by Rick Hautala
Abby nodded and said, “That’s because you’re not really here.”
Megan stared at her for a moment as if letting that thought sink in, but then she smiled and nodded.
“Or maybe,” she continued, “we’re the only real things here, and everything else is an illusion.”
“Could be,” Abby said. Years ago, she had stopped thinking too deeply about such things.
“I guess it’s not so bad,” Megan said as she waved her hand back and forth, letting it drift loosely in front of her face like a wind-tossed leaf.
Just then, a Monarch butterfly fluttered by and perched for a moment on a branch of the apple tree above Abby’s grave. It moved its wings slowly up and down as though cooling off. Abby looked at it for a long time, thinking how sad it was that even something as simple as a butterfly had something she didn’t.
Life.
As gorgeous as the day was, though, Abby couldn’t dispel the dark thoughts that were twisting inside her. She still worried about Megan because she wasn’t supposed to be here. Like everyone else who died, everyone except her, anyway, Megan was supposed to move on to whatever came next in the afterlife.
“You know,” Abby said, “I’ve been thinking about that machine your father was using.”
“You mean the computer.”
Abby nodded and said, “I’ve heard about them before from some other people, but I’ve never seen one until we were at your house. What exactly does it do?”
“Pretty much anything you want it to,” Megan replied with a casual shrug. “You can e-mail and post stuff on Myspace and Facebook and look at videos and pictures.”
“Videos?” Abby said.
“You know, like movies … pictures that move.”
Abby nodded as if she understood, though she had no idea what Megan was talking about.
“So what’s e-mail? And you say ‘my face’?”
“Facebook,” Megan said as a hint of frustration crossed her face. She looked like she had just bitten into a lemon. Abby sensed that she didn’t want to talk about any of this. She was still waving her hand in the air as though seeing it move was the most miraculous thing in the world. Maybe talking about computers made Megan miss being alive too much.
“E-mail is like sending a letter, only the letter doesn’t even exist in the real world. It just exists electronically, inside the computer and over the internet.
“Like you and I don’t exist in the real world,” Abby said.
“I dunno. Maybe. You can send a letter to anyone you want if you know their e-mail address, and on Facebook, you write things and post them so anyone who’s your friend can read them.”
“Is it cool to have a my face page?”
Megan lowered her gaze and shook her head.
“It’s how you get the letter to travel from one computer to anyone over the internet, so whoever you sent it to can read it.”
Abby nodded as if she finally understood, but she still had only a vague idea what Megan was talking about. She had never heard of the internet before, but like a lot of things, she decided she had to see it work before she could begin to understand it. She was silent for a long time, but then she had to say something because it was bothering her.
“Why couldn’t I see what was on the—what did you call it? The ‘computer screen’?”
“I have no idea,” Megan said. “I couldn’t, either. That was freaky, wasn’t it?”
Megan was still staring at her hand, but a faint sneer wrinkled her face as though she found Abby’s questions tedious.
“All I could see was, like, a flickering light flashing on and off really fast. It made me dizzy.”
Megan sighed and, shaking her head, said, “I told you I have no idea what was there.”
“I never said you did,” Abby said.
Wanting to drop the subject, she shifted her gaze out across the water. She didn’t find the view relaxing or enjoyable because she fixed instantly on the blackened wreck of the Faire Child on the distant rocks. The dark, weather-beaten hull was rocking slowly back and forth with each wave, and Abby could almost hear the low, steady grinding sounds the ships timbers made when they rolled against the seaweed-crusted granite. She was about to ask Megan if she could see the shipwreck, too, but decided not to. Megan was in a foul enough mood as it was.
So Abby shifted her gaze over to the cliffs where a faint haze rose like thin smoke from the sea where warmer seawater touched the cool air. In the shifting mist, Abby could easily imagine forms and faces resolving from the mist and then disappearing as the wind wafted the images away. She wondered if Megan’s sneaker was still there on the rocks, or if the high tide had carried it away or, perhaps, someone had found it and tossed it back into the water, not having any idea of its significance.
She jumped when an idea hit her, but when she glanced over at Megan, she saw that Megan was still transfixed by her waving hand. Abby was convinced that sneaker was important.
If only the right person would find it, Abby thought, but who was that?
“I was wondering …” she said, turning to face Megan.
“’Bout what?” Megan asked, her voice as faint and drifting as the tide.
“These ‘e-mails,’ as you call them. Does everyone who has a computer use them instead of writing letters or talking on the phone?”
“Pretty much. That and texting and tweeting,” Megan said with a shrug.
“Tweeting?”
“Sending messages over your cell phone.”
Abby nodded, thinking she understood. The last time she had awakened, she had noticed a lot of people when they walked on the beach held small devices up to the ears into which they talked.
“So everyone does it?” Abby asked.
An idea was forming in her mind, strengthened when Megan nodded to answer her question, but she didn’t want to tell Megan about it. Not just yet.
“I may have to leave the cemetery again tonight,” Abby suddenly said.
Megan snorted and shook her head.
“How come you can leave every night and I can’t?” she said.
“You have no idea how dangerous the Dead Lands are.”
“And you do?” Megan’s face scrunched with irritation. “You’re not afraid Reverend Wheeler will come and git yah?” She raised her hands and curled her fingers like claws while making a snarling sound that actually unnerved Abby.
Abby chuckled to relieve the tension, but the plan stirring inside her wouldn’t let go. She had no idea if she could really pull this off, but if she did, it just might solve everything.
“You saw him and his Hell Hounds,” Abby said, lowering her voice suggestively. She wanted Megan to remember how frightened she had been when Reverend Wheeler had been chasing them, and they had to hide in the lighthouse. Hopefully, that would be enough to keep Megan in the cemetery where she’d be safe at night.
“How come you’re not afraid, then?” Megan asked, looking appropriately cowed.
“I am. Trust me,” Abby said as a shiver ran through her. “It’s just … I gotta do what I gotta do.”
“And what’s that?”
Abby didn’t say another word. Instead, she turned and looked back at the shipwreck again and allowed herself to feel the sadness of how much she missed her mother and—yes, even her father.
“You’re not gonna ditch me again,” Megan said after another long silence. “I’m coming with you.”
Abby looked at her, so surprised she couldn’t reply right away.
“I know what you’re doing has something to do with me, and I want to be there.”
“No. You can’t come,” Abby said firmly.
“Oh, yeah?” Megan’s face darkened. “You just watch me.”
Abby knew when she was beat, so she lowered her head and nodded.
“Okay, then,” she said, “but let’s go do it now, while it’s still daylight. Let’s go to your house first.”
— 3 —
Detective Gray was stumped, and
he didn’t like being stumped. As far as his supervisor was concerned, Andrew Collins’ suicide put the McGowan case to rest. Unless or until another incident came along, something that had the same MO, then that was that.
Still, he couldn’t stop thinking something didn’t feel right, so late that afternoon, he drove over to the Ryders’ house and rang the doorbell.
Caroline answered. The first thing that popped into Gray’s mind was: “She looks like Hell had hit her and ran.” She’d gotten much worse since he had last seen her. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying; her face was much thinner than before and had a gray, washed-out look, the kind he’d seen on seriously ill people. Her expression didn’t alter one iota when she opened the door and saw him standing there. Her voice was flat and lifeless when she said, “Good afternoon, Detective Gray. What brings you by?”
Gray wanted to appear confident, and certainly he was about to admit defeat in the case, but he had to tell her that there had been no new developments, and now that Collins was dead, the investigation was closed.
“I was hoping you or your husband, or maybe your son, had remembered something—anything else that might help.”
Caroline stared straight into his eyes, but before she could speak, her husband shouted from somewhere in the house, “Who is it, hon?” A moment later, he appeared in the kitchen doorway. As soon as Bob Ryder saw him, his expression darkened.
“Detective Gray,” he said, his voice low and hollow as he came forward.
“Mr. Ryder.” Gray nodded curtly. “I just dropped by to let you know that the prime suspect in the case has killed himself.”
“He what?” Caroline said, her face going even paler, if that were possible.
Bob was drying his hands on a small, blue hand towel. Gray watched him carefully, analyzing how he took the news.
“Last night, Andrew Collins shot himself in the head.”
“Oh, my God. That’s terrible,” Caroline said, covering her face with both hands and letting out a loud, racking sob. Bob moved closer, still wiping his hands on the blue dishtowel. His mouth was hanging open in a wide “O.”
“So is that it?” he asked. “Case closed?”
As much as he hated to do it, Gray nodded. As far as he was concerned, this case or any case involving murder would remain open until there was a trial and conviction. But he had bupkis to go on, and he had to let it go cold and work on other, more pressing cases.
“We’ve been over the crime scene a dozen times, and since the rain the other day, anything of value has washed away if it hasn’t been trampled by people hiking around out there. Unless a witness comes forward or something, I’m sorry.” He shrugged and held his hands out, palms up. “I’ve got nothing else to go on.”
Bob nodded solemnly, but Caroline just kept staring at him with those vacant, unbelieving eyes. Her lower lip was pale and trembling, and he realized she might even blame him, in some twisted way, for what had happened to her daughter.
“My baby,” she finally whispered in a voice raw with emotion.
Bob moved up behind her and placed an arm around her waist, drawing her close. This apparently signaled that she could collapse emotionally because she turned around, buried her face against his chest, and started sobbing. Her shoulders shook as she wept.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” she kept saying, her voice muffled against her husband’s chest. He was patting her on the back and looking at Gray as though helpless.
Gray remained detached. He had to. He couldn’t do his job if he let himself get involved emotionally. Still, how could he not feel her pain and suffering, and how could he not understand the utter frustration she was experiencing?
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish I had better news.”
Gray and Bob locked eyes, and what struck the detective was how emotionless the man seemed. It was as if he wasn’t feeling anything. Even his voice had a curious detachment when he said, “Well, then—I guess that’s the end of it.”
Gray nodded, then turned and left the house, feeling empty but knowing this wasn’t the end of it. The sad truth, though, was that he had absolutely no idea where to go from here.
— 4 —
“So how does it work?” Abby asked.
They were standing next to the desk in Megan’s stepfather’s office because, to Megan’s surprise, her computer wasn’t in her bedroom. They had arrived in time to see the encounter between Detective Gray and Megan’s parents just moments ago. They were both surprised to hear the news about Andrew Collins’ suicide.
Abby was saddened by the news, but Megan had reacted strangely. She had gotten angry. Several times, while her parents were talking to the detective, she had moved as close to Detective Gray as she could and, leaning close to his ear, at first whispered and then ended up shouting and finally screaming at him that the killer was right there in front of him. Her stepfather—the man he was talking to right now!—was the murderer he was looking for.
Other than a few physical ticks, Gray gave no indication he could hear her. It was only after Abby told her she had an idea, that Megan finally calmed down.
“Well, then,” Megan said, looking at the computer on her stepfather’s desk. “If I was still alive, I’d click a button on the mouse or hit a key on the keyboard to wake it up.”
Abby had no idea what she meant by that, but as Megan spoke, she ran her fingertips over the computer keyboard. Her hand moved like the faint curl of smoke when someone blows out a candle, and her touch had absolutely no effect on the keys or the computer. The machine was humming softly, what Megan said was “sleep mode,” but the screen wasn’t on.
“We have to figure out some way to tell that detective about your sneaker,” Abby said.
Megan glanced up at her and said, “What good will that do? It’s just a friggin’ sneaker.”
“And your stepfather took the other one from your brother,” Abby said. “If only we could—”
Before she finished the sentence, an idea struck her. She looked at Megan, who was still trying in vain to get the computer to respond to her touch. Leaning forward, she tapped her on the shoulder.
“I know what we have to do, where we have to go,” she said.
“Right now?”
Abby nodded and said, “Uh-huh … before it’s too late.”
— 5 —
Jim had spent most of the day in his room on his computer. This wasn’t too much of a surprise since he did that a lot, especially in the winter, but on a beautiful, warm day, no doubt one of the last summery days of the year, his mother was pestering him to go outside and get some fresh air. He told her he would, but he stayed right where he was, surfing the web.
He hadn’t found much about any of the things Abby had told him, but there were a few articles on some local historical sites about shipwrecks off the coast of Maine. One of them mentioned in passing the wreck of the Faire Child in 1878 on Cushing’s Island, between Portland Harbor and Portland Head Light, but there weren’t many details. No list of passengers or people who perished.
This didn’t prove anything, Jim knew. He could have heard about the wreck years ago and just now dredged it out of his subconscious.
But it didn’t disprove anything, either. He wondered if he was imagining these encounters with Abby. In the clear light of day, he could see that it was—well, maybe not impossible, but certainly highly improbable that the ghost of a girl who had been dead for over a hundred years might appear to him.
Why him?
Was it all just because of the stupid locket?
Was he making all of this up, imagining it because of some silly picture in a locket?
If any one of his friends had told him the same story, he would have laughed his ass off at them.
But seeing, as they say, is believing, and he was positive he had seen and talked with Abby, not imagined or dreamed her.
Even crazier were the feelings he couldn’t deny he had for this girl, even though she was
dead. It was crazy and impossible that he would have a crush on her … that maybe he was even falling in love with her, but the attraction he felt for her was like nothing he had ever experienced before.
If it wasn’t love, then what was it?
Why else would he spend such a beautiful day in his room, messing around with his computer instead of hanging out with his friends, maybe going to the mall or down to the park to play ultimate Frisbee or something? He wanted to find out as much as he could about her, and then …
Yeah, then what?
What good would it do either of them?
You sure as hell can’t go on a date with someone who’s been dead for over a hundred years.
Where was the future in that?
“ … Jim …”
The voice was so faint at first that he didn’t hear it, but then it came again.
“ … Jim …”
He reacted. Chills traveled up and down his spine, and a curious prickling sensation gripped the back of his neck like unseen fingers, brushing against his skin. His heart started thumping hard in his chest, and his throat closed off as he turned slowly in his chair and scanned the bedroom.
It was sunny outside, but the bedroom shades were drawn, and a dull, gray haze filled the room. The corners of the bedroom in particular were dark and foreboding. He wondered if he even had the breath to speak before he whispered, “Abby?”
“I’m here,” she said, her voice a bit clearer now, closer than seemed possible. Why couldn’t he see her? “I have a friend with me.”
“A friend?”
“Remember that girl I told you about?”
Jim nodded and said, “You mean the girl who was—” He couldn’t finish.
“Yeah. She’s here with me now … Can you see her?”
“I can’t even see you.”
“Say something to him, Megan,” Abby said in a whisper.
There followed a long silence in which Jim strained to hear, but the only sounds were the ordinary sounds of the day—a car passing by outside and a bird singing far off in the distance.
“Nope … Can’t hear a thing,” he finally said.
