The Midnight Lullaby

by Cheryl Low

  He pushed back his wet hair, away from his face, squeezing his hands against his scalp to press the water from his dark strands. Still standing in his shower, the glass wall thickly fogged, Benedict finally asked, "What happened?"

  She didn't answer.

  He pushed open the door, steam gushing out. Emmeline sat there on the marble counter of the bathroom sink. She tipped her head from one side to the other and kicked her naked heels thoughtfully.

  One morning, just after his eighteenth birthday, Benedict had found her in his room. The first thing he'd heard was her sobs, muffled even though he saw her curled up in the corner. For the first few weeks, she wouldn't talk to him, and when she finally did scream and cry at him, her words were mangled into nonsense. He had left his family home, a part of him hoping to leave her behind as well, but she had followed him to university. She hadn't seemed any happier about it than he was. Eventually, she'd stopped crying, but she still hadn't liked him. She spent that whole first year glaring at him, moving his keys, breaking his phone, ripping pages from his books, and snoozing his alarms.

  They had come a long way since then. They were friends now. Partners in life and death.

  "Em?" Benedict asked, voice a little harder this time.

  She glanced up through her lashes, and then her mouth smoothed into a little smile, mischief gleaming in her eyes. She ran her gaze down his naked body. She was going to flirt or say something lewd to try to make him smile. It might even work. He had never liked being at odds with her, always quick to make amends.

  "We should talk about this," he pressed before she could joke, stepping out of the shower and closer to where she perched. He grabbed a towel from the rack and started drying off. They couldn't escape each other, and after all these years, Benedict didn't want to get rid of her. He couldn't imagine a life without her. "Did you tell that ghost to kill me?"

  She straightened suddenly, all amusement draining from her round face. "I..." she started but stopped, skin losing color, turning a sickly, dark shade of gray. A large bruise grew across her right cheek, spilling out of a suddenly swollen and purple eye socket.

  Benedict walked up to her, standing in front of her knees. He would pass through her if he leaned any closer, but neither of them liked the reminder that they couldn't touch.

  "I don't know," she confessed in the smallest voice.

  He wanted to argue, to demand a better answer, but it wouldn't have been fair. As much as he liked to think about Emmeline as his best friend, his roommate, and his partner, she was also dead.

  Benedict had grown up in a family of spiritualists, known for generations to commune with ghosts and usher dangerous spirits on to the afterlife. Ghosts couldn't always communicate. Many couldn't even interact with the living world, let alone understand it in terms of present day versus past, completely unaware of the difference between living and dead. Emmeline was something special—he knew it, and so did she.

  Even when she began to reply to him, to soften a little… Even when they were friends, she still did mischievous things on occasion.

  After university, Benedict found an apartment in the city. Emmeline had already helped him fool his brother into believing he had the family gift a few times, so when he was sent to investigate a haunting, it had come naturally that she would relay the information to him. Emmeline told him about any spirits in the room and what messages they wanted to convey to the living. It kept them in the good graces of his family and allowed them access to the Lyon accounts for their bills.

  "Okay," Benedict uttered the word to bring peace back between them. He wouldn't say he forgave her because he knew she would take offense. She had not apologized for anything, and he absolutely knew she wasn't sorry. He looked down at her hands in her lap. When her mood darkened, the bruises and scrapes came out, her shins covered in dark splotches and her knees bloodied. Some of her fingers were broken, her wrists ringed in rope burns, and her palms torn open from a struggle. One side of her face swelled, bruising and splitting open where the flesh bulged under her eye.

  And then, just as the first red buds of blood began to appear on her dress, nowhere near their full size, everything unpleasant began to fade—receding from view and returning her to vivid colors, that clean cotton dress, and unmarred, though eternally ashen brown skin.

  Emmeline couldn't lie. No ghost could. And aside from that, her appearance gave it all away.

  He touched the counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, close but never touching, leaving the illusion that maybe this time they could. "What should we name him?"

  She smiled slowly, and it warmed his heart more than the hottest shower ever could. "The Winter Spirit?"

  He wrinkled his nose, pushing off the counter and marching out of the bathroom. "That's too dignified for this one! The Axeman? Like Snowman..."

  "I think that one's taken," Emmeline said, following him to his room.

  He left the doors open because she liked pretending she wasn't a ghost at home. "No, it isn't. We've never named a ghost The Axeman..." Benedict said, less sure with each word.

  "No, we haven't, but there was a serial killer by that name."

  "Oh." He laughed, having completely forgotten. "All right. How about Mister Ice?" He smiled to himself, tossing his towel into the hamper and dressing in a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt—not quite as formal as he'd wear out of the house.

  "Ugh!" she made a gagging sound. "That's so unimaginative! The last one was The Butcher's Damsel! How can we go from that to Mister Ice?"

  "Frosty?"

  She squished her face into a comical scowl.

  "Okay. Okay. The Winter Spirit, it is," he conceded, going to his desk and sliding out the drawer. A leather-bound notebook rested inside, a handful of pens rolling around in the space around it. He pulled it out, flipping it open. It had been her idea to keep note of all the ghosts they sent away from the living world. She had come up with it on a whim, he suspected, maybe out of boredom or maybe to see if he would really do it. They had been naming the ghosts ever since, jotting them down together. He did the writing, of course, but she helped with the wording.

  The doorbell buzzed before he could sit down.

  They exchanged curious glances. Emmeline shrugged with disinterest, and Benedict left the room. He didn't invite people over to his apartment. The only ones that ever rang the bell were fast-food delivery and the occasional nosy neighbor. He had a habit of being a bit of a hermit, and the widow two doors down liked to check on him. Really, he suspected she was just checking on his apartment. She always tried to come inside and look around.

  He was sure she would be disappointed if he ever let her past the door—which he didn't. His apartment was modern and sparse. The only room with any clutter to speak of was Emmeline's, and he certainly wasn't going to let anyone else in there. He tugged her door shut on his way down the hall, hiding what was very obviously a woman's bedroom. She had picked out all of her furniture and possessions. She was entitled to a portion of their earnings since she did a great deal of their work, after all. He wasn't always sure it was good for her, though, having that room. It had been fun in the beginning, when he set up the four-post bed and laid out the bobbles and makeup on the vanity just like she'd asked. But sometimes he found her just standing in there, looking like death and staring transfixed at her closet with all the things she had selected for herself but could never actually use.

  Emmeline had at least a dozen pairs of the same black ankle boots in there, boxes on top of boxes, with one or two shoes set out. Her ghost was barefoot; he supposed that meant she had died that way. He had asked once why she always picked the same style, and Emmeline had given a little shrug and sigh, "Because I want them." And there had been so much honest want in her voice that he didn't press anymore. She wanted her shoes, and he didn't have the heart to point out that she couldn't wear them no matter how many she bought.

  Benedict swung out of the narrow hall and turned toward the front door, the li
ving room and kitchen still dark. He opened the door, not sure who he expected, but surprised all the same.

  His eldest brother, Elysium, stood in the hallway. His hands were in his pockets, matching jacket unbuttoned and black vest perfectly snug. Benedict did not like how similar their work attire was. He hadn't realized he was imitating his brother until just now—probably because he hadn't actually seen him in four years, not since the last time Elysium swung by to check up on him. But, of course, for Elysium, it wasn't work attire—he dressed this formally all the time.

  Elysium was nearing forty, fit, and teetering between handsome and beautiful. He had a casual authority about him, putting anxious people at ease and gently commanding every room he walked into. He was the golden child of the Lyon family, the heir to the spiritual throne—if there were such a thing.

  "I thought you'd still be at the Whittle house," Elysium said, deep voice offering no suggestion of opinion one way or the other.

  Benedict remembered his manners, plastered on a smile, and took two steps back from the door. "I didn't know you were on your way or I would have waited. The job wasn't so big that I couldn't handle it." He gestured for his brother to enter.

  Elysium walked in, casually surveying the apartment, as though not to judge it though they both knew he couldn't help himself. "I never doubted you, Benny. I am just surprised how quickly you managed it. And from what Henry said—"

  "Henry?"

  "Mister Whittle." Elysium ran his dark gaze over Benedict. He had lost points in this inquiry for not knowing the man's first name, it seemed. "It sounded like quite the ghost. I heard you were thrown from a window."

  Benedict laughed before he could stop himself. "Did you come to check on me? You know I had to have seven stitches after that haunted farm upstate, right?"

  Elysium appeared unimpressed. "How do you do it?" he persisted instead. "Everyone else has to have some sort of tact, some charm or clever ploy to get a ghost to give up their name. But not you. You're something of a sledgehammer, baby brother."

  Benedict noticed that Elysium hadn't turned on any lights or looked for a place to sit, loitering in the foyer instead. "Oh, I don't know if that's so special. You and Mother have never been particularly charming or cunning about it. You usually just wear the poor bastards down. Perhaps bluntness is a family trait."

  Elysium stared back at him, surprised for a moment, and then said, "You need to come home for a few days."

  Benedict blinked. "See, there's that family bluntness. Why on earth would I go back to the house?"

  "Mother is dead."

  Benedict wished they had gone into the living room and sat down. His mother, Gloria Lyon, had never been a warm person, not as he had known her anyway. She had another life outside of the family, he was sure; they all did. But the woman he had known had been all business, all about preparing her children to be honorable examples of the family name and history.

  "How?" he managed the only question.

  "Lung cancer. It developed quickly. She decided against treatment."

  Benedict wanted to be angry. No one had told him, but that was about right. He wasn't sure he would have phoned any of his relations if he had been the one dying.

  "The family is gathering for the funeral to make sure her soul is at rest," Elysium went on, making it sound as though it would be a particularly large gathering when, in fact, the family had dwindled down to eight members—now seven. At twenty-eight, Benedict was the youngest of his siblings and cousins.

  "Okay," Benedict said feebly, not sure what else to ask. He hadn't been a part of a family funeral, not really. The last one had been his Aunt Vendean, and he had been four years old. He vaguely remembered a séance in the parlor, but that could have been any other occasion. His family had a habit of performing séances. It was there version of watching sports.

  Elysium lingered a second longer, as though searching for something else to say. Finally, he turned toward the door. "I will be returning to the estate at once, but I booked you on a flight this evening so that you can pack. I'll send you the info."

  Benedict rolled his eyes freely while his brother had his back turned. Elysium was the king of micromanaging. He would never leave it up to Benedict to get himself home. At least they weren't flying together. "I suppose you'll send a driver to pick me up, as well?" he asked, his tone an expert imitation of the other man's—minus that elusive authority, of course.

  Elysium paused in the doorway, glancing back at him with the smallest of smiles. "A car will be waiting, but I assumed you'd rather drive yourself. Why inconvenience a driver with the trip back from the estate?"

  Benedict prickled, irritated that his brother managed to know him so well. They weren't close, more than a decade between them and very little other than their disturbing childhood in common. But Elysium had many tricks, not least of them was the ability to take measure of the people around him.

  "I will see you at home, baby brother," the eldest said before turning down the corridor. He took the stairs instead of the elevator.

  Benedict waited in the doorway until he couldn't hear the other man's shoes in the stairwell.

  His mother was dead.

  Lung cancer.

  It was almost laughable, wasn't it? That a woman who had combated spirits her whole life, survived houses that had claimed lives, and put the most volatile to rest—would die of something so painfully human?

  "Are you okay?" Emmeline asked when he closed the door. She chewed her lip, lingering in the mouth of the hallway.

  Benedict nodded stiffly. "We weren't close." She would know that. He had barely spoken to his mother since he left home. He had not been back, and she had not paid him any visits at school or in the city where he settled.

  "Still..."

  He sighed and sulked past her into the hallway. He pushed open her bedroom door on the way but walked to his own room, falling face-first onto his bed. "We weren't close," he said again, this time wondering why those words were supposed to make him feel better. They just made him feel worse. She was dead, and he didn't even know how to react.

  Emmeline crawled onto the bed. It didn't sink under her weight. The covers didn't move. She lay down beside him, looking back at him. If she could breathe—really breathe—he would feel it against his lips. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  They were quiet for a long time. He thought about going to sleep, but his phone vibrated on the table, no doubt with his flight information. He didn't get up to check it. Not just yet. "What was your mother like, Em?" he asked. He never had before. They never talked about her life.

  "My mom?" The words broke a little in her throat, like she had forgotten she had one. Maybe she had forgotten. Ghosts were strange things, remains of a person stuck in the world for some cruel reason. "She was nice. Is nice, I guess. She's probably still alive." Her voice got smaller and smaller, eyes glassy. "She worked all the time, and life was hard for her, but we didn't see it when we were kids. She made sure we didn't see it. I think I only saw her cry twice. One time was when her friend moved away. The other family came by our house to say goodbye before leaving town, all piled into their big car and a moving truck. My mom stood there in the street and stared after the vehicles, tears in her eyes. I didn't understand then what it must have felt like, to have a close friend—a person that really knew her and could sympathize with her—leave. Friendship was a given when you were a kid. They came and went and came again, and it wasn't so hard because there just wasn't much to us yet. We didn't need someone to understand us yet because we were narcissists that believed everyone was just like us."

  Benedict huffed a laugh. He put his hand on the bed between them. She put her hand beside his, their pinkies almost overlapping. "And the second time?"

  "Hmm? Oh. My parents had this blowout argument, and my dad stormed off. He did that. He left, but he always came back eventually. I went into my mom's room and found her lying on the bed, crying. I couldn't have been more than ten years old. I didn't kn
ow what to do. She was always the strong one. Everyone else was an emotional mess, but not her. She knew what to do. But there she was, broken-hearted. I asked if she wanted something to eat. I think I wanted to offer her something, to make contact, to comfort somehow, but I was too young to know how. I mean, even my food-making abilities were limited to the microwave or stove-top mac and cheese." She darkened, staring at where their hands lay on the covers. He followed her gaze in time to see the bruises forming. "Do you think she knows I'm dead? Like, feels it? I wonder how much she's cried now…"

  Benedict's eyes stung. "I could look her up for you. We could look you up and see if they found out who… That you were…"

  "Murdered," she said it. She had never said it before. His gaze flicked back up to her face, expecting to see that ghoulish corpse of a girl beside him. The bloodstains and bruises were gone. Her round cheeks rose in a little offering of a smile, appreciative as though he had done something acutely kind. "No one knows. No one found me." She said the grim truths as though they were soothing.

  "How do you know?"

  Threads of that toxic, violent green swirled in the deep grays of her eyes. "I know. No one will ever find me."

  His heart broke a little. "I found you." It wasn't the same. He knew that. He hadn't found her body…hadn't solved her murder or stopped it from happening. He didn't even know her full name. But he had found a piece of her, and that piece could never be lost again.

  They were quiet for a while longer before she said, "We shouldn't go—to the funeral, I mean. They might figure your little scam out."