Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  “So said the serpent. ’Tis the way of temptation, sir.” Her voice boomed, rivaling Oscar’s. “Recognize what you’re doing!” She spun in a circle, pointing. “If that girl sees your dead loved ones, listening puts your soul in the devil’s hand. Says it right here!” She thrust her Bible upward. Esmerelda’s gaze followed, wary of a hail of brimstone.

  “Pull the curtain!” Oscar was caught in the velvet fabric, and his large frame floundered like a weighty ghost under a bedsheet. The ruckus grew as patrons demanded refunds, perhaps absolution. Making his way to the other side of the curtain, Oscar barked directions at his troupe. “Could be worse. She could have called us swindlers.”

  Bill, and his true gimpy leg, hustled past Oscar, laughing. “Thank goodness she sided with the Lord instead of the truth.” Bill portrayed the widower Thomas nightly, after he and Barney gathered personal tidbits from marks in the crowd. Sally had been the first of a half dozen intended recipients of messages from beyond.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Oscar said. “Barney, Jimmie, grab the chair and load it on the wagon. Don’t drop the ball! If we lose either, there goes half the act!” The two men all but dumped Esmerelda from the chair. She and the crown spilled forward. Esmerelda caught the headwear but tripped on the gown, which was several sizes too big. She’d inherited the costume and gift from Marlena the Mystic. Marlena had abandoned Oscar Bodette’s Traveling Extravaganza to run off with a contortionist from Istanbul.

  Minutes later, they were all packed in the wagon and doing double time, galloping across the Brooklyn Bridge. The horses, Go and Fish, were sweaty and snorting by the time Oscar slowed their pace, coming into Lower Manhattan. From there, the team clip-clopped up the city avenues. After a while, they came to a stop, and Esmerelda peeked through a hole in the canvas-covered wagon. They were parked at the rear of Hupp’s Supper Club & Hotel.

  She sighed. This was the grind of a traveling life—the show would go on. Oscar worked them hard but protected them well. He was the anchor, if not the security in life. Like much of Esmerelda’s world, this was one of many facts she never imagined two short years earlier.

  She closed one eye and spied Hupp’s sign again. Still, she wasn’t sure Oscar could do a thing to save her from Benjamin Hupp’s attentions. She was being silly, of course, and scoffed at her folly. As if any girl should require saving from an heir to a fortune . . . Yet something about Benjamin left her stomach in an uneasy flutter.

  Esmerelda rested back on her heels and opened a small crate. A china doll lay on top. Marigold was one of the few threads that had trailed her from a life in New England to one in New York. She’d outgrown the doll ages ago but hugged it anyway, the gold lamé fabric crunching between the two of them.

  She looked at Marigold and imagined the doll’s aqua glass eyes could see fortunes, old and new. Esmerelda brushed at her own beaded gown. She glanced at the crown balanced upon a broom handle, the gazing ball nested in a box of straw. Bells chimed from blocks away, the Church of the Resurrection. Before they faded, Esmerelda said a prayer and made a wish. She wanted it to be true, that these props and possessions, maybe even mystics, had the power to predict all that was to come.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Present Day

  Surrey, Massachusetts

  Peter St John thought a lot about murder. To say it was an obsession wouldn’t be far from the truth. Church bells from Our Lady of the Redeemer sounded. The bells confirmed, if not forewarned, that Pete was home. The car idled, the back-seat window rolled down. Homestead Road was quiet. Almost midnight and the neighborhood was dark—unaware. Images of bloodied bodies and violent deaths crowded Pete’s mind. They slowed him down.

  The Uber driver gave an anxious look back, silently asking his passenger to get out or provide a different destination. After two years away and now two days of travel—Mumbai to Surrey—Pete wasn’t sure he could follow through. His homecoming plans had been easier to execute when mentally walking himself through each step, on planes and in airports. He sighed. It was time to man up. He prompted himself: Get out of the car. Go into the house. Just do it.

  “I’m good. Thanks for the lift.”

  He blindly tipped the driver, vaguely hearing, “Holy crap. Thanks, man,” as he exited the vehicle. His duffel bag thunked onto the sidewalk as Pete looked at the house. An upstairs light turned on and the element of surprise was lost.

  “Move, Soldier,” he said to no one. Pete picked up the duffel bag and swallowed down a slight surge of vomit. You promised. They’re waiting. This is inevitable.

  It was all true.

  So were a host of less pleasant realities. Pete closed his eyes and grappled for courage—the way he approached everyday war zones. Going home required something else. Something more. A power Pete didn’t possess. He rubbed two fingers across his brow, his lungs filling with the kind of breath that said the front walk held a trip wire. It did. The ironies of Pete’s life were a land mine.

  His past had begun with spirits that visited Pete as a small boy—inside this house, in his own bedroom. While a younger Pete struggled with his psychic abilities, there was normalcy in knowing his mother lived with a similar gift. This was an inherited thing, like being left-handed, the same as his father. But Pete’s psychic abilities also provided a portal. They allowed him to access a life he’d lived a hundred years ago as a decorated soldier in the Great War. His role in that war was information he knew; he recognized blood and valor.

  When Pete was twelve, these anomalies changed and a beautiful girl invaded his other life—Esme. She unearthed emotions impossible for a boy to process, unfair and unrelenting. He loved her—intense feelings that he’d never experienced as an adult in his present-day life. And while Pete was destined to relive violent Great War battles, it was only a single scene that he relived with Esme—the night he killed her.

  For the past six years, Pete had tamped down that life and portal by diving into modern-day war zones, employing his more grounded gifts as a photojournalist. But now he was home, at his father’s insistence, because of his mother’s mysterious malady. Home, where the past was guaranteed to rear up again. Guaranteed because his mother, Aubrey Ellis, lived in this house too. A place where her presence and energy exacerbated Pete’s former life and every inch of hell connected to it.

  At first, the conversation was soothing, and Pete was drawn into or distracted by familiarity. Aubrey and Levi were like any parents who missed their son, and Pete couldn’t deny missing them. The back-and-forth exchange was appropriate for an adult child returning home: “How were your flights, son?” “Have you played much golf lately, Pa?” “You look great, Pete—older, maybe a little older.” “I grabbed some English chocolate in Heathrow. It’s in my duffel bag.” “The Times ran one of your photos just yesterday. We saved it . . .”

  But with the late hour, his mother was quick to tire. Levi was scheduled to film a segment of Ink on Air, his newsmagazine program, the next afternoon. They would talk more in the morning. His parents went upstairs, and Pete remained in the living room. “I’ll be up soon.” He stalled by saying something about homecoming adrenaline, jet lag, or the effects of a midnight cup of coffee. The excuse didn’t matter.

  Alone, Pete wandered the house like a ghost, visiting his old war models in the basement and taking an inventory of each room, the things that had changed. Things that hadn’t changed kept him from going to bed. Around two in the morning, he stood in the living room and stared at his duffel bag. Based on the tip he’d offered, Pete guessed the same Uber driver would be willing to fetch him and take him to the nearest hotel. But hell, he’d already seen his mother, absorbed her otherworldly energy. Whatever the rest of the night brought, he doubted location would make a difference.

  He was right.

  It was closer to four o’clock than three when Pete succumbed to sleep. Closer to that world than this one as he drifted restlessly, the past orbiting until it snagged on the present. From ther
e the dark night spiraled, not into a dream, but into a frighteningly real place—the same way it had for the past sixteen years.

  Pete teetered on a precipice, then he lost the fight. Time devoured him, quick as a blink, clear as a gunshot. The early twentieth century surrounded him. The noise from the gun was deafening, and the air grew acrid. The weapon was heavy in his hand, though his aim had been steady. Through the puff of smoke, he witnessed Esme’s last breath. Shock filled her face. She stared at him, threaded fingers clutching her belly, blood spilling out. She fell limp. Chivalry said to catch her, even if you’d killed her. He dropped the pistol and gripped her lifeless frame. Aghast, he let go, and she hit the floor harder than he meant, even for what was now a dead girl.

  His heart pounded, more thunderous than artillery shelling in Belleau Wood. This scene was less bloody, twice as alarming. Pete’s gaze rose, searching for God’s forgiveness or a spider-hole exit. But he remained in the room, in this place. He stood across from the dresser mirror, where his stark eyes stared back. The eyes of a murderer now. Different than the eyes of a battlefield warrior—a hero. The shelling in his chest continued. From the corner of his eye, he glanced left at a window.

  Think. He needed to think. What came next? No wagon would be by to gather the dead en masse. Dispose of the body. Hurriedly, he scooped her up. Beads from the costume detached, plinking, rolling, sparkling. Compared to her, the beads displayed a startling burst of life, scattering across hardwood. The mirror continued to witness the scene: in his arms lay a fallen swan, Esme’s dress and her limbs resting at lovely flowing angles, the snowy dress ruined by a growing splotch of blood. Objects were present: china doll in a chair, clothesline fashioned from bedpost to hook, English hunting scene above the mantel. The tail of a black cat flicked from beneath the bed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He couldn’t tell tears from sweat, shock from fear—right from wrong. He only knew he had to get the hell out of there. As if she weighed no more than that swan, with her dead body in his arms, he charged for the door.

  Then it ended, and the whirlpool churned the opposite way.

  “Jesus Christ!” The prayer or the plea left Pete’s mouth as he jolted upright, his fingers strangling a pillow in his boyhood bedroom. He couldn’t get air in or out in his present-day life. Layers of guilt tangled like the bedsheet, and perspiration saturated everything. The smell of gunfire still filled his nose, the taste of fear redolent. No dead body was present, and this amazed him.

  His bedroom door burst open. “You’re okay, Pete!” Levi pounded to his bedside, Aubrey steps behind. Pete hadn’t forgotten the concerned look on Pa’s face, the shamed expression episodes like this brought to his mother’s. “Just breathe.”

  At the ages of three, seven, and even ten, his father’s commanding voice had brought comfort. It could anchor Pete to the here and now, rescue him. At twenty-eight, it no longer punctured the surface of this particular hell.

  “I can’t . . . I gotta go.” Pete lurched from the bed and scrabbled for the pants he’d discarded earlier. “I mean, I can breathe. I can’t be here. I’m sorry.”

  “Pete, please,” his mother said. “Don’t do this. Stay. At least for a few hours. The sun’s just coming up.”

  Pete’s fervor slowed as hinting dawn glimmered. He looked at his mother and her eerie eyes—Ellis family eyes. “It’s better if I go.”

  “We’ve missed you so much,” Aubrey said. “I . . . I need more than the hour from last night.”

  Pete’s wide-eyed stare moved between his mother’s tense face and his duffel bag. He panicked, the way a killer might, and dove for the canvas bag, his camera gear. Levi was right there, gripping his shoulders.

  His father had always been a brave son of a bitch, willing to put himself between Pete and his other life. But eventually the tables turned—first, a lanky sixteen-year-old Pete coming at him—unaware of what he was doing—then at nineteen and stronger, finally stronger than his father. When Pete had broken his father’s nose after one of his near-nightly visits to his past, he’d known it was time to go. Faced with what he’d physically done to his father—even if it was all accidental—Pete couldn’t begin to process the danger of turning on his mother.

  Years removed from those episodes, grown man faced grown man. But it was Pete’s eyes that glassed over, a lump jammed in his throat. He backed up, his mind askew from the dizzying effects of his homecoming. Ricocheting from that life into this one was never a smooth transition. He reached for the wall. Solid plaster was cool to the touch, and he tried to steady himself. With his other hand, Pete dragged his fingers through his hair. Sweat and flesh and fear made for a slick, ropey knot of human being. He suspected that committed mental patients presented more rationally.

  His father’s grip eased. “Are you okay?”

  Well, fuck, no. But what else could he ask; what could Pete say in reply? “Yeah. I’ll be all right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Pete hesitated, then nodded.

  “Then for your mother . . . please. A few hours.”

  Family obligation influenced him, and Pete lowered his arm, grunting a noise of agreement. He plucked the cotton button-down shirt, the one he’d been wearing for three days, from the bedpost. He tugged it on, offering his mother a feeble smile. “What the hell, right? I’m up now anyway.”

  “I’ll, um . . . I can make pancakes. I still have that pure maple syrup you like, from last time. Does syrup go bad?”

  His father shook his head but looked more like he was guarding against the prospect of his son bolting. He wasn’t wrong.

  At the door, Aubrey said, “I understand it’s hard to be here, Pete. With me, but . . .” She pointed lamely to the beaten bed. “I’m grateful, so happy you came home.”

  Pete only sighed as she left.

  Levi waited until the stairs squeaked, telling them she’d reached the bottom step. “You know I understand how you both feel. I’m not unsympathetic, Pete, but—”

  “But this time it’s not just about me, my demons. I saw it last night, how tired she looks. Thin. You don’t have anything new to tell me? Anything you didn’t want to say in front of her?”

  “No. Your mother continues to baffle medical experts. We’ve no diagnosis for her symptoms—her fatigue, numbness, muscle weakness, bouts of dizziness. But it’s a catch-22. For every medical test that comes back normal . . .”

  “It makes you think the underlying cause is ethereal.” Levi nodded at a conclusion that could only be drawn in the privacy of the Ellis–St John home. “You know, Pa, I hope it doesn’t work both ways. I hope my being here doesn’t make her worse. Did you consider that?”

  “Actually, I did. But what was I supposed to do? Tell her that on top of an illness we can’t identify or treat, her only son is off-limits too?”

  “I suppose you have a point.” Pete sat in a chair and pulled on a dirty sock.

  “We’ll take things an hour at a time if we have to. For now, let’s go with you being the best medicine. I’ll see you downstairs.” Levi headed for the door.

  “Pa?”

  He turned back.

  “Despite everything, I’d stay a year, do the time . . .” Pete gestured to the violent jumble of sheets. “If it helped her, I’d do it.”

  Levi looked at the bed and Pete as if he might see past the sodden sheets and his son’s pounding heart. “I understand how hard this is for you. I’m sorry I can’t do more. I’m sorry—”

  Pete held up a hand, controlling what he could in this life. He wouldn’t watch the man who’d been the anchor in his mother’s life—and his—falter. “Listen, I’ve got some great shots to show you from Yemen. Managed to get myself a ride along with a SEAL team.”

  Levi latched on to the segue. “No kidding? I saw your photos from Kandahar in the Washington Post.”

  “Yeah. I heard CNN used them too.”

  “Impressive. Your mother, she’s got quite a scrapbook to show you. Maybe spend a little time telling he
r about your travels. Not everyone on the block has a photojournalist son embedded in hostile territories.”

  “Or one who lives with the dead and his past.” He raised a brow and pulled on his other sock.

  “Yeah. Well. We try to lay off that part at barbecues and cocktail parties.”

  Sweat lessened and the rigid knot that was Pete’s entire being eased slightly. “Maybe I should grab a shower before coming downstairs.”

  Levi brushed a hand across his nose. “Not a bad idea. I’ll hit the laundry room, put your wash in.”

  “Right. With Mom . . . with me, I was distracted. I wasn’t thinking how I smell like six countries in three days.”

  “Get some shorts from my room.” Levi picked up the duffel bag. “And make that more like eight countries in two days—hot ones.”

  Pete’s serious tone returned. “I’m sorry, Pa.” Levi turned at the door. “Sorry that the best I can offer is to make her happy by doing my stinky laundry . . . or making pancakes.”

  Levi nodded his salt-and-pepper head, pushing his glasses upward. The lines on his face were also evident. Pete knew he’d put most of them there. “When it comes to her son . . . laundry, making breakfast, is what makes her, both of us, happy.” He left the bedroom, toting the duffel bag.

  Pete removed the socks he’d just put on and stood. He reached for the bedpost, shakier than he’d let on to Levi. While Pete couldn’t control his visits to the past, he also couldn’t contain the reentry. He wished those events could be perceived as nothing more than a bad dream. He squeezed tight to the bedpost. Then he held his hand out before him—the one that shook yet could make a formidable fist. The same hand that had pulled the trigger of a gun. He sighed. The least he could do was work on presenting as a “normal son” in this life. He snickered while heading toward the hall. “Normal” was a trick he’d never mastered.

  CHAPTER

  TWO