by Amy Cross
“Did you say it was someone from Curridge?” Kate asks.
“I think that's what it said.”
“Huh.” She seems thoughtful for a moment. “That's a weird coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, remember all those trips we used to make there when we were kids?”
“Trips?”
“Yeah, come on!” she continues. “After Dad died, Mum used to take us on these little trips to the seaside. She said she thought it was good to get us out of gray, rainy, depressing London. We went to Broadstairs one time, and Deal, and Sandwich Bay, all those places. But then one time...”
“I don't remember the trips,” I tell her. “I was, what, six months old when she died?”
“Sure, but,” she replies, and now her tone is a little more concerned, “Alice...”
Her voice hangs in the air for a moment, as if she's expecting me to make some sudden, huge breakthrough.
“I don't remember the place,” I say again. “I'm not doubting you.”
“You were just a baby,” she continues, “but you must remember what I've told you over the years... I mean, you must've...”
Again, her voice trails off, and she's staring at me as if she genuinely can't believe that this little seaside town isn't burned into my memory.
“Alice,” she says finally, “Curridge is -”
“Please,” Brad says as he sets some fresh drinks on the table, “tell me you're not still talking about book reviews.”
“Your wife is obsessed,” Kate says, rolling her eyes again. She still seems worried, but I guess Brad's return from the bar has reset the conversation somewhat. “She's going crazy.”
“Wouldn't you be?” I ask. “Just a little? This woman is talking about my book as if what I've written is somehow close to the truth.”
“And that's why you're acting like this, is it?” Kate continues. “Not because it's the only good review the book has gotten so far?”
“That's beside the point.”
“I don't think so.”
“It's just weird to think,” I continue, “that this woman happens to live just a couple of hours from here. I mean, that's just a short drive away.”
I look down at my glass of wine, but suddenly I really don't feel like drinking. Truth be told, I just want to get back on my computer and do some work.
“No!” Kate says firmly.
I glance back over at her. “What?”
“I can see that look on your face,” she continues, “and you are not going to go and talk to this poor woman.”
“I never said I was!”
“You were thinking about it!”
“I wasn't!”
“Of course you were. It's in your nature, Alice. You obsess over these things.”
“I wasn't going to go and see her!”
“Good. Because that would be stalking.”
“I was thinking maybe I could email her and -”
“No!”
“I just want to ask if -”
“No!”
“But some of the things she said were -”
“No, Alice!” She sighs again. “You're in danger of getting completely unhinged here. So your new book didn't get showered with praise like the first one, so what? It doesn't change the book. The most important thing is that you're happy with what you wrote!”
“I am!” I reply, probably sounding a little too defensive. “At least, I thought I was.”
“So what's the problem?”
“This Dora Ohme woman mentioned some really odd things in her review,” I point out. “She said something about how I'd written the same creatures that go to something called the soul auctions, and that sometimes these things snatch souls that are traveling across a void. It all sort of sounds like the creatures in Belvedere, but she's talking like I was describing real things.”
“So? Maybe she's loopy.”
“And she said I'm the only writer at the moment who accurately describes all this stuff.”
“Like I said. Loopy.”
“Wouldn't you need to know?” I ask. “I can usually leave reviews alone, but it sounds like this woman is really onto something.”
“It sounds like you're trying to justify your obsession,” she replies. “Seriously, Alice, you'll thank me later. Right now, I need you to let it go, okay? You're only going to cause yourself more trouble if you even attempt to contact this woman. Just be glad that someone out there liked your new book, and wait for other positive reviews to come rolling in. One day, you'll look back on this and laugh.”
“Can't we just try to have a nice evening?” Brad asks, and I can tell that he's really desperate to stop talking about the book, at least for a few minutes. “There's more to life than a bunch of crummy reviews. And so what if some weirdo left a few crackpot comments? I read that review, Alice, and the woman is clearly out of her mind. You need to focus on your writing, and on your third book. And don't you have a short story that you've almost finished?”
“Sure, but -”
“So you've got plenty to be getting on with. You don't have time to fuss over reviews. If you want my advice, you'll stop looking at them altogether.”
“He's right,” Kate adds. “Not often I say that, but your boyfriend is spot on.”
“I know,” I say with a sigh, “you're both right, but...”
My voice trails off as I try to think of a way I can explain things, but then I realize that maybe I'm just wrong. Maybe I'm obsessing unhealthily, and maybe Brad's right when he says I should just forget about the reviews and focus on writing the books I want to write. Besides, everyone knows that an author should never, ever contact a reviewer about anything, not even if there seems to be a perfectly acceptable reason. I'm on the verge of making a potentially huge mistake, and I need to hold steady.
“You're right,” I say again, finally, unable to keep a hint of defeat from my voice. “I know you are. It's just going to take a while to live all of this down.”
“The good reviews will come,” Brad says, raising his glass. “Now how about a toast to the release of The Haunting of Belvedere Asylum? Because I've read it, and I liked it.”
“You're my boyfriend,” I point out as I raise my glass to his and Kate's. “You have to like it.”
Chapter Four
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
“It's okay,” Kate says, as she licks a little more vanilla ice-cream off the back of her spoon. “I like the ice-cream at the park better, but I don't mind this one.”
“I really like it,” I tell her, hoping to cheer her up a little. She looks so sad sometimes. “I bet you'll like it more, once you get used to it.”
“How long are we staying here?” she asks.
“We're just taking a small holiday.”
“But we're going back to London one day?”
“Next week.”
She stares at me for a moment, as if she's still processing this latest piece of information. For a five-year-old, Kate can so often seem preternaturally thoughtful and contemplative. In fact, right now she looks as if she's going over a particularly difficult math problem.
“Okay,” she says finally, looking back down at her ice-cream.
“You approve?” I ask.
She nods.
“Well, that's good,” I reply, before hearing a gurgle from Alice. “I'm sure we're all going to have a lot of fun. You remember coming here before, don't you? This isn't our first trip to Curridge.”
She nods again, but now she seems more interested in getting every last drop of ice-cream out of the pot.
We're sitting in a booth next to the window in the pub. We're the only customers here, and so far Curridge feels completely dead. Our previous visits have always been during summer, when there are at least a few other people around, but this latest trip was rather last-minute. Our usual bed and breakfast is shut for the next few months, so I had to book rooms above the local pub. I was worried about bringing my daughters to s
tay in a place like this, but the landlord assured me over the phone that the place never gets too rowdy.
This is the first time I've been here since Rob died. I'm sure Kate has already noticed how much less fun this trip is, without her father.
“So who's up for a little swim later?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
“Is Alice allowed in the sea?” Kate replies, glancing over at her sister.
“Don't worry, I'll keep hold of her,” I explain. “It'll be her first time ever going swimming. Doesn't that sound exciting?”
Kate pauses, before shrugging.
“What's wrong?” I ask, although I immediately realize that I know the answers. Since Rob's death, Kate just hasn't been herself, and my efforts to cheer her up have largely been in vain. Still, I have to keep trying. The three of us don't have any other family. “I brought your bathing suit,” I continue. “The water's not exactly warm, but we can still have fun. I also brought a blow-up ball, so we can toss that about if you want.”
I wait for her to reply, but she seems lost in thought again.
She might only be five years old, but since her father's death Kate has seemed like a girl twice that age. I guess she's too young to really understand the cancer that took Rob away, and too old to be fobbed off with excuses. Alice was born a few weeks after her father died, so she's never going to remember the harrowing times at the hospital, but Kate was right in the middle of it all. I swore to do whatever it takes to give her a happy childhood – to give happy childhoods to both my girls – but so far I'm screwing up big time.
I'm a terrible mother.
Chapter Five
Alice
Today
“I'll be there in a minute!” I call through to Brad as I head into the dark kitchen. “I'm just fetching a glass of water!”
Stopping at the sink, I grab a mug but then I hesitate for a moment, staring down at the faucet. I pretty much managed to put the bad reviews from my mind while I was out, but they come flooding back as soon as we got back to the house. In particular, that review from Dora Ohme has been swimming through my thoughts and constantly prodding me, and finally I can't help looking over at my laptop.
I promised not to check any more reviews tonight, but Brad wouldn't find out if...
I make my way quietly to the table and sit down, before opening the laptop and bringing up the page for The Haunting of Belvedere Asylum. I keep telling myself that I'm only going to briefly glance at the total number of reviews, but I barely even pay attention as I scroll down to find Dora Ohme's review again. There are now twenty total reviews, and the average has moved up to a still-unhealthy 1.75, but I don't check the latest comments. Instead, I read through Dora's review one more time, and then I click on her name so I can take a look at her profile.
Turns out, she writes a lot of reviews.
And I really mean a lot.
Scrolling down the page, I find that she reviews several books a day, which I guess makes her a committed reader. I feel wrong and guilty for even looking at this page, but I quickly remind myself that I'm not a stalker. No, I'm just trying to get a sense of this woman's taste, so that I can judge whether her opinion of The Haunting of Belvedere Asylum is likely to just be an outlier. To my surprise, I find that most of her reviews state more or less the same thing, which is that the authors have written a wholly unrealistic account of paranormal activity.
She certainly seems to think that she knows what the afterlife is like, and she's pretty harsh on any books that doesn't fit with her views.
And then, just as I'm thinking I should stop going through this poor woman's review history, I see that several months ago she left a review for my first book, The Ghost of Anderley Mansion. That book received so many glowing reviews, and I read through them all, but I guess at the time one five-star review wouldn't have stood out among all the others. Filled with curiosity, however, I click through to find out what Dora thought about my first book, and I find that once again she left a fairly lengthy chunk of text:
First book I've read by this author, but won't be the last. Alice Ashcroft nails these things perfectly. Her description of a dead soul's dilemma is absolutely accurate, and she writes vivid, surprisingly detailed accounts of the void around the soul auction. I was particularly struck by her description of the antagonist in this book, which struck me as being almost identical to the beast that presides over the soul auction's main proceedings. I don't know whether she has any special insight, but it's hard to believe she was so accurate without having some kind of knowledge. So many books get these things wrong, but Alice Ashcroft knows what she's talking about. Anyone who wants to understand the afterlife should start by reading this book.
Again, she seems really stuck on the idea that my books are somehow accurate, as if she thinks I've somehow tapped into the truth about life after death. I made all that stuff up when I wrote the books, of course, but Dora Ohme sure seems to rate my descriptions.
In fact, her certainty is almost creepy.
“Who are you, Dora Ohme?” I whisper, opening a Google window and entering her name.
Just as I'm about to hit the return key, however, I realize that I'm officially going way too far. I'm invading this woman's privacy and I'm doing something that no author should ever even consider. If I heard about someone else doing what I'm doing, I'd be aghast, but at the same time I can't help thinking that this Dora Ohme woman seems to have a unique and very interesting perspective on my books. Glancing around the kitchen, I double-check that Brad is nowhere nearby, and then I look back at the laptop and press the return key.
No-one'll ever find out what I'm doing.
After all, it's not like I'm going to use any of the information I uncover.
According to Google, Dora Ohme does indeed live in a small seaside town called Curridge. She doesn't really have a social media presence, which I guess is a mixed blessing. On one hand, it's a shame that I can't get a better idea of what this woman is like; on the other, I'd probably end up going down the rabbit hole, so I should be thankful that I don't have the opportunity. As I scroll down through the search results, I realize that there's very little about Dora Ohme, other than her book reviews and a mention of her name in a list of phone numbers for people living in Curridge.
Clicking on a tab at the top, I check the image results, but all I see are pictures of a small seaside town down in Kent, complete with picturesque little cottages and a pub that's right on the edge of a vast stony beach. In one of the pictures, there's a distant view of the white cliffs.
Somewhere in that little town, there's a woman who seems to take a very sincere interest in my books.
“Alice?” Brad calls out. “Are you coming?”
“Give me two minutes!”
I head through to Facebook and type Dora Ohme's name into the search box, but all I find is a profile with no photo. I guess maybe she set up a basic profile once and then never got around to filling it out. I click through a take a look, but there's absolutely no activity, although I do find confirmation that this is the woman who lives in Curridge. There's nothing, however, to suggest why she left those strange reviews on my books.
“You should stop this now,” I mutter under my breath, keenly aware that I'm already doing the wrong thing. “You're not this kind of person, Alice. You don't stalk people who leave reviews on your books.”
Nevertheless, I click back through to her book reviews, where I find that she's posted a new review in just the last few minutes. She's reviewed a horror novel I've never heard of, and she's given it two stars along with a comment about how the book provides a very unrealistic depiction of a haunted house. Once again, she seems to have a very strong idea of how these things should be described, and I can't help feeling a sense of satisfaction that at least my books seem to fit her views properly. I know I have no real reason to be satisfied by that, of course, but right now I'll take any hint of positivity that comes my way.
“Alice! You're not on that lap
top again, are you?”
“No!” I shout back at Brad. “I'm just doing some lady stuff. I'll be through in a moment!”
That usually shuts him up.
Leaning back in my chair, I stare at the screen. Or, more specifically, I stare at the little block of text beneath the generic profile icon on Dora Ohme's page. This woman lives just a few hours away, and she seems to have more insight into my work than anyone else. More insight than I have, even. Every atom in my body is urging me to find some way to contact Ms. Ohme and find out what she really thinks, but somehow I'm managing to resist. Contacting her in any way would be a huge mistake.
Finally, even though my mind is racing and I'm not tired at all, I close the laptop and get to my feet. The sooner I get to sleep, the sooner morning will come, and the sooner I can ask my agent what I'm supposed to do next. Because what I'm doing now is definitely not working.
Chapter Six
Lizzie
Thirty years ago
“Lizzie,” I reply, shaking the pub landlady's hand as she joins me in the doorway. “Lizzie Ashcroft. Your barman showed us to our room earlier.”
“It's not often we get visitors here out of season,” she points out, speaking with a slight Irish accent. “To be honest, I wasn't sure it was a good idea to have someone staying with a baby, but this isn't exactly a busy pub.”
“Alice really doesn't cry much,” I tell her.
She looks out across the beach, toward the spot where Kate is standing knee-deep in the sea. Kate's bright red inflatable ball is floating unplayed-with next to her.
“Is that your other girl?” she asks.
“That's Kate, yes,” I reply. “She's five. Nearly six, actually.”
“What's she up to out there?” she asks. “Just standing around?”
“I tried to play with her,” I explain, “but she said she wanted to splash around.” As those words leave my lips, however, I realize that Kate definitely isn't doing any splashing around. “She's a sensitive child,” I add, starting to worry that maybe the landlady will look down her nose at me. “She's had a lot going on lately.”