by B. N. Toler
“What else can you tell me about her?” she asked, her tone gentle but determined.
I blinked a few times as I refocused my thoughts. “It’s like she’s lost, or something. She repeats the same word, over and over again, and taps her fingers against the wall. Sometimes she taps her fingers together and makes clicking sounds with her tongue.” I mimicked the sound for her, then added softly, “That’s why I call her Click.”
“What word is she repeating?”
I tilted my head back, letting it thump against the headboard. I winced, the movement adding to my headache. This whole conversation was so surreal. Why believe me now? Why not years ago, when I was drowning in depression from losing my brother and simultaneously feeling like I was losing my mind because I woke up seeing dead people.
“It’s garbled, but sounds like furrrrrleese.” I imitated the word exactly as Click said it and with her same tone. Mom was silent, and my hopes for a breakthrough disintegrated into frustration. Defeated, I sighed, “I appreciate you trying to hel—”
“Could she be saying Für Elise?” she interrupted. “The Beethoven composition?”
My voice froze as her question weaved its way through my mind.
“I’ve played that for you before,” she continued. “You never had much interest in learning it, though.” My school teacher mother also gave piano lessons and was the one who’d taught me how to play. “Maybe the finger tapping is her playing the keys to the song?”
I felt like an idiot. How could I not have seen it? But my mother’s idea hit spot on. Click could have played piano when she was alive and favored that particular piece. “Holy shit, Mom,” I blurted as a jolt of excitement shot through me. “I think you just figured her out.”
“She sounds like she might be autistic, Charlotte. The lack of eye contact, word and sound repetition…that could be a fixation… Would her condition stay with her as a spirit?” Before I could respond to her question she continued, “Children on the spectrum often become fixated on things. Sometimes it’s a toy, a particular subject, or even a song. She must have been exposed to the piano at some point in her life, or at the very least someone played music for her. Now that I think about it, the clicking could be a metronome; its rhythmic ticking could be soothing for her.” She took a breath then continued, fully in teacher mode now, “Charlotte, you need to step into her world to get her attention. If she is autistic, it’s the only way to draw her out. Maybe if you play Beethoven on your phone, you could get her to pay attention to you.”
I was especially glad she couldn’t see me at that moment because I’m sure I had the most stupefied expression on my face. My mother was a special needs teacher and knew the signs of autism well. Though I wasn’t well versed in the disability, I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me. I should have known. I’d heard her talk about her students my entire childhood. Flipping the covers back, I jumped out of bed. My mother had just given me hope that I might be able to reach Click.
“Mom…thank you.” There’s no way she could have missed the relief in my voice. “I have to go, but I’ll call you later. Love you.” I hung up without waiting for her response, not wanting to waste any more time getting to Click.
George
I tapped my fingers on the charcoal countertop of the front desk at Kern and Dalton Agency as an unfamiliar receptionist informed Mr. Kern of my arrival. While I waited, I replayed the interaction with Charlotte before I’d left the hotel. I’d been fully prepared to make her promise not to go to see Click without me, and I was relieved it hadn’t been necessary after she showed no signs of moving from the bed before I returned. Once we’d finally fallen asleep, she’d actually slept soundly for once, but she still wasn’t getting enough. I silently prayed she’d still be asleep, and I’d have to wake her up again, when I returned to the hotel.
“Mr. Kern will see you now, the petite blonde said, bringing me back to the moment. “Turn right at the end of the hall, then it’s the last door on the left.” I didn’t bother to tell her I’d been here before and knew where to go. The anxiety for what I was about to do returned as I followed the familiar path to Martin Kern’s corner office.
“George,” he said cheerfully from his office door as I approached. “Looks like you’ve been running a marathon.” The overly friendly smile he included with the comment seemed more obnoxious than welcoming.
I snorted derisively at the stark contrast in our appearances as I glanced between his custom-tailored ensemble, complete with red power tie, and my sweat-soaked running clothes. “Charlotte’s not a runner, and I run everyday. It made the most sense to combine the two so I could do this without her,” I explained.
“Well, regardless, it’s good to see you,” he said with a chuckle as he held his hand out to me.
“You too, Martin.” I wiped my sweaty hand on my shorts before shaking his, forcing myself to smile back. Martin wasn’t one of my favorite people in the world, but he was doing me a favor, and I needed to play nice. He stepped back and motioned for me to enter his office. I’d taken two steps in when my eyes landed on something along the wall, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” he exclaimed, his hand gripping my shoulder eagerly, motioning to the promotional photo of Charlotte hanging on his office wall as he continued. “It was set to be the promo image for the third season, but…” His sentence trailed off, disappointment in his tone. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” he concluded. “She looks damn hot though, huh?”
The myriad of reasons I disliked Martin barreled to the forefront of my mind as I stared at the life-sized photo, my wife’s face buried under tons of makeup and obviously airbrushed; extensions added to make her hair longer and fuller; her cleavage billowing over the top of her shirt. It was Charlotte, but not the real Charlotte—not my Charlotte. There was so much more to Charlotte than this sexed-up version of her.
“No, we missed this,” I murmured, barely managing to hide my disdain for him. This portrayal of her was one of the main reasons Charlotte had dropped the show. Martin and the producers had been pushing her to look sexier and edgier. Their primary argument being it was necessary to keep viewers interested. As if her incredible gift of talking to the dead wasn’t reason enough for people to watch the show. I turned away from the picture and shook it off, more grateful than ever she’d decided she’d had enough.
“Have a seat,” he said, moving to the seating area and motioning to a leather sofa facing the floor to ceiling windows that presented a perfect view of Manhattan. He indicated a laptop on the coffee table, “We’re set to connect with her in a few minutes.”
I nodded and slipped my jacket off, tossing it on the couch arm before taking a seat. “I really appreciate you setting this up, Martin.” It was true. Even if a part of me wanted to throat-punch him, I was still grateful he’d taken the time.
Martin sat beside me and fiddled with the computer while I tried to assure myself, for the millionth time, I was doing the right thing. I had no idea how Charlotte would take this. “Had she heard of Charlotte before you contacted her?” I asked as I rubbed my quads, my anxiety making me antsy.
“No,” he answered bluntly. “She doesn’t exactly keep up with television outside of her own show.”
“So how’d you get her to agree?”
“Turns out her agent wants to move to the United States. Told her we might be looking to add a new team member to the agency.” I raised my brows, surprised he’d go to such lengths.
The Skype screen popped up and the sound of a phone ringing sounded over the speaker. Martin cut a look to me over his shoulder. “Charlotte really has no idea you’re doing this?” he asked. I shook my head as a woman with round green eyes and a nose stud appeared on the screen. Her hair was jet black with short, choppy bangs. “Well, it’s too late now,” he said out of the side of his mouth before pasting on a bright smile.
“Marlena,” he beamed brightly. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this video chat
today.”
“‘Ello?” Marlena said in a thick British accent, squinting as if that would help her hear better.
Martin frowned as he tinkered with the laptop. “Can you hear me?”
“I can’t hear you,” she stated loudly and moved closer to the screen.
“Marlena?”
“‘Ello? Mr. Kern?” Leaning back, she smacked the side of the computer, jolting the image on our screen. Geez, this woman was a handful.
“Eh, I don’t think that will help,” Martin said as he winced.
“Oh bloody hell,” she grumbled. She turned and hollered off screen, “Nick! Can you come in here and fix this freaking thing?” then muttered under her breath, “I bloody hate computers.”
A pudgy man with glasses and a goatee appeared and fumbled with her computer. “You had the speaker volume muted,” he said patiently as he straightened her laptop. Marlena laughed as she stroked the man’s arm. “I’d be lost without you, Nick.”
“Can you hear me now, Marlena?” Martin asked, and she turned her face back to the screen.
“Ah, Mr. Kern. Sorry about that. Technical difficulties, or some rubbish about the volume.”
“Well, I appreciate your time, and I know Mr. McDermott here does as well,” Martin said as he shifted the laptop toward me. She waved her hand dismissively as she leaned back, revealing more of her upper body. The fitted black t-shirt she wore, an image of Johnny Cash flipping the bird on it, failed to hide the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Clearing my throat, I introduced myself. “Hello there,” I said awkwardly, forcing myself to look at the camera and not the screen. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me today. I’m told if anyone can help us, or rather help my wife, it would be you.”
She sat forward a bit, her green eyes shifting ever so subtly as she scanned my face. She chewed at one of her nails for a brief moment before saying, “Forty-two.”
Martin looked at me, then back to her. “I’m sorry?”
She ignored him and kept her stare fixed on me. “What does the number forty-two mean to you?”
I froze, somewhat shocked. I’d been told she had psychic abilities, but I hadn’t been prepared for her to come right out with it. I glanced uneasily at Martin. Forty-two was the exact number of months I’ve been clean, but I didn’t really want Martin to know that about me. Before I could muster a response, she quirked her mouth and said, “Another time, love,” then to my relief, changed the subject, “My agent says your wife can speak to the dead?”
“Well, yes. Souls caught in limbo,” I clarified.
Again, she peered through the screen at me, assessing me. “She doesn’t know you’ve contacted me.” It wasn’t a question, and she said it more like she was speaking to herself than to me. I couldn’t tell from her tone if she thought it was a mistake that I’d contacted her without speaking to Charlotte first.
“No.” I cleared my throat again, doubt forming about my decision to reach out to Marlena at all. Maybe I should have told Charlotte first. Shit. This was a bad idea.
“A gift like that, pretty cool,” she went on, either unaware of my hesitation, or more than likely, choosing to ignore it.
I frowned, not knowing how to respond. It was and it wasn’t, but that was a conversation for another time. Instead, I elaborated more. “She tries to help them sort their unfinished business so they can cross over.” I’ve been explaining Charlotte’s gift to skeptics for so long, it felt strange to not get the usual reaction from Marlena. It was actually nice to skip the extended explanation for once.
“Well, Mr. McDermott…”
“Please,” I interrupted, “call me George.”
“Alright, George. What is it you think I can do to help your wife?”
Inhaling a deep breath, I scratched my head, searching for where to begin.
Charlotte
The cab driver eyed the house with concern as he pulled to a stop in front of it, then glanced back over his shoulder at me. “You sure this is the place?” he asked.
“This is it. Thank you!” I tossed him a wad of cash and climbed out. I’d decided it would be faster, not to mention safer, to take a taxi to the Hell House, instead of trying to navigate our car through New York City. I groaned when Agnus appeared on the porch, staring down her nose at me, but I quickly shook off the impending dread; today would be a good day. Today I was going to help Click find eternal peace, and then George and I could move on and start a new chapter in our lives. Lifting my chin, mirroring Agnus, I climbed the porch steps, marched right by her, and entered the house.
She grunted, clearly annoyed I hadn’t acknowledged her presence. “You promised you’d help me,” she whined to my back.
“Leave me alone, Agnus. I mean it,” I warned. She grunted in protest and shadowed me to Click’s room as she always did. Click didn’t acknowledge my presence, just kept pacing the floor, tapping her fingers against her invisible piano keys as she kept time with the click of her tongue.
“Hi, beautiful girl,” I greeted her, even though I knew she wouldn’t respond. “Piano,” I said, holding my hands out and moving my fingers as if I was playing one. This time she looked at me for a moment, but didn’t stop pacing. It was a start.
“Für Elise,” I said, enunciating carefully.
She stopped and looked me right in my eyes. I’d been so desperate to get through to her that when I finally did, I was so shocked I froze. There was a depth is her dark gaze I hadn’t seen before. She was present. For the first time since I’d found her, her stare wasn’t blank.
“Furrr Elissse,” she repeated, more clearly this time.
I grinned, elated. She was interacting with me. We were having a conversation. My heart perked up, excited at the possibilities.
“There you are, sweet girl.” I spoke quietly, then pointed to myself, “I’m Charlotte.”
She blinked a few times, then repeated more insistently, “Furrr Elissse.”
I nodded and smiled as I fumbled for my cell phone, nearly dropping it in my haste not to lose her again. I quickly opened YouTube and searched for a recording, cursing myself for not having it ready before I got there. Thankfully, there was no shortage of options, and I spoke quietly while I scrolled to find a version with clear view of the piano, hoping to keep the connection. “Für Elise,” I said again. “You have excellent taste. Beethoven was an amazing composer.” I knelt and sat back on my heels, getting on her level so she could see the screen.
She looked away and started pacing again.
Damn, I’m losing her.
Finally finding one with just someone’s hands on the piano keys, I quickly hit play and the exquisite melody rang out from my phone’s speakers. Click rushed to me and tried, unsuccessfully, several times to grab the phone, clearly not understanding that her present state didn’t allow for it.
I hit pause, and she started to shriek in protest. “Just listen, sweet girl. No touch.” I hit play again, and when the music returned she stopped crying. As the song went on, her mouth lifted into a smile, and her eyes gleamed with pure joy. A lump caught in my throat as I wished I could experience it as she did, just for a moment. It was just a pretty song to me, but to Click it was something else entirely. Her gaze drifted as she smiled, and she even giggled, as if she was looking at something only she could see. I’d done it. I’d reached her. Her entire aura had changed, her soul lifted. This was it, I just knew it. Click had to be seeing the other side. Now she could cross over.
I waited, thinking she’d vanish any second, but she didn’t. The song ended, and she screamed, “Für Elise,” over and over again, the words the clearest they’d ever been. I played it for her again, and again, watching her light up with joy each time, but she still didn’t cross over.
“Do you know what heaven is?” I asked her, pausing the music and setting my phone down.
She screamed for the music, grabbing for my phone again, and I knew in my heart this wasn’t going to work. How could she cross over if
she didn’t know where to go; if she didn’t know there was a place to go? How could I explain it to her? The flicker of hope I’d had when I entered the house slowly fizzled out as I played the song ten more times.
Play song.
Click is happy.
Song ends.
Click screams.
Repeat.
I’d been elated when I entered the Hell House. I was certain I’d had the answer, but now I knew there was no answer. This didn’t make any sense. Why couldn’t I help her? I stood, tears ravaging my eyes as the anger pumped through me, and all of my doubts about God and Heaven came crashing in on me.
What the hell was this? Why would God let this happen? Would He really just let this child that had been tortured and murdered spend eternity in a dark room? Where was He? Where were his angels of mercy? I stood up and bolted from the bedroom, the despair too much to bear. Click raged. She screamed and cried as a new horror flooded me.
What have I done?
At least before she’d been calm in her dark world; now, I’d given her a taste of something she loved so much, only to take it away from her.
God...why? Tears streamed down my face as a sharp pain lanced through my head, nearly bringing me to my knees. I grabbed at my head, willing the pain to stop. “Why would you let this happen?” I screamed to God—to no one. “Why won’t you do something! Help me help her!” I shouted as I started down the hallway to the stairs. “Please help,” I sobbed.
“Stop your bellyaching,” Agnus snapped from behind me.
I whipped around and glared at her, the pulsing in my head intensifying with the sudden movement.
Agnus’s soul seemed to be flashing, flickering, almost like a strobe light. I wasn’t sure if it was something she was doing or if it was the pulsing in my head. “You said you’d help me. I did what you said, now keep your word,” she demanded.