Bridge of Souls

by Victoria Schwab

  Mom squeezes my shoulder.

  “Do you hear that?” she says, eyes dancing. “The city is waking up.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re not listening to the same thing, but still, she’s right.

  And so was Lucas.

  New Orleans is a different city after dark.

  The heat has faded to a drowsy warmth, but there’s nothing sleepy about the French Quarter. The streets are buzzing with people, crowds milling on curbs, drinking and singing.

  Laughter spills down the street, and cheers pour out of open doors, and jazz instruments duel for space, and under all of it is the Veil. The worlds of the living and the dead feel like they’re colliding around me.

  We pass a group on a vampire tour—they’re all carrying frozen drinks, the cherry-red contents staining their mouths, and wearing white plastic fangs, their cheerful energy at odds with their inspiration.

  I’m so distracted by it all, I almost run into Adan, who’s stopped on the curb, camera raised. They’ve started filming.

  Mom and Dad are standing in front of a redbrick building that’s clearly a hotel. It has a wrought-iron balcony and a white sign that reads PLACE D’ARMES. To the right, there’s an archway, just wide enough for a carriage, fronted by an iron gate.

  Nothing special, nothing strange. But when I look through that archway, the space beyond cloaked in shadow, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and the Veil presses like a hand against my back.

  I know if I’m not careful, it will push me through.

  “Here in New Orleans,” says Dad, addressing the camera, “almost everything you see was built on the ruins of something else. Twice the French Quarter has burned down, once in 1788, and again only six years later. Countless blazes have broken out since, consuming rooms, or buildings, or blocks.”

  “Perhaps that’s why this city is so haunted,” muses Mom. “One of the reasons, anyway. Everywhere you step, everywhere you stay, was once home to something—and someone—else.”

  “Take this hotel, for example,” says Dad, gesturing at the building behind them. “The Place d’Armes.”

  Mom rests her hand on the iron gate. “Long before it was a hotel,” she says, “it was a schoolhouse. When fire swept through the Quarter, many of the children were trapped inside.” Her eyes meet the camera. “They never got out.”

  I shiver, despite the summer heat.

  The gate creaks open beneath Mom’s hand, and together she and Dad turn, and step out of the streetlight and into the dark.

  “We’ll just wait out here,” calls Jacob, but I’m already following my parents through the archway.

  Jacob sighs, and trudges after me.

  The moment I step through the gate, the Veil greets me. Smoke tickles my nostrils, and I hear a wave of giggles and the shuffle of small feet.

  “Hide,” whispers a voice.

  “Not there,” hisses another.

  I reach out to steady myself against the nearest wall, and the Veil reaches for my hand, wraps itself around my wrist. I hear laughter, the high sound of children’s voices in the dark.

  And then, out of nowhere, another voice. Not like the others, faint and far away. No, this one’s closer. It’s low and deep, not a child’s voice, barely a voice at all, more like a rasp of air, a door groaning open.

  “We are coming for you.”

  I gasp and twist free, pushing off the wall and stumbling backward into Lucas.

  He looks down, silently asking if I’m okay.

  I nod yes, even though my heart is racing. Even though that voice rattled through me like rocks, sharp and wrong, and left me feeling … cold.

  Did you hear that? I think at Jacob, who has his arms folded tight across his chest.

  “The creepy children?” he asks.

  I shake my head. The other voice.

  His forehead crinkles. He shakes his head. And suddenly, I can’t wait to get far away from the Place d’Armes, and whatever’s lurking beyond that wall. For the first time, I have no desire to step through the Veil and learn more.

  “They’re still here, those children,” says Mom, her voice echoing through the carriageway. “Guests have heard them running in the halls, and some have woken to find their things moved around the room, their coins and clothes stacked like pieces in a game.”

  “As we’ll soon see at our next location,” says Dad, “not all the spirits in this city are so playful.”

  We retreat back down the carriageway, and Lucas pulls the gate shut behind us. It closes with a scrape, a sigh. I should feel relieved, but I don’t.

  As my parents head down the street, I look back at the archway, squinting into the dark.

  I lift my camera, peering through the viewfinder, and slide the focus in and out until I can almost, almost, almost see someone standing beyond the gate. Small fingers wrapped around the bars. But there’s another shape looming behind, a pitch-black shadow, darker than the dark. It twitches forward, a sudden, jerking step, and I drop my camera.

  I catch it before it hits the ground. But when I lift the lens to my eye again, the frame is empty.

  The shadow’s gone.

  The lights have gone on in Jackson Square.

  Old-fashioned yellow lampposts cast long shadows, and a bright beacon illuminates the large white church off to the side, making it look like a tombstone. The square isn’t empty, but the energy has changed, the daytime performers thinned to a handful of musicians, each playing a weak and wandering tune.

  The Veil is usually a rhythmic beat, but here, tonight, it’s like too many instruments playing at once, each one slightly off-time or out of tune.

  The Veil reaches for me, but so does Jacob.

  I feel his hand close around mine, and look down at our fingers. Mine solid, and his … something else, no longer air or even mist. There’s a faint glow right where our palms meet, and I swear, I can see the color bleeding into his skin where it touches mine: the light, the life, flowing into him.

  “Cassidy!” calls Dad.

  Jacob drops my hand, and we both turn, searching.

  My parents aren’t in the square anymore. They’re standing on the corner with the rest of the crew, in front of a restaurant, and for a second I think it’s time for dinner. But then I see the sign, the restaurant’s name in elegant black script.

  Muriel’s.

  I recognize the name from the show binder, and my curiosity is louder than my hunger.

  The restaurant looks like half the buildings in the Quarter—two stories tall, with iron rails and massive white-framed windows. But I know there’s a reason it’s on the Inspecters’ list. Something waiting beneath the surface.

  Mom told me once to think of it like paint in an old house. It gets covered, layer by layer, and you might not know a blue wall used to be red until you chip away at it.

  So that’s what my parents do.

  They find the red paint.

  The only difference is, we have a history of the house. We’ve been told where to look.

  “And the red paint is dead people,” says Jacob.

  And that, I think.

  We step through the doors, and I brace myself for the Veil, but the first thing I feel isn’t the patter of ghosts, it’s the sudden, merciful wave of air-conditioning. I shiver with pure relief, the muggy night air replaced by an icebox cool.

  I feel my limbs sigh into it.

  The restaurant on the ground floor is huge. Green ivy drips from planters hung like chandeliers, and big round tables have been draped in white linens. A dark wooden staircase leads up to a landing.

  “Oh, hey,” says Jacob, pointing at the walls. They’ve all been painted red. I roll my eyes.

  “It’s just a metaphor,” I say, but as I stand in the front hall, I have to admit, I’m starting to feel something besides the air-conditioning.

  It’s early for dinner but there’s already a decent crowd, the chatter of guests, clinking glasses and cutlery drowning out the tap-tap-tap of ghosts, any whispe
rs beyond the Veil. But the other side leans against me, like a tired friend, and when I swallow, it feels like there are ashes on my tongue.

  My hand drifts up to the mirror around my neck.

  Ever since my accident I’ve been able to see and hear the other side. Sometimes, I can feel it, too. But in Muriel’s, I can taste it.

  And it tastes like smoke. Not stale smoke, the kind long soaked into curtains, but fresh, and hot. It burns my eyes and scratches at my throat.

  Was there a fire here, too? I wonder. I don’t realize I’ve asked the question out loud until Lucas answers.

  “In 1788,” he says. “The Good Friday Fire tore through the French Quarter, destroying most of the houses.”

  “Out of eleven hundred buildings,” adds Dad, “eight hundred and fifty-six were burned.”

  Jacob whistles softly as Lucas nods.

  “This house, like most of the ones in the Quarter, was rebuilt.”

  “This city is a phoenix,” says Mom. “Always rising from the ashes.”

  Fire and ash.

  No wonder I can taste smoke.

  A hostess from the restaurant appears to greet us. She seems breathless, and has that I’m on my way can’t stay and chat energy. “You must be the Investigators,” she says, scanning our motley group.

  “Inspecters,” corrects Mom.

  “I was told you have what you need, yes, I see you do, very well, we’re short on staff today, so I’m afraid I can’t spare a guide—”

  “No worries,” says Dad, gesturing at Lucas. “We brought our own.”

  “Great,” she says, “all right, welcome to Muriel’s …” And with that, she’s already gone.

  “Well,” says Jenna, her camera on her shoulder. “Which way to the ghosts?”

  Jacob and I look at each other. Mom and Dad scan the restaurant. Adan shifts his weight from foot to foot.

  But Lucas nods at the dark wooden stairs. “Up.”

  * * *

  As we climb the stairs, the noise from the restaurant fades.

  Mom pulls out her EMF meter—a device used to measure spectral energy—and switches it on. The box hums with a low static.

  When we reach the space at the top of the stairs, the EMF meter begins to whine. Other people would take it as a warning, but to Mom it’s just an invitation. It gets louder as she walks, but I’m pretty sure it’s because Jacob is trailing behind her.

  The room upstairs is a kind of lounge: deep plush sofas and chairs piled with cushions. It is mercifully dark and cool. Mom heads for a pair of not-quite-open doors, red light spilling through the gap. She stops, the EMF meter rising into high static.

  “What have we here?” she asks in a singsong voice.

  “Ah,” says Lucas. “That would be the séance room.”

  Mom lets out a delighted mmmm. She nudges the doors open, looks back at us with a face full of mischief, and slips inside.

  Dad chuckles and follows, Lucas on his heels.

  Jenna plunges in next as if it’s a pool.

  Adan hangs back a moment, lets out a low breath, as if psyching himself up, then goes in.

  Jacob and I are still standing in the lounge area.

  “That,” he says, pointing, “looks like a very comfy couch.”

  I roll my eyes. We’re not here to nap.

  “But we could be,” he complains as I head for the doors. I don’t have to look back to know he’s there, though, following me through.

  The séance room is bathed in red. It’s like walking into a darkroom, that deep crimson light, just bright enough to see by. I expected a table and chairs, like the painting on our hotel ceiling, but this room is as cluttered as an antique store. Pillows are piled on old sofas and ornate chairs. An Egyptian sarcophagus leans against one wall. There’s a sculpture of a woman dancing, a floor lamp casting her shadow against a patterned wall. There are faces everywhere: A trio of Venetian masks smile and grimace. An old man stares out from a dusty portrait. Two old-fashioned women in elegant dresses glance up from a painting in an ornate frame. Tinny music whispers through a speaker somewhere out of sight, an eerie, old-sounding song.

  A giant mirror sits on the floor, so old it’s gone silver. Jacob catches sight of it and jerks his gaze away, but I stop to stare at myself, my curls gone wild with humidity, the camera hanging around my neck. The weathered surface makes me look like an old-fashioned photo. I step closer, turning the pendant on my necklace out, so the mirrors catch each other, reflecting again and again as far as I can see. An infinite tunnel of Cassidys.

  As I stare into the endless reflection, the ordinary world goes quiet in my ears. The sound of my parents talking to the camera, the tinny music, and the far-off noises of the restaurant all seem to fade as the Veil leans into me.

  It’s like when you know someone’s watching you. When you can feel the weight of their gaze. And I know if I ignore it for too long, the nudge will become a hand gripping my wrist, and it will drag me through, into the world of ghosts.

  But I can’t go through, not yet.

  I turn, putting my back to the mirror, and tuck the pendant under my collar.

  Mom and Dad are sitting on the other side of the room, on a fancy sofa. Lucas catches my eye and holds one finger to his lips. The red light on Jenna’s camera tells me they’re rolling.

  Dad runs his hand down the arm of the sofa. “Welcome to the séance room of Muriel’s.”

  “Now this,” adds Mom, “is a place that’s home to more than history.”

  Dad rises to his feet. “It is not a kind past,” he says soberly, buttoning his tweed jacket. “Like in much of New Orleans, the shadow of slavery touches everything. Some insist that the building first raised on this plot of land was used to house slaves before they were auctioned off. The building was torn down, and in its place, a grand house was built, only to burn down in the great blaze of 1788, along with most of the Quarter.”

  Mom produces a single green coin—a poker chip—and turns it idly between her fingers.

  “A man named Pierre Jourdan bought the property and erected the mansion of his dreams, only to lose the estate in a poker game,” she says. “Devastated, Jourdan took his own life up here. Some say in this very room.”

  For a moment, no one speaks.

  I hear the smallest breath hiss between Adan’s teeth. The only other sound is that tinny old-fashioned music and the whisper rising to meet it, the murmur of voices from the other side.

  “Jourdan is believed to haunt the rooms of his old house,” Mom goes on. “Moving plates in the downstairs restaurant, shuffling glasses in the bar, and, sometimes, simply lounging in one of these chairs.” Mom bounces to her feet. “But of course, he’s not the only ghost that calls Muriel’s home.”

  My parents head for the doors, the film crew following close behind.

  I hang back, and Lucas glances over his shoulder, a silent question in his eyes. I pretend to be fascinated by one of the masks, pretend I didn’t even notice everyone was leaving.

  “I’ll catch up,” I say, waving him on.

  “Yeah,” says Jacob, “why would we want to head back into the nice, busy, living restaurant when we could stay here with the horror movie music and the wall of faces?”

  Lucas lingers a moment, too, as if trying to decide what to do, but in the end, he nods and goes. It feels like the handshake back at Café du Monde. Like he sees me as somebody, instead of just somebody’s kid.

  And then Jacob and I are alone in the séance room, with the smell of smoke, and the whispers in the walls, and the red light staining everything.

  “Cass,” whines Jacob, because he knows what I’m thinking.

  Fire and ash, and the drum of ghosts.

  Spirits, trapped and waiting to be sent on.

  I reach out, and feel the invisible curtain brush against my fingers. The boundary between the land of the living and the world of the dead.

  All I have to do is close my hand around it, pull the gray film aside, and step thro
ugh.

  I know what to do—but again, I hesitate, afraid of what else might be waiting beyond the Veil.

  There’s always a risk, of course.

  You never know what you’ll find.

  An angry spirit. A violent ghost. One that wants to steal your life. Or cause chaos.

  Or there could be something else.

  A skull-faced stranger in a trim black suit.

  “You know,” says Jacob, “fear is a perfectly rational response, the body’s way of telling you not to do something.”

  But if I waited until I wasn’t scared, I’d never go through.

  Fear is like the Veil. It’s always there. It’s up to you to still go through.

  My hand travels to the cord at my collar and I tug the necklace out, let the mirror pendant rest faceup in my palm.

  Look and listen, you say when you see a ghost. See and know.

  This is what you are.

  Well, this is what I am.

  This is what I do.

  This is the reason I’m here.

  I catch hold of the curtain and pull it aside, stepping through into the dark.

  For one terrible second, I’m falling.

  A downward plunge, a single shocking gasp of cold, the air knocked from my lungs—

  And then I’m back on my feet.

  The Veil takes shape around me, in mottled shades of gray. I take shape, too, a ghostly version of myself, washed out save for the bright blue-white ribbon glowing in my chest. My life. Torn, and stitched back together. Stolen, and reclaimed.

  I press a hand to my chest, muffling the light as I look around the séance room. It ripples and shifts in my vision. The red light is gone, the room lit only by the soft glow of lamps. The masks leer down from the walls. The faces stare out from the paintings.

  “Oh, look, it’s just as creepy,” says Jacob, appearing beside me. Here in the Veil, he’s solid, real, another reminder that I’m out of place.

  He didn’t have to come.

  But he always does.

  “Rule number four of friendship,” he says. “Stick together. Now, can you just find a ghost and send them on so we can go back?”

  As if on cue, a door slams down the hall.