by E. E. Holmes
“Yeah, sounds great,” Tia said, smiling gratefully. “My head is crammed full of as many bacterial infections as it can remember right now.”
“Gross,” I said, smiling.
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Tia said, extricating herself from the books and slipping on her sandals and peering out the window at the cloudless sky. “It’s a beautiful day out today.”
“Yeah, it is. Let’s enjoy the sunshine while we can,” I agreed.
A buzzing sound made us both reach automatically for our phones.
“Not mine,” I said, checking it.
“Mine!” Tia said, digging through the books until she found it buried at the bottom of the pile. She glanced down at the notification and her face dropped. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong? Your mom again?” I asked her. Tia’s mom had been waging a constant battle to get Tia to come back home, and was forever barraging her with guilt trips, bribes, and links to applications for American medical programs. Tia took it much more good-naturedly than I would have, of course.
“No, it’s… um… well, it’s Charlie,” she said, still staring down at the phone screen.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
Tia’s head shot up. “What? No! Of course not!”
“Great! Then that makes whatever he texted you only half as weird as all of the communication I’ve had this morning!” I said, smiling brightly. “So, what’s up?”
“He… well, he says he’s working his boss’s booth at the market this morning and wants me to stop by,” Tia said reluctantly.
“Oooookay,” I said slowly. “So, why exactly do you look so horrified?”
Tia smiled sheepishly. “It’s just… I’m still… I don’t really know what this is.” She gestured down to the phone.
“It’s a phone,” I replied helpfully.
She nearly threw said phone at my head, which frankly, I deserved. “You know what I mean, Jess! I know we’re friends, and I really like him, but I’m just… I don’t know where my head is at right now, and I just… I don’t want to be pressured into anything when I’m still pretty messed up from the break-up, you know?”
“Is he pressuring you?” I asked, suddenly serious.
“No, but it kind of feels like you are,” Tia muttered to her feet.
“Oh, Ti, no!” I jogged, half-groaning, half-laughing, across the room and gave her a squeeze around the shoulders. “You know me, I just like to tease people. But jokes aren’t funny unless everyone is laughing, and you aren’t laughing. I’m really sorry.”
Tia shrugged, betraying a smile. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I was just excited for you, that you might have found someone to make you happy,” I told her.
“I am happy,” she said.
“I know,” I said quickly. “You don’t need a guy for that. I just meant… you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. And I think I’m just scared to start down that road again. I still haven’t recovered from the last trip,” Tia said. I couldn’t see her eyes, but her voice had tears in it.
“Hey, I get it. And I should think before I open my big mouth,” I said.
“Charlie’s really sweet. And he hasn’t even suggested dating, or anything like that. But I think maybe he likes me. I think he would ask me, if I hinted that I was open to it. But…” She shrugged helplessly.
“You’re not there yet,” I finished for her.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then I’m not going to say another word about it,” I said. “Cross my heart.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
Tia smiled. “Okay, then. So, if I take you over to his booth at the market, you’ll behave yourself?”
“Or may I never eat Nutella crepes from the street vendors again,” I said, with an elaborate salute.
This was an oath of the highest order. Those crepes were freaking magical.
§
The Saturday morning bustle of Notting Hill greeted us like a familiar song. I loved living in this neighborhood. I loved the colorful buildings, all cozied up next to each other. I loved the quirky shops and steady trickle of musicians and street artists. It was a vibrant, living, breathing place, which was exactly what I needed to counterbalance the constant presence of the dead. I didn’t understand how any Durupinen could live anywhere quiet. I needed to be able to tune out.
Our flat, courtesy of the elaborate network of Durupinen connections, was nestled on Lonsdale Road, right off the main thoroughfare of Portobello Road. If I could have picked any building on the street, I would have picked the one we lived in. It was painted a creamy white, like most of the buildings on the street, but with a slightly rebellious tangle of ivy growing up its front and a front door painted a bright, robin’s egg blue. The tiny front garden was divided from the street by a quaint black wrought iron gate, and it was through that little gate that Hannah, Milo, Tia, and myself set out to lose ourselves in the hectic beauty of the Portobello Market.
We’d come to the market almost every Saturday since we’d moved in, and though it was packed full of tourists, the novelty still hadn’t worn off. The market was over a mile long, and always changing, with something new to see every time we went. Street musicians added their melodies to the joyful cacophony on every corner, and the smells of the street food were intoxicating.
The first stretch of the market stalls was crammed with antiques, everything from furniture, to knick-knacks, to paintings, and every other bizarre old contraption anyone ever unearthed from their grandparents’ attic. Of course, with so many old items came a fair share of spirit activity as well. I spotted several spirits almost immediately; a young woman in a hippie dress, screaming at an old man about daring to sell her guitar. A small figure dressed all in black, face covered in a mourning veil, crouching over an old trunk. An elderly gentleman in a Fair Isle sweater vest, circling a woman’s display of antique typewriters and pointing out the ones she had priced too low. A pair of women haggling over the price of long-gone wares. They were just part of the fabric of the market, as natural a fixture of the street as the living people. I breathed it all in.
Within a few minutes, a delighted Hannah found a vendor offering a vast collection of quaint old tea sets and Milo floated off in search of design inspiration amongst the vintage clothing. Tia and I meandered the stalls, examining the various curiosities. But the further we traveled along the road, the more a peculiar feeling began to creep over me.
“Huh,” I said to myself, as a chill that had nothing to do with the pleasant spring breeze sent a shiver through me.
“What is it?” Tia asked, frowning at me.
“It’s just kind of… uh… crowded today,” I said.
“What are you talking about?” Tia asked, laughing. “It’s Saturday at Portobello Market. It’s crowded every time we come here.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” I said, dropping my voice. “I mean it’s crowded.” I raised my eyebrows at her until she let out a little gasp of understanding.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “How can you tell? Can you see a lot of them?”
I shook my head. “No. I see the usual number of them. It’s just this feeling. The energy feels very concentrated today.”
“Why today?” Tia asked, sounding a little nervous now.
I stopped scanning the crowd and looked over at her. When I spotted the anxious look on her face, I broke into an easy laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure it’s just the usual ghostly comings and goings. Or maybe word is finally getting around that there’s a Gateway in the area.”
I pretended to be interested in a display of Doctor Who memorabilia from the ‘70s until Tia resumed her browsing. Poor Tia. So much of the paranormal had simply become normal since she met me, but I tried not to frighten her with anything too para-paranormal if I could help it. The truth was, though, that I did not like the feeling I was getting at the market that morning. I didn’t like it at all.
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nbsp; As though my thought had escaped my own head and slipped right through our connection, I could suddenly hear Hannah in my head. “Jess, do you feel…”
“Yup,” I replied. “I have no idea what’s causing it though. Keep those Durupinen tentacles out and keep me posted if you find anything.”
“Tentacles? Really? Is that the best metaphor you could come up with? Aren’t we freakish enough without comparing ourselves to sea monsters?” Hannah grumbled.
“Okay, feelers, then. Spidey-sense. Whatever, just pay attention,” I snapped and closed the connection with a sharper-than-necessary twang.
“Wow, look at these!” Tia exclaimed. I looked over to see her bent over a box of old Victorian brooches. “Accessories were so much cooler back then, weren’t they?”
I joined her and picked up one of the brooches tentatively—I never knew if an object was connected to a spirit and therefore if it might spark a Visitation. The one I had selected felt marvelously ordinary and un-haunted in my palm, thank goodness. It had a carved ivory likeness of a young woman in the center. She looked like a Greek goddess with laurel in her curls. I held it up to my jacket and looked in the mirror, admiring the quirky effect of Victorian jewelry against distressed gray denim. “Yeah, they were. Of course, the tradeoff was that you also had to squeeze your organs into a corset,” I pointed out.
Tia’s laugh turned into a shriek as she dropped one of the brooches on the table.
“Careful there, love, them pins is sharp,” the old woman behind the table said.
“No, it’s not that, it’s… that one has… has hair in it!” answered Tia in a horrified whisper.
“That’s right!” the old woman said brightly, scooping the brooch back up and holding it out for us to see. We bent over it. Instead of a carving or a painting, this brooch had a little compartment in the center. Behind its tiny, dusty glass window lay a dry, curled lock of blondish hair. “They was tokens of remembrance, see? When your sweetheart died, you kept a lock of their hair inside it, so as to always keep ‘em close to your heart. Romantic, eh?” She grinned enthusiastically at us, revealing several missing teeth.
“If by romantic you mean creepy as hell, then yes, very romantic,” I said with a shudder. “Do people actually buy century-old jewelry with mummified hair inside it?”
The old woman’s grin vanished, and she shrugged loftily as she nestled the brooch carefully back amongst its fellows. “Some people appreciate the history.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but Tia grabbed my arm, thanked the woman, and pulled me away from the table.
“Let’s not spar with the street vendors today, okay, Jess?” Tia said. “It’s not worth it.”
The idea of being told by some morbid old hag that I didn’t appreciate history when I was perpetually fending off ghosts from every time period of human history was beyond galling, but I let it go and placated myself with a Nutella crepe. But even the gooey hazelnut goodness could not completely distract me from the increasingly intense spirit presence, which grew stronger and stronger the further we walked along the market. I tried to shake it off, but it clung to me like a film of frost, chilling my bones and raising goosebumps beneath my jacket.
“So, you said Charlie is working a booth for his boss?” I asked, still licking my fingers.
“Yes. He texted me the intersection, so we could find it,” Tia replied, squinting down at her phone in the bright sunlight.
“What kind of booth is it? I mean, where does he work?”
“It’s this tiny old photography museum and shop tucked in the old City of London district called ‘Pickwick’s History of Photography,’” Tia replied.
I perked up at once. “A photography museum? That sounds so… cool!”
“I know! Charlie’s invited me to stop by several times now, but I haven’t been there yet. He says it’s a really fascinating place to work,” Tia said. “Okay, this should be it coming up on the right and I think… yes, that’s their booth, right over there!”
Tia trotted ahead of me, raising a hand in greeting, but I stopped dead in my tracks, having run headlong into a concentration of spirit energy so strong, it felt like a brick wall. I gasped and shuddered. Then, as the shock wore off, I focused my gaze and found the source.
There, in front of me, was a quaint little booth with a red-and-white-striped awning atop what looked like a glass-topped display case on wheels. A banner hung across the front of it that read, “Pickwick’s History of Photography” in carnival-style letters. Behind the booth, a handsome young man in his mid-twenties was polishing a picture frame and whistling to himself. And around him, on every side, crowding each other and floating over and jostling past each other to get closer to him, was a crowd of at least fifty spirits.
“Holy shit,” I muttered under my breath.
As though he had heard my almost silent exclamation, the young man looked up expectantly. His eyes fell not on me, however, but on Tia, and his amiable face split into a friendly smile.
“Tia! There you are! I’m chuffed you decided to come down!” he called, waving her over.
“Hey, Charlie,” Tia said, her own face alight with the kind of smile I hadn’t seen there in months. She stopped and turned, realizing I hadn’t followed her.
“Jess? Come on, I want to introduce you,” she said, her brow furrowed in puzzled amusement.
I hesitated for just a moment. I didn’t know what would happen if I approached a group of spirits that large in broad daylight in a public place. Whatever happened, it would be sure to draw exactly the kind of attention I usually tried to avoid. On the other hand, the spirits seemed incredibly fixated on Charlie—almost hypnotized. And I could hardly just turn tail and run; he’d already seen me.
I hoisted a reluctant smile onto my face and closed the last few yards between myself and the Pickwick cart. Sure enough, as I planted myself in front of it, holding my breath, not a single spirit acknowledged my presence. I allowed myself to exhale.
“Charlie, I’d like you to meet my best friend Jess Ballard,” Tia said, flushing just a little. “Jess, this is my classmate Charlie Wright.”
Charlie grinned still more broadly. His eyes twinkled behind his wire-rimmed glasses as he carefully set down the frame, wiped his palms on his pants, and held out a hand. “Jess. A pleasure. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”
“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” I said, taking his hand and giving it a hearty shake. I felt nothing unusual—no tingle of the kind that might indicate another sensitive. I looked up into his face, searching for any sign that he might be aware of his spirit entourage, but he simply smiled expectantly at me. He had a dimple in one cheek and a shock of brown hair that made him look as though he’d just rolled out of bed, but in a charming way, like a little kid.
“Lovely morning for the market,” Charlie said, dropping the small frame into a cardboard box by his elbow and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe his brow. “Bit warmer than I expected. The sweater vest was a mistake, certainly. But my boss should be here soon. I’m only just covering for her for a bit this morning. Have you ladies found anything of interest?”
“You could say that,” I said, more to myself than to Charlie.
“No, not really. We’ve just been browsing around,” Tia said. “This all looks so interesting! What are you selling?”
“Well, to be honest, we’re really just trying to plug the museum—encourage people to come down and have a look at the exhibits, you know,” Charlie admitted. “There’s not much in the collection that my boss would part with. But we’ve got a few things on offer.” He pointed down into the case. “Some old frames and daguerreotypes. A couple of early Polaroids and 35 mm models, too.”
I bent over the cart, pretending to examine the items as Charlie explained them. In actuality, I was trying to sneak glimpses of the jostling crowd of spirits. Every one of them had their eyes fixed on Charlie. Some looked fascinated, others wary, still others merely curious.
�
�Do you feel that, then?” the ghost of a woman in a long gown whispered to the man in the top hat beside her. “It’s… dazzling!”
“I must confess I was drawn here as soon as he arrived,” the man replied.
Their words sent a shiver down my spine. What about Charlie Wright could be so overpowering that spirits were drawn to him like a magnet? I had never seen anything like it. And how in the world could they fail to notice me, an actual Gateway, standing right in front of them?
“… don’t you, Jess?” Tia voice broke into my musing, startling me.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Totally distracted. These are just so fascinating!” I said, pointing at random to a little portrait mounted in a gold box.
“I was just saying, Pickwick’s would be right up your alley, what with your art history background,” Tia said pointedly. She widened her eyes at me, like a parent trying to remind her kid to behave herself.
“Oh, yeah!” I said, straightening up and attempting to give my full attention to the conversation. “It sounds really cool. We’ll definitely have to stop by.”
“That would be brilliant!” Charlie said. “I’d be glad to give you the tour any time I’m on shift. If we can pull Tia away from her studies, of course.”
“Always a challenge,” I said, nudging Tia affectionately with my elbow. “But I’m sure we can manage it.”
“Jess?”
I spun around to see Hannah standing several stalls away. She appeared unwilling to move any closer. Her eyes were round with shock and though she said nothing but my name out loud, through the connection she was asking, “What the hell is going on here?”
I widened my own eyes and shook my head a fraction of an inch from side to side before continuing in an easy voice, “Hannah, there you are! Come on over here and meet Charlie!”
“Charlie?” Hannah asked blankly, and then something clicked and she let out a little gasp. “Tia’s Charlie?”
“Oh-ho!” Charlie said with a little chuckle. He turned to Tia. “So, I’m your Charlie, now, am I?”