She looked surprised by my question. “I-I went to your school and asked the secretary for your address.”
“And they gave it to you? I don’t think they’re supposed to do that.”
“Yeah, well … it’s amazing the kind of information you can get your hands on when you flash an official-looking form.”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded, looking at her like she was speaking a foreign language. My words were coming out a lot harsher than I wanted, but I couldn’t help it. “What form?”
“This one.” Her voice was small as she held out a folded piece of white paper. “It’s the permission form for you to work on the garden. Little late, I guess …”
I can’t believe she’s here, outside my house after all these weeks and we’re talking about forms!
I took the paper from her and scanned my eyes down the page. Maxwell Green is hereby granted permission to work in the heritage garden at 10 Colborne Street, which is protected … blah blah blah. It had been signed by the mayor of Markham and someone from the Thornhill Public Library that I’d never heard of before.
“Who’s Martha Henry Reid?” I asked, pointing to the second signature.
She laughed at that. But it was a sad, hollow laugh.
“That’s Nana.”
“Your nana’s middle name is Henry?”
“It’s a family name. She was named after … um, her mother.”
“Okay, well, thanks for bringing this over,” I said folding the paper back up. “But it’s too late in the year for any more gardening. And, well … I was kind of lying about that, anyway. The fact is I just wanted to dig around without getting in trouble. Sorry I wasn’t honest with you.”
She nodded, but didn’t say anything as she tucked the form back into her purse. Her breath was coming out in thin white clouds and I could see that she was shivering from the cold, despite her hat and big puffy coat. If it was anybody else freezing on my doorstep, I’d invite them to come in where it was warmer. But my stomach was still getting battered by having her so close. I wanted to get this over with as fast as possible. Since I’d just confessed to one lie, I figured I might as well come clean about the rest of them. She hated me, anyway, so it didn’t matter at this point. Right?
“So, look …” I said, letting out a long deep breath. “… I guess I should tell you that I also lied about my age. I’m actually sixteen … not seventeen.”
The muscles in her face tightened, like she was trying to hold something back. Was she pissed off at me for lying? Or at herself for wasting so much time on a kid? Why wasn’t she saying anything? Man, she must really hate me. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard, I tasted blood. That’s how nervous I was.
“And I’m a sophomore in high school, not a senior …” I continued, digging my hole even deeper.
A gust of wind blew across the porch, sending the first tiny snowflakes of the year whipping through the air. Peanut licked his lips and whined softly. After a few more seconds dragged by with no reply, I figured Caroline’s thoughts were pretty clear. It was time to put her out of her misery.
“So, thanks for coming. I guess I’ll see you around …”
Just as I was about to swing the door shut, she took a small step forward and reached out to stop me. “No, don’t. Please. I … I lied to you, too, Max.”
She’d been lying, too? About what? My mind started spinning in frantic circles. “W-what do you mean?”
Her eyes dropped to the floor and her pretty lips turned down into a sad pout. “God, there’s just so much you don’t know. I’m not even sure how to begin …” she closed her eyes as her words trailed off, “… I’m not the age I told you I was, either. You’d never believe me if I told you how old I truly am. And my name’s not really Caroline.”
My mouth fell open with shock. “What did you say?”
That’s when she started to cry. I stood there like a complete idiot, not knowing what to say or do. Why had she lied about her name? And why was she crying? I didn’t understand any of this. I was aching to comfort her, but had no idea how. After a long moment, she lifted her eyes back to mine. They were as blue as a cloudless sky and filled with tears. “I … I was just trying to help bring you into the library,” she whispered, her voice shattered like broken glass. “I didn’t expect these feelings. Dear God, it’s been so long since I felt this way. And then when you stopped coming, I felt like dying all over again. I … I guess I just needed to see you one more time.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What are you talking about? I … I thought you hated me.”
“Hated you?” she let out a wry laugh. “No, just the opposite. I liked you. I still like you … a lot.” Her chin was beginning to quiver, like she was about to start sobbing again. If a brick had fallen on my head at that moment, I probably wouldn’t have felt it. How could I have been so wrong about everything?
And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a grey minivan pull up in the driveway. It was my mom. Crap! I’m not ready for this conversation to end yet. Reaching behind me, I yanked my jacket down from the coat rack.
“Honestly, I don’t care about the lies. I don’t care what your real name is or how old you are. I just want to be with you … but my mom’s here.” I threw my arms through the sleeves. “If we stay, she won’t leave us alone. So maybe we can go somewhere else to talk for a while?”
She shook her head sadly. “No, I can’t do that. I really have to go. I just came here to see you one last time … and to give you this.”
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a little, flat box. “After they finished digging around the rest of the garden, they found this not far from the … you know, the bones. They offered it to the library, but Nana didn’t want it. So I figured it would be all right if I gave it to you.”
“What is it?” I asked, highly aware of my mother watching us from the driveway. By the shocked look on her face, I was sure she was dying to find out the identity of the pretty blonde on her front porch.
“No, please don’t open it yet … wait till after I go.”
I shook my head. “What? Where are you going?”
Her eyes looked like they were melting with sadness. “Far away,” she whispered, wiping a stray tear out of the corner of her eye. “But there’s something I’ve been dying to do … something I’ve been thinking about since the day we met.” A pair of blood-red roses were blooming across her pale cheeks.
“What is it?”
Rising up on her toes, she brushed her lips against mine, gentle as a feather. I was too stunned to do anything else except stand there like a statue and breathe in her awesome smell. She was so incredibly soft. Her lips, her mouth, her skin … so soft, but so icy cold at the same time. I put my arms around her and pressed my hands to the curve of her back. I wanted it to last forever — but the kiss was over before it had barely begun.
“Goodbye, Max,” she whispered into my lips. Goodbye? I opened my eyes and she was gone. Disappeared.
What just happened? Where did she go so fast?
A sudden frigid gust of wind surged across the porch, stirring up a cloud of snowflakes. I peered through the flurry, searching for Caroline — but there was just Peanut whining at my feet and my mother’s angry face charging up the driveway toward me.
“Max! Why are you standing there with the door open, letting all the heat out of the house? Why is there a dog on our porch? You know I’m allergic! And did I just see you talking to yourself? Honestly, your father and I are having a hard time understanding your behaviour these days! You’re not doing drugs, are you? Is that what’s in that box?”
Ignoring my mother’s questions, I glanced down and saw that I was still holding the box Caroline had given me. With trembling fingers, I lifted the lid. What I saw inside made me choke on my own breath. There, nestl
ed on a ball of white cotton was a small, silver gadget, with four little wings sticking out and a withered orange feather attached to the end.
The lure.
21 - John
My cousin William went on to marry Martha Henry a few months later and open up his own blacksmith shop, exactly as planned. Although nobody remotely suspected that he might have had a hand in my disappearance, the guilt he felt over what he had done ate away at his conscience like a cancerous mass. Just five years into their marriage, the young couple succumbed to a deadly epidemic of typhus that was winding its way through Kingston. On his deathbed, William unburdened his soul and confessed his crime to his pretty wife, who was only days away from her own death. They left behind a young daughter, who’d inherited her mother’s sky-blue eyes along with her name.
It brought me a surprising amount of grief to see William and Martha meet such a tragic end.
As for my parents, they waited over a year for me to return home. My mother spent most of that time crying, moaning, calling out my name, and praying for my safe deliverance from whatever dark forces might have led to our separation. My father, as you might imagine, tried his best to convince Mother to begin the grieving process so that she might forget about me and move ahead with her life. It took many months, but finally my mother stopped watching at the parlour window for my face to emerge outside. She stopped listening for my footsteps coming up the front walk. She accepted that I was gone. And by the first anniversary of my mysterious disappearance, Mother donned her black veil and mourning dress and began to pray for my everlasting soul.
For she knew in her heart that I would never have willingly left her without saying goodbye. After so much time had passed, my absence could only be explained in one horrifying way. Tragically, however, she had no way to prove that I was deceased. And so my dear mother was forced to mourn alone.
In 1890, she agreed to let Father move them to another house. But she never gave up the hope that she would see me again one day — even if that meant reconnecting with my soul in the afterlife. Desperate to uncover the truth about what had happened to me, she brought in a medium and conducted a séance one afternoon when Father was away working in the forge. I watched the whole thing and tried in every possible manner to send a message to let her know what had happened to me. But the veil of darkness that had come over me was so heavy and dense; I could simply not get past it.
Not until now, that is. Not until a boy came along whose emotions mirrored my own so well that a small window slid open in the darkness and allowed a bit of me to slip through to reach him. Lured in, as you have guessed, by the ghost of a pretty young woman who desperately wanted to help right a husband’s tragic wrong.
Last week, my remains were laid to rest in a proper grave in the Thornhill Community Cemetery on Church Lane, just a short walk away from 10 Colborne Street. The plot was marked with a simple, grey marble headstone. Although it doesn’t bear my name, the stone is engraved with a prayer and that satisfies me. For now, everyone who passes by will be aware of a young life that came and went. And perhaps now that I have been discovered, my dear mother will be able to see me. And both of our spirits will find peace. For that is all I ever wanted, really.
That is all one can ever hope for in this world.
Afterword
The Thornhill Village Public Library at 10 Colborne Street in Markham, Ontario, is a real place. Originally built as a home in 1851, many people believe the building to be haunted. Most of the supernatural occurrences listed in this book are documented incidents that have been reported by both staff and visitors of the library over the past several decades.
The story connecting these supernatural events, however, is completely a product of my imagination, as are the characters you have met in this book.
If you are in the Toronto area and are interested in learning more, you can visit the library (which is a designated historic building), as well as the impressive heritage garden surrounding the property.
It’s a great place to read, reflect, and become inspired.
Acknowledgements
This story came to life in the late summer of 2009 with a flash of inspiration and a feverish four weeks of non-stop writing. But the words circling through my head would never have turned into a book without the incredible support of some very wonderful people.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Jonah and Dahlia for giving up their mom to the muse and putting up with the distracted, forgetful lady who took her place for four weeks.
Forever love to Jordy, for picking up all the pieces and faithfully holding things together while I retreated from the world to write. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
Love and thanks to Shirley Pape, whose wisdom and advice is a treasure I am finally old enough to fully appreciate.
Thanks to my legion of trusted readers; Gordon Pape, Kim, Kendra, and Michael Pape-Green, Sharon Jones, and Shayna Avinoam for their honesty and insights.
Sincere thanks to Kathy Pless for giving me the “ghost tour” and Diane Macklin for granting me access to the off-limits section of the Thornhill Village Library.
Thanks to Adam Birrell and James Broughton, who easily answered all of the trickiest historical questions and opened the doors to the Thornhill Archives for me.
Huge thanks to the Ontario Arts Council for their generous support through the Writers’ Reserve Program.
And, as always, I’d like to thank Margaret Hart and the amazingly hard-working team at Dundurn Press, especially Kirk Howard, Michael Carroll, Shannon Whibbs, Margaret Bryant, Karen McMullin, Ashleigh Gardner, Jennifer Scott, and Courtney Horner for their endless enthusiasm and continued support.
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