by A. C. Wise
*
Emma Rose is twenty-seven years old when she meets her first serious girlfriend. Her name is Elizabeth. They move in together after three months, which seems both fast and far too long to wait. Emma Rose wants to be touching her all the time, brushing her fingertips across the back of Elizabeth’s hand, kissing her shoulder, pressing their legs against each other while they watch old movies and eat popcorn. It’s like she has to constantly remind herself Elizabeth is real and not just a story she’s told herself. That she won’t vanish, or run away.
They’ve been living together for almost nine months when Emma Rose wakes to rain pummeling the windows. Briefly, Emma Rose mistakes the wet hush of traffic outside their apartment for the sound of the tide. She sits up, counting the space between flashes of lightning and growls of thunder. For just a moment, she swears there’s a face in the water droplets, the outline of a woman’s cheekbones, sharper than any human’s should be, and a smile too wide. Emma Rose starts back. Is it her reflection? Is she imagining things?
“You okay?” Sleep-warm, Elizabeth sits up and wraps herself around Emma Rose, fitting her chin against Emma Rose’s shoulder as if it was purpose-made for just that thing.
Emma Rose shivers. There’s nothing outside but lightning and rain.
“Do you think it’s possible for a person to be haunted?” Emma Rose asks, thinking of the fairy tale from long ago.
“You mean like sheets and chains? Rattling doors and disembodied voices?”
The questions aren’t mocking. Emma Rose allows herself to sink back into Elizabeth’s embrace. It’s like the water long ago—holding her, knowing her, keeping her safe.
“Sort of.” She takes a deep breath. “When I was little, I saw something in the water.”
The whole story tumbles out. Elizabeth listens, never interrupting. The storm dies down until only the sound of rain dripping from the gutters remains. Emma Rose lapses into silence. She meets Elizabeth’s eyes, which are pale blue with a ring of darker blue around the edges.
“Do you believe me?” Emma Rose asks.
“Yes.” There is no hesitation. Elizabeth majored in English Literature and Comparative Mythology; Emma Rose shouldn’t be surprised she understands about fairies and ghosts.
“You don’t…I mean, you’re not…” Emma Rose stops, unsure how to ask Elizabeth if she’ll stay.
“Hey.” Elizabeth catches Emma Rose’s hands, pressing them between her own. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why?” Emma Rose breathes out, afraid of the hope wanting to grow inside her.
“I don’t scare that easily.” Elizabeth smiles. “Besides, we all have our things, right? I support you, you support me.”
“Yeah?” Emma Rose allows herself to relax just a little bit. “What’s your thing?”
“Well, when you’re rich and famous for crossing the Channel, I’ll let you pay for everything while I go back to school. Then you can suffer through endless stuffy dinners with my fellow academics. It’ll be a glamorous life, but it’ll be ours.”
Ours. The word beats inside Emma Rose, timed with her heart. It is echoed by words never spoken aloud, which she’s long imagined spoken by blue-grey lips, slipping through teeth like mother of pearl. You need me, just like I need you.
She’s always thought it meant a choice, to take the ocean into her heart and nothing else, or give up on her dream. But maybe there’s more.
“There are creatures that can’t cross running water, right?” She tests the words out loud, feeling her way through them as she speaks.
“Sure.” Elizabeth’s eyes are bright, curious.
“What if my ghost, or whatever she is can’t step onto dry land without me.”
It sounds silly, but Elizabeth puts her head to the side like she’s considering Emma Rose’s words. Maybe her ghost just wants to be warm and loved. Maybe neither of them are monsters. Maybe they can help each other somehow.
“If I try the crossing again, will you be there with me?” Emma Rose holds her breath. She looks into Elizabeth’s eyes with all their myriad shades of blue.
“Of course,” Elizabeth says. She wraps her hands around Emma Rose’s. When they kiss, Emma Rose is light, buoyant, completely safe and surrounded. Elizabeth is the ocean that keeps her afloat.
*
Emma Rose is twenty-eight when she and Elizabeth walk down an aisle of strewn rose petals in her parents’ garden. Emma Rose promises herself she won’t cry, and breaks her promise in the first five minutes. Her father is there with a tissue, his eyes bright and teary as well. They stumble through their vows, and even though Elizabeth cries too, when they kiss, somehow it doesn’t taste like salt at all.
There’s cake afterward, and champagne, and dancing, and the garden is strung with fairy lights. Over the music, Emma Rose hears the hush of waves. As they slow dance their last song, Emma Rose listens to Elizabeth’s heartbeat, her breath, timed to Emma Rose’s own. A sudden thought hits her, and it’s like being bowled over by a wave. Needing someone else doesn’t mean that she isn’t also strong.
“I’m ready to try again,” she says in a whisper so low she almost hopes Elizabeth won’t hear.
“I know.” Elizabeth brushes her lips across Emma Rose’s brow. “I’ve already arranged for the boat and a hotel. We’ll honeymoon in Paris when you get to the other side.”
Emma Rose’s breath catches. She looks at Elizabeth with the fairy lights gleaming in her hair. Elizabeth smiles, and Emma Rose falls in love all over again. She will keep Emma Rose safe; they will keep each other safe. If Emma Rose falters, Elizabeth will be right there to pull her from the waves, into her arms.
*
They set out at dawn. Emma Rose’s belly is a knot of nerves. The sun rises as she steps into the water. Up to her calves, to her knees. Breathe. She has known the water all her life, in all its moods, and all of hers. She will cross it. They will carry each other, all the way to the other side.
Emma Rose lets the ocean take her weight. Elizabeth is by her side, waiting to feed her sugar cubes and protein, to speak encouragement. Emma Rose stretches her arm as long as it can go, and reaches for the opposite shore.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Her feet kick in time with her heartbeat. A shadow glides beneath her, her twin. The face isn’t remotely human anymore. Bones like blades press against grey skin; mother of pearl teeth gleam in a mouth too wide. Gills slit the sides of the woman’s throat, and there are webs between her long fingers and toes. After all this time, Emma Rose knows her the way she knows the waves, and she refuses to be afraid.
If the woman is part of her, so be it. This is still her journey. They will be each other’s guide. The woman lifts a hand, palm flat, facing Emma Rose and waits.
Emma Rose is twenty-eight when she lets go of doubt and fear. She reaches out and presses her palm flat against the webbed hand waiting below her. She lets her love for Elizabeth flow through her, lets the woman taste it from her skin. Here is a little piece of dry land inside the ocean, a little bit of warmth and love. Emma Rose forgives her, and is forgiven in turn. The woman rises, Emma Rose does not fall. When their lips touch, it tastes of nothing but goodbye.
How to Host a Haunted House Murder Mystery Party
Choose Your Setting
Find a large house with lots of rooms. One where the light switches are far enough away from each door that your guests will have to step into the room to turn them on. If possible, find a house where the electricity is fragile. (Keep an eye on the weather report and schedule accordingly.) A basement and an attic are essential, the former with a woodpile and a cast iron stove, the latter with dress forms, an old hobby horse, dolls no one has thought about in years, and at least one antique steamer trunk large enough to hold a body.
There should be mirrors in odd and unexpected places. Let your guests catch their reflections as they’re groping for the light in a darkened room and feel for a moment that they are not alone. Eventually, they will realize it’s only
a mirror, but that moment of pure terror is enough to set the mood. From that point on, they will continue to glance in the direction of the glass, wondering whether the reflection in the corner of their eye could really be them.
There should be plenty of bedrooms, but few bathrooms. Of these bathrooms, one should contain a claw-foot tub deep enough that you cannot see the bottom of it while standing in the door. Showers should have their curtains pulled tightly closed before the evening begins.
The kitchen should be incongruously bright, a break in the tension, a place where your guests will feel they may be safe for a while.
A dining room table to seat at least thirteen. Chandeliers. Narrow staircases requiring guests to ascend and descend one at a time. That one room you never go in, no matter what, even though the door has never been locked.
Ideally, your house is already haunted and only minimal preparation will be required.
Creating Your Invitations
Use thick, good quality paper. Consider a scent—nothing crass like lilac or vanilla. Use something subtle, like wood smoke, reminding your guests of tales told around a campfire, or more obscure still, the scent of old books, that one book in particular with the gruesome illustrations their parents warned would give them nightmare, but which they could never resist. The book they returned to again and again for the awful, delicious and terrible thrill, reading it by flashlight under the covers, and later waking screaming, betrayed by those same covers meant to keep them safe. That smell.
The invitations should be done in calligraphy to add a touch of class. Deliver the invitations by hand. No postmark. No return address.
Invite extra guests. Invite at least one person liable to turn up late. Provide at least one guest with the wrong address so they become lost along the way. They will consider themselves lucky, once all is said and done. Every tale needs a survivor.
Don’t be concerned if you don’t have thirteen close friends. The evening will work better if your guests are unacquainted with each other (at least on the surface). Do not be concerned that your guests will refuse. There is no doubt they will attend. They always do.
Not for the secrets you know about them, and you do, but for what they have come to know about themselves in the long, lonely years they have spent waiting for just such an invitation to arrive. When the invitation comes, it will be a relief. They will be able to let go of the sense of dread, the one they have never been able to name. They will breathe out and say, Ah, yes, here it is at last.
Most of them are long past thinking they can be forgiven. Some are even past believing they deserve this. No, they need this. A ghost to give shape to their pain, a physical manifestation of their loss and guilt. They will come because the ghosts you can offer them are the only way they can make sense of their worlds.
(A better question to ask before your evening begins: Why are you compelled to invite strangers to participate in your game? Do you still believe you can be forgiven? Do you believe ghosts are a communicable thing, able to be passed off to an unwitting individual stepping through your door?)
Making the Introductions
No real names will be used.
The first guest shall be called Madame Edamame—the near palindrome delicious, yet slightly unsettling. It will show your guests you have a sense of fun, there’s no real harm to be had here.
Next will be Miss Foster. Not Mrs. Not Ms. Miss. It is old fashioned and infantilizing. It is also cruel. None of this is without intent. Where Madame Edamame’s name is meant to put your guests at ease, Miss Foster’s is meant to pull the rug out from beneath them. Everything is uncertain here. They are on dangerous ground.
Miss Foster has been in and out of homes where she was never entirely welcome her entire life, always the changeling, never the adopted child. For all intents and purposes, she is still a child, hungry for acceptance and love, desperate to fit in. Did her families hurt her? Did she hurt them? Does she smell faintly of ash and the ghost of old fires? A little mystery in the guests adds to the mystery in the game.
Some names will be more common. This is Mr. Evans. Just that. Nothing less, nothing more.
There is also Mr. Espadrille, Young Mister Cleeves, Mrs. Hanover, Father Crispin, Elizabeth—no last name given—Mr. James, Mr. Otterly, and Captain Frank. There must always be a military officer invited to such affairs, though Captain Frank prefers her given name of Jane. She’s put the war behind her, after all, even though she will show up to your party wearing every medal she’s earned.
Don’t forget to count yourself. You are a part of the game as well.
Cocktails to Set the Mood
Start with the classics—Old Fashioneds, Sidecars, Manhattans. These will give the party a timeless air, and help disconnect your guests from place and time. Strengthen the illusion that they have been lifted from the world they know and set adrift in some past. But not their past, mind you. It is still safe here. Still fun.
Even those guests who do not usually partake, or who have been known to imbibe too much and therefore have sworn to abstain, may feel compelled to accept your hospitality on this particular night. One drink, so as not to be rude. One drink to ease the pressure of being among strangers in an uncertain situation. Drinks to loosen tongues and smooth the way. It is easier to mingle with a drink in your hand. A drink, or two, or many, will allow your guests to leave their baggage behind. At least for as long as it takes them to reach the bottom of each glass.
Dinner is Served
Dinner will be tense, despite the alcohol, or perhaps because of it. At this point, your guests will begin to questions their decision to play along. They have always known they would, yet self-doubt will leave them restless. Do not be concerned. All is going according to plan.
There will be wine brought up from cellars the house doesn’t have. Scotch, whiskey, brandy, and vodka in well-chilled glasses.
This is when the first ghost will appear. It will be no more than a flicker of movement at the corner of the eye. Perhaps Mrs. Hanover will be the one to spot it, and her hand will fly to her mouth. Perhaps it will be Mr. James; he will start, jerking his chair back from the table as though pulled by some unseen hand. A fork will be dropped, or a glass may break. If you are especially fortuitous, the power will choose this moment to blink, but it will remain on.
Nervous laughter will follow. Dear me, aren’t we all so silly here? Jumping at shadows. Tsk, tsk. None of your guests will admit to the ghost they’ve seen, the one they’ve always known to be waiting for them here. One can only outrun their past for so long.
Smile. Get through the meal despite the tightness in all throats, the lack of appetite, the sense of some worse blow about to fall. Everything will be fine.
The Late Arrival (aka The Thirteenth Guest)
He’s a motorist whose car has broken down. Or perhaps you invited him. Who can be sure? Let’s call him Mr. Perkins. His name is not important. Now your quota of thirteen guests is complete.
Rain will drip from the hem of his coat, and his over-shoes will leave puddles on your floor. His arrival is heralded by a crash of thunder. Maybe one of the other guests lets out an involuntary gasp. Despite the lingering sense of unease, the other guests—consciously or not—have come to think of your party as their own. There is a proprietary sense, they are survivors thrown together to persevere against all odds. Mr. Perkins is an outsider. They have been in this together since the beginning. He has not. How can they trust him? He does not belong.
Your party is going swimmingly so far.
Dealing with Potential Pitfalls
The problem is, your house is actually haunted. This was never a game. There is a strong likelihood someone will die in earnest before the evening is done. There is no known solution to this pitfall. Do not be concerned. This is a feature, not a bug.
Entertainment (Variant #1)—The Séance
After dinner, bring out the Ouija board. There is no need to procure one beforehand. There are many closets in your house o
f many doors. One of them has a board; it is wrapped in your great-aunt’s favorite table cloth, tucked away on a top shelf behind a pair of boots no one has ever worn.
Ask your guests to join hands. Dim the lights. (Perhaps the power is already off by now.) Light candles, either out of necessity or to set the atmosphere.
Before the game begins, ensure no one is touching the planchette. It will move regardless. It will spell a name, which none of your guests claim to recognize, though at least two of them do. Mr. Otterly, or perhaps Elizabeth-with-no-last-name, will leave the table in disgust. They will consider departing the house all together, but something will compel them to stay.
There is a pressure, not visible but certainly tangible, standing just before the front door. To pass through it is to drown. To pass through it is to have all your worst experiences dredged up from the bottom of your soul and wrapped around you like a second skin. No one ever notices it coming into the house. Everyone notices when they try to leave. You have ceased to notice it at all.
Entertainment (Variant #2)—Blind Man’s Bluff