The Seer of Shadows

by Avi

  “What do you mean, you’re not sure?”

  I didn’t think he would be very helpful—or sympathetic—but I wanted to be honest. I said, “I must have taken it, but . . . I didn’t aim it at any picture.”

  “Horace! Don’t be a blockhead! There must have been. The girl’s face is here. And it’s a different image.”

  I gazed at him. “Sir, I didn’t see her.”

  He shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care for that fourth face anyway. Mean-spirited. Almost angry, don’t you think? No, it won’t do. I’m sure Mrs. Von Macht would prefer a cheerful ghost.”

  How like the man to be so uninterested in the puzzle of the fourth photo!

  “Now, this one,” he went on, indicating my image of the picture on Pegg’s table, “will work. In any case Eleanora is jolly though somewhat blurred. Perhaps a useful combination. Not grave.” He grinned. “Horace, that was a pun! Don’t be so gloomy! Now come, we really have work to do.”

  By work, he meant creating his “spirit image.”

  It took considerable time.

  First he made new images of Mrs. Von Macht. Next, he overlaid my small image of Eleanora on the same paper. In other words, from two negatives, he made one positive. The result: there was Mrs. Von Macht, and hovering over her left shoulder was . . . Eleanora. She looked, I must admit, very ghostlike.

  “It needs to be perfect,” he proclaimed, and set to work as hard as I ever had seen him labor, producing a fair number of composite images until he was satisfied. He was like a little boy, so intent upon a complex practical joke he gave no thought as to the possible consequences. The joke was all!

  In this manner he worked all of one day and much of the next until he achieved the desired effect.

  What had he achieved? Mr. Middleditch had posed Mrs. Von Macht in her parlor. Sitting, she looked very fine in her fashionable dark gown, a composed, handsome, wealthy woman, tinted by a touch of sadness. All credit to Mr. Middleditch for capturing a quality that I had no doubt would be very pleasing, indeed flattering, to the woman.

  But Mr. Middleditch had done a very clever thing, utter fraud though it was. He had arranged the vase and candlestick on the table behind the woman, and then superimposed the vague, smiling face of Eleanora among them.

  When you glanced at the whole picture, you did not see the girl right away. Your eyes first took in Mrs. Von Macht. Only gradually did you discover the ghost image—sufficiently indistinct that one could deny seeing anything at all. Yet she was there.

  Mr. Middleditch was, as he had promised, about to spring a very clever trick.

  “I can’t wait to bring this to Mrs. Von Macht,” he announced with glee.

  “When will that be?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow. And Horace, unless I am very wrong, at some point she’ll ask me if I see something.”

  “What will you say?”

  “Why, nothing, of course. This must be her discovery. I suppose,” he mused, “she might even ask what you see.”

  “Me?”

  “You must be as silent as the grave,” he said with a laugh. And when he did, I made up my mind. If the woman did ask me what I saw, I would say there was something there.

  That created a predicament for me. I was determined to tell the truth—but what was the truth? That the image was a trick? Surely Mr. Middleditch’s photograph was. But where had that fourth image of Eleanora come from?

  Sitting on my bed, quite alone, I stared at the face of Eleanora I had photographed—the fourth image—trying to find a reasonable explanation for its being there.

  I could not.

  SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT DAY at the appointed time, Mr. Middleditch went to Mrs. Von Macht’s home. I went with him. I’m not exactly sure why he wanted me. I suspect it was vanity. I suspect Mr. Middleditch wished me at his side to observe the swindle take effect. How like the man to want my admiration!

  I was more than willing to go, wishing to see how the woman would react. I also wanted to speak to Pegg so as to learn more about what she’d said regarding Eleanora. Were Pegg’s statements—other than there being no pictures of Eleanora in the house—true? In all of this I was hoping to make some sense of that amazing fourth picture. The point being, I was now convinced something very odd was going on in the Von Macht household and, let me confess it, I really wished to know what it was.

  We arrived at the house with Mr. Middleditch carrying his photos in a black portfolio tied neatly with a red ribbon. He pulled the bell. Pegg opened the door. She did her little curtsy, saying, “Madam is expecting you.”

  But unlike our previous visit, when Pegg only glanced at Mr. Middleditch, this time she looked directly at me. Her glance unnerved me. It seemed to proclaim that she and I shared something, some knowledge private just to us. Yet, what that understanding was, remained a mystery to me.

  Pegg led us into the front parlor, where Mrs. Von Macht was waiting. I followed a few steps behind Mr. Middleditch. Pegg remained in the room, taking a place in a corner out of sight. It was quite warm.

  Mrs. Von Macht was dressed in a gown a little more glamorous than she had worn previously. Her face was not nearly so pale either—less powder, perhaps—displaying healthy, pink cheeks. Whereas the scent of perfume was a little stronger, the mourning armband was gone. Upon her lap lay embroidery work. But I noticed that while she held a needle in hand, as if caught in the middle of work, the needle bore no thread.

  Her husband was not present, for which I, for one, was grateful. There was too much anger in the man.

  As we came forward, I glanced to Mrs. Von Macht’s left, at the table where the vase with dried flowers and the candlestick remained. There, among these things, I saw a face—Eleanora Von Macht’s face.

  Shocked is barely the word for what I experienced. Such was my great fright that I will swear my heart momentarily stopped beating. In that space of time I could neither breathe nor swallow. The hair at the back of my neck prickled. Not willing to believe what I was seeing, I closed my eyes, but could not resist looking again. The face was gone.

  Struggling to control my emotions and my trembling body, my first thought was that my eyes had simply deceived me. I turned toward Mrs. Von Macht. Nothing in her demeanor suggested she had seen anything. I looked to Mr. Middleditch. No reaction there either. I glanced at Pegg. The same.

  I told myself that my mind was merely playing tricks and quickly found a rational answer: Over the past few days, I had been continually seeing the ghostly image of Eleanora that Mr. Middleditch had concocted in that very same spot. What I was seeing, I told myself, was simply what was on my mind—not something actually there.

  These thoughts took only seconds. In fact, it takes longer to describe the ghastly moment than to live it. In any case, I was brought back to my senses—senses now sparked, as a lit fuse—by hearing Mr. Middleditch say, “Mrs. Von Macht, how do you do?” He made his little bow.

  “Very well, Mr. Middleditch,” she returned in a perfectly civil tone, while holding out her delicate white hand for him to touch. “I hope I find you well.”

  “Very well, madam. I thank you.” After briefly holding the woman’s fingertips, he straightened. “Madam, I think you will be very pleased with the results of our photo session.” I could almost see his bulldog’s tail wag.

  “I expect to be.”

  The thought struck me—considering her unthreaded needle and his posturing—that they were both playing games, though neither knew that about the other. But while I knew his game very well, what, I wondered, was hers?

  “May I rest the portfolio there?” Mr. Middleditch said, indicating the sofa.

  “Please do.”

  A true showman, Mr. Middleditch made a little bow, and then, with an elaborate movement just slow enough to create anticipation, he set the portfolio on the couch. With unnecessary fuss he untied the ribbons, spread the portfolio leaves, picked up the single photograph he’d brought, and with the greatest delicacy carried
it across the room. Another little bow. Then, holding the image with two hands, he offered the picture to the woman. Moreover, he deliberately presented the image blank side up, so she would have to turn it over and take it in whole.

  Mr. P. T. Barnum, the circus man, had nothing on Mr. Middleditch!

  Mrs. Von Macht took the picture, turned the photo over, and, with her head tilted slightly forward, gazed upon the image that Mr. Middleditch had created.

  The room grew very still.

  SEVENTEEN

  I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG Mrs. Von Macht stared at the picture. Only after some time had passed did I hear a sharp intake of breath. Even so, she did not move for a long while but continued to gaze down, as if transfixed.

  “Is it to your . . . liking?” Mr. Middleditch asked.

  When Mrs. Von Macht finally lifted her head, her eyes were open wider than normal. Her cheeks were flushed, too, while her lips were parted, as if she were in need of air.

  I had no doubt: She had discovered her daughter’s ghostlike image. And what I saw on the woman’s face was fright.

  She composed herself with visible effort. “Mr. Middleditch—,” she said, only to stop.

  She stood up abruptly and, still holding the photograph in her hands, moved toward the front windows and drew aside one of the heavy drapes, thereby allowing some natural light to fall upon the image. She resumed her intense scrutiny of it in silence. I am sure I heard her breathing quicken.

  “Is there,” asked Mr. Middleditch, “something . . . wrong?”

  I knew him well enough to perceive that he was now a little concerned—as if only then did he realize the peril in which he had placed himself.

  “It . . . it is a lovely picture,” Mrs. Von Macht said, but the words came out in a ragged whisper as if she were not fully in command of her voice.

  “Thank you,” said Mr. Middleditch, making his little bow. “When the subject is so . . . attractive, the photograph must follow.”

  “You are . . . kind.” The woman’s voice was small, unusually uncertain.

  With a sudden gesture she held out the photograph. “Mr. Middleditch,” she asked, “have you examined this?”

  “Examined it?” he said, hesitating before taking the picture into his large hands. “I’m not sure I understand. I made it.”

  “Mr. Middleditch—in the photograph—look behind me. Among the flowers. Do you . . . see . . . anything . . . odd?”

  I stared at him, my whole body tense, wondering what he would do.

  Mr. Middleditch made a show of bending over the picture, muttering, “I see . . . flowers. The candlestick.” He looked up, all innocence. “Is there . . . something else?”

  Mrs. Von Macht frowned. She had been pale before. Now she looked flushed. “Show it to your boy!” she snapped.

  “But—”

  “Show it!”

  He winced under the lash of her command, but complied. And though he did give it to me, he avoided looking at me directly.

  My heart pounding, I took the image and gazed at it, my eyes immediately focusing on the vague face of Eleanora. I was quite prepared, contrary to Mr. Middleditch’s instructions, to say I did see something. But when I looked, what I saw was not the picture I had taken, not the picture Mr. Middleditch had inserted, but a completely different face!

  I stared at it, utterly amazed. Beyond question, it was Eleanora Von Macht. But it was a very angry face, the same face I had momentarily seen among the flowers when I entered the room. Was this another trick of my mind? All I could do was gaze at it, stupefied, quite unable to speak.

  As if from a different world, I heard the woman’s voice. “Do you see something, boy?”

  I could only shake my head.

  Mrs. Von Macht reached out for the picture.

  With a trembling hand, I let her have the picture, watching as she gazed down at it anew. What, I wondered, was she seeing?

  The silence in the room created a terrible tension.

  “Madam,” said Mr. Middleditch, “are you . . . dissatisfied with the picture? Does it lack something?”

  Mrs. Von Macht looked up. There was no question that there was fright in her eyes. Indeed, for a few moments she did not reply, as if she were unable to speak. “You may . . . you may send my husband . . . a bill,” she finally stammered.

  It was a dismissal.

  Mr. Middleditch was surprised. “Are you quite sure—”

  “Mr. Middleditch!” said the woman. “You may go.”

  There was no choice. We had to leave. Pegg emerged from her corner and opened the door for us.

  As we stepped out of the parlor, the door shutting firmly behind us, I struggled to know what to think. What was it I had seen? Had Mrs. Von Macht seen the “spirit image” or not? I would have sworn she had, but did she believe she was being duped or did she believe she was seeing a ghost?

  Pegg led us toward the front door. Neither I nor Mr. Middleditch spoke. I tried to catch Pegg’s eyes, but she would not look my way.

  Just as we reached the front door, a voice called from behind. “Mr. Middleditch!”

  We turned. It was Mrs. Von Macht. She was in the hallway.

  “Come back here!”

  Mr. Middleditch hesitated—as if uncertain whether to return or flee. When I saw him make a slight shift toward the door as if to escape, I decided. Wanting answers, I turned back. Mr. Middleditch had little choice but to follow.

  Pegg hastened to lead the way.

  We returned to the parlor. Mrs. Von Macht was standing by the window, back to us, staring out. The sun from the uncovered window glinted on her very black hair. The photograph lay upon the chair.

  “I fear,” ventured Mr. Middleditch, “I have not pleased you.”

  A slight shift of the woman’s shoulders suggested she was gathering strength. Finally she turned about. She was pale, breathing with difficulty. One hand pressed against her throat. “Mr. Middleditch,” she said. “I must know . . . was that the photograph you took . . . in these rooms?”

  “Of course, madam. But if you are not happy with—”

  “Mr. Middleditch, pick up the photograph.”

  “But—”

  “Pick it up,” she cried. “Look at it!”

  He did so, and gazed down, as if studying it.

  “Do you notice,” she demanded, “anything else in that image?”

  I could almost see him calculating the best response. “It’s enough, dear lady, that I see you—”

  “No flattery, Mr. Middleditch! It ill becomes you.”

  The man had the decency to blush.

  “Then I don’t under—”

  “Mr. Middleditch, do you see nothing . . . unusual in that photograph?”

  Again the man acted as if he were studying the picture. “Madam,” he said. “I confess I don’t. Is there something I should see?”

  Of course he was pretending. For her part I was sure she was trying to decide if she should reveal what she saw.

  “Pegg,” she suddenly said, “leave the room. Take the boy with you.”

  Pegg’s eyes met mine and I followed her out.

  EIGHTEEN

  THE MOMENT WE WENT into the hallway, Pegg whispered, “Quiet!” and pressed an ear to the door.

  I stood there, not daring to utter a word.

  I’m uncertain how long Pegg listened, but she suddenly pulled away and leaned toward me. “What made you react so when you saw the photograph?”

  “Pegg,” I whispered, “I think I saw Eleanora.”

  “Eleanora!” The expression on Pegg’s face was one of astonishment.

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Where?”

  “In there,” I said, beckoning to the parlor. “Twice.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just part of her really, her face, first among the dried flowers behind Mrs. Von Macht. Then in the photograph he gave her. “

  For a moment she could not speak. Then she said, “Are you sure?”


  “Yes! But the image in the photograph and the face in the flowers were different.”

  “But that’s im—”

  “It was your Eleanora.”

  She stared at me. “This evening,” she suddenly said in a fierce, whispered voice. “Nine o’clock. Come to the servant’s door under the stoop. I must know more. Will you come?”

  “I’ll try, but—”

  She put a hand on my arm. “Shhh!”

  The next moment the door swung out. Mr. Middleditch, his face betraying no emotion, stepped out of the room. “Horace, come along.”

  The interior door slammed shut behind him while Mr. Middleditch hurried toward the front door. Pegg darted forward to reach it and hold it open.

  He went out. I looked to Pegg as I followed. Her mouth shaped the words: Nine o’clock. I nodded, went out of the house, and caught up with Mr. Middleditch on the pavement.

  “Mr. Middleditch, sir—”

  “No talk!”

  Breaking into a brisk walk, he headed downtown so rapidly I had to hurry to keep up. All the while I kept glancing up at his face, trying to guess what had transpired when he was alone in the room with Mrs. Von Macht. At the same time I was attempting to make sense of what I had experienced.

  He did not stop until we had gone a few blocks.

  Then he burst into laughter.

  Not polite laughter either, but explosive glee, with much hand clapping, even—for the man was really one great cliché—wiping tears of mirth away.

  I stood there, baffled.

  “Sir?” I ventured when his laughter had subsided into giggles. “What happened?”

  “What happened?” he echoed, struggling to gain some composure. “Why, perfection itself! Oh, Horace, if I may say so, I am the Edwin Booth of photographers.” He was comparing himself to the greatest actor of the age.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Horace, not only did Mrs. Von Macht see the image, she truly believes it’s a ghostly manifestation of her daughter. What’s more, Horace, it took her”—he began to laugh again—“it took her considerable time to convince me—to convince me, Horace—that the smiling face of her daughter was truly there! Oh, Horace, you must, you really must applaud my acting skills.”