The Year of Shadows

by Claire Legrand

  “But you said you don’t remember any of that,” Henry said.

  “In order to remember these things, we will need to be more alive. We will need to live through our last memories, relive our deaths.” Frederick paused and looked straight at me, and in that second, I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “We will need to relive our deaths . . . through you.”

  FOR A MINUTE, no one said anything. Then Henry totally lost it.

  “What?” He backed away until he hit the wooden wall of the choir loft. “You mean possession, don’t you? No way. No way.”

  Frederick clucked his tongue. “Henry, do calm yourself. You’ll wake everyone up.”

  Possession. It made me think of scary movies and dolls that could talk.

  “Possession is such an ugly word,” Frederick continued. “It implies that we would own you, and that’s not it at all. It would be a . . . sharing. You would see our memories, and we would use your minds to remember them.”

  “That’s just ridiculous,” Henry said. “Why couldn’t you just, I don’t know, think harder or something, and remember everything yourselves? Why would you need us?”

  “Henry, Henry. We ghosts are only just floating! We can hardly keep all the bits of ourselves together, much less put our memories back together. Memory building is hard work, and I’m afraid ghosts just aren’t very good at it. We’re so very close to un being, to nothingness. We’re not in your world, and we’re not in the next one either. If we put our concentration into finding our memories and piecing them back together, we’d simply . . . drift away.”

  Henry shook his head against the choir loft wall, his eyes wide. “I am so freaked out right now.”

  “And I can’t say I blame you for that. I understand this is a bit much to take in, but . . . what do you think?” Frederick turned to me. “Olivia? Are you still interested in helping us? You haven’t said a word.”

  My mind spun around all kinds of questions and countless sketches. More than anything, I wanted to draw. I didn’t want to forget anything that had happened that night.

  “If we help you, you’d be inside our minds?”

  Tillie and Jax nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Would it . . . hurt?”

  Mr. Worthington wrung the ends of his long smoke-coat in his hands. He shook his head, staring at the ground.

  “It could,” Frederick admitted. “We’ve seen . . . others do it to other humans. The results are not always pleasant. But it works so much better for everyone involved if the humans are willing. We would never share without your permission. We are not that type of ghost.” Frederick drew himself up tall, ghost smoke quivering around him. “I promise you that.”

  “But it could hurt,” I said. “Even if we give you permission.”

  “I’m afraid it very well might.”

  “And it’s worked before? The other ghosts you knew who did this, who shared with humans and found their anchors. They moved on?”

  Frederick nodded excitedly. “Not all of them, but a good many, yes!”

  Mr. Worthington jerked his way over to Frederick and tugged at his sleeve. He pressed his face against Frederick’s ear, his black smoke and Frederick’s gray smoke blending together.

  “Olivia, this is insane,” Henry said. “You’re not really going to do this, are you?”

  “Stop grabbing me, Henry.”

  “But, Olivia—”

  “Mr. Worthington says,” Frederick said, “that he also doesn’t know if the sharing will hurt or not, the actual part where we get into your mind. But he does know that the dying . . . that will hurt.”

  “The dying?” Henry repeated.

  “As I explained, you will relive our last moment with us, and you will die with us. You will feel what it is like to die.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Quiet, Henry,” I said. “After we die, then what? What happens after that?”

  “Then we all return here, back to normal. You as humans and us as ghosts.”

  “So we wouldn’t actually die, for real.”

  Frederick’s jaw literally fell off. “Of course not.” He scooped up his jaw and patted it back into place. “I told you we wouldn’t hurt you, and we won’t.”

  “Except for the part where we’re going to die,” Henry snapped.

  “Well, yes, except for that. But it’s not really dying, just feeling like you are.”

  “Oh. That’s much better, then.”

  “And what would we get out of this?” I said. “We fake-die and help you . . . for what?”

  “Well, you would be helping us, first of all, which would be very kind of you,” Frederick said carefully. He glanced at the others, clearing his throat. “Secondly, you would no longer have, shall we say, unwanted beings in your Hall. And it would be an adventure, wouldn’t it?”

  “You don’t have to, Olivia,” Jax said. He placed his fingers on mine, a brush of ice cubes. “We won’t make you.”

  Tillie chucked me on the shoulder, a snowball’s direct hit. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t do it, Olivia. I wouldn’t want to.”

  Mr. Worthington shoved his hands in his pockets. I wondered if he was trying to tell me something with those black-hole eyes of his. I wondered if he’d ever been as scared as I’d been lately.

  I put up my chin like I knew what I was doing. “Henry and I need a moment.”

  Frederick nodded. “As you wish.” Then he floated across the stage, taking the others with him.

  “Well?” I whispered to Henry. “What do you think?”

  “I think that if you’re considering helping them, you’re insane.”

  The word stung. “A freak, you mean? A psycho?”

  “Come on, you know I don’t think that. But how can we trust them? And how we do know ‘sharing’ with them won’t . . . I don’t know, scar us for life or something?”

  I hugged myself. Henry made good points. “I guess we don’t know any of that.”

  “And we barely know these ghosts, anyway,” Henry continued. “I mean, I’d risk all that for you, but I don’t think I would for them.”

  I blinked. “You’d risk getting scarred for life . . . for me?”

  “Duh. That’s what friends do.”

  “But I thought . . .” For a minute, I forgot the ghosts were even there. “I thought we were just partners. Strictly business.”

  Henry threw up his hands. “Sure. Fine. If that makes you feel better.”

  I wasn’t sure if it made me feel better or not, though. I didn’t know how to process the sudden calm I felt after hearing Henry say, so matter-of-factly, “That’s what friends do.”

  Could partners be friends?

  Igor patted my leg with his paw. Your ghost friends are waiting, you know.

  I tried to shake my thoughts clear, but they were too muddled. Death. Ghosts. Broken memories. I couldn’t make sense of it, not enough to make a decision.

  “We need some time to think about this,” I said slowly. Then I turned to the ghosts. “Meet me back here tomorrow at midnight, and you’ll have your answer.”

  “Midnight.” Frederick smiled dreamily. “How poetic of you. Important things always happen at midnight.”

  Henry muttered something angry and turned away.

  Abruptly, Tillie kicked the Ouija board. Her foot went right through it, of course, but she didn’t seem to care.

  “What was that for?” I asked.

  “Don’t ever bring that board in here again,” she said, looking around into the shadows. Beside her, Jax did the same thing; they were almost touching, but not quite. “They attract the wrong sort of spirits.”

  THE NEXT DAY at school, right after Henry sat down across from me with his lunch, I said, “So? Are we going to help them? What do you think?”

  He shoveled a chunk of potato salad into his mouth and glared at me. “The same thing I thought yesterday. No. Way.”

  “Because you’re scared.”

  “No, not because
I’m scared. Because I don’t really feel like fake-dying for ghosts who might turn us over to the Devil or something if they decide they don’t like us.”

  “So . . . you’re scared, then.”

  He stabbed his chicken patty. “Maybe.”

  “Me too.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I opened my sketchpad, turning past page after page of scribbled ghosts to find a clean sheet. “I’m not sure it’s such a good—”

  My stomach lurched. Five pages. Five clean pages left in my sketchpad, and I didn’t have the money to get a new one. My vision narrowed to a blurry tunnel, centered on those precious five pages. Soon, I’d have to start drawing on whatever paper I could find—napkins, scrap paper from school, newspapers. The thought was humiliating; artists didn’t draw on napkins and newspapers. They drew on fine paper in sketchpads.

  I didn’t let myself start crying, though. It would have messed up the paper, and I didn’t have any to waste.

  “You okay?”

  I slammed the sketchpad shut and avoided Henry’s eyes. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

  “Ahem” came a quiet voice. It was Joan. She sat farther down the table than usual, right at the edge of the bench. She kept looking at us and then back at her lunch tray. “Ahem.”

  “Yes, Joan?” I said, irritated.

  “I was wondering, please, if I could have my doll back.”

  “Can’t hear you.”

  “I said,” she almost shouted, frantically, “I want my doll back! My doll, Magda!”

  People at nearby tables turned to stare.

  “Oh, right.” I took Magda out of my bag and slid her across the table. “Here. I threw the Ouija board away, though. The ghosts said it was bad—”

  “Don’t,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “say—anything—about those—those things.” She grabbed Magda and hurried away, dumping her whole untouched lunch tray into the trash can.

  “For a séance expert,” Henry said, “she sure does scare easy.”

  But I just stared after Joan, frowning. “That’s right. She saw them, didn’t she?”

  “What?”

  “Joan saw the ghosts just like we did. I guess that means they trust her, too.”

  “So what are you going to tell them tonight?”

  I turned back to my lunch, picking at my bread crusts. “I don’t know. It probably isn’t a good idea, but . . .”

  “But you’re curious.”

  I looked up at Henry, and noticed a startling thing. His eyes were clear and open, like pools of blue water. Like the sky. Sky eyes. I’d never looked hard enough to notice before. Looking at them gave me the floaty, flippy feeling; I’d never felt that for anyone but Richard Ashley before.

  “Yeah.” I forced my attention back to my sandwich. “I’m curious.”

  “Well. If you do decide to help them—and I still don’t think you should—I’ll help them with you.”

  My head shot back up. “Really?”

  “Really.” Henry dug in for another glop of potato salad. “It’s not safe enough for you to do it alone. I don’t trust them.”

  This hot, tingling feeling raced up my arms, but I remained professional. “Maybe it isn’t so bad being your ghost-hunting partner after all, Mr. Perfect.”

  He smiled at me through a mouthful of food.

  That night, after Nonnie went to bed, I camped out by the rehearsal room door to let Henry in. He wouldn’t be there until midnight, but I couldn’t possibly stay in bed. My skin crawled with nerves; I hadn’t decided what to tell the ghosts, and part of me was afraid of what they’d do if I said no. They’d promised they wouldn’t hurt us, but what did a ghost’s promise really mean?

  As I was sitting there, huddled up in the dark with Igor in my lap and a flashlight under my foot, I heard someone stumble into the kitchen. The light buzzed on, bathing the hallway in harsh white light. I heard a heavy sigh—the Maestro’s sigh.

  “I thought he was asleep,” I whispered to Igor.

  Igor perked up. Finally, something to do. Then he leapt off me, darting silently into the kitchen.

  “Olivia?” The Maestro poked his head around the corner. I tried to blend into the darkness. “What are you doing out there?”

  I rolled my eyes and dragged myself over to him, arms crossed. “Nothing,” I snapped. I needed to get him into his room and asleep before Henry showed up.

  “I’m making chamomile tea, if you want any.”

  Chamomile tea. That was good. That would make him sleepy. “Great. I’m going back to bed.”

  But when I walked past the kitchen, a pile of glossy papers on the kitchen table caught my eye. I peered closer. I saw THE CITY PHILHARMONIC and shining pictures of the Maestro and the orchestra. The concert schedule for the rest of the year.

  “What are these?”

  The Maestro tried to scoop all of them into his arms, but the paper was too slick. The fliers slid everywhere, falling to the ground. “They’re nothing. Just a little something.”

  I picked up one of the fallen papers. “They’re fliers about the orchestra.”

  “I thought maybe if I put them around town, it could help. Even though it isn’t much.”

  I stared at the paper in my hand. The ink was so bright, the paper crisp and shiny. “These must have cost a lot.”

  “Yes.” The Maestro paused, hunched over, his arms full of fliers. He seemed afraid to look at me. “They cost a good deal.”

  “Where’d you get that money?” I threw the flier to the ground. “Did you sell Nonnie and not tell me?”

  “How could you say such a thing?” The Maestro stepped toward me, and the pile of paper in his hands tumbled to the floor, skidding into the corners of the room. Igor chased after it, yowling.

  The Maestro stood there staring at the fallen papers like it was this mess he could never pick up. He was as skinny as I was. He needed to shave.

  “I think I might be going mad, Olivia,” he said at last. He slumped into the nearest chair. “I think that I see things. I think that I see her. But when I look again, it is just a trick of the shadows.”

  He looked up at me, wiping his face. It made him look so small, like a child, like Nonnie cuddling her scarves in her bed. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re pathetic,” I whispered. “Mom’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

  The Maestro nodded. “You’re right. You’re right, of course.” Then he wiped his face again, and then he got on his hands and knees, picking up each flier one at a time, stacking them neatly, like they were pieces of glass.

  By the time Henry knocked our code on the rehearsal room door—da da da-da da . . . da da!—the Maestro had gone to bed.

  “Well?” he said, as I let him in. He had this big lumpy backpack on his shoulders. “What’s your decision?”

  I kept thinking of the Maestro and his fliers, no matter how hard I tried not to. Hot lumps in my throat made it hard to breathe. He thought he saw Mom. He thought he saw her in the shadows. That wasn’t possible. Unless he was crazy. Or unless . . .

  A horrible thought occurred to me, so horrible I couldn’t get the words out.

  “Olivia? What’s wrong? You’re staring at me.”

  I spun on my heel and ran out onto center stage, Henry hurrying behind me, whispering for me to slow down.

  “Ghosts,” I hissed, once we got out onstage. I swung my flashlight around like a searchlight. “Get out here. Now.”

  “Olivia,” Henry said. “You don’t order ghosts around. What’s the matter with you? What’re you gonna say?”

  Before I could answer, Frederick, Tillie, Jax, and Mr. Worthington manifested right before our eyes. Henry staggered back.

  I was too angry for surprise. I plunked a finger in the middle of Frederick’s chest. Cold shot up my arm, turning my skin white as snow and my veins purple. I didn’t care.

  “You’re messing with the Maestro. You’re making him see things that aren’t there. Aren’t you?”
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  Frederick’s expectant smile disappeared. “I beg your pardon!”

  “Don’t mess with him. I need him to stay sane. I need him to make money. Or else . . . or else . . .” I trailed off, shaking, with a fear so deep it was hard to stay standing. “I’ll do it, okay? I’ll help you move on. Just leave him alone. Leave us alone. And if you go anywhere near Nonnie, I swear I’ll make you sorry.”

  Henry pulled back on my arm, and Frederick held up his hands. “Olivia, please! Slow down. We haven’t ‘messed with’ your father, nor with your grandmother. Nor with you, for that matter. I don’t know what your father saw, but it wasn’t us.”

  I yanked my arm away from Henry, tears wobbling at my eyelids. My cheeks felt like they were on fire. “You promise?”

  Before I could answer, Frederick, Tillie, Jax, and Mr. Worthington manifested right before our eyes.

  Frederick floated down to my level. Tillie, Jax, and Mr. Worthington hovered solemnly behind him. “We promise you, Olivia. Cross my heart and hope to . . . well, stay dead.”

  “Cross your human heart? The one you used to have?”

  Frederick drew an X over his chest, leaving dark ripples in the grayness. “Absolutely.”

  Henry was staring at the ghosts hard. “Did Olivia’s dad see something? Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  The ghosts looked at each other uncomfortably.

  “It’s possible we know,” said Tillie.

  “We might know something,” said Jax.

  “But you’re not going to like it,” they said together.

  “What does that mean?”

  Frederick’s shoulders rippled darkly; his head drooped. “I suppose I should show you.”

  “Frederick, don’t!” Tillie said.

  “No, Frederick,” said Jax.

  “You’ll scare them away!”

  Mr. Worthington shook his head, staring at the ceiling.

  “They deserve to know,” Frederick said sharply. “Everyone, gather at the backstage door. Olivia, please switch off your flashlight. We’ll wait there.”

  Henry grabbed my hand in the dark. I didn’t mind one bit; Frederick’s expression scared me. “Wait for what?”