Swallowing down a mouthful of fear, she began searching for the vaults with red tags tied to their locks. Most were little niches with glass fronts, and they usually held an urn or some other receptacle for the ashes and other memorabilia from the departed. Some even smoothed her jarred nerves: a teapot, a piggy bank, a cocktail shaker that she double checked, sure it had to be Nora’s, but it wasn’t. Pictures of family were on display inside too, as well as decorated boxes and letters. Her hand dusted along as if greeting these people by name, seeing their lives defined by such heartfelt things. Other vaults brought back her trepidation. They were old, forbidding metal drawers, ornate gilded fronts with no visibility to the secrets within. As she crept about, her belief solidified that Nora’s warning must have meant that her ashes were in jeopardy of being lost. Time passed, and with each weary footstep, the gravity and weight of the day began to sink in.
There were no such things as ghosts, Vandin had said, mocking her. But she knew there were, and now she could feel them creeping out of the shadows to stalk her progress. No longer did they seem the dismissive lot that Dwayne had spoken of. Some felt lifeless in their stillness, some lurking, some waiting and watching. The hair on her arms stood up, her body keenly aware of their presence. Vandin’s voice whispered among them: Ghosts are not reality, neither is love. They’re both figments of the imagination to keep us from the void, from madness.
That’s when the lights went out.
Suddenly the air whispered with a thousand voices, hushing and hissing; the darkness about her was heavy with their swirling shapes. She flicked on the flashlight but it shook in her hand as the bulb began to wane. She jostled it a little more, but only an anemic sliver of light shone in the night. Faceless beings began to sweep around her, white, living cobwebs, moist and freezing as they passed. A palpable resentment filled them as though she had invaded their sanctum, stayed too long in a place she did not belong.
Their growing crush made her clutch at the wrought iron railing, compelling her to take one step at a time as she fought against the force that sought to drain her, to drag her down. She closed her eyes in an attempt to banish them, but she felt their souls lash at her skin, equally enraged and fascinated by her humanity. Vandin’s words reverberated again in her mind: To keep us from the void, madness.
No. She was in control, she insisted to herself, not the fear around her. Looking up she saw the top of the basilica—the last place she needed to search. Struggling to navigate the remaining flight of steps, she could feel the ghosts’ increasing hostility at her trespassing, their curiosity turning heated. All the air seemed driven from her lungs, and the walls of crypts threatened to suffocate her. Intense claustrophobia seized her. She remembered the awful childhood memory of being locked in a hallway closet. A wild mouse was trapped along with her. It scratched madly in the corner, its red eyes flashing in the thin line of light under the frame. Only a few seconds till she passed out. She thought of the cool night and the sweetness of the air, but she couldn’t move.
“Nora!” she shouted into the blackness.
“Norrrraaaa!” returned to her unanswered. She had to get to out to open space. She couldn’t breathe. Unseen hands shoved her closer to the edge of the basilica’s railing, the marble floor barely visible from on high, its tiles pulling her to them like lead weights.
“Join us,” she could hear the voices whisper. “One more step, Emily.” Her hands clenched the metal handrail, her palms slicked with cold sweat. Long-dead fingers speared her shoulders and combed through her hair, leaving a chilled touch in their wake.
“No, let her be,” another voice muttered. “She doesn’t belong here. Make her go away,” a child cried. A thin, dry voice spat, “She’d be better off dead.” Paralyzed, she felt arms heave her up the railing.
“No!” she screamed into the night. “No!” She wrenched away from the death grip and threw herself toward the stairs. A hand reached out and grabbed hers, but she slammed her body hard against it.
“Emily,” she heard a woman shout.
Emily twisted about, hearing Nora’s voice. The emptiness and desolation of this place took root in her. “Nora!” Emily cried out in return.
Then silence. A horrible, chilling silence swelled up in the darkness. And a rattle, a wheezing death rattle sounded from down far below on the marble floor. The lurid sound of a dead limb being dragged across the tiles. Terrified, Emily froze on the landing. Fear paralyzed her. Step by step, the thing lumbered up the rings of the basilica until something rose out of the pitch black. Rags covered milky eyes. Dead black nails covered gray veined fingers.
“It’s only a dream, it’s only a dream,” Emily prayed. She stepped back, and her foot caught on edge of the railing. She stumbled, vainly grappling for a hold. “She’s meant to be a ghost,” a dry voice hissed as Emily’s head crashed hard against the stone landing, and she heard no more.
Somewhere around midnight Andrew hit the wall. Margot and Zoey were no better, having turned themselves inside out with worry. They had not found Emily. They had not found Vandin. They had found nothing.
Andrew had torn through every building on campus where she might be. Every stack, every cubicle, every corner, every shadow. Vandin’s house was sealed up like a crypt, according to Christian. There was no car in the garage. Simon had gone down to Haight Street, to every bar and café, and Zoey had tried to call any students that might have him as their professor; no one knew a thing. Campus security had sealed off Vandin’s office and promised to contact them in the morning.
The five of them sat around the girls’ kitchen in the dark. Candles glowed about them, throwing their shadows on the walls. The power had been on and off all day; a note from Sid was taped on the refrigerator, apologizing for the inconvenience and promising it would be better first thing in the morning.
The clock ticked in the kitchen wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. She’s hurt. Tick. Tick. Tick. She’s afraid. Tick. Tick. Tick. She’s bleeding…
Andrew’s cell phone rang. For a split second he hesitated to answer, and then his hand flashed to it. “Emily!” he yelled.
Silence on the other end. Moments later a soft voice replied, “Andrew? Andrew is everything all right? I had the worst dream, I—”
“Mum?”
“You’re not hurt, are you? It was so horrible.”
“Mum, I’m fine,” he lied. “Where are you?”
“I’m in New York. I came over to visit some friends, and I was planning on surprising you. But the dream—it was rather terrible—and you know how I am.” He could hear her drumming fingers on the other end of the phone that matched his own. “I was worried. I hadn’t heard from you since you flew out there. It’s so unlike you.”
“I’ve been busy, I am sorry. Listen Mum, I love you, but I’m waiting for a call, it’s rather important, do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’ll ring you later in the week. You promise me you’re all right though?”
“Yes,” he lied again.
Five pairs of tired and anxious eyes stared back at him as he put down the phone.
“Claudia, my mum.”
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he let out a howl and slammed back on the stool. “That’s it. I can’t sit here anymore. I’ve got to do something. Where are the car keys?”
“You’re too knackered to drive by yourself. I’m coming,” said Simon.
Margot glanced at him. He had shown his true colors tonight, and it wasn’t lost on her. Her eyes followed him as he went to get his jacket, and they did not look away as he slipped it on one arm at a time.
“If you hear anything,” Andrew said to everyone on the way out, “if she calls. If anyone calls…”
“You’ll be the first to know, Andrew,” Christian finished.
The night was still warm, almost humid. He left his jacket behind—his button-down shirt and jeans were enough—and he shoved his cell phone in his pocket. A thin layer of fog blanketed the streets.
“I’ll
drive,” said Simon, and Andrew didn’t argue. He got into the passenger side of the truck and shuddered from a chill he could recognize as exhaustion.
The engine turned over, and they pulled away, the tires kicking up gravel. Desperate for distraction, Andrew flipped on the radio. An oldies station played. It was Billie Holiday singing of body and soul.
“What station is this? You had me convinced the truck only got classic rock and public radio,” said Simon, his voice stretched in feigned lightness. “Where do you want to head?”
“Just drive. Anywhere. Everywhere. Places she might be. The whole bloody city if we have to…”
The city passed by in a neon blur. Andrew stared unseeing at everything, hoping against hope to see her car. But all he could see was the hell that was Vandin’s office. The destruction. The ashtray. The blood. He laid his head against the windshield and moaned.
“Are you gonna lose it? Do you want me to pull over?”
“No!” He sat back up and folded his arms across his chest. “Or do you mean am I going to lose it, like go mad again?” he said bitterly.
“Well, yeah, there’s always that possibility, but I didn’t want to sound like a shit.”
Andrew ignored him.
Simon changed stations, hoping to banish Billie’s misery. The blaring strains of Warren Zevon filled the cab as he wailed his ragtime obscenities of raping and killing and burying little Susie’s bones.
“Enough of that shit,” Simon muttered, and he bashed the station back to the oldies.
They rode on listening to Lady Day, but Andrew could only hear “Excitable Boy.” Simon lit a cigarette; the tip burned in the darkness.
“I love her.” Andrew’s face was pressed to the passenger side window. His breath etched the glass.
“I know. Didn’t take much to see. Though I don’t quite understand it, and I still think it’s a disaster in the making, but I’d rather you fixated yourself on someone breathing. Just don’t get too serious, you barely know the girl. You’re gonna get fucked up all ways to crazy when she breaks your heart. ’Cause you know she’s going to. We’ll be on the road and she’ll be here. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who wants to ride in the back of a truck. A bit too posh for sharing hotel rooms and mini-soaps.”
“So you don’t think this is crazy?”
Simon glanced at him sideways and chuckled darkly. “Crazy? Absolutely. But I’ve seen a ghost, I’ve set fire to me own home, and I haven’t had sex for almost six months. Who’s crazy here? Bizarre in a way, though, like all that soul mate crap is true. Maybe you two will end up being buried together—a long time from now, though. I’m not nearly rich enough yet. You want a smoke?”
Andrew eyed the offered cigarette but shook his head and returned to stare out the window. “Do you think anything’s happened to her?”
Simon hesitated. “People do some sick things in this world. When I was kid, people went missing, all the time, every week. Sometimes they were found, sometimes they weren’t. It’s a fucking twisted world. But I still say she’s probably reading in some shop somewhere, researching your ghosts.”
The cab had become cold. Billie finished, surrendering herself in body and soul. The announcer came on, and Andrew forced his mind to concentrate on Simon’s words to keep from despairing: Researching ghosts. Maybe you two will end up being buried together…buried together.
“Wait,” Andrew cried. He grabbed his cell phone. A few seconds later he had found the map. “Turn left,” he ordered. Blocks flew by. Houses, shops, buildings all washed away into the night. “Then at Anza, right here!”
Finally, the immense copper-domed basilica of the Columbarium loomed before them. The adjacent parking lot was completely dark except for the one street light that cast its illumination on a single car. A green Citroën.
“Emily!”
The tires squealed as Simon slammed on the brakes. Andrew threw open the door while the car was coasting to a stop and almost fell to the pavement. He was running. He was running and choking.
The Columbarium’s door loomed before Andrew. He lunged for the large metal handles and pulled violently, expecting them to be locked. But they parted. He threw himself into the darkness.
His eyes fought to adjust to the black fog around him. He swore he heard whispers above and wrenched his head to look. “Emily!” he screamed. His terror echoed back to him. “MILEE, MILL-eee…”
He ran toward the outline of a table a few yards away and knocked into a chair. It crashed over and clattered loudly in the silence. He screamed again. A shape listed on the other side of the room. “Emily!”
“Shit, Andrew. It’s me,” hissed Simon. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
Andrew squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust to the dark; they narrowed in on the steps and the galleries above.
“You go down. I’ll go up. If you find him, he’s mine.”
Tearing up the stairs by threes, he raced around each floor yelling her name. Peering down each corridor, he saw nothing except the passing of his shadow. He could hear Simon shouting from below.
He reached the top tier and stopped short. He staggered backward. Emily was lying on the floor. Her hair was splayed out around her, a thin trail of blood near her head. It glowed purple in moonlight.
“Oh God, no. No. No.”
He dropped to his knees beside her and took her in his arms. “Emily, Emily, sweet girl, wake up. Please, oh Christ, please. Don’t, don’t. Don’t.”
He felt her move, and his heart exploded as he sought out her face. “Are you hurt?”
“Andrew? Is that you?” She shook like a storm, and he held her, rocking back and forth.
“Where is he? Did he hurt you? Where is he?”
“I’m all right. I’m all right now.” Her fingers reached toward her head. “Ouch.”
Andrew saw a thin gouge near her scalp, a tiny line of blood had dried down her cheekbone. “Did he do this?”
“No. I’m not hurt. I must have hit my head. There were…I thought I heard voices. And then…Oh hell, I can’t remember.” She stopped, looking around as though searching for something she had lost, before she returned her pained gaze to Andrew. “Didn’t Margot tell you? Didn’t you get my message? What time is it? How long have I been here?”
“No. We didn’t hear anything. I’ve been insane with worry. Jesus Christ, Emily. We saw the office. What happened? We thought, I thought, oh fucking hell, how could you do that?” His voice broke, and he looked away.
Simon’s steps came up the stairs. “Mother of God, are you okay? That’s a right good bleeder.”
“I’m fine.”
“Anyone else here we should know about?”
“Not here,” she said weakly and struggled to sit up.
Andrew backed away slightly and Emily looked at him; a trail of tears had dried on her face. Her hand pressed to the cut on her forehead. “I must have hit the railing. Andrew, I’m sorry you were worried. But everything happened so fast.”
“What happened?”
“I went to his office.” She told them about Vandin, what he had done. Then she spoke of Nora and the destruction, and Andrew didn’t even care if Emily had done it all herself. He wanted to punch the teeth out of the man’s face. Her voice quieted when she got to the part about the girl and the hospital. Finally, when she was done, she stood. Rays of moonlight filtered in from the small, stained glass windows around them. She looked like a ghost, Andrew thought, with the trail of dried tears and blood on her face.
Simon cleared his throat. “I’ve got some important phone calls to make…meet you outside. Um, take your time.”
They waited until they heard the door thud shut down below; then Andrew stood as well and took her hands in his hands. “You’re safe now. You’re safe with me. Do you understand?” She nodded. “But why did you go there alone? Why didn’t you let me come with you? Emily, what were you thinking? Do you know how worried, how insane we all were? He could have—bloody hell, Emily!�
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Her brow creased. He took hold of her by the shoulders. “You can’t…nothing can happen to you, do you understand!”
“But I thought, I just thought that—”
“No! You didn’t think. If you had thought, you would have never put yourself in that position, taken that kind of risk.”
“So this is all my fault? I had no idea he would—he would do what he did. Do you think I would have gone there if I did? If I knew?” Her breath came out in ragged bursts, and she shook off his grip.
“Do you know what the worst was? It wasn’t how he mocked me, how he demeaned me, how he held that god-awful tie like he wanted to choke me. It wasn’t sitting in that hospital room watching that girl’s face cringe as they scraped her body, knowing that it could have been me there…It was what he said, what he said about you. How I was something you’d throw away when you got tired of me. How he said you’d call me your muse and when you were done fucking me, you’d leave. And you know why that hurt? Because it’s true! I know it’s true. You love someone else, you always will. You can’t love me, not the same way. And it’s killing me, you know why? Because I love you, God help me I do, more than anyone. Ever. And I wish I didn’t. I wish I could stop.”
Her words crashed off the walls of crypts. Exhausted and vulnerable and exposed, she was the most moving thing he had ever seen.
“You love me?” he repeated the words in disbelief.
“Yes.” She wiped her running nose with the back of her wrist. “I do.”
Too shocked to do anything more, he stood directly in front of her and tried to make her understand. “Emily, there is no woman out there. Only here. Only you. Only ever you. You are my muse. I searched my whole life for you, traveled across half the world to find you. You! Your eyes, your lips, your face. I love you. I’ve always loved you, only you, and that is the only truth. I love you. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand, that you’d think I was mad.” He reached out and took her hand again, squeezing it, willing the words into her flesh. “I love you, Emily. Only you.”
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 20
