Haunting the Deep

by Adriana Mather

  “Well, my father and I had gone to Paris for business and somehow got coerced into staying for my aunt’s birthday. We tried every excuse we could think of, but she would not hear of our leaving.” He looks at me as we walk. “Samantha, her children screamed all day and all night, her friends were world-class snobs who talked about nothing but diamonds and hat feathers, and she kept finding ways to bring over young women she thought would be good marriage material for me.”

  “That does sound bad. Especially the marriage part.” I examine his face. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in January.”

  “Um, yeah. You’re much too young.”

  He smiles. “Is that so?”

  “Not even a question.”

  “I wish you would tell that to my aunt.” A few men in top hats pass us, arguing over which of them is the best cardplayer. “Because there I was in Paris, one of the greatest cities in the world, having a perfectly miserable time. And it was no better for my father. My aunt was trying to arrange introductions for him, too.”

  “Are your parents divorced?”

  Alexander looks shocked. Did I say something wrong?

  Alexander smiles, and again my question drifts from my thoughts. “My mother passed when I was small.”

  I look down. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. I really need to learn to think before I speak.”

  “I actually quite enjoy your frankness. It is rare that you meet someone who says what they think without trying to manage your impression of them.”

  His words feel almost familiar, like I’ve heard them from someone before. “So how did you ever escape your aunt?” I ask.

  “With trickery and plotting,” he says, and raises his eyebrows dramatically. “I paid the butler to deliver a note to my father at dinner, pleading for his immediate return to New York to handle urgent business matters. Of course, he recognized my handwriting, and he scolded me for it later, but he took advantage of the opportunity without pause.”

  “But how did you get on this liner? I heard it was completely booked up.”

  “Aha, well, that is a whole other drama.” He gestures toward large windows that look into a gorgeous room with intricately carved walls and velvet armchairs. “Shall we sit for a while in the lounge?”

  “Certainly. But then I must retire to my room.” Is it wrong for me to be spending so much time with him? Will my uncle disapprove? Why am I even worrying about this?

  For a moment disappointment flashes on Alexander’s face. “Well then, I must dedicate myself to making my conversation so interesting that you want to stay a bit longer.”

  A butler opens the door for us and we enter the lounge. Inside, there’s a buzz of conversation. We navigate through tables of people playing cards, drinking after-dinner tea, and telling jokes. Near a wide bookcase, an older gentleman with a white beard and a bow tie sits by himself, reading.

  “Good evening, Mr. Stead,” I say as we pass. How do I know his name? Wait, I met him in the café, right?

  The man looks up from his book and smiles. “Good evening. Never a more beautiful night, if you ask me.”

  “I could not agree more,” says Alexander.

  Mr. Stead’s smile widens, and he returns to his book. Alexander leads me to a velvet couch that’s isolated from the loud socializing groups. He helps me take off my coat and drapes it over a nearby armchair. We sit.

  For a second he watches me without speaking.

  “What?”

  He doesn’t break his gaze. “I was just thinking how if I had not finagled my way out of my aunt’s house and bartered my way on board, I never would have spent this evening with you.”

  Before I can respond, Alexander’s father approaches us. “Well, good evening, Miss Mather,” he says, and bows. “I hope my son isn’t boring you with too many stories.”

  “Not at all,” I say. “Only exciting ones.”

  “Yes, well,” he says, and frowns at me. “Alex, do come find me when you are done. I imagine you will be retiring to your room soon, Miss Mather.” His intonation implies it’s a statement and not a question.

  Is he suggesting that I leave? “Of course,” I say.

  He bows again and walks away.

  “I don’t think your father likes me,” I say to Alexander in a hushed voice.

  He laughs. “Sometimes I wonder if he likes me. Now, what were we saying?”

  “I believe you were going to tell me how you bartered your way on board?”

  “Ah, yes. My father paid an Italian immigrant and his brother an unreasonable sum to give us their steerage tickets. The White Star Line told us the first-class cabins were full. But of course, once we arrived on board, we were able to talk to Bruce Ismay and arrange other accommodations. J. P. Morgan and Alfred Vanderbilt canceled their trips at the very last moment, and their suites were available.”

  “Bruce Ismay?”

  “One of the Titanic’s owners.”

  “Oh, right. Well, weren’t you fortunate.”

  He smiles. “I do feel very lucky right now.”

  His happiness is so infectious that I feel lightened by it myself. “And what will you do with all your newfound luck?” I ask.

  “Use it to make a bet.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “What kind of a bet?”

  “A bet that before we reach New York, you will dance with me.”

  I laugh. “You know there’s no dance floor on this ship.” For a brief moment my confidence falters. How do I know that? Maybe Mollie told me?

  “I do,” he says, and my lightness returns.

  “I’ll take that bet. But I—”

  “…hope you are prepared to lose.”

  There’s a loud beeping noise, and I stab at my phone with my pointer finger until it goes away. There’s also a text.

  Alice: Got no sleep. Not coming to school. Meet us in Ropes Mansion Garden when you get out.

  I squint at the dim light shining through the white lace of my bedroom curtains. White lace, white gloves…I sit straight up in my bed and a pit forms in my stomach. The box with the green dress is on the floor next to my trunk, where I put it two days ago. What’s the deal? That wasn’t a dream like the other dreams about the Titanic. That was exactly like what happened when I put on the dress. I didn’t know myself there; I couldn’t remember who I was. And that guy, I was flirting with him. What the hell?

  The blankets move at the end of my bed. I launch out of my covers and onto the floor so fast that I barely get my legs under me. A black paw emerges from a mound of down comforter, followed by a furry head. The pear-shaped cat stretches and then dedicates itself to licking its wobbly belly.

  “So you’re sleeping in my bed now? Why not on my head? Might as well just sleep there. I have zero privacy anyway.”

  The cat doesn’t bother looking up.

  I open my vanity drawer and take out the Titanic letter and the dog collar. I tuck the letter into my Gracie book for safekeeping and knot the napkin around the collar so I don’t accidentally touch it.

  I grab the black sweatshirt draped on my chair and carefully pull it over my bandaged arm as I head into the hall toward the stairs. I try to shake off the icky feeling I have about my nondream. It’s not like anything bad happened per se, but my gut tells me that place is dangerous. I can feel it in my bones, something terrible looming there right outside of my view.

  I shudder and grab the banister. Also, what a mess last night with Jaxon. Six months with no flirting or anything, then the moment my life goes haywire, he does, too. I just hope that attempted kiss doesn’t screw everything up.

  “Hey,” my dad says from the foyer as I reach the bottom of the stairs. “I was just coming to wake you up.”

  I couldn’t be happier to see my dad. I walk straight up to him and hug him. “I love you.”

  He smiles and wraps his arm around my shoulders as we walk down the hallway. “There is no one I love more on this earth than you.”

&nbs
p; I nod my head into his side. “We eating here?”

  “We’re eating alone this morning. Mae had to go to the bakery to handle some business, and Jaxon had to leave early to pick someone up.”

  Pick someone up? I don’t buy it; he’s avoiding me.

  My dad releases me in order to push open the kitchen door. The smell of bell peppers and onions greets me.

  “And since we’re all alone, I figured we could have good old fried-egg sandwiches.”

  “Yes and yes,” I say, sitting down at the small breakfast table we almost never use, now that we do so many meals with the Meriwethers. I’ve always liked it, though, because it’s in front of an arched window that looks out over the backyard.

  I pour myself a mug of coffee and stir in half-and-half and a scoop of cocoa. Eggs sizzle in the frying pan.

  Egg sandwiches were always our guilty-pleasure breakfast. Vivian hated them. I think it was because Dad once told her they were my mother’s favorite food. “Did Mom like living in Salem?” I ask, and sip my coffee. Nothing better than the first sip.

  My dad flips the eggs. “Your mom loved Salem. Her family owned a bookstore here for generations. And your mother made it her personal mission to read all the books in it. Getting her out of that store for a date always made me feel like I’d achieved something.” He smiles at the memory and wipes his hands on the dish towel draped over his shoulder. “Although, she was never gentle about letting me know when hanging out with me was less interesting than her current book.” He laughs.

  “And the bookstore got sold after her parents died, right? Did it stay a bookstore?”

  He carries over two plates and places one in front of me. He made the pepper-and-onion hash browns in the shape of pancakes and put them on hard rolls with fried eggs and cheese.

  “Yum,” I say.

  He pours himself some steaming coffee in his #1 DAD mug and sits down. “I don’t think so; I’m pretty sure it became a beauty shop or something. Honestly, I didn’t investigate it. At the time it held too many memories.”

  I nod with a mouth full of egg sandwich.

  My dad sips his coffee. “Oh, you know what? Another package arrived this morning from the mysterious Myra H. H.”

  I choke on my food. “What?”

  “Only, I assume it was for me this time. I thought the Mathers were eccentric, but the Haxtuns are clearly giving them a run for their money.”

  My pulse quickens. “Can I see it?”

  “It’s in my office.” He pauses. “What’s the thing? You look worried.”

  I force my shoulders down. “Nope. Just curious. Did you get a dress, too?”

  He laughs. “Almost. I got a bowler hat. I’ve never worn a bowler hat in my life. I’m starting to wonder if this Myra, whoever she is, is cleaning out her closets and sending antique clothes to her distant relatives. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  My stomach knots up. “Yeah, I bet you’re right. I hope she sends jewelry next or a cool pocket watch.”

  My dad nods. “There was no return label on my package, either. I asked Mae if she knew of any Haxtuns in Salem. But no luck there. I did find contact information for a cousin Mom had listed in her address book, though. I’ve never met her, but I’m going to give her a call later today.”

  My mind spins. I one hundred percent can’t have him researching Myra and figuring out that we’re getting packages from a dead person—or someone pretending to be a dead person. He’ll flip. “Dad, you really don’t have to do that. I’m sure if she wanted us to respond, she would have listed a return address.”

  “I’m curious, though. Aren’t you?” His eyes search mine.

  “Yeah. For sure,” I say. But I can’t have my dad poking around in these presents or they’ll lead him to ask questions about the Titanic. And I don’t want him even thinking about that, not with Redd’s ominous warning—and her unclear answer—about who was at risk of dying. The girls and I are just going to have to move faster. Spells, whatever it takes.

  I walk down the hall toward history class and pull out my phone. There’s a reply from Alice in response to my rant over the bowler hat.

  Alice: Either both packages were actually sent by a generous dead relative, or someone wants you to think that. I almost hope it’s the first, because the second means there is some hidden agenda. Not good.

  Me: I know. Agreed. We need to make a plan today.

  Alice: As opposed to not making one? Brilliant thinking.

  My shoulder collides with someone and I drop my phone. It slides a few inches and stops near a pair of guy’s shoes. Matt stares at me with an amused look and bends down to retrieve it.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  He hands me back my phone. “Truthfully, I wasn’t watchin’ where I was goin’, either. It wasn’t all you.”

  I check my phone for damage.

  “You’re Sam, right?” he says.

  “You know I am,” I say flatly. This line is usually followed by a question about the woods or me seeing spirits.

  He laughs. “Amazin’. You care almost as little as I do.”

  There is a beat of silence. “So you’re the exchange student staying with Blair,” I say, not sure how to respond. “How are you liking Salem?”

  “Who do you think this school gossips about more: you fa bein’ able to see ghosts and do magic, which I can only assume is complete rubbish? Or me, for ’avin ’ad multiple kamikaze-style endin’s to my relationship wif Niki?”

  I laugh. No one ever calls out the rumors like that, at least not to me. “I’m leaning toward you, considering those hallway screaming matches you guys have had recently.”

  “Hmmm. Well, there’s always time fa you to catch up. Just turn a teacher into a frog or somefin’. Be’er yet, turn Niki into one.”

  “So you say now. But come next week, I bet you two will be all over each other again.”

  Matt smirks. “Do I detect a li’l jealousy?”

  “What? No,” I say quickly.

  His smirk widens. “Relax. I’m kiddin’.” He pauses. “Do you mind if I ask you somefin’?”

  “You don’t seem like the asking type.”

  “Good point. So then, why did you run away from me and Niki the other day when we were outside? You looked seriously bothered by somefin’.”

  “Oh, um, yeah. It was a bad day.”

  “Also, you were talkin’ to an empty bench.”

  I laugh awkwardly. “It’s like you said, I don’t exactly have a reputation for being normal in this school.”

  Matt smiles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” The bravado has left his voice. “Believe me, as someone who didn’t grow up ’ere, I don’t think you should want to fit in. You’re way be’er as you are.”

  I look at him, shocked by how genuinely nice that was.

  “Anyway, the bell’s about to ring. See you around,” he says, and continues down the hallway before I can reply.

  I open the door to AP History. Niki’s sitting on Jaxon’s desk.

  “You guys should come over again tonight. Kick off the weekend,” Niki says.

  Wait, he went to her house last night after we fought? I sink into my hard seat.

  The bell rings.

  Niki jumps down from Jaxon’s desk, leans over, and whispers something in his ear before walking off. I look at Jaxon, but he’s busy pulling out his homework.

  “Settle down, everyone,” Wardwell says. “Sam, you’re up first for trivia. Give me a name of a famous passenger, a brief description, and whether or not they survived.”

  I clear my throat. “Hammad Hassab. He lived in Cairo, and he was twenty-seven years old. Henry Harper hired him as an interpreter while he was traveling there and then offered to pay his fare to come to America as his valet. He survived.” I looked him up after I saw him that night at dinner. “He was the only full-blooded Egyptian on board and he was the only non-Lebanese Arab passenger to survive.”

  Wardwell nods. “Correct. Also, speaking of Hammad and t
he Harpers, who you were asking about yesterday…Did you know that they were one of the only families that survived without casualties? And even more remarkable, their dog survived with them.”

  I drop my pen and glance toward my bag, which holds the dog collar. Could Wardwell’s comment be a coincidence? Unlikely.

  “Well, I thought it was interesting, anyway,” Wardwell continues when I don’t answer. “Anyone else?”

  Niki raises her hand and Wardwell points to her.

  “William Stead. He was a newspaper editor for years in England and built a reputation because of his political writing. His articles were responsible for expanding the navy’s funding and exposing child prostitution and raising the age of consent to sixteen. But later in life he started a paper called War Against War and became committed to peace through arbitration. He was on the Titanic because President Taft had invited him to be a part of a peace congress at Carnegie Hall. He died on the ship.”

  Okay, what’s going on here? First the dog collar, and now this. The morning after I meet Henry Harper, Niki names him in class. Now Wardwell mentions the dog, and I just saw William Stead in my nondream last night. I look from the back of Niki’s blow-dried head to Wardwell. All of a sudden, I don’t trust either of them.

  I close my locker. No sign of Jaxon and no text. He wouldn’t have left without saying anything, would he? To be fair, I don’t need a ride right now. But still. I’ll just swing past his parking spot on my way out.

  I pull out my phone and text Alice.

  Me: Headed over now.

  As I move through the hall, I slip my arms into my jacket and sling my bag over my shoulder. I go out the door that leads to the student parking lot and stop short. Jaxon is talking to Niki next to his truck, and she’s holding on to his shirt. In the rare instances that Jaxon is mad at me, he still offers me a ride; we just drive home listening to music instead of talking. I really don’t want to watch this. But I am watching it, and I’m standing still and staring.

  Oh no. He saw me. He’s looking directly at me…and waving? Am I supposed to wave back? I will not wave at you like everything is normal! He looks at me for a second longer and goes back to his conversation with Niki.