Haunted

by Alexandra Adornetto

  “I know you and Zac got off on the wrong foot,” I said finally, “but he’s a really good guy. If you give him a chance, I think you might actually like him.”

  “It is clear that you do,” he replied.

  “What do you mean by that? You must know there’s nothing going on between Zac and me.”

  “That is reassuring. Do you often spend the night here?”

  I followed his line of vision to the sofa bed, where my pyjamas were neatly folded on the pillow. I’d worn the same pair at Grange Hall and Alex had clearly recognised them. To me, the sight confirmed that Zac and I had slept in separate beds, but Alex obviously had different ideas rattling around in his head.

  “I’ve spent a couple of nights here,” I admitted. “I fought with my dad. He has this new girlfriend and I needed a friend to talk to.” And you were nowhere to be found, I wanted to add, but bit my tongue.

  “Friendship between men and women is not possible,” Alex announced.

  “Of course it is! This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “One party will always entertain feelings of a more romantic nature.”

  “So you’re saying no man and woman in the history of the world have ever been able to sustain a friendship?”

  He sighed like I was a naive child. “I am sure there are exceptions.”

  “Like you and Becky,” I pressed. “You were friends, right?”

  “Becky was a servant and barely fifteen. I believe she may have harboured a girlish infatuation for me, but we were not friends. Such a relationship would have been impossible.”

  I scowled, but before we could continue what was fast turning into our first ever disagreement, Zac walked in with an armful of supplies.

  “Let’s get down to business,” he said, dumping the lot on the coffee table.

  Alex knelt and began sorting through the picture frames, discarding anything that looked too sleek or modern. “This will do nicely,” he said, choosing a medium-sized round frame with embellished silver edges that looked a little tarnished. It contained a photograph of Zac’s parents in their younger, happier days.

  We followed him outside, where he laid several sheets of newspaper on the grass. Then he removed the pane of glass from the frame, careful not to tear the picture, which he handed to Zac for safekeeping. Using the cloth, he rubbed the glass down with vinegar, then water, making sure to erase every smudge and fingerprint.

  When he was satisfied, he laid the glass on the newspaper and picked up the can of spraypaint. After puzzling over it for a moment, he passed it to me. “Chloe, would you mind?”

  I took the can and, as instructed, sprayed three coats of paint over the glass until it was completely blacked out. While we waited for it to dry, my attention was drawn to the frame.

  “Zac,” I asked, “how likely is it that your parents will notice this missing?”

  “Seeing as I found it in a closet, I’d say not very.”

  Without knowing why but feeling compelled in some way, I pulled off an earring and used the pin to etch a border of tiny stars and moons around the frame. I quickly discovered the silver wasn’t solid, only paint that scratched away.

  “What are you doing?” Zac asked curiously.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  When the paint had dried, Alex slid the glass back into the now-decorated frame. The black looked eerie, like the frame was empty and you could pass your hand right through it.

  Zac led us back inside, where he shut the doors and rolled down his blackout blinds.

  “How did you know we need darkness?” Alex asked.

  “I didn’t,” Zac replied. “I just don’t want my mom to see us and think I’ve joined some kind of cult.”

  “Do you have candles?”

  “Yeah, in the bathroom. I’ll grab them.”

  He returned with several scented candles in glass jars, which Alex lit and arranged in a half-circle on the coffee table. He then set the black mirror in the centre and we gathered on our knees around it. It was unnervingly quiet. On my left, I was aware of the rise and fall of Zac’s breathing and the faint rush of waves in the distance.

  On my right, Alex’s attention was completely focused.

  “Look into the mirror as if you are gazing into water,” he instructed in a hypnotic voice. “Imagine what lies beneath the surface until it begins to ripple. But remember, it is vital that you do not look upon your own reflection. If tempted, you may look from a side angle.”

  “Why can’t we look at our own reflections?” Zac asked in a nervous whisper.

  “To do so may cause your soul to become trapped in the mirror. If that were to happen, I would not know how to free you.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound risky at all.”

  Alex ignored him and turned to me, candlelight dancing across his perfectly composed features.

  “Chloe, are you ready to meet Rebecca Burns?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ready was the last thing I felt. All of a sudden what we were about to do seemed very dangerous. I’d attempted something similar once before, at Grange Hall, but then I’d been with Mavis and May, paranormal experts who’d guided me safely through it. I wasn’t sure Alex knew what he was dealing with. On the other hand there didn’t seem to be another choice.

  I leaned closer to the mirror and it seemed to pull me in, as if it wanted to check me out before revealing its inky magic. It was hard to believe that putting a few everyday items together could have produced something with such power. The silence in the room filled with anticipation, but nothing appeared in the mirror. Something told me we needed to break through a final barrier to coax it to divulge its secrets.

  Words spilled from my mouth without me realising what I was saying. To be honest, it didn’t feel like it was even me speaking. I was a conduit, controlled by an unseen entity. I should have felt afraid, but I didn’t. Somehow I knew this entity was a guide, taking the place of Mavis and May, so instead of trying to expel it, I welcomed it in.

  “I consecrate this mirror in the name of the Sun and the Moon and the stars.”

  “Excuse me?” Zac’s voice was surprised and very far away. All that existed now was the mirror and me.

  “I banish all evil energies. I invoke the Ancient Ones to speak to us now. What secret knowledge you possess, I command you to divulge it now.” My guide told me the words must be uttered three times and I complied, with extra emphasis on the last: “I command you to divulge it now!”

  We all held our breath, waiting for a response. At first nothing happened. But then, as I gazed into the black, a swirl of grey appeared, like a tiny feather on the surface of a still pool.

  My body began to loosen and relax and a strange sinking sensation came over me. Then, to my amazement, small explosions of colour burst across the glass before falling away like chalk dust. Faster and faster they came, until they were colliding with one another, streaking across the mirror like a private display of fireworks.

  Could the others see them? I wanted to ask but didn’t dare speak in case it interfered with the magic.

  Then, as suddenly as they’d appeared, the colours vanished, leaving what looked like a yawning black space. Ever so slowly an image began to fill it. It appeared to be some sort of photograph or painting, but as it took shape I saw that it was neither. It was a face. The face of Rebecca Burns, staring at us.

  I sensed Zac’s body jolt as he drew in a sharp breath. That meant he could see her too. I didn’t have to wonder if Alex could. We were making contact with his own kind.

  “Do not avert your gaze,” Alex warned me, before his voice turned gentle. “Becky, do you remember me?”

  She blinked as she examined him. She seemed so young with her upturned nose, smattering of freckles and tumble of curls, yet there was unmistakable sadness in her eyes. As she stared at Alex, a look of recognition dawned on her face. She nodded and her colourless lips stretched into a wan smile.

  “It is good to see you again,” Alex sa
id, then his expression clouded. “But you are so young. What happened to you, Becky? You should have lived a long life.”

  Becky didn’t answer, but her eyes filled with tears.

  “You cannot speak, can you?”

  She looked around her temporary cage and shrugged unhappily.

  Alex bowed his head. “I am sorry for you.”

  Upon seeing his grief, the ghost reached out a hand. To my shock, her pale fingers came right through the glass. As they stretched toward us, the blackness stretched with them like elastic.

  “Ugh!” I gasped and the hand recoiled as if it had been stung. Becky looked offended.

  “I’m sorry. You just startled me,” I said, my heart still pounding. “Do you know who I am?”

  She tilted her head. I could tell she recognised me from somewhere, but it was eluding her. She looked to Alex for guidance.

  “Listen, Becky,” he said, “we have summoned you here because we need your help. It is about Mrs Reade … about Isobel. She has come back, you see.”

  Becky’s eyes widened.

  “Something or someone has brought her back,” Alex continued, “and she is very dangerous. We need to know if you remember anything, even the smallest detail, that might help us.”

  Becky glanced over her shoulder with an alarmed look.

  “She cannot hurt you, Becky,” Alex said. “I promise you. Now tell me, do you know anything?”

  Becky didn’t look all that convinced, but she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  “If you cannot tell us, can you show us?” Alex asked.

  Becky’s gaze shifted to me and our eyes locked. She looked at me inquiringly and I gave her a small smile of permission. I knew what was going to happen, but there was no time to warn Alex and Zac. My body slumped and I felt Alex’s arms catch me before the physical world ebbed away.

  I wake to the sound of birdsong on this glowing September morning. Sunlight streams into the attic and I dress in a puddle of light, relishing its warmth on my skin. From the window I see a grand carriage waiting by the front entrance. Are we expecting visitors? Mrs Baxter did not mention any and she is usually so rigorous about informing us of changes to the daily routine.

  I hurry downstairs to find a small party assembled in the foyer around Mrs Reade. Her glossy mahogany tresses are pinned back today and she wears a feathered hat and a sumptuous velvet riding cloak. As I approach, she throws a cursory glance in my direction, but I am not engaging enough to hold her attention. She looks away, bored, and I feel myself blush beet red. How plain she must think me. Plain as dry toast. I feel suddenly ashamed that I was born to be so ordinary.

  “Ah, Becky, here you are!” Mrs Baxter declares. She steers me aside, speaking quickly under her breath. “Now listen carefully, I have an important task for you today. The mistress is making a trip into town and she cannot go alone. Ordinarily I would accompany her, but we have just received word that the master will be returning and bringing guests so there are preparations to be made. So you are to go in my place.”

  My duties have never extended beyond the house till now and my face reflects my alarm. “Me?”

  “It’s an honour, girl, not a punishment! You only need follow the mistress and do as she asks. Now come here, you cannot go out into the world like that.”

  She whips off my apron, adjusts my cap and hastily wraps a cloak around my shoulders before bidding me to follow Mrs Reade to the carriage. I wipe my palms on my cloak feeling terribly anxious. I have never ridden in a carriage before and I do not know the proper etiquette. Do I sit next to or across from the lady of the house? Or was my place outside with the driver? There is no time to ask Mrs Baxter so I must hope not to make a fool of myself in front of my employer.

  Once the mistress is comfortably ensconced, I am bundled into the carriage opposite her. Before I can so much as look out the window, I hear the crack of the driver’s whip and we are away, rattling down the driveway. We travel in silence and I keep my gaze fixed on my lap. I dare not look directly at Mrs Reade lest I unintentionally offend her, which would be easily done in her current brittle mood.

  “How old are you, child?”

  The sound of her voice makes me jump and I look up to find her watching me with eyes the colour of woodland sunshine. I marvel at the way they seem to absorb everything yet reveal nothing. I have never been in such close quarters with her before and she hardly seems real. I feel as though I am gazing at a life-sized porcelain doll with immobile features except for her big searching eyes.

  “I shall be fifteen come Candlemas,” I answer.

  “Will you really?” she exclaims with genuine curiosity. “I would have put your age much younger.”

  I am bothered by her implication that I look and behave like a child, but as I have no clever response to offer I fall silent. Mrs Reade rests her head against the window to watch the lush green fields roll by.

  “I wonder sometimes about the life of a housemaid,” she says. “It cannot have anything to recommend it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, madam,” I say with some confusion.

  “I simply cannot imagine it,” she continues. “It is a wonder you can get out of bed in the morning.”

  “I am very grateful to have my position,” I say quickly, in case she thinks otherwise.

  “Well, I should never survive it.”

  “We accept the lot we are given,” I say meekly.

  Mrs Reade’s glittering eyes regard me challengingly. “Not always,” she murmurs, adding after a considered pause, “I believe we are masters of our own destiny.”

  The carriage takes us past the village, rattling along cobbled streets. It is still early so there are not many people about. Smoke curls from the chimney of the bakery and I know Mrs Mills and her three sons will have been up for hours. We pass the butcher and the haberdashery and the sweet shop but show no signs of slowing down. On the open road, we journey until the fortified walls of a large town come into view. The air has a briny tang and I wonder whether we are close to the sea.

  I have never ventured beyond the confines of our village and I crane my neck, eager not to miss a thing. We drive along broad roads filled with other carriages and pass the smoking chimneys of what must be factories. My eyes widen to see a horse-drawn bus full of common folk going about their daily business. Wistings has but a smattering of shops, but here the street is crammed with shopfronts advertising all manner of items from furnishings to ornaments. It would be easy to lose hours just perusing the windows.

  There is so much to take in I feel dizzy. Even though I find it fascinating, I can also see this place is dirty and congested. Little wonder people die of epidemics in towns like this, all crammed in together.

  We leave the main street behind and the carriage turns into a narrow alleyway. The shopfronts here are shadowy and marked by tarnished brass signs hanging over dusty doorways. The brick walls seem to close in on us, blocking out the light. I peer out the window with some trepidation while Mrs Reade reclines in her seat, calm as ever. Right at the end of the alleyway, set deep into a corner, is a small shop with a sign that reads Apothecary. This is where the carriage stops and the mistress alights.

  Is she ill, I wonder. She seems to me the picture of health.

  “Wait here,” she instructs. “I shall not be long.”

  The shop’s lintel is so low that Mrs Reade has to stoop a little to walk beneath it. The building looks as if it dates back to medieval times, and I see that the window is sagging on one side. Through it I spy a set of scales and various jars holding dried herbs. There is an old telescope and a globe and other implements I cannot identify. It is a place full of secrets for those who dare inquire.

  Minutes pass and I begin to feel conspicuous sitting in this gleaming carriage. I sense eyes watching me from dark recesses, even though the alleyway is mostly deserted. A few harried-looking folk pass by, but they keep their heads down as if they wish not to be recognised. When the desperate eyes of a stre
et urchin lock with mine I retreat out of sight. I hope the mistress does not keep us lingering here much longer. There is no telling what shady characters we might encounter.

  I wait for what seems close to an hour, growing more and more concerned. It seems peculiar that the mistress has been gone so long. Could she be in need of assistance?

  I wish I could ask Mrs Baxter the proper thing to do, but without her guidance I shall have to decide for myself. After some wavering, I step out of the carriage.

  The driver frowns at me. “Where you off to, girly?” he growls, rubbing the whiskers on his chin.

  “I am going to check on my mistress,” I reply. “She has been gone a while now.”

  He brays like a donkey. “Nay, I wouldn’t do that. She won’t thank you for it.”

  “But it is growing late and I don’t like this place.”

  “Mrs Reade’s business is her own. Don’t go sticking yer nose where it’s not wanted.”

  Ignoring his advice, I approach the dingy doorway and turn the knob as quietly as I can. There doesn’t seem to be anybody about so I grow bold enough to slip inside. The air is heavier here and smells of a combination of licorice and aromatic oils. Every wall is lined with hundreds of glass bottles, each seeming to contain a different potion or remedy. On the counter is a dusty ledger and bowls of strange, smoking herbs.

  Upon hearing muted voices I instinctively shrink into a corner, only to realise they are coming from a small slanted room at the back of the shop. From my hiding place behind a shelf laden with assorted vials, I see Mrs Reade seated opposite a man, who is stooped in his chair with his back to me. All I can discern is his long silver hair tied with a black ribbon.

  He chuckles affectionately. “Honestly, my dear, what would you do without me?”

  “Luckily, I shall never have to find out,” the mistress replies with a smile that would melt butter.

  “We are in agreement then?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Excellent.” He leans toward her and rubs his palms together. “I shall prepare the draught for you and you must take it three times daily. I must warn you, it is not very palatable.”