Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story

by Glover, Sarah M.

  “Dance with me,” he said, already taking her in his arms. The music was too fine to say goodnight to quite yet.

  He watched the firelight play off the soft auburn waves of her hair. She rested her head against his chest and sighed. Aware for the first time of how very tired he was and how exhausted she must be as well, he laid his cheek on her head and held her closer. It was the end of a hell of a day, and he could do little but sway back and forth and hum softly to her, losing himself to the plaintive piano strains.

  He thought about what they would face tomorrow and all that they still had left to do. Surviving Vandin had been one thing, but now they would face a creature that was not of this world and, if she had her way, did not want Emily to remain there either. Why? What had Emily ever done except bear the name of Thomas?

  Yet if they found Nick first, they wouldn’t have to have this horrible meeting with Nick’s mother, this notorious Lady in Red. They were close to finding him, he was sure of it. The answer was right there, just out of reach. An old house near a graveyard—that’s where he would be. Near where wild raspberries grew. “I dwell with a strangely aching heart…”

  What did that mean?

  As he closed his eyes, his thoughts were diffused like a song he had left undone, and he was too weary to wrestle with the problem anymore. He listened as the piano player began to sing.

  Andrew’s arms tightened around Emily, and he felt sleepy, so sleepy, like he was falling into a waking dream. He yawned and felt his forehead drop to hers. She hummed softly.

  He drifted and lost himself in a reverie. In his mind he could see Emily sitting at a bar. Her hair was swept up, and she was wearing a stylish suit, her lips painted a deep burgundy. A row of martinis were lined up in front of her.

  “How many of these are yours?” he asked, smiling as he took his seat next to her. His cufflinks reflected in the polished wood of the bar, and his heart was beating uncommonly fast, so thrilled he was to be with her.

  “Only one,” she announced. “I ordered the same for you.”

  “But there are four.” He laughed, wanting to kiss her but refraining.

  “Hmmm. Then you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “Where are the olives?”

  “I ate them. I was hungry and you promised me dinner.” She cast him an enchantingly stern look that left him mesmerized.

  He motioned to the bartender. “Ray, more olives, and where are the nuts tonight?”

  In his vision, Emily raised an eyebrow at him.

  Why did he know the bartender’s name? How did he know him? He glanced down at Emily’s hand. Where was her ring?

  He was dreaming. He must have fallen asleep dancing with Emily, and now he was dreaming, but he was too captivated to wake up. He felt different in his skin, more mature, more sophisticated, but no less enthralled with the woman before him.

  Emily scanned the room where they were seated; it was an elegant dining room full of people dressed in sharply pressed suits and smart dresses. As she surveyed the crowd, her face held a marvelous vivacity, interested in everyone and everything. He watched her in fascination, feeling jealous that she wasn’t gazing at him in the same way.

  “So you have no idea why I have these ghosts, I take it?” She returned her attention to him and sipped her martini, her eyes alert and wry.

  “I told you to leave traps, but you wanted to go the more humane route.”

  “I think you’re angling to see them yourself, if you ask me. They tend to favor my bedroom. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Smart ghosts. Sorry to disappoint you, Madam, but I’m not partial to a ménage à trois—even the supernatural variety.”

  “It would be a ménage a quatre, I believe. But you look like you could handle it. No, wait—you’re right—it would be a ménage a trois. You see, my ghosts can’t be in the same room for some reason, otherwise I guess I could just vacuum them up or something.”

  “Didn’t peg you as the kind of dame who’d get her hands dirty.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” She smiled wickedly and took a long sip of her martini. He watched her lips caress the glass.

  “My, sugar, is that an invitation?”

  “A disclosure.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Then the vision changed. His heart wanted to make it stay. He was flying from the rush of emotion he felt for her.

  A phonograph was playing that song. Again.

  Now Emily was standing by a darkened window, wearing something sheer that blew in the soft breeze. He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. The air smelled sweet, familiar. Her skin was warm.

  He turned her around and kissed her. His heart beat. Once. Twice.

  “I love you,” she whispered at the end of the kiss. He smiled at her smile.

  “Why, I believe the little lady does.”

  “More than I should, if I knew what was good for me.”

  “I’m good for you.”

  Nearby, a piano continued to play the song. He kissed her passionately while silent tears slid down his cheeks. He was crying…why the hell was he crying? His hands pressed hard against her skin, craving her warmth. She was crying now too. They kissed madly, fighting to hold onto each other, while his desperate heart felt like it might burst from his chest. Longing and sorrow crushed down on him as he clenched his hands around her shoulders and struggled to keep her in his arms.

  “Stay! Please, stay!” she begged in a hopeless prayer.

  “I love you so,” he said, searing the words into her soul. “I. Love. You. Nora.”

  “Nicholas!”

  The piano playing clattered to a crashing halt. Andrew’s body whipped back as though he had been slammed by a fist, the pain was so intense.

  Their eyes snapped open. Emily stood shaking, wearing a look of raw shock on her face. They were back in the lobby, while his hands crushed her arms, gasping for air with tears glistening on their faces.

  Without pausing for another breath, Andrew clutched her hand in his and ran to the adjoining room, to the piano. The pianist had vanished. A lone martini glass sat on the bench, and sheet music was scattered across the floor. Andrew reached to gather it up.

  “Nick! Christ. Nick.” The pain was still rife within him. Andrew glanced up at Emily; he knew she felt the same thing, her face looked so haunted.

  For the first time since his death, Nick had touched his beloved Nora—touched her through Andrew and Emily. Part of Andrew ached to kiss Nora again, as if Nick’s spirit was still within him, still fighting to reach her.

  “Nick, God I’m sorry.”

  It was then that Andrew saw it. There amongst the music was a map. A map of a town. Belden. A water ring left from the martini glass circled a small corner like a bull’s eye.

  He remembered. He remembered the old steamer trunk hidden in the passageway of their house in San Francisco and cutting his hand against its small metal tag that he thought had read Belden Firm. But it wasn’t Belden Firm. It was Belden Farm.

  The circle outlined a small property named Belden Farm. A farm near an orchard that sat next to a small cemetery.

  “Nick, we’ve found you.”

  27

  * * *

  THE DRIZZLE HAD INCREASED to a fierce spatter, and the fog that hung outside the windows of the minivan was broken only by the sight of the trees that twisted like arthritic hands in the wind as they sped by. Inside they were a silent lot, bundled in sweaters and jeans, the scent of coffee warming them. Emily clutched her to-go cup to her chest as the caffeine pumped rapidly through her veins.

  Andrew drove, needing to be in control of every facet of their day. He would glance at her occasionally in the rearview mirror, undoubtedly to make sure she hadn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke or fallen out the door. She welcomed his glimpses; their breakfast had been punctuated by a series of strained silences. The aggravated expression on his face had made her eat little and speak even less.

  “There is no reas
on why we have to leave here and go to that inn, no reason at all,” she remembered him saying to her over his half-eaten scrambled eggs. “We know where Nick is now—I have no doubt he’s there. Surely you don’t either.”

  “I have to go. I need to know,” she had told him, trying to make him look her in the eye.

  “Sweet girl, how can we even be sure?”

  “But Nick and Nora, we’ve seen them—we’ve felt them. Don’t you want to know?”

  They had avoided discussing what had transpired in the hotel lobby. And now, it was as if speaking of it would summon all the loss again. The only saving grace was that they both knew they were not crazy—unless they were falling into the same madness together. They were indisputably linked to Nick Chamberlain and Nora Thomas. But how?

  “Know what? This ‘truth’? This warning every dead thing we meet rails at us about? Do you even hear what you’re saying?”

  “But it’s the same thing over and over. About time running out. It has to be about us. And last night…We can’t walk away from whatever this truth is. At least I can’t—”

  “Stop.”

  She could tell his willingness to discuss this had hit the end of its endurance. The past twenty-four hours had been the most harrowing of her life, and she could only imagine what it had done to him. She knew she had cajoled and dragged him to this point. This was her ghost story, and because of love or infinite patience, he had trudged along with her, risking his safety and his sanity. Last night had cost him, how much, she couldn’t say, but he wore the exhaustion upon his face in the guise of dark circles beneath his eyes.

  But how could she make him understand that she had to confront this Lady in Red? In a perverse way, she felt it was like falling down a flight of stairs after missing the first step. She knew it would hurt, but she had to hit the bottom; she couldn’t reach out and try to break her fall. And even more than that, she didn’t want anyone—ghost or otherwise—holding a sword over their heads. Vandin was dead, but she needed to vanquish this monster, get the truth from her, and be gone. Yet how much more could she push him before he snapped? This was far from what he had originally bargained for.

  Simon turned on the radio, returning her to the cold vinyl seat of the minivan. Margot sat next to her. Christian and Zoey huddled in the last row of seats, and by the sounds of it, they were trying in vain to get warm.

  “What do you figure this Lady in Red will be like after all?” Simon asked, drumming his fingers to the current song and peering out the passenger side window.

  “She won’t be wearing blue,” Margot retorted.

  “At least we’re coming armed,” Christian said. The sound of his voice left no doubt that he was thrilled with the prospect of the stoners opening up a can of whoop ass on this infamous ghoul.

  “Do you honestly think those idiots have actual ghost catching equipment with them?” Margot scoffed. “Can you imagine? It’s probably just a bunch of junk they bought off some crazed physics students that saw one too many episodes of MythBusters. I bet they have no clue what they’re doing—or worse—the stuff will actually work and they’ll take out a whole block by pressing the wrong button and inadvertently discovering cold fusion. You know, Andrew, on second thought, you better park the van as far away from the hotel as possible. It’s my name on the rental agreement.”

  “I was thinking of heading to Belden Cemetery, actually.”

  Emily flashed her gaze up to the rear view mirror.

  “Why there?” Zoey asked. Andrew paused and gripped the steering wheel, then proceeded to explain to the group about the map, pointedly leaving out the supernatural possession aspects of their evening.

  “If Nick showed you the exact spot, why don’t we drive there now? We don’t need to see this Lady in Red after all.” The relief in Zoey’s voice was palpable.

  “Thank you, Zoey.”

  “You promised,” Emily warned.

  He glanced at her in the rear view mirror. “I’ve promised a great many things in my sorry sod of a life, Miss Thomas.”

  “Andrew.”

  Simon turned up the radio, evidently sensing trouble brewing. Suddenly, the blinding force of Andrew’s voice blasted through the speakers.

  “Holy hell,” Simon gasped, his fingers still frozen on the dial even after the song had ended.

  “Well, there you go, folks,” announced the DJ. “That’s The Lost Boys. They’ve been touring nonstop this past year, although they seem to be taking a breather lately. But please, I’m begging you, stop with all the requests. I can only play it once an hour. It’s total Lost Boys mania over here. Thank God it’s for a real band for once. They deserve it.”

  “You’re welcome,” murmured Andrew.

  He glanced in the rear view mirror once more and met Emily’s gaze. Her eyes fell first. There it was, she thought, that look. And she knew what it meant: he wanted to go back on the road. No, he needed to go back on the road. He was getting restless being in one spot for so long. This was not his life.

  As the road narrowed on ahead, tree branches began to brush against the sides of the van, a few scraping along as though to hold them back. Soon a bridge rose into view. It spanned a small harbor dotted with fishing boats pulling on their moorings, bobbing hard in the churning whitecaps. The fog made their progress slow, and still the trees scratched against the windows like hopeless creatures in the thick, dank mist. Emily wrapped Andrew’s coat around her shoulders. He had draped it around her after noticing her shivering when they left the cottage that morning, her own sweater not warm enough. It made her feel strangely protected as they traversed the bridge and took a switchback of road up to the surrounding bluffs that overlooked the village of Noyo.

  But before long, the smell of salty air began to feel heavy, even in the car. She placed her hands on her temples and leaned forward, making Margot turn to her in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, fine, I’m fine.” But she was lying. Vivid snapshots had begun to detonate in her mind, and she was unable to stop them. Cliffs. Screaming. Falling. Falling. Hands clawing a dashboard. Shattered glass. Blood.

  “No,” she muttered. “No. Stop!”

  “Emily?” Margot shook her arm, yanking her back to the present. The visions had stopped, but Andrew’s eyes were fixed on her in the rear view mirror.

  When they exited the van, the fog and rain were so thick they couldn’t see farther than ten feet in front of them. From out of the murkiness the hotel emerged into view, majestic and solitary. It seemed to breathe upon seeing them, to settle a bit, to sigh, as if its expectations were met at long last.

  “Christian?” Zoey asked, her voice thin, and she reached out for his hand and held on fast. Endless gables hid under a host of redwoods, and twin trees stood like sentinels around the wraparound porch. Emily glanced up at Andrew’s face as they approached. He would not look at her, but only grimly faced the building like he wished he could burn it down.

  “We’ve got you, Emily,” Christian told her with a slap on the shoulder, startling her and annoying Andrew. “And look! Reinforcements!”

  Out of the mist they marched like warriors, four across, loaded down with large orange gym bags and wearing their black robes like some supernatural SWAT team. Emily’s spirits lifted with the sight, and for the first time that morning she felt like smiling.

  “Bloody hell,” Andrew muttered, looking up to the sky and shaking his head.

  “Greetings!” the stoners shouted, waving as they approached.

  Buck held something in the air that looked like an oversized cell phone with antennas, shaking it as if he couldn’t get coverage. “The readings are phenomenal,” he informed them, never taking his eyes from the contraption. “I’ve never seen such a stew like this. Man, it’s amazing the roof is still on this place.”

  “Lock and load then?” said Christian, beaming.

  Egan scowled. “The movie industry has robbed us of our romance.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re equ
ipped. We’ve brought both organic and inorganic methods of dealing with any spectral interference,” Dwayne said, patting his bag lovingly.

  Margot gazed at them in shock. “Are you guys serious?”

  “Deadly,” they all said at once.

  Andrew made some sort of grunt and hauled Emily to the front doors. “If even one thing goes wrong, I am dragging you out of here, do you understand? We can be back in San Francisco in three hours.”

  Inside, the hotel resembled an old hunting lodge, heavy with the smell of burning wood and cedar and festooned with mounted animal heads and antlers. At the reception desk stood an old man whose body looked as though it was hinged together with a wire hanger. His eyes narrowed as he saw the odd parade of people pouring through the door.

  “The Thomas party?”

  “You can call it a party if you’d like,” Andrew replied tersely, then a little louder added, “yes, I believe we have a room reserved for…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “Oh yes, a séance. Quite a large circle you seem to be having. And you’ve come prepared, I see.” The old man’s pained eyes fell to the stoners’ bags. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Hans MacClen, proprietor of the Noyo Inn.”

  Evidently they had not been the first to journey to this establishment for such purposes, but the tone of the proprietor’s voice concerned Andrew, for it was as if he wished they would turn around and run but didn’t want to be rude. MacClen cocked his head like an old owl, blinking at Andrew, but just as quickly he returned his attention to the crowd. Without another word, he opened a binder on the counter, took out a series of forms, and handed one to each of them.

  “Liability wavers. If any damage occurs to you, we are not responsible. If any damage occurs to the room, you are. Please sign on the dotted line.”

  “Do you expect there to be damage?” asked Zoey.

  “We have had a long and varied history with the ghosts of this establishment. You have decided to try to contact one of them, and this is not a matter to be taken lightly. The Lady in Red has been a resident of this hotel for as long as I have been proprietor here. I must warn you: she does not like to be provoked or antagonized. There have been incidents in the past when people have attempted such things, been cavalier and downright disrespectful—the results were not a sight I would like to witness again. I cannot warn you enough—ask as few questions as necessary and listen only. She is not a charitable being.”