The Shape of Night

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I hope none of this discourages you from staying,” he says. “You will be staying, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, for the rent you’re paying, you won’t be able to find anything like Brodie’s Watch. It’s a grand house, in a popular town.”

  It is also a house with secrets, in a town with secrets. But we all have secrets. And mine are buried deepest of all.

  Twenty-Four

  The waiting room is empty when I arrive at Ben’s medical office late that afternoon. His receptionist, Viletta, smiles at me through the window and slides open the glass partition.

  “Hello, Ava. How is your arm doing?” she asks.

  “It’s completely healed, thanks to Dr. Gordon.”

  “You know, cats carry a lot of diseases, which is why I stick with canaries.” She squints down at her appointment book. “Was Dr. Gordon expecting you today? Because I don’t see your name on the schedule.”

  “I don’t have an appointment. I was hoping he’d have a spare minute to see me.”

  The door opens and Ben pokes his head into the waiting room. “I thought I heard your voice! Come on back to my office. I’m done for the day, and I’m just signing off on some lab reports.”

  I follow Ben down the hall, past the exam rooms and into his office. I’ve never been in his office before, and as he hangs up his white coat and sits down behind the oak desk, I survey the framed diplomas and the photos of his father and grandfather, the earlier generation of Dr. Gordons with their white coats and stethoscopes. One of Ben’s oil paintings hangs there as well, unframed, as though it’s only a temporary decoration being auditioned for the wall. I recognize the landscape, because I have seen that rocky jut of land in his other paintings.

  “It’s the same beach you’ve painted before, isn’t it?”

  He nods. “Very observant. Yes, I like that particular beach. It’s quiet and private and there’s no one around to bother me while I paint.” He sets the stack of lab reports in his out-basket and turns his full attention to me. “So what can I do for you today? Has your ferocious cat attacked you again?”

  “This isn’t about me at all. It’s about something that happened years ago. You grew up in this town, right?”

  He smiles. “I was born here.”

  “So you’d know the town’s history.”

  “Recent history, anyway.” He laughs. “I’m not that old, Ava.”

  “But old enough to remember a woman named Aurora Sherbrooke?”

  “Only vaguely. I was just a kid when she died. That had to be around…”

  “Thirty-three years ago. When your dad was the town doctor. Was he her doctor?”

  He studies me for a moment, frowning. “Why are you asking about Aurora Sherbrooke?”

  “It’s for this book I’m writing. Brodie’s Watch is turning into a large part of it, and I want to know its history.”

  “But how does she come into it?”

  “She lived in that house. She died in that house. She’s part of its history.”

  “Is that really why you’re asking about her?”

  His question, spoken so softly, makes me go silent. I focus on the stacks of lab reports and patient charts on his desk. He’s a man trained in science, a man who deals in facts, and I know how he’ll react if I tell him the reason behind my questions.

  “Never mind. It’s not important.” I stand up to leave.

  “Ava, wait. Anything you have to say is important to me.”

  “Even if it’s completely unscientific?” I turn to face him. “Even if it strikes you as superstition?”

  “I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Can we start this conversation again? You asked about Aurora Sherbrooke and whether my father was her doctor. And the answer is yes, he was.”

  “Does the office still have her medical records?”

  “Not for a patient who’s been dead this long.”

  “I knew it was a long shot, but I thought I would ask. Thank you.” Once again, I turn to leave.

  “This isn’t about your book, is it?”

  I pause in the doorway, wanting to blurt the truth, but afraid of how he’ll react. “I’ve spoken with Arthur Sherbrooke. I went to see him about his aunt, and he told me she’d seen things in the house. Things that made her believe…”

  “Believe what?”

  “That Captain Brodie is still there.”

  Ben’s expression doesn’t change. “Are we talking about a ghost?” he asks calmly, a tone you’d use to soothe a mental patient.

  “Yes.”

  “The ghost of Captain Brodie.”

  “Aurora Sherbrooke believed in him. That’s what she told her nephew.”

  “Does he believe in this ghost, too?”

  “No. But I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve seen him, Ben. I’ve seen Jeremiah Brodie.”

  His expression is still unreadable. Is this something they teach you in medical school, how to maintain a poker player’s face so that patients can’t read what you really think of them?

  “My father saw him, too,” Ben says quietly.

  I stare at him. “When?”

  “It was the day they found her. My father was called to the house to examine her body. It’s the reason I remember her name. Because I heard him talk about it to my mother.”

  I glance up at the photo of Ben’s father on the wall, so distinguished in his white coat. Not a man who looks prone to fantasies. “What did he say?”

  “He said the woman was lying on the floor in the turret, dressed in her nightgown. He knew she’d been dead for some time because of the smell and the…flies.” He pauses, realizing that some details are better left unsaid. “Her nephew and the police officers had gone downstairs, so my father was alone up there, examining the body. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. On the widow’s walk.”

  “That’s where I first saw him,” I murmur.

  “My father turned and there he was. A tall man with dark hair and a black seaman’s coat. An instant later, the man was gone. My father was certain of what he’d seen, but he never revealed it to anyone except my mother and me. He didn’t want people to think their local doctor had gone insane. And to be honest, I never really believed it. I thought it was a trick of the light or a reflection in the window. Or maybe he was just bone-tired from too many late-night calls. I’d almost forgotten that story.” Ben looks straight at me. “But now I find out you’ve seen him, too.”

  “It’s not a trick of the light, Ben. I’ve seen the ghost more than once. I’ve spoken to him.” At his startled look, I’m sorry I shared that detail. Certainly I’m not going to tell him everything else that has happened between Brodie and me. “I know it’s hard for you to believe. It’s hard for me to believe.”

  “But I want to, Ava. Who wouldn’t want to believe there’s an afterlife, that there’s something beyond death? But where’s the evidence? No one can prove there’s a ghost in that house.”

  I pull out my cellphone. “Maybe there’s someone who can.”

  Twenty-Five

  Ben may be a skeptic, but he’s curious enough to be at my house Saturday afternoon when Maeve arrives along with her ghost-hunting team.

  “This is Todd and Evan, who’ll handle the technical aspects tonight,” she says, introducing the two burly young men who are unloading camera gear from a white van. They are brothers with identical red beards and they look so much alike that I can only tell them apart by their different T-shirts. Evan’s is Star Wars, Todd’s is Alien. I’m surprised that neither is wearing Ghostbusters.

  A VW comes up the driveway and parks behind the white van. “And that’ll be Kim, our team sensitive,” says Maeve. Out of the VW emerges a stick-thin blonde with cheeks so hollow that I wonder if she has recentl
y suffered an illness. She takes a few steps toward us and suddenly stops, staring up at the house. She stands motionless for so long that Ben finally asks, “What’s going on with her?”

  “She’s fine,” says Maeve. “She’s probably just trying to get a feeling for the place and detect any vibrations.”

  “Before we unload everything, we’re going to take a look around the house, film some baseline footage,” says Todd. He’s already filming and he slowly pans his camera across the porch, then steps into the foyer. Glancing up at the crown molding, he says, “This house looks pretty old. There’s a good chance you’ve got something still lingering in here.”

  “Is it okay if I just wander around?” says Kim.

  “Of course,” I tell her. “The house is yours.”

  Kim heads down the hallway, followed by the two brothers who continue to film. When they’re out of earshot, Maeve turns to Ben and me and confides: “I haven’t told Kim any details about your house. She’s coming in to this assignment blind, because I don’t want to influence her reactions in any way.”

  “You called her your team sensitive,” says Ben. “What does that mean, exactly? Is that like a psychic?”

  “Kim has the ability to sense energies that still linger in a room, and she’ll tell us which areas need special monitoring. She’s been amazingly accurate.”

  “And how exactly does one judge accuracy?” This time, Ben can’t keep the doubt out of his voice, but Maeve smiles, unruffled.

  “Ava tells me you’re a medical doctor, so I’m sure this sounds like a foreign language to you. But yes, we’re able to confirm a great deal of what Kim tells us. Last month, she described a deceased child in very specific detail. Only later did we show her the child’s photo, and we were blown away by how every detail matched what she’d described to us. Everything, right down to the lace collar on the little boy’s shirt.” She pauses, reading Ben’s face. “You’re doubtful.”

  “I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

  “What would it take to convince you, Dr. Gordon?”

  “Maybe if I saw a ghost myself.”

  “Ah, but some people never do. They’re simply not able to. So what can we do to change your mind, short of having the ghost materialize in front of you?”

  “Does it really matter what I believe? I’m just curious about the process, and I wanted to observe.”

  Kim reappears in the foyer. “We’d like to go upstairs now.”

  “Have you sensed anything yet?” Ben asks.

  Kim doesn’t answer, but simply starts up the stairs with Todd and Evan trailing behind her, their cameras recording the ascent.

  “How many of these investigations have you conducted?” Ben asks Maeve.

  “We’ve visited around sixty or seventy locations, mostly in New England. When people experience disturbing phenomena, whether it’s just creaky floorboards or full-body manifestations, they don’t know where to turn. So they reach out to us.”

  “Excuse me?” Evan calls down from the upstairs landing. “There’s a door at the end of the hall up here. Can we look inside?”

  “Go right ahead,” I answer.

  “The door’s locked. Can we have the key?”

  “It can’t be locked.” I head up the stairs to the second floor, where Kim and her colleagues are standing outside the closed door to the turret.

  “What’s behind this?” asks Kim.

  “It’s just a staircase. It’s never locked. I don’t even know where the key is.” I turn the knob and the door creaks open.

  “Hey man, I swear it was locked,” Todd insists. He turns to his brother. “You saw it. I couldn’t get the thing open.”

  “It’s the humidity,” says Ben, providing a logical explanation as usual. He leans in to examine the doorjamb. “It’s summertime, and wood tends to swell up. Doors get stuck.”

  “It’s never been stuck before,” I say.

  “Well, if it is your ghost at work, why is he trying to keep us out of the turret?”

  Everyone looks at me. I don’t answer. I don’t want to answer.

  Kim is first through the doorway. She climbs only two steps and abruptly halts, her hand frozen on the banister.

  “What’s wrong?” says Maeve.

  Kim stares up at the top of the stairs and says softly, “What’s up there?”

  “Just the turret,” I tell her.

  Kim takes a breath. And takes another step. It’s clear she does not want to ascend, but she keeps climbing. As I follow the others, I think of the nights I so eagerly climbed these same stairs with the captain leading me by the hand. I remember silk skirts swishing at my legs and candlelight flickering above and my heart pounding in anticipation of what awaited me behind those velvet curtains. Ben touches my arm and I flinch in surprise.

  “They’re putting on quite a show,” he whispers.

  “I think she really does sense something.”

  “Or maybe they just know how to amp up the drama. What do you really know about these people, Ava? Do you actually believe them?”

  “At this point, I’m ready to turn to anyone who can give me answers.”

  “Even if they’re frauds?”

  “We’ve come this far. Please, let’s just hear them out.”

  We climb the last steps into the turret and watch as Kim paces to the center of the room, where she suddenly stops. Her head tilts up as if she’s listening for whispers from beyond the curtain that divides the living from the dead. Todd’s camera is still rolling and I can see the blinking record light.

  Kim takes a deep breath, releases it. Slowly she turns toward the window and stares out at the widow’s walk. “Something terrible happened here. In this room,” she says softly.

  “What do you see?” Maeve asks.

  “It’s not clear to me yet. It’s just an echo. Like the outer ripples after you’ve cast a stone into water. It’s the lingering trace of what she felt.”

  “She?” Maeve turns to me and I know we’re both thinking of Aurora Sherbrooke, who died in this turret. How long did she lie here, still alive? Did she cry out for help, try to drag herself to the stairs? When you keep your friends and family at arm’s length, when you cut yourself off from the world, this is your punishment: to die alone and unnoticed, your body left to decompose.

  “I feel her fear,” whispers Kim. “She knows what’s about to happen, but no one can help her. No one can save her. She is all alone in this room. With him.”

  Captain Brodie?

  Kim turns to us, her face alarmingly pale. “There’s evil here. Something powerful, something dangerous. I can’t stay in this house. I can’t.” She bolts for the stairway and we hear her footsteps thump down the stairs in a panicked tattoo.

  Slowly Todd lowers the camera from his shoulder. “What the hell just happened, Maeve?”

  Maeve shakes her head, bewildered. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  —

  Maeve sits at my kitchen table, her hand trembling as she lifts a teacup to her mouth and takes a sip.

  “I’ve worked with Kim for years and this is the first time she’s ever walked away from an assignment. Whatever happened up there in the turret must have left powerful traces. Even if it’s just a residual haunting, the emotions are still there, trapped in that space.”

  “What do you mean by a residual haunting?” Ben asks. Unlike everyone else, he appears unmoved by what we witnessed in the turret, and he stands apart from us, leaning against the kitchen counter. As always, the detached observer. “Is that the same thing as a ghost?”

  “Not exactly,” explains Maeve. “It’s more like an echo left over from a terrible event. Powerful emotions triggered by that event get trapped in the place where it happened. Fear, anguish, grief—they can all linger in a house for years, even centuries, and
sometimes the living can feel them, the way Kim did. Whatever happened upstairs left its mark inside that turret and the incident continues to play and replay, like an old video recording. Plus, I noticed the roof is slate.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Ben asks.

  “Buildings with slate or iron or stone are more likely to retain those distant echoes.” She looks up at the decorative tin ceiling in the kitchen. “This house almost seems designed to hold on to memories and strong emotions. They’re still here, and people like Kim can feel them.”

  “What about people who aren’t sensitive, like me?” says Ben. “I have to say, I’ve never experienced anything paranormal. Why don’t I feel anything?”

  “You’re like most people, who live their lives unaware of the hidden energies all around us. Colorblind people never see the brilliant red of a cardinal. They don’t know what they’re missing, the way you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Maybe I’m better off that way,” Ben concedes. “After seeing how Kim reacted, I’d rather not see any ghosts.”

  Maeve looks down at her teacup and says quietly: “A ghost, at least, would be harmless.”

  The thump of an aluminum case hitting the floor makes me snap straight in my chair. I turn to see Evan, who’s just walked into the house with the last of their equipment.

  “You want the A camera set up in the turret, right?” he asks Maeve.

  “Definitely. Since that’s where Kim had the strongest reaction.”

  He takes in a breath. “That room gives me the creeps, too.”

  “Which is why we need to focus there.”

  I stand up. “We can help you carry stuff upstairs.”

  “No,” says Maeve. “I want you to let us handle everything. In fact, I prefer my clients to stay elsewhere for the night, so we can concentrate on our work.” She glances at Hannibal, who’s been slinking around the kitchen. “And your cat will definitely have to be confined, or his movements will confuse our instruments.”