Phantom Heart

by Kelly Creagh

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “Truth be told, I can’t stop worrying about you, either.”

  Turning my head, I let my eyes fall shut as I pressed my cheek to his chest.

  “Your friend,” I said, relishing in the feel of his silk tie against my skin, the underlying heat of him, and the steady thump of his heart. “Please tell me you heard from him.”

  “It’s getting worse,” he guessed, his tone dropping, anxiety squeezing his voice.

  Scowling to have my bliss obliterated just before it could fully be born, I opened my eyes again. I frowned and blinked, though, distracted by a glimpse of Charlotte in the crowd.

  Hold up. Was she dancing with . . . Wes?

  “Rastin hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I’m still hoping he will soon.”

  Lucas’s words caused my head to snap forward. My eyes burrowed holes into his tie, which I now had the urge to yank so I could bring him down to my level.

  “What did you just say?”

  “It’s possible he hasn’t gotten my message,” Lucas said. “There wasn’t an email listed, so I sent it through the contact form on his website. He probably gets tons of messages. But I’m hoping he’ll respond to mine ASAP since I put Moldavia in all caps in the subject line.”

  “Wait. You’re telling me you messaged Rastin? As in the moth-regurgitating wonder Rastin?”

  “Y-yeah. Sorry. I-I probably should have told you that’s who I meant.”

  Probably?

  “You never said you knew him!”

  “No,” Lucas said, “I—I don’t. I mean, I did meet him once at the Mid-South Paranormal Convention a couple of years ago. He signed my EMF detector . . .”

  I dropped my arms from Lucas’s and took a step back. “You messaged a famous medium about my house.”

  “Is that . . . not okay?”

  Not if it meant the media or some paranormal TV show crew was going to come parading over our lawn or knocking on our door. Dad would go nuclear.

  “You really think he’s going to respond?” I asked, because what else could I say? The trigger had already been pulled.

  “If . . . if Moldavia wasn’t a hoax,” said Lucas, his hand held out for mine like he was hoping I’d step back into the spot I’d left, “then . . . how could he not?”

  Maybe because he’d almost died? Seriously. Was Lucas legitimately from Mayberry?

  “Lucas,” I began, but stopped when a certain yellow-bedecked someone sidled up next to him.

  “Hey,” Charlotte said, glowering at me as she spoke to Lucas. “Stephanie needs a drink. Don’t you, Stephanie?”

  Lucas’s hands went to his hips. “Char—”

  “You’re being really rude,” said Charlotte, giving him a shove. “Look at her, she’s parched. Don’t worry. I’ll keep her company till you’re back.”

  Lucas dropped his arms, his shoulders knitting. Again, he opened his mouth to argue with her, but she shot him a glare and he pivoted toward the drink station. Charlotte, in turn, spun to regard me, her eyes full of something that scared me.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” she asked.

  “Be . . . cause you hate me?”

  “Close,” she said. “I’m here because I hate that look on my best friend’s face. The one he was wearing just now? Yeah. FYI. That’s not going to fly.”

  I folded my arms, irritated, beyond confused, and maybe a little embarrassed.

  “Like he’s all smiles whenever he’s tiptoeing around you,” I said. Because why not add defensive to the list?

  She rolled her eyes at me, and just when I’d thought I’d gone too far—poked the ponytailed bear past the point of fury—Charlotte laughed.

  “Please. You think we don’t talk?” she challenged. “You think I don’t know your hair smells like the ‘ocean at midnight’ or whatever? Even though I told him that’s probably just coconut curl cream.”

  Hold up. Lucas talked about me? That way? To Charlotte?

  I opened my mouth to ask the question I hadn’t even finished formulating in my head yet, but Charlotte held up a hand, stopping me.

  “Here’s the rundown on me and him,” she said, like she’d read my mind. “We dated over the summer. That was awkward sauce, and it didn’t work out. Now he’s smitten with you, and you’re all I ever get to hear about.”

  “But you—”

  “I didn’t like you because I thought you were judgy, and fake,” she prattled on. “But Lucas says you’re cool and that your house might actually be a portal to hell after all, and I realize that’s gotta suck. So I’m over it, and if we end up getting along—no promises—you’re going to lend me that jacket.”

  I shook my head, trying to keep up. And to believe my ears.

  “Also,” she said, hand going to her hip as she cocked it to one side. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but he’s coming back now, so here it is, simple as I can put it. Move in or move on, but don’t mess with him, and don’t break his heart.”

  Lucas reappeared then, the warning glare in Charlotte’s shimmer-shadowed eyes intensifying on me before shifting to him. “Is that cider?”

  “Y-yes?” he said.

  Snagging the drink, Charlotte then took a sip. “As you were,” she said. Then she stalked off, taking the cider with her.

  “God.” Lucas ran a hand through his hair again.

  “She . . . um. Just that she likes my jacket.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I have to go after this song. They’re going to start semifinal rounds. But before anyone else can interrupt, I wanted to ask you if . . . next weekend. I mean, I know you’re really busy, but . . . well, I was wondering if we could, er—we as in you and me. Like . . . just you and me. If we could—”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Uh. Wh—I haven’t even—”

  “The answer’s yes,” I repeated. “Whatever it is. I . . . I’d love to.”

  A smile, huge, broke onto Lucas’s face. “Wow. Really?”

  “Yeah,” I said, his smile spawning one of my own. How could it not when, thanks to Charlotte, I now knew exactly where I stood with him? In a place that, despite Charlotte’s pending approval, just so happened to be right where I wanted.

  “That’s . . .” He laughed. “That’s great.”

  Taking my hand, he drew me into him again, as close as before, his warmth—in every sense of the word—enveloping me.

  A modicum of peace settling over me for the first time in days, I again laid my cheek against his chest, within which his heart beat with a more frantic rhythm. I grinned once more. Had he been that nervous? Or was he just that glad? Maybe he was both.

  Lucas turned us with the music, and as he did, I spotted Charlotte, stationed once again at her post near the snack table.

  Our eyes met and she lifted her cider to me in a “that’s more like it” gesture before draining the drink . . . and marching away.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT WHEN I got home, I of course had to give Dad the rundown.

  Yes, I had fun. Yes, there were a lot of people there. Yes, Lucas and I danced. Yes, I would be seeing him again—on Friday, if that was okay—and yes, actually, it would be a date.

  After making a show of deliberating, Dad—who seemed secretly glad about the whole thing—gave his blessing. More questions had predictably followed after that, though. Like where we would be going, if Lucas would be picking me up, if I’d made Lucas aware of my midnight curfew. Oh, and if Lucas had tried to kiss me yet.

  “No offense,” I told him, helping to gather some of the day’s debris into a trash bin, “but that’s kind of none of your business.”

  “Yeah,” echoed Charlie from behind her tablet. “That’s kind of none of your business.”

  “Skywalker better watch himself,” Dad said.

 
; “In case you forgot, you like Lucas,” I reminded him.

  “That was before he tried to kiss you.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I said, giving in. “He did not try to kiss me, okay? There was no kissing.” Which was the truth. Because after Lucas and Charlotte had placed first in the competition, the five of us had all walked out to the gravel parking lot together, everyone laughing and celebrating. While Patrick and Wes debated over which piece of equipment SPOoKy should use the prize money to invest in, Charlotte and Lucas had gushed together about the other dancers, and how they’d only narrowly won against the couple from Radcliffe.

  I had meandered behind everyone, trailing along like a party balloon, content that even though I wasn’t part of the group officially, I officially wasn’t apart from it, either. How would that change after this coming week? After tonight, I felt it was bound to.

  “No kissing?” Dad had asked next. “Really?”

  “Really,” I promised.

  “Huh,” came Dad’s reply. Followed by the infuriating response of “Well, what the heck’s the matter with him?”

  Shortly after that, I gathered up a sleepy Charlie, glad Dad had let her stay up to wait for me instead of putting her into her bed. After brushing our teeth, we both retreated to my room, and Charlie, who for better or worse was now becoming accustomed to the new sleeping arrangement, nestled into her usual spot with Checkers.

  As I lay next to her, staring at the same old two crisscrossing cracks in my ceiling, I let my mind wander back to my dad’s question.

  If Lucas had been given the chance tonight, would he have kissed me? Maybe a better question was if kissing was part of his plans for Friday.

  The thought of him leaning down to press his lips softly to mine made my skin tingle. Until, suddenly, my thoughts circled back on themselves, flying in reverse through time to another boy who had tried to kiss me.

  Erik.

  Would I finally see him tonight? What would I say to him if I did?

  I’d have to tell him about me and Lucas. Which probably meant I’d have to tell Lucas about Erik now.

  The quiet of the house settled around me, the silence broken only by my sister’s rhythmic breathing. Rolling my head to one side, I eyed the closet door, which I’d made sure to shut before climbing into bed. I willed it to stay that way, simultaneously trying not to think about the figure from my sister’s drawing.

  Erik. Two nights ago, he’d tried to tell me something and hadn’t gotten to.

  Though he’d also said he shouldn’t have “dared” to come to me again, I had to believe he would still eventually return. He’d already admitted to caring about me. In a weird way that I didn’t fully understand, I guessed I’d come to care about him, too. Enough so that I had meant what I’d said about wanting to help him.

  He’d said the music that I’d found was his, alluding also to the fact that he’d physically written it.

  I am not a ghost.

  Erik’s words rang through my head, suggesting things I didn’t like to think about. Still, he couldn’t have meant that the stories, the ones Lucas had told us, were true. Could he?

  “Erik,” I said under my breath. Could he hear me? “We need to talk.”

  I watched the closet door, waiting for something to happen. It never did, though. Still, I kept watching, all the way up until my eyelids grew heavy and at last . . . fell.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Zedok

  “She’s been home for some time now.”

  Seated on the wicker settee, surrounded by the gnarled vines of my sister’s long-dead roses, I peered toward the doorway, within which stood the mask who had spoken.

  He wore a black-and-white ensemble of medieval nobility complete with an ostentatiously plumed hat. His mask, which resembled the painted black-and-white face of a court jester, bore the most malicious of grins. Between his hands, he shuffled a deck of cards, white as the snow that blustered in behind him.

  “Care to know where she was?” asked the mask.

  “No,” I said, regretting that I had chosen the conservatory this evening for a hideaway. My masks tended to stay away from here, but there also happened to be only one door. A door that this mask now blocked.

  “Yes, you do,” the mask said, sending the cards rushing from one black-gloved hand to the other in a rapid, streaming shuffle. “Or else I wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’ve no interest in games,” I said to the mask. “Go away, Guile.”

  “Perhaps I will,” he said as he spread his arms with the softest jangle of hidden bells. “After a while.”

  Irritation rankled me. Because though I had come out here to be away from the house and, more importantly, Stephanie, the mask spoke true. I did want to know where Stephanie had been that evening. But then . . . wasn’t that because I already suspected?

  “I heard her and her father talking through the walls a short while ago,” said Guile. “Turns out she has been to a dance.” He formed the cards into a fan and gave himself a fluttering waft. “Bet you can’t guess with who.”

  He plucked one card from the lot and held it out to me, back-first.

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “Yes, you do,” repeated Guile, who flipped the card to reveal the knave of hearts. “We all care. You’re just the only one who doesn’t want to.”

  “I’m the only one who knows I shouldn’t,” I snapped, even though the conversation could only prove circular from here, as they all inevitably did.

  “That you shouldn’t doesn’t mean you don’t,” mused Guile. “But then, why shouldn’t you care?” he challenged. “Because you’re dead? Because you’re a walking nightmare? Because your face is—”

  “Enough,” I said, standing. “Leave, or I shall make you.”

  “Make me, and I shall return.”

  What was the purpose of this torment? Guile had to know he could not win in a match against Valor. He could not possibly be here with the hopes of besting me and transposing masks.

  “What is it that you want?” I asked him.

  “You know what I want,” said Guile, his voice dropping low. Again, he shuffled the cards and plucked another from the deck. He held it out to me, back-first once more. “And this time, you don’t even need to guess, do you?”

  Without waiting for a response, he flipped the card, revealing a dark-haired queen of hearts. I dropped my gaze from the card, willing myself not to acknowledge the identity of who it represented.

  “She will see him again,” I said. A question masquerading as an observation.

  “Soon,” answered Guile as he stepped my way, the queen of hearts extended to me. “Quite soon, in fact.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I reminded myself, for I did have a plan.

  “Mm, yes, the plan,” Guile replied to my thought, halting his approach, causing the extended card to vanish with a flick of his wrist. “Listen. About that . . .”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Stephanie

  I hadn’t been asleep for long before my eyes opened.

  I wasn’t sure what made them pop wide, the sleep in them gone in an instant.

  Most likely, it had been the cold that had settled over me, emanating from the place where Charlie had been sleeping next to me. Had been. But no longer was.

  My metal-framed bed creaked as I pushed myself into a sitting position.

  Immediately, my gaze went the floor, where I had found Charlie coloring early yesterday morning. Though her crayons lay scattered about, she wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

  “Charlie?” I murmured, half stumbling out of bed to face the closet door, which stood closed, just like I’d left it. I tore it open. Nothing. Cracked plaster and emptiness.

  I hurried out of my room, my feet carrying me fast in the direction of my sister’s pitch-black doorway. Grasping the banister overlooking
the chandelier and the foyer, I halted with a gasp. Clad in her pajamas, Charlie stood below, her small form bathed in the night’s blue-tinted gloom.

  “Charlie,” I said as I rounded the top newel. From there, I hurried down the steps to my sister’s side. Kneeling next to her, I grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her to face me.

  Though I’d expected to find her in some sleepwalking state since it wasn’t like her to wander at night, I instead found her fully awake, Checkers dangling by a tentacle from one hand. She blinked at me, brows arching to vanish beneath her bangs.

  “What are you doing down here?” I asked, smoothing her hair, my panic subsiding.

  Instead of answering, she pointed to the pocket doors leading into the parlor.

  “What?” I said, “What is it?” I stood slowly, taking my sister’s hand as I did. “Did he come back? Did you see him in there this time?”

  “Don’t you hear it?” whispered Charlie, her fingers giving mine a squeeze. “Listen.”

  I stilled and, staring through the open pocket doors and into the silent, darkened parlor, I did as she said . . . and listened.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, just when I’d been about to pick up Charlie so that I’d have her in my arms, a single far-away piano note reverberated from within the parlor.

  A small gasp escaped my lips. A week ago, I might have been more shocked by the sound. But the note was too similar to the one I’d heard the other day when I’d come home to find my angel on the mantel. Though I hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Erik in the last dream if he’d been the one to move the figurine, I now had to assume it was him. He’d confirmed his had been the form I’d glimpsed under that sheet, so wasn’t it safe to assume he’d been the one to play the piano note?

  As though in answer, the note sounded again. Low, long, and resonant, it reverberated through the room. Still, its ringing didn’t fill the space like the out-of-tune note that day had. Instead, beautiful and mellow, it seemed to come from . . . somewhere else.

  “You hear it, don’t you?” Charlie asked, giving my arm a tug.