The storm was fading as the clouds’ load diminished, but the drizzle was still thick enough to block most of the outside world from her view. She could see faraway lights from the parsonage and, even farther beyond that and barely visible, the distant town’s lights. The rain-slicked tombstones protruded from the ground like rotten, crumbling teeth.
The ghost came out of nowhere, long fingers splayed as they pressed against the window. Keira flinched backward. If the glass hadn’t divided them, she was certain she would have felt the specter’s frozen breath on her skin.
Keira stopped an arm’s length from the window. She and the ghost stared at each other, neither willing to break eye contact, neither moving. The woman was close to indistinguishable from her surroundings; if Keira let her vision blur, the figure faded into the background. But when she strained, she could make out a myriad of details.
The woman wore an old-fashioned sundress with a high neckline. Although the ghost held no color, the sunflower pattern made Keira think the dress might have been yellow in life, and it looked as though it could have belonged to the seventies or eighties. Her long hair hung limply around her shoulders but was dry in spite of the rain. The drops, wholly indifferent to the ghost’s existence, passed through her.
The woman’s eyes had no pupils, iris, or whites but were completely black. Dead eyes, Keira thought again, and she took a slow, cautious step forward. The woman mimicked the motion, leaning toward to the glass. Keira didn’t know if the apparition could move through the walls, but the hand resting against the windowpane did nothing to interrupt the water droplets rolling down the surface.
A dark substance drenched the left half of the figure’s face and stained the sundress, contrasting with the summery floral pattern. It came from a hole at her temple. When she focused on the area, Keira could make out tiny bone fragments jutting from the injury.
She was murdered. Is that why she didn’t pass on?
The spirit’s lips moved. She was speaking, but Keira couldn’t hear the words. Against her better judgment, she stepped up to the window and angled her ear toward the glass.
She could hear the low reverberation of falling water and even catch individual pings as larger drops hit the window, but the ghost was either inaudible or too soft to hear through the storm.
Keira moved back and clutched the blanket a little tighter around herself. “I can’t hear you. I’m sorry.”
The woman’s face contorted. She was still speaking, forming the same phrase over and over with bloodstained lips. Her movements were slow and indistinct, but repeated so many times, Keira thought she could guess the phrase. Help me.
Uneasy, anxious nausea rose. She half wanted to call the pastor to come back—wasn’t it his job to make sure souls reached the next life? But even with her botched memory, she knew it wasn’t normal to see ghosts.
She licked her lips and leaned close to the window. “Do you need something?”
The spirit’s long hair drifted around her head as she nodded. It was as though gravity couldn’t properly touch her. She was speaking again, but the words came too quickly for Keira to have any hope of lip-reading them. The ghost motioned toward either the town or the parsonage—it was impossible to tell—then clasped her hands below her chin in supplication. She had begun to cry; tears ran down her cheeks, blending with the spilled blood, dripping into her mouth and off her chin. Her lips moved incessantly, the words inaudible but clearly desperate.
All Keira could do was shake her head. “I can’t understand you.”
The woman’s features twisted in distress as she clutched at her head. Lightning cracked, flooding the scene with blinding light. Keira squinted, and when her vision cleared, she felt uneasy prickles rise through her. The space beyond the window was empty.
Thunder rumbled through the cottage, rattling its windows and making Keira hunch her shoulders. She peered through the mist, searching for her dead companion, but all that remained of the woman was a fading handprint on the outside of the glass.
Chapter Four
Keira rolled over and groaned. She’d come to rest on her cut shoulder, and pain flared through the limb. She sat and pushed her hair away from her face. The couch, a double-seater, had been a disastrous choice for a bed. To be fair, though, she hadn’t intended to fall asleep in it; the plan had been to spend the night awake and alert. But she’d been more tired than she’d thought and couldn’t remember anything past the mantelpiece clock’s gentle midnight chime.
Okay. Stock-taking time. How much do I remember?
She recalled the ghost, barely visible, pressing close to the window and silently begging for help. Adage’s smile as he gave her stew. The men slinking from the woods as they searched for her. Waking up in the clearing. Nothing beyond.
“Did you delete your memory files or something?” she asked her brain. “Because this is starting to become really inconvenient.”
The persistent amnesia was frustrating, but the early morning sunshine spilling through the windows almost made up for it. Keira, cheered by the sight, inhaled deeply and pulled the blanket around her body as she crossed to the window.
The outside world had transformed from a misty, indistinct maze into a surreal but beautiful landscape. A short stone fence ran along the perimeter of the cottage’s neglected garden. Beyond its gateless opening was the cemetery. Greenery filled in gaps between mismatched grave markers: spindly shrubs, leafless trees, and clumps of weeds were dotted among the stones, providing relief from what might have otherwise been a stark scene. The graveyard stretched farther than Keira had first thought; more pillars peeked out from among the forest edge to her left.
Large puddles collected in dips or holes, and the shadowed side of the gravestones still looked wet. Mist clung to the scene, reluctant to be dispersed by the sun, and drifted in thin patches. Keira scanned the area for the specter she’d seen the night before—or any other unnatural figure—but the only person in sight was solid and human.
A man walked along a pathway leading into the cemetery. Adage, Keira thought, then caught herself. No—that’s not Adage, not unless he discovered the world’s fastest-acting diet last night.
She shrank back from the window so the room’s shadows would hide her. The man was too far away to see his face clearly, but he was tall, clad in a thick coat, and carried something that looked like a briefcase as he moved with quick, purposeful steps.
Is it one of the men? She hadn’t seen their faces the night before. Don’t jump to conclusions. This is a public cemetery. He might be coming to pay his respects to one of the graves.
Even so…
Keira crossed to the clothes she’d hung out to dry and began dressing with feverish urgency. She couldn’t discount the idea that the man was there for her, and she did not want to go on the run in just underwear.
The clothes had an unpleasant stiff texture and were still damp about the seams, but she tugged them on, ignoring the way her shoulder stung when she flexed it. She hopped back to the window as she tied the second boot’s laces.
The man was definitely coming to her cottage. He’d passed the last of the gravestones and was stepping over the puddles surrounding the cottage’s fence.
Keira lowered herself out of sight, her heart thundering. The stranger had been fast, and there was zero chance of slipping through the door unseen. Can I break a back window? Hide in the bathroom? Is it too late to lock the front door?
Four sharp knocks echoed through the room. Keira hunched her shoulders further, silent.
“Hello?” The voice didn’t sound aggressive at least, and Keira felt none of the visceral repulsion she’d experienced when hiding in Adage’s wardrobe the night before. “Keira? Adage asked me to drop by. I’m…well, I’m technically not a doctor, but I spent the last few years in med school, and he wanted me to check in on you.”
Keira began breathing freely again. “Coming!”
Her clothes were askew, so she straightened them, but there was
nothing to do for the creases. She ran her fingers through her hair in a hopeless attempt to fix it as she crossed to let her visitor in.
The man had been looking over the graveyard but turned to face her as she opened the door. He was tall, and thick, dark-chocolate hair was casually pushed back from his forehead, but strands still fell down to brush near his green eyes. He smiled, and the expression warmed his whole face.
“Mason Corr,” he said, extending his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“Remarkably okay, I think?” Instead of taking the offered hand, Keira stepped back, inviting him inside. “I just woke up, so I’m still taking stock, to be honest.”
He had to dip his head slightly to get under the doorframe, but the smile didn’t falter. “Sorry about that. I would have come at a more reasonable time, except Adage said you had a head injury and that’s not really something you want to ignore.”
“That’s fair. There’s, uh, seats and stuff if you want one.” Keira grimaced, but Mason either didn’t notice her awkwardness or tactfully ignored it.
He stopped in front of the wooden chair, put his briefcase on the ground, and patted the couch as an invitation for her to sit. “Adage also said you had some memory loss last night. How’s that doing this morning?”
“Still…lossy.” She shrugged as she sat. “I remember waking up in the forest. Nothing before.”
“Do you remember everything after that?”
“Yes.”
Mason nodded. “That’s good. I’d be more worried if the loss was ongoing. Mind if I have a look?”
Keira obligingly bent forward and pointed to her hairline, where the skin still ached. Mason’s fingers were unexpectedly warm and careful as he brushed her hair away from the mark.
“Odd,” he murmured, so quietly that she guessed he must be talking to himself.
“What is it?”
His piercing green eyes glanced over her, and she knew he saw everything in that one swoop: the tear in her jeans, the way her wrist bones protruded, and the mud still caked over her boots. He made a small noise of discontent in the back of his throat and rose. “I’ve been a terrible guest. You said you’d just woken up; you probably want something to drink.”
“Huh? No, I’m fine—”
Already at the kitchen, he threw her a smile over his shoulder. “Well, I’m getting myself something, so I may as well boil the kettle for two. What would you like? Tea? Coffee?”
His tone was nonchalant, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to lengths to be nice to her. Keira followed him into the kitchen. “Let me make the drinks.” She opened the closest cupboard, but it turned out to be full of dusty dishes.
A warm weight rested on her forearm, and she looked down to see his hand there. Mason gave a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. My dad and I used to visit Peterson, the old groundskeeper, so I know my way around. Why don’t you light the fire? It’s a brisk morning.”
Keira pulled away, her pulse unpleasantly fast, and crossed to the fireplace in two quick steps. She knelt, shoving fistfuls of kindling on top of the previous night’s ash, and poked fire starters underneath it.
She didn’t like being touched. She’d had the same reaction to Adage the night before when he’d tried to take her arm. And she thought she knew why. It had been a long time since she’d had any meaningful human contact. Possibly years.
She scrunched her mouth and glanced toward Mason. He was facing away, washing two mugs in the sink. Steam was already rising from the kettle’s spout.
Keira dropped more wood onto the growing fire. Part of her wanted to finish the visit soon. Mason would probably leave if she said she wanted to sleep for a few more hours. But at the same time, the idea made her feel horribly alone. Surrounded by monuments to the dead, in a house that wasn’t hers, she found she was grateful to have some company. Even if he’d only come as a favor to Adage.
“Keira?” Mason was standing by the counter, an old-fashioned tin raised in each hand, and rattled the containers. “Tea or coffee?”
“Uh…” She couldn’t remember if she had a preference. He might as well have asked her if she liked her eggs to come from dragons or sea lizards. “Why don’t you pick?”
Mason quirked his head. He was still smiling, but she sensed her answer concerned him. “Let’s try the tea first, and we can switch to coffee if you don’t like it. I didn’t think to bring milk. Sorry.”
“No problem.”
He popped open the lid on one of the containers and turned back to the cups. “Can you have a think back for me, Keira? Do you remember anything from your life?”
“No.” She’d already tried—multiple times. “Everything before last night is blank.”
“Hmm.” He dunked the tea bags several times then dropped them into the sink. Keira climbed onto her couch as he set the cup on the floor beside her. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know what to make of this. While complete memory loss isn’t unheard of, it’s not as common as the movies portray it. Usually, people only lose blocks of memories—a few minutes, a few months, a few decades—but can still recall earlier ones, especially from their childhood. The longer you’ve had a memory, the more solid it is.”
“Ah.” Keira pointed to her head. “And you don’t think this is enough to cause complete memory loss?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “No, I don’t. It’s not an impact wound but a glancing blow—possibly from a knife or glass or similar. It cut the skin but doesn’t look deep enough to cause any more significant damage.”
That was a surprise—Keira had implicitly assumed the injury and the amnesia were linked.
Mason raised his hands in an open shrug. “Lots of things can cause memory loss. Even something like whiplash can be enough to interrupt the flow of memories from short term to long term. But like I said, complete loss isn’t common. To lose everything, I would have expected to see severe cranial injuries.”
Keira picked the mug off the floor to give herself something to do. Mason’s tone hadn’t been accusatory, but it was hard not to feel defensive. “I’m not making it up.”
“Ah, no—that wasn’t…” He looked genuinely embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that. It’s not what I was getting at. How our brains store memories is an incredibly complex process, and we still don’t know how it works. Not really. We can guess and come up with theories, but the whole area is dotted with question marks.”
“Can they come back?”
“Often, yes.” Mason picked up his own drink, then leaned back in his chair and stared at the rising steam. “While there are some cases where the memories never return, most times, they do—either partially or completely. The brain is incredibly resilient. You might be able to help it re-form the connections by seeking out sights, sounds, smells, and tastes that might hold significance for your past life. Even just a small association—like your favorite drink—could be enough to bring something back.”
Keira looked at her cup of tea. It was still hot, but she sniffed the liquid, then sipped it. Mason watched with raised eyebrows, and Keira couldn’t stop a snorting laugh as she shook her head. “I think I like tea. But there’s no angel chorus of returning memories.”
His face warmed as he grinned. “Well, keep trying. It might take some time.” The smile dropped, and he shifted forward. “But I should add, I’m not actually a doctor yet. I can give general advice, but I won’t be anywhere near as helpful as a specialist. Some scans and X-rays could give answers, too, especially as your case is so unusual. Blighty doesn’t have a hospital, but I’d be glad to drive you to Cheltenham Medical.”
A quiet, strangling panic moved through Keira. She kept her smile in place but could feel her knuckles turning white on the mug. No hospitals. No doctors. “Honestly, it’s not so bad. I’ll, uh…I’ll see how I go over the next couple of days. It’ll probably fix itself.”
He tilted his head. The sharp green eyes flicked down to where her knuckles strain
ed around the cup, then his smile was back in place. “Of course, it’s completely up to you. Scans could rule out certain causes, but there’s not much a hospital can do for treatment beyond therapy. You don’t need to go if you’d prefer not to.”
He must think I’m frightened of hospitals…which I guess is something close to the truth.
“Get lots of rest,” he continued. “Eat nutritious food, especially good fats and leafy, green vegetables. Try to jog your memory, but don’t push it. There’s a decent chance your mind will re-form the connections over the next day or two.”
“Thanks.”
“The cut on your head is shallow; I don’t think it needs stitches. Just keep it clean.” He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it. “You’re not hurt anywhere else?”
The mark on her arm had settled to a low, dull ache. Her first instinct was to tell Mason that she was fine and deal with the injury herself. But, logic argued, Old Keira probably knew what to do to keep infection out. You don’t.
Her hesitation was enough to answer Mason’s question. He placed his mug back on the floor. “What is it?”
“Just, uh, a cut on my shoulder.”
“Let me see.”
She shrugged out of the jacket, and Mason released a low hiss between his teeth. “This is nasty, Keira. You should have said something.”
“It doesn’t feel too bad.”
He bent close, examining the cut without touching it. “It’s almost to the bone. I can clean and stitch it, but honestly, you should see a proper doctor.”
“No, thank you.”
“I can drive—”
“Nope.” She put a little more force behind the word.
Mason’s lips tightened, but after a second, he nodded. “I don’t have any anesthetic, so it’ll hurt. Are you okay with that?”
One of the blessings of losing her memories was that she had very few experiences to make her wary of pain. “Bring it on.”
The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1 Page 3