He turned to go.
As if his words were law, the lights suddenly went out and the room plunged into darkness. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and Emily’s skin froze as she clenched the armrest. He was playing with her after all; he had no intention of leaving.
A woman’s voice whispered, “Riiing…arooound…the…rosssey…”
She could hear Vandin start abruptly near her. She recoiled blindly.
The icy voice warbled on. “Pockets…fuuuuulll…”
The door creaked open on a breath, then slammed shut on its own. The small light on his desk fizzled to life. Vandin’s labored breaths came in short white puffs through his nose like a dragon.
“…of poooossseys…”
Fright as she was meant to feel, fright that made her hardwired to being alive, filled Emily. But a small part of her brain, the part that was still functioning, knew. She could feel her; she knew this familiar fear. She was never so glad to be terrified in her life. She knew that eerie, sultry voice.
Vandin wheeled around, his eyes like slits, trying to get a bearing on where the ghostly voice was coming from.
“Asshhhhes!” A laugh erupted from nowhere, a sound to freeze the blood in your veins.
All at once, a framed picture flew from the bookcase. The voice rose in anger. “Ashhhessss…”
Then another frame shot out, crashing to the floor. And another. A barrage of books followed, forcing Emily to cringe into the chair to avoid being hit. From behind, the desk pins ejected out of the map like machine gun fire, flying across the room. They impaled Vandin’s arm. He howled, cursing in pain.
“All faaaalll…”
The small lamp toppled over, the shade demolished. Dr. Vandin’s back was to Emily as he twisted around wildly, frantic to find the source of the destruction. Suddenly his body staggered backward as though he had been punched in the face. He fell to the floor; a heavy glass ashtray lay at his side. He turned. His nose spewed blood, his shirt and tie were smeared with it, and ash covered his face. He looked like a ghoul.
The voice sang out loudly. “Down!”
“Nora!” Emily yelled out loud. “Noreen!”
Vandin glared at her, holding his nose like a stuck pig. “What are you doing? How are you doing this? How are you doing this?”
“She isn’t!” Nora wailed, and with a bone chilling cry, the door flew open. “But I am, you pig! Boo!”
He scuttled backward like a crab. One hand tried to stem the tide of the blood that left a trail behind him, the other grappled for his luggage. He threw himself out the door. The sound of his terrified footsteps thundered down the hall.
Emily sat there, unable to move, unable to breathe. Adrenaline raced through her body; she tried to speak, but she couldn’t open her mouth.
“Emily,” Nora whispered, her voice weaker, farther away. “I can’t stay. I’ve only been here once, the bonds aren’t strong. Never much of a poltergeist, I’m afraid. At sunset, tonight, the Columbarium. Please, Emily, we don’t have much time. At sunset, the Columbarium. You need to understand. But first, Emily—you have to find her.”
“Wait,” Emily shouted. “What? Who do I have find?”
“That girl, the girl from before, find her. And Emily…” Her voice was nothing but a wisp now. “Be strong.” Then there was silence broken only by a soft exhalation, and Emily swore she whispered, “Love the jacket…my favorite.”
The full force of what had just happened to her hadn’t yet hit; she didn’t know what would happen when it did. Despite everything, she was gripped with the overwhelming desire to drop to her knees; she was so thankful, so god-awful thankful.
All at once the ghost’s words reverberated through her mind: the girl from before, find her. Be strong. And she understood. Emily ripped through the papers on Vandin’s desk, her hands still shaking but her mind laser sharp in its purpose. She found what she wanted. The girl’s name was written on his calendar blotter next to hers, with three stars beside it. Her stomach roiled in disgust.
Nora was right. She was always right.
“You’re dead,” Emily muttered. She tore out the page and shoved it in her pocket. Then in a fit of uncontrolled rage, she swept everything off his desk onto the floor with a loud crash.
Emily found her. Her name was Laura Schandler. She was a freshman, from Wichita, Kansas. Her father was a pastor; her mother taught Sunday school. Through the crack in the door, Emily could see her eyes were red and swollen and afraid.
“But he said I was special,” said her little girl voice. She still wore the same clothes. She said her parents would be furious. They had homeschooled her, raised her to be a good girl. “I didn’t want him to do that, but everything happened so fast.”
Be strong.
“You need to go to the Administration Office. It’s the only way.”
“But I can’t, my parents…”
“No, it’s all right. Shhhh. It’s all right. I’ll stay with you. Your parents love you. They want you safe. If you don’t report this, he’ll keep doing it to other girls. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”
And Emily did. She sat next to her at the counselors, who immediately called the police upon learning that Laura was only seventeen. She held her freezing cold hand when Laura began to panic and did not let go on the ride to the hospital, or in the examination room.
It was very late by the time they finished, after their last statements were taken by the police who promised to remain in touch. Emily dug in her purse to find her cell phone, but it was nowhere to be found. She asked Laura if she had one she could possibly borrow. Laura handed it to her with trembling hands.
Emily stared at the phone. She opened her mouth to ask Laura how to dial, as it was so unlike her own, only to look up and realize that Laura’s face was colorless. How could she explain to Margot what had happened while she sat next to this scarred girl? She opted to text, hoping she was doing it correctly.
I’m fine. Will be late. Don’t worry. E.
She prayed it was good enough for Margot.
“Thank you—for taking care of me,” Laura whispered.
“No need to thank me. Remember, you’re not alone. You’re going to need to be strong, though.”
“You too.”
“Yes.”
The phone booth on Stanyan reeked of urine. She held her breath and called home. The line rang and rang and rang. The answering machine wouldn’t pick up. Hell. Where was everyone? She struggled not to hit something, feeling more and more alone.
Her heart beat harder with the thought of calling Andrew. But how? Madly in love with the man and she didn’t even know his phone number. How could that even be? Maybe it was a good thing; she could only imagine his reaction to all this.
Promise me that you’ll let me come with you? I’ve seen how he treats you. I don’t want you near him alone.
She’d deal with the fallout later. Right now the sun was setting; she was running out of time. She swore as she rummaged in her pockets for change. Across the street a bunch of crack heads were starting to pee on her car. Hell! Wasn’t the phone booth good enough? Slamming the phone down in disgust, she raced back across the street. She’d try again, after…after whatever Nora wanted had happened.
The sun left a red slash in the sky as it dipped below the horizon; the trees stood like black sentinels against it. Just beyond, the basilica came into view. The Columbarium. She had never stepped a foot inside. She was too daunted, for one simple reason: the place teemed with the dead. She could feel them the few times she had driven past, and hated the thought of being confined so close to them.
Her roommates had dismissed her fears as crazy, but it was one of the reasons she enrolled in Vandin’s class—to banish her belief in ghosts—long before they had intruded on her life. As a teenager she had lost herself in Poe and Lovecraft. The lurid fascination with the macabre had never left her, but it didn’t make it any easier to enter the place.
When she reached the
door, her heart sped up. The sign read: Visiting hours 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. Silence requested. She checked her watch. It was almost five; she’d made it just under the wire. The heavy bronze doors opened like those of a cathedral, and immediately the scents of incense and age assaulted her senses. As she entered, her heels clipped on the marble floor. She looked up and stopped short in wonder.
A beautiful rotunda towered above her head, and stained-glass windows ringed the upper dome. The entire interior was made up of level after level of open galleries with corridors leading off of them, much like the spokes radiating out from the center of a very expensive wheel. Ornate wrought-iron railings circled every tier, and she guessed each corridor would house the vaults that held the cremated remains.
Her attention was drawn ahead to the floor of the rotunda where a finely appointed table stood, topped by an ornate urn. Rows of chairs were lined up in front of it. A small gathering of mourners sat there, heads bowed. A sign read:
Lipswitch Internment
Reception to follow
A pianist and harpist played off to the side. A haunting melody floated from their instruments and enveloped the room. Emily could feel the weight of the day settle heavily upon her, the poignant sound making her heart draw tight. She drew back into the shadows as a man in a uniform spotted her and immediately trotted over.
Emily gaped at him in surprise as he smiled back in the same witchy-stoner way he had at his shop. She’d never mistake all those tattoos. Evidently he had no problem recognizing her, either.
“Yo. If it ain’t the Muse-lady! Dinesh said you’d come here, I just didn’t believe him.” He smiled broadly and motioned to the man behind the piano.
A long-haired Indian stoner, whom she could only assume to be Dinesh, nodded at her in response like Lurch from The Addams Family. He kicked the emaciated bald guy bent at the harp, who looked over his shoulder at Emily. She heard him utter, “Holy shit,” over a woeful chord. A few of the mourners’ heads popped up in alarm.
“What are you doing here?” Emily asked in disbelief.
“Shop’s closed on Mondays. Just working here to earn a little extra scratch. That’s Buck next to Dinesh—they’re aiding the dearly beloved with the passing of their dearly departed, yada, yada, yada. Little do they know, Mr. Lipswitch’s hanging out on the third floor balcony with his wife. She’s bitching about all the people who didn’t show up. Can’t you see him, the fat dude with the mustache?”
Emily peered up into the dim gallery. “Um, no. I don’t think so. But I think I’m a one-woman ghost watcher, though. You can see them all? Every one?”
“Yeah. It’s a bummer, though. Seems like they’ve all got something that’s harshing their mellow. One ghost can’t stand to be near his ex-wife’s ashes ’cause it’s eating away at what’s left of him. Another one is rotting from all the shit she dumped on everybody in her life. Issues, issues, issues. A nasty bunch here, if I do say so myself.”
Emily wanted to hug him at that moment; he was the first smiling face she had seen all day. The realization made all the strength she had girded herself with to survive the past few hours nearly crumble away.
“Dwayne, your name’s Dwayne, right?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice even.
He gave her the thumbs up and showed off his rather fancy nametag. “Dwayne Cobshib.”
“Pleased to meet you again, Dwayne Cobshib. I’m Emily, Emily Thomas.” She shook his hand with a brisk, business-like nature which confused him a bit. “I need your help. I need to find someone, well, the remains of someone who I think is here. Is there a directory or book or anything I could check?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Uh, actually, I’m pretty new here.”
“How new?”
“My first week. Dinesh got me the job.”
Emily groaned.
“Yo, yo, Muse-lady, don’t start freaking. I don’t think there’s anything like that, anyway. You know, privacy and all. Some really famous people are boxed up here.”
“You don’t suppose you could ask, um…” Emily glanced up at the gallery where she thought Mr. Lipswitch might be standing.
“Whoa. No way. It’s a member’s only club, and they’re tighter than a nun’s budget with that shit. They take those secrets to the grave.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do? She told me to be here at dusk, and I came without even knowing why. Do you know what I’ve been through today? Do you have any idea? Now I’m standing here in some God-forsaken crypt, the reason for which I have no idea, my friends are probably apoplectic wondering where the hell I am, and all I want to do is go home and forget this whole day ever happened. Do you understand? Do you?!”
It was the moment she knew was coming, she just didn’t picture it happening in front of a security guard/palm reader, the entire grieving Lipswitch family, two stoner musicians, and countless disembodied dead people. Grabbing him, her face inches from his, she began to shake the shoulders of a tattooed man who weeks ago had told her she’d spent lifetimes loving the man who was probably going to kill her the minute she walked in the door tonight. “Do you understand?”
Dwayne looked petrified, like someone had just handed him a ticking time bomb, which wasn’t far from the truth. He awkwardly put his arms around her, guiding her off and up the stairs with Emily resisting all the way until they reached the top. A couch was tucked in the corner, the back covered in an abundance of velvet pillows.
Emily finally gave in to his efforts and felt a stray tear steal down her face as she turned her head into the pot-reeking softness of his shoulder. He sat there as she unloaded her whole day, her whole week, her whole month into his tattooed arms.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her voice raw from the telling and a few more of her tears shouldered away, the equally wary faces of Dinesh and Buck poked around the corner. Dinesh ventured closer and offered her a large glass of wine that she took with shaking hands.
“Drink up, sister. You look like the dead.”
She snorted and gulped the wine down in one swallow. It hit her stomach like a fist. Dinesh glanced at Buck who begrudgingly handed his glass over. “But it’s good vino, man. Those Lipshit people are loaded.”
“Lipswitch,” mumbled Dinesh.
The second glass disappeared without a hitch. Warm tendrils of alcohol spiraled down to Emily’s feet.
“Look, we’d really like to help,” said Dwayne, “but we got another gig across town. There’s a Wiccan spiral dance over on Valencia. We promised Dinesh’s girlfriend, Lucretia, we’d be there like a half hour ago. She’s gonna turn me into a newt or some other shit if I don’t get going. Man, witches…”
Buck didn’t utter a word, just looked apologetic and shrugged his shoulders as if to agree with the vagaries of the supernatural.
“Meet you in the van, dude,” said Dinesh as Buck followed silently, and with a wave goodbye, their footsteps clodded away leaving Dwayne staring down at her.
“Look, it’ll probably get me fired, but why don’t you stick around and look for those cre-mains? Just flick the lock on the door when you leave. It ain’t like you’ll be getting any visitors this late at night. I’m just gonna close up the office downstairs. Can you believe them giving me an office? Righteous.
“Oh, yeah, here, if you have any problems.” He patted his jacket and withdrew a card.
Emily held it up in the dim light:
Dwayne Cobshib
Palmist, Tarot Card Reader, Spiritualist, and Security Guard,
The Columbarium
His phone number was listed, followed by the e-mail address of [email protected]. She managed a smile.
“A séance might be just what you need,” Dwayne informed her. “They really like to dish the dirt on each other. The secret is to find the right spirit guide to allow the positive energy to flow.”
Emily nodded weakly and wondered how she had gotten to this point, sitting in a crypt after hours, chatting about communicating with the Great Beyond
after barely escaping the clutches of a very live man with the help of a very dead woman. She hung her head and chuckled miserably.
“Thank you, Dwayne. I suppose I’ll just start looking around. Guess here’s as good a place as any. You wouldn’t happen to know how many um, uh, remains are here?”
“Ehhhh, about seven thousand.”
Her heart fell to her lap. Seven thousand! How the hell was she going to find Nora amidst seven thousand vaults?
“Although there’s a bunch that are gonna be moved to other locations tomorrow, so it’ll lower the number by a few.”
“Moved to other locations? Which ones?”
“They’re marked with a red tag. Something about money running out from the estates or something. Bummer, though. It’s going to make for a ton of even more pissed off spirits.”
Hope rose up in her. Time was running out. Is that what Nora meant? Time was running out before her ashes would be sent to God knows where? And if they were lost, there would be no way to reunite them with her husband.
“Oh, one more thing.” Dwayne handed her his flashlight. “You’re going to need this. The lights are on a timer. They’ll be going off in a few hours.”
Great. She was going to be left in the spookiest place in San Francisco, victim to a thousand ghosts, with only a flashlight to protect her.
“Who you looking for, by the way?”
She told him, and he shrugged his shoulders. “Look, gotta run. Dinesh hates to wait. Good luck there, Muse-lady.”
Even with the lights on, the lower floor, with its heavy, breathing silence, preyed on her nerves. Every corridor was lined with countless vaults up and down their high walls, making her search seem doomed. With each step, she could hear the unmistakable fall of footsteps behind her. They ceased when she paused. The chill of the air brushed against her hair as though someone—or something—had breathed against her ear. Looking over her shoulder, her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach when she saw the emaciated shape of an eyeless face slither into the shadows.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 19
