nodded. “I can see the resemblance now that you mention it. I knew her much older, of course.”
“You look so much like your father, you could be twins,” Anna said. “When you appeared in the doorway, I almost thought—” Even though her voice cut off, he knew exactly what she’d been about to say.
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