Haunting the Deep

by Adriana Mather

  “True. Okay,” I say, mulling over his words.

  Alice leans toward me, like she can somehow hear Elijah if she just gets close enough. “Does he have an idea?”

  “He said he came because he was tuned in to anything having to do with his sister. If Myra won’t come when we say her name, maybe she’ll come when we say someone else’s?”

  “Like her husband’s?” Susannah asks.

  “It’s possible,” I say. “Let’s try it.”

  We link hands again and all take a deep breath, inhaling the tea tree oil and the musty air. “Henry Sleeper Harper. Henry Sleeper—”

  “Henry?” A beautifully dressed older woman blinks in at the far end of the room. Myra! Even from a distance, she seems weary, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. “Henry?”

  I let go of Mary’s and Susannah’s hands. “She’s here.” My voice is a whisper.

  Myra locks me in her gaze. “Why are you calling for my Henry? Do you know where he is? Please, tell me if you know.” Her words are fast and nervous.

  “You don’t know where your husband is?” I ask. How can that be?

  “No. And if you have seen him, I would most appreciate your telling me so.”

  A chill runs down my neck. “He’s not here.” I take a step forward. “I did see him, though. I, um, had dinner with him on the Titanic.”

  She frowns. “Are you trying to be funny?” Myra takes note of the candles by my feet and all the items on the floor. She assesses each one of us, stopping on Elijah. “What am I supposed to make of all this?”

  “There is no bad intent. Of that, I can assure you,” Elijah says.

  She looks unsure.

  “I know how strange this is going to sound,” I say. “But I’ve been having dreams about the Titanic, whole and floating, like it was before it sank. Only they’re not quite dreams. I think the people I saw there might all be…spirits.”

  “I don’t understand. You say you saw my husband in your dreams, but you think he might really be on the Titanic? Where?”

  “I’m not exactly…How about this? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll tell you everything I know in exchange for you telling me what you know about these items.” I wave my hand at the floor.

  She pinches her lips together. “That does not seem unreasonable.”

  I take a breath. “So it goes like this…My grandmother was a Haxtun, Charlotte Haxtun Mather. She would have been your great-niece. And a dress was sent to my house a few days ago, a green evening gown. The card was signed with your name. Aunty Myra H.H.”

  Myra listens carefully.

  I point at the painting. “In this crate is a painting of you. However, I could have sworn that it used to be of you and your husband, only he seems to have disappeared from the canvas. I have no idea how it happened. It was hanging in the hallway downstairs. Then, about a week ago, it got moved up here.”

  The girls watch me without saying a word, even Alice. Maybe she has more restraint than I give her credit for.

  “That’s very odd,” Myra says, giving me her full attention.

  “When I put that dress on, the one the card said was from you, I wound up on a shiny new Titanic; don’t ask me how. And since then, every time I go to sleep, I return to the ship. Everyone keeps referring to me as your niece, even your husband. And I had dinner with him. Hammad was there, too.”

  “Hammad?” Myra asks, surprised. “We haven’t seen him since right after the ship went down. We heard he went back to Egypt.”

  “And you said that currently you cannot locate your husband?” Elijah says.

  Myra shakes her head. “Henry disappeared some time ago.”

  “And what led up to his disappearance? Did he do anything unusual?” Elijah asks.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” Myra says. “For a brief moment I thought he passed on without me. But we spent all our years after death together. Henry would never leave me by choice. It frightened me.”

  “What about fellow Titanic passengers? Have you seen any of them?” Elijah asks.

  Myra furrows her brow. “Some, yes. Others, I believe, passed on. But I haven’t seen any of them recently. Why?”

  Elijah shakes his head. “I have not been able to find a single one. And I have been looking extensively.”

  Myra frowns. “So what are you saying, then? That you think something is happening to Titanic passengers?”

  “As far as we can tell, the ship might be a spell, an illusion of some kind,” I say. “And for whatever reason…your husband is currently with the other passengers there.”

  “If my Henry somehow did go to a spell ship, why hasn’t he returned? I do not understand this at all.” Myra lifts her long skirt and walks toward the crate. “Now, let me see what you have here. You say this portrait was altered?” She examines it, and the corners of her eyes narrow. “But how can this be? Henry has vanished…and yet the canvas looks undisturbed? Who would do such a thing?” Her tone is demanding.

  “That is precisely what we aim to find out,” Elijah says in a reassuring voice.

  “I remember the day we had this commissioned,” Myra says, her hand clenching her skirt. “We had just bought our first home. How proud Henry was in that moment. I had no idea the painting was here.”

  “There was a letter taped to the back of it telling how you and Unc—” I wince at the ease with which I almost called him my uncle. “Henry survived. It was written by someone named Helen Hopson.”

  She nods. “My niece.” She bends down near the items on the floor, and the green dress catches her eye. “I’ve never seen this before. But I must admit that green silk was always a favorite. I wore it as often as I could.” She lifts a candle, and the girls’ eyes follow the seemingly floating flame. “And what is this, a dog collar? It is similar to ones I owned, but it does not belong to me.”

  “What about the hat? Could it have belonged to your husband?” I ask.

  “It is very hard to tell with men’s hats. They all look the same,” she says with no humor. This must be taking a toll on her. “But do you know what this makes me think of? That fellow who filmed the Titanic wreckage. He found my husband’s bowler hat still sitting on top of the remains of his wardrobe.”

  Elijah and I look at each other.

  Myra places the candle on the floor next to her. The tension leaves her face. “I have not seen one of Helen’s letters in many—” Myra’s fingers touch the envelope, and she jumps backward, examining her hand like she just got a bad shock.

  “Mrs. Harper?” Elijah says, moving toward her. I step forward, too.

  Myra looks shaken. “What on earth?” She stumbles and loses her balance. Elijah steadies her.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. The girls stiffen at hearing the anxiety in my voice.

  “Sam?” Alice says.

  Myra begins to flicker, the same way Elijah flickered when Vivian summoned him from Mrs. Meriwether’s kitchen.

  “What’s happening to her?” I ask.

  Elijah holds Myra’s arm. “There must have been a spell on the letter.”

  Myra tries to grab on to my hand, but her fingers go right through mine. Her eyes widen in fear. She speaks, but I can’t hear her. She reaches for me desperately with both arms like someone is dragging her backward against her will, and then she flickers out completely.

  Elijah and I are silent, staring at the spot where Myra disappeared.

  “Sam, I need you to tell us what happened,” Alice says with force, jolting me out of my shock.

  “Myra vanished. Not because she wanted to. A spell,” I say. “It happened right after she touched the letter.”

  Susannah stares at the letter. “Another spell in an object.”

  “But I touched that letter multiple times, and nothing happened to me,” I say.

  “Spells can be targeted to a person,” Alice says. “And I’m guessing to a spirit as well.”

  I frown. “So then what? All of these things—the dress, the collar, the pa
intings—were actually sent for her, not us?”

  “I believe someone hoped you would find her and potentially helped you to do so by putting all these objects in front of you,” Elijah says. “It is possible it would have happened if she had touched any of the other items as well.”

  I repeat his words to the Descendants.

  “And there we were happily doing the research and figuring out how to find her,” Susannah says.

  “And all along we were being used to trap her,” Alice says in disbelief.

  Mary drops the spell ingredients on the floor of the spare bedroom, and Elijah blinks out.

  “Whoever messed with that painting probably knows their spell worked,” Alice says.

  “Whoever messed with that painting is alive,” I say. “Spirits can’t do spells. But I also think they might have needed a spirit to help. It’s too risky otherwise and too easy to get caught.”

  “Also, a spirit most likely delivered those packages and left that key on my nightstand,” Alice says.

  Mary frowns. “Did you ever find out if it was your dad who moved the painting to the attic?”

  I shake my head. “So then we agree it’s possible a person is doing spells and somehow using a spirit to help?”

  “Agreed,” Susannah says. “Which makes figuring out who it is a million times harder.”

  Alice rubs her eye. “Redd was right to warn us. What did we get ourselves into, you guys?”

  We’re all quiet for a second.

  “In that first dream I had, the one that was the warning, there were three objects—the painting, the dress, and a little silver book. We still haven’t seen that book,” I say.

  “No, we haven’t,” Susannah says.

  “And speaking of which, we need to do that memory spell,” Alice says.

  Mary grabs the spell book off the bed. “I hate the thought of Sam visiting the Titanic not knowing who she is, especially after tonight.”

  “You and me both,” I say.

  “I think we should stay up,” Susannah says. “In case we need to wake you. We can take shifts.” She places the black candles on the floor and relights them. “The only time you couldn’t be woken up was when you had that dress on, right?”

  I sit cross-legged on the floor next to Susannah. “Every other time I’ve been woken by something normal like an alarm, so I don’t think I’m being held there. Even with the dress, once it was off, Elijah could wake me up.” I pause. “You don’t think I could be held there, right?”

  Alice turns out the light and joins us around the candles.

  “I sure as hell hope not,” Mary says, handing me the spell book.

  I flip open the worn leather cover and read. “For stronger potency, mix a potion…” I skim down the page until I find the section I’m looking for. “If a potion cannot be mixed, a less potent alternative for memory enhancement is possible. Begin by forming a circle.”

  “Done,” Alice says.

  “Join hands,” I read, and we do. Susannah and Alice lean closer and read along with me.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds and focus on my house, on my dad, on the breakfasts I eat every morning with the Meriwethers. My name is Samantha Mather. I live in Salem, I say three times in my head, and reopen my eyes. “Make bright the memories I wish to see, so I may hold them close to me. If they wander, bring them back. Dispel all doubts and clear my path,” I say.

  Susannah turns to me. “I see you. May you also see.” She runs her fingers through the top of the candle flame and lightly touches my forehead between my eyes.

  “I hear you. May you also hear,” Mary says. She runs her fingertips through the flame and touches my ear.

  “I know you. May you also know.” Alice runs her fingers through the flame and touches my heart.

  “Through my sisters’ eyes and my own, the seed of memory is firmly sown.” I run my hands over the flame and then over the top of my head.

  For a few seconds everyone silently watches the candles burn.

  Susannah stands and turns the light back on. “Do you feel anything?”

  “No. But I’m not sure I would yet.”

  Mary blows out the candles.

  Elijah blinks in. “I will keep watch over you tonight. I do not require sleep like they do.”

  I consider arguing with him, but the truth is, it makes way more sense for him to stay up than for the girls. And he’s the only one who will see if that object-delivering spirit tries to do anything. I fill the girls in.

  “Can he wake us, though, if something happens?” Alice asks, climbing into bed next to Mary. “Break a glass or bang a pot if he has to?”

  I nod. I don’t need to ask Elijah. I know he can. I pull the covers up under my arms and avoid looking at him. Jaxon’s being a crap friend, Elijah is un-gone, and I’m part of a magic circle? Everything is upside down. Elijah turns off the light and Mary gasps. Something fuzzy pushes against my hand. Broome.

  I run my hands down my off-white dress; it’s draped in black lace and sparkles in the light. The fabric is covered with intricate patterns of beads.

  Mollie smiles at me through my vanity mirror as she repositions my hair on top of my head. “A few more black pearls in yer hair and ye’ll sparkle from top to bottom.”

  I smile, too, but I feel off. “Mollie, do I seem well to you?”

  “Always well. Yer one a the happier people I know.”

  I consider her words. “I just have a strange sensation that I’m supposed to do something or remember something.”

  “Aye. I hate that feelin’. Makes me all itchy. But besides meetin’ yer aunty Myra in the lounge, there is nothin’ that I know of that needs doin’ or rememberin’.”

  Aunty Myra. Her name is like a bell in my mind, but I’m not sure why. “What’s the date, Mollie?”

  Mollie hesitates. “The thirteenth of April. Ya know, I almost wasn’t sure.” She laughs. “Maybe yer not rememberin’ things is rubbin’ off on me.”

  I smile. April feels right.

  “All finished,” she says, and I stand up.

  My corset squeezes me, and the bottom of my dress is so narrow that I can only take small steps. “Will you come with me to meet my aunt?”

  Mollie nods and opens the door for me.

  She leads me through the hallways and onto an elevator that takes us to an upper deck. We pass men and women in top hats and gowns, talking excitedly about their evening activities, and step into the first-class lounge.

  “This way,” Mollie says, and I follow her to a table where Aunt Myra and her friend are drinking tea.

  “Aunty Myra, sorry I’m late.” I stare at her a moment longer than I should. What is it I’m not remembering?

  Aunt Myra brightens. “It is perfectly all right. You know Mrs. Brown.”

  I curtsy to the other woman. Yes, of course I know Margaret Brown. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

  Mrs. Brown pats the cushion next to her on the velvet couch and I sit down. Mollie has taken a seat at a nearby table with a couple of other ladies’ maids.

  “Mrs. Brown was just telling me how she has been working with a judge to set up a juvenile court to help destitute children. It will be the first in America,” Aunt Myra says, and pours me a cup of tea. “Is that not something?”

  I feel like I was just studying her. Wait, no, that can’t be right. Maybe I was reading a newspaper article about her? “Yes, I believe I read about it somewhere. And about all the amazing work you’ve done for women.”

  Mrs. Brown tilts her head slightly and looks surprised. “It seems I have a young fan here, Myra.”

  I smile and take the cup of tea from my aunt. “You should have a whole group of them, not just me.” I pause. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  Mrs. Brown grins at my compliments. “Ask whatever you like.”

  “How did you know you were in love?” Even as I say the words, they feel foreign in my mouth. Why am I asking this question?

  Mrs. Brown lau
ghs. “Well now, that is certainly not what I was expecting. A great question, though. I have always thought that love is not all feelings and instinct, but is instead a generosity of time. That if you truly love someone or something, you will give them all your hours without a second thought. Ideal moments are exactly what they sound like, ideal and hard not to enjoy. But love has never been about ideal moments for me, but rather everyday ones that are brightened because the other person is there.”

  “Beautifully put, Margaret,” Aunt Myra says. “So you are wondering about love, Samantha? May I ask, is this a philosophical question or a practical one?”

  My cheeks redden. “Well, I—”

  “Ladies,” says a tall man with dark hair, an expensive suit, and a mustache that curls upward at the ends. He bows. “Are you enjoying this fine evening? I hope the refreshments are up to your standards.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ismay. Everything is just as lovely as it could be,” says Mrs. Brown.

  Ismay looks at Aunt Myra. “And you, Mrs. Harper? I know you do quite a bit of traveling. I do hope our accommodations are making it easy for you to adjust to sea travel.”

  What’s this guy doing, fishing for compliments? I remember Alexander said Ismay was one of the owners.

  “You have really outdone yourself with this ship. She is fit for royalty,” Aunt Myra says.

  Ismay laughs. “Oh, you are too kind. Too kind. Also, I don’t know if you have heard, but I am happy to announce that we are making great time.”

  “I do hope it’s safe to travel this fast,” I say, though I’m not sure why. I don’t have any fears about sea travel, do I? And I’m verging on impolite. “There is usually ice at this time of year, is there not?” Definitely impolite. What’s wrong with me?

  He wiggles his nose and looks down at me. “This ship is practically unsinkable, Miss Mather. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  I nod and pick up my teacup. The nagging sensation that I’m supposed to remember something returns. I suddenly feel like I can’t sit still.