The Seer of Shadows

by Avi

  As we followed, I glanced into Mr. Von Macht’s study and gasped. On the floor lay Mr. Von Macht, dead.

  I grabbed at Pegg and pointed.

  Pegg leaned close and whispered, “Remember? She said, ‘Frederick shall never bother you again.’”

  I looked around. While we were staring at the body, the woman had gone up the last flight of steps to the third floor.

  We gathered our wits and hurried after her.

  Recall that on the top floor were four small rooms—the servants’ rooms. The second room from the end was where Eleanora had died. I was certain now the ghost would be there.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Von Macht passed down the hallway and opened that room’s door. From within came flickering light.

  Mrs. Von Macht entered.

  Pegg and I drew in close behind her. I was still holding the flask, Pegg the matches.

  Mrs. Von Macht was on her knees.

  Against the back wall of the small room, standing before Mrs. Von Macht, was Eleanora in her black dress. She was holding the candlestick, its three candles aflame. The flames illuminated her frail face and body. Her body was mostly bones. Her face was exceedingly thin and pale, almost translucent. So was her long fair hair. Her mouth, which had been painted so delicately in the portrait in the hall below, was twisted, cruel, and full of anger. As for her eyes, they were large and clear, as though made of brittle glass, and full of sharp hatred, fixed on Mrs. Von Macht.

  Eleanora in death was a perfect negative image of what she had been in life.

  Behind and above her was the angel. A wind from the angel’s slowly beating wings whipped Eleanora’s dress and hair.

  “Eleanora,” I heard Mrs. Von Macht say, “I beg you! Forgive me.”

  It was then that Pegg darted forward. “Eleanora!” she cried. “It’s me, Pegg! Dance with me again!”

  A startled Eleanora looked away from Mrs. Von Macht toward Pegg. The instant she did, her face transformed. In place of fury there came a luminous look of love with such extraordinary tenderness as I had never seen before, all that Pegg had ever claimed for her.

  Eleanora held out her free, transparent hand. “Sister . . . ,” I heard her say.

  It was then that Mrs. Von Macht also noticed Pegg. “Get out!” she screamed, and lunged so that Pegg was thrown against the wall. “Out!”

  Eleanora whirled about. All her anger and rage returned. Leaning forward, she uttered one word: “Betrayer!” She lifted the candlestick high and took a step forward.

  “Eleanora!” screamed Pegg. “Don’t!”

  But Eleanora’s hand began to descend.

  I leaped forward and splashed the developing solution from the flask on Eleanora. It soaked her face, her hair, and her dress. But taking no notice, she brought the candlestick down, striking Mrs. Von Macht a hard blow on the head.

  Mrs. Von Macht moaned and collapsed. The candle in her hand fell away, as did the three candles from the candlestick. Rolling on the floor, they continued to burn.

  With Eleanora lifting her arm, about to strike again, Pegg jumped forward and made an attempt to stop her. Eleanora easily threw Pegg off and advanced upon Mrs. Von Macht.

  Flames spread across the dry old wooden floor and quickly climbed the walls. The tiny room bloomed with intense light.

  Even as Eleanora was about to strike again, she began to darken all over. Her very substance—if it could be called that—was darkening into shadow like a photograph left too long in developing solution.

  As Pegg and I watched with horror and hope, Eleanora darkened to the point of disappearing until she became an empty void—a shadow that had no form—and then she was gone.

  The solid candlestick clattered to the floor.

  By then the room was almost engulfed in flames.

  “Pegg!” I cried. “Help me with Mrs. Von Macht.”

  We tried to lift the woman. She groaned, so that we knew she was still alive, and we managed to pull her from the burning room.

  Behind us the doorway was smoking, about to burst into flame. Very quickly the flames edged out of the room and like some living thing, began creeping across the hallway floor.

  “Pegg,” I shouted, “we need to get out!”

  As I spoke, the adjacent room—Pegg’s room—burst into roaring flames. The hallway was now filled with searing light, heat, and flame.

  Lungs aching, almost blinded by the billowing smoke, I took Pegg’s hand and started down the steps. Pegg hung back by Mrs. Von Macht’s side. “Pegg!” I screamed, “Save yourself!” I reached out to her.

  Taking my hand, she moved away.

  The two of us all but tumbled down the steps to the second floor, then to the first and to the front door. The key was on the little side table. Pegg snatched it up and opened the door. A rush of wind swept in.

  The flames above roared with renewed fury.

  We raced down the stoop and onto the sidewalk, then ran down the street. Only when we reached the corner did we stop to look back. The top of the house, including the roof, was aflame.

  I gasped: By the light of the flames, I saw the beautiful angel, directly above the house, rising ever higher on slowly beating wings. Her tears glistened like jewels. In her arms, held against her breast as if by a protective mother, was Eleanora.

  Did I ask Pegg if she saw them? I knew she couldn’t, so I said nothing. I just stared and thought . . . Rest in peace.

  Within moments the avenue was crowded with onlookers. I could hear the clanging bells of approaching fire pumpers. Police began to appear. Hand in hand, Pegg and I fled.

  THIRTY-NINE

  WE RETURNED TO THE ROOMS on Charlton Street. There, behind a bolted door, we spent the rest of the night, and much of the following day. We were afraid to venture anywhere.

  I was equally fearful that the police would come for us.

  “We need to go to my parents’ rooms,” I told Pegg.

  “But what will I do?” she asked.

  “I promise my parents will be kind. There is only one thing,” I said. “We can’t tell them what happened. They’ll never believe it—especially not my father.”

  “What will you say then?”

  “I’ll . . . invent something.”

  Which is exactly what I did. I told my parents a partial truth—that Mr. Middleditch had taken flight, fearing some entangling legal matters, that I was sure he was gone permanently, and that my apprenticeship with him was over.

  I introduced Pegg to them and said she was an orphan. I told them the story of her early life and that she had become my dearest friend, but had been displaced by employers who had abandoned her most cruelly. To my gratitude my parents remained loyal to their principles and took Pegg in.

  A few days later Pegg and I dared to go back to the house on Fifth Avenue. It was mostly gutted, its charred remains a monument to what had been destroyed. Seeing policemen there, we dared not approach too closely.

  That part of my life was done.

  But of course there was more. Much more.

  Pegg and I stayed with my parents for some four years, until I came of age—at eighteen. I had found another position with a photographer and had advanced into becoming a professional. I focused on landscapes and works of still life, avoiding as much as I could taking pictures of people. Meanwhile, my mother shared her sewing skills with Pegg.

  When I was eighteen, Pegg seventeen, there being no one else with whom we wished to share our hearts or our secrets, Pegg and I married. We moved from New York to Vermont, where I established myself as a photographer, she a fine seamstress. We had a child, a daughter.

  We named her Eleanora.

  From time to time when I was obliged to take portraits, the images often contained ghostly figures—not always so, but all too often. In some cases I might manage to learn that they were relations who had passed on. I made sure not to take any more pictures of these people.

  At times, however, I would see the sorrowful angel hovering in the background of my p
ortraits. Inevitably the person in one of these photographs died within a short time.

  I never shared these spirit images with my clients. By manipulating the photographs I could eradicate the ghosts completely so my clients never knew what hovered near.

  Thus, no one else knew what I saw with my pictures—my spirit shadows—no one, that is, but my beloved Pegg. It’s always been my solace to share my seeing with her.

  But now—here is what I have come to. Our beloved daughter, our Eleanora, lies very ill upon her bed.

  “Papa,” she pleads, “take a photograph of me. You’ve never done so.”

  I make excuses. “When you are better. When you are healthier.” But her illness makes her impatient.

  “Do take the picture, Papa,” she pleads. “If I were to die, then you and Mama would have something to remember me by.”

  I fear to do so. It is not the remembrance I fear. I fear that if I take my Eleanora’s photograph, I’ll reveal the image of that sorrowful angel. Or perhaps the ghost of her namesake, hovering close. Too close.

  There is a limit to how much a seer wishes to see.

  So here is my pledge: That I shall never take a photograph again. For though I am a seer of shadows, I wish to see no more of them.

  Let these written words be a prayer that there be no more shadows. And may the hovering angel spare our Eleanora, that she might live well and long in the light of her parents’ love—their bright love.

  HORACE CARPETINE

  Burlington, Vermont

  1888—21 December

  BONUS MATERIALS

  A Day in the Life of Avi

  Avi on the History of Photography

  Fun and Spooky Green-Wood Cemetery Facts

  A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AVI

  I’m not one of those people who enjoy sleep. But then I never feel as if I’m getting anything done when I sleep. The reason, of course, is that my life is a busy one, with maybe too much to do and too little time to achieve what I wish to do.

  So I tend to wake early—without an alarm clock—and as I lie there momentarily, I run through the things I need to get done: take my son to school, or plan for dinner, or call a person about a conference I will be attending. I also think about what writing should get done that day. I’m usually working on two or three books at any one time—at different stages, with different deadlines.

  But while writing sits at the center of my life everyday, it’s hardly the only thing I do.

  I do my best writing, I think, in the morning. I do my best writing, I think, when it is absolutely silent. I do my best writing, I think, when I’m not engaged by any of the million family things that come up. Between us, my wife and I have five children, all young adults, still very much connected to the family.

  I try to stay at the computer as long as I can. That may be a morning, a morning and an afternoon, or if I’m really lucky, all day and into the night. An okay day is one in which I move forward about five manuscript pages. A good day means writing more. It all depends on how well I see my story, see my characters, know what they are doing, wanting, caring about.

  The hardest part for me is the initial creation—the crude first draft—trying to build a story chapter by chapter. It’s a long process, usually taking anywhere from eight months to a year. (But the shortest time was one day: S.O.R. Losers. The longest time, fourteen years: Bright Shadow.) Then comes the rewriting, the part I most love. I’m always thinking about the reader; will he or she make sense of it, enjoy it, laugh or cry with it, or scream along with the suspense? I try to keep in mind what the great American writer Robert Frost said: “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.”

  An important part of each day is my engagement with my professional writing world: talking to editors, other writers, the people in publishing, such as designers, illustrators, marketing folk—many of whom I think of as close friends. Writing, for me, is a collaborative effort. I greatly enjoy the give-and-take of creating a good book—how it’s written, how it looks.

  I travel a good deal to schools, conferences, and various book-related events. When I go, I lug my laptop about and work in airports and hotels. The more engaged I am in a book, the stronger it will be.

  In my household I do the cooking, which is a great pleasure for me. The instant gratification of food is in sharp contrast to the long, evolving process of writing.

  On weekends we often go to our log cabin retreat, high (9,000 feet) in the Rocky Mountains. There, in the middle of the forest, the phone rarely rings, the nearest supermarket is thirty miles away, and the loudest noise is the twittering of hummingbirds. A wonderful place to write.

  My chief private reward for any day’s work is reading. So many wonderful stories to read! So much to learn about! So many lives to experience! I have dreams about the perfect vacation—just going off somewhere and reading.

  Well, there! I guess that’s something I do get done when I sleep.

  AVI ON THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGRAPHY

  When most of us take a photographic picture these days, it is with a digital camera. You could be using an expensive camera with a fancy lens—or a cell phone. Even throwaway digital cameras are available.

  The history of making pictures with light is much older than what we might think of as true photography. It could be said to go back to ancient times, with a device called a camera obscura. This is a simple contraption—you could make one yourself—which allows you to form images on the walls of darkened rooms. Leonardo da Vinci wrote about the camera obscura, and many artists used it to help paint realistic pictures. The images of the camera obscura, however, were never permanent.

  It was not until 1826 that a Frenchman, Nicéphore Niépce, created the first permanent image. Amazingly enough, it still exists, and we can see it. Taken from the second floor window of his house, overlooking Paris, it took eight hours of light exposure to develop.

  View from the Window at Le Gras. Nicéphore Niépce, 1826.

  Soon after Niépce’s image, other photographic innovations began to crop up. The photographic instruction book The Silver Sunbeam—mentioned in The Seer of Shadows— was published in 1864 and explains a variety of mostly forgotten photographic methods such as the daguerreotype process, the calotype process, Bertrand’s process, Dr. Norris’s process, even something called the Bichromo photo-lithographic process of Poitevin—and more! With these methods, images were made on paper, glass (ambrotypes), iron (tintypes), even stone. The goal was to make faster images with a greater permanence at a cheaper cost. As for the cameras, they too evolved. An 1839 daguerreotype camera weighed one hundred and twenty pounds!

  Nevertheless, by the 1870s—the time of The Seer of Shadows—the making of photographs, particularly portrait photos, was widely popular and not that expensive. Still, most photographic work was done by professionals, like Mr. Middleditch.

  It was in 1888 that the first Kodak cameras appeared. Using a roll of paper to capture the image, it was intended for the nonprofessional, mass use. Shortly after, Kodak introduced photographic film. An inexpensive box camera with roll film followed. Its highly popular slogan was, “You press the button, we do the rest.” In other words, you took the pictures and sent the camera to Kodak, who would then return developed photos.

  By the beginning of the twentieth century, photography had become cheap enough to be pursued by both professionals and amateurs. Local stores developed film and printed images, and for most of the century, the way photographs were taken and film was handled didn’t change much.

  Many a photography amateur, including me, set up their own darkrooms instead of sending film off to be developed. I loved to go down into my basement, and beneath a dim and glowing red light (the one kind that does not interfere with film or photographic paper), work for hours trying to make good photos. It was hard, but wonderful fun. Nonetheless, I must confess that after some years of dipping my fingers into (and breathing) rather strange-smelling chemicals, I decided it was time to switch—to digital
photography, which had become available at low cost.

  Nowadays taking pictures with film has become rather old-fashioned. At the same time, many people continue to discover that they like to do things the old way. There are even those who insist that the old film process creates better pictures. My daughter once told me that my switch to digital was not real photography. She forgot, or did not know, the previous evolution of photographic methods. Then I gave her a digital camera, and she was delighted to use it herself.

  Photographic images in which ghosts seem to appear have a long history. For those who did not understand the way the photographic process worked, these spirit images could be as convincing as they were mysterious.

  They were easy to make. With film photography, all one had to do was make a double image; that is, put two pictures on the negative and print it as one image. This is what happens in The Seer of Shadows.

  Spirit photos were sometimes made to remember someone who had died. During the American Civil War, when hundreds of thousands of people died, a vogue for “ghost” or “spirit” pictures of departed loved ones sprang up to comfort the grieving survivors.

  Other times they were made simply because they were considered amusing. In other cases—again, as in The Seer of Shadows—they were made to create a spooky hoax.

  Without question, some of the early ghost images were accidental, and therefore truly mysterious, sometimes even to their photographers. Nevertheless, people were more often deliberately and fraudulently making these ghostly pictures, like Mr. Middleditch. The most famous hoaxer was William H. Mumler, who achieved great notoriety with his images. In his day—the 1870s—he made perhaps the most famous spirit image of the time, an image of Mary Todd Lincoln, President Lincoln’s widow. It showed her with a ghostly image of the dead president standing right behind her.