by Noel, Alyson
“Okay,” I said, my voice hoarse, nearly a whisper. “But at least let me try, please. I’m eager to learn as much as I can.”
He looked at me, his eyes searching my face before he nodded in consent. And the second he opened the door I heard it.
In fact, all of us heard it.
Including Buttercup.
This low, awful, moaning/wailing type sound.
The sound of despair.
The sound of someone so lost in their grieving, they could no longer function, no longer do anything but emit a noise that rang of nothing but death.
It was continuous. Unceasing. Going on and on and on in a way that felt like forever.
In a way that definitely gave me the creeps.
Bodhi looked at me and I at him, our gaze holding for a moment before he slipped right in front of me and climbed the set of steep narrow steps, as Buttercup and I trudged up behind him.
And when we got to the top, I saw her. Though I have to admit it actually took me a moment to really focus and zoom in to just exactly where the noise was coming from. Because even though it probably sounds weird, it was like she was so old, so gray, so faded, and so washed out, she practically blended right into those old, gray, faded, and washed-out walls.
Like she’d been in that room for so long, she’d started to resemble it.
To become a part of it.
Like a solid piece of heavy old furniture that’s never been moved from its place.
I slunk back, clinging to the farthest wall as Bodhi approached her. Knowing that if I’d still been alive I’d be holding my breath in absolute horror, terrified to think of what might come next.
But, as it was, I was frozen in place. The bundle of energy that normally comprised the new, dead, ghostly version of me had come to a screeching halt as I hovered in place, with Buttercup crouched down beside me.
But no matter how close Bodhi crept, the woman remained totally and completely oblivious of his presence, unaware that we’d even entered the room.
She stood there, pressed up against the wall in a way so close, so seamless, it was like she was part of it. Appearing small and trim, her back curved as her narrow shoulders hunched forward, rising occasionally when a spasm of fresh tears overtook her, then dropping back again, falling well below the usual place. Her long cotton dress clinging to her in a series of unflattering, soaking wet clumps, everything about her so bland, so lackluster, so nondescript, the only thing that stood out, the only thing of any color was her hair. It was long, wavy, and dark, swept up into a careless bun that was barely held together by two pearl-tipped pins.
The three of us watched as she continued to stand there, peering out of a small, square window, grieving over something none of us could fathom, much less see.
Listening as the wailing continued, refusing to let up for even a second. It just went on and on and on, the sound of it so heartbreaking, so disconcerting, so disturbing, so discombobulating, even Buttercup sank all the way down to his belly, rested his chin flat against the old stone floor, and placed a paw over each ear in a desperate attempt to avoid it.
And honestly, the second I saw that, I came this close to doing the same. Stopped only by Bodhi glancing over his shoulder, checking to see how we were doing, and not wanting him to know how completely freaked out and disturbed I was, I just waved my hand in the air, fluttering my fingers in a way that meant for him to not mind us, to just continue his business. Knowing that the sooner he got down to it, the sooner we could clear out of this small, stone, practically airless prison of sorts.
Only a handful of seconds in her presence and my Rapunzel fantasy was over, not to mention my previous fascination with castles and turrets and anything else of the sort. It was awful, small, dark, dingy, and damp and completely claustrophobic even for those of us that no longer breathed, and I couldn’t even begin to see why anyone would choose to spend even a portion of their afterlife in such a horrible place, much less camp out here for hundreds of years.
The reasoning of some ghosts was beyond me.
Some of them just didn’t make the slightest bit of sense.
Bodhi spoke to her, calling to her softly, quietly, and though I couldn’t exactly make out the words, it was clear he was trying to steal her attention, gain her trust, and convince her to turn around and face him. He even went so far as to remove those ridiculous glasses he wears, and place them in his inside pocket. Though I wasn’t sure if it was so he could better see her, or so she could better see him—if she ever decided to turn around, that is.
Still, even though he looked a gazillion times better without them, the act alone pretty much amounting to one giant step away from total geekdom and one baby step toward, well, the opposite of geekdom—in the end, it’s not like it made the slightest bit of difference, or at least not to her anyway.
She remained right there in place, rooted to her post. Still crying, still staring out the small, square window.
Oblivious.
Uninterested.
So lost in her grief, she had no idea she had company.
And watching her carrying on like that, well, I couldn’t help but wonder if she ever got tired of it.
If she ever just stopped for a few minutes, and took a little break to at least wipe her eyes or blow her nose before she started up again.
Only to find out that she did.
And that the wailing would soon be replaced with something much worse.
19
She turned.
Turned and looked straight at us.
Or at least it seemed that way at first.
But right before I started to turn away, right before I shrank back in horror, tempted to grab hold of Buttercup and vámanos ourselves right out of there, never to return, I noticed that she wasn’t really seeing us.
It was more like she was facing in our general direction, but her focus was inward, unable to see anything around her but the images she played over and over again in her head.
And when my gaze unwittingly, accidentally met hers—that was all I could see too.
I slumped down to the ground, whimpering, sniveling, feeling as though my plug had been pulled, as though my wick had been snuffed, and my bulb just burnt out. Sapped of all my energy as my arms instinctively circled around me, trying to protect myself against her pain, her fear, her loss, her complete and total agony—but it was no use. All I wanted to do was scream out, to join her in her chorus of grief, to wail, and moan, and pine, and cry in my own horrible, endless, unceasing way. But my throat was too lumpy, too hot, and it wouldn’t allow anything to work its way in, much less find its way out.
And even though Bodhi was trying to shield me, raising his arms to block her from sight—it was too late.
Too late to look away.
Too late to do anything but continue to stare until I was completely immersed in her world.
Only Buttercup was smart enough to place his paws over his eyes and block her from view.
My gaze moved over her, noticing how even for a ghost, she was so unbelievably pale that the dark wisps of hair that’d broken free of her bun sprang against her face like a silhouette of tree branches caught in an unexpected blizzard of blinding white snow. While her dress, plain and high-necked, was made from a fabric that had clearly started out as black, but after centuries of being washed in an endless deluge of large, salty tears had weakened and faded until it was bleached the same color as the room. Though the constant flow of grief had wreaked far more havoc on her face than the fabric—corroding it into a series of deep, craggy crevices where her cheekbones once rose, while forging bottomless valleys and gorges where her nose, lips, and chin should’ve been. Reminding me in a strange, sick way of a trip my family once took to the Grand Canyon, where my father explained to Ever and me how the rise and fall of the water, its incessant sway and lull, had the power to hone and carve and completely obliterate parts of the rock like a finely honed chisel.
The only part of her face th
at was even remotely recognizable was the space where her eyes should’ve been.
Years of unceasing tears had washed them away until there was nothing left but two matching, deep, dark, and bottomless pools filled with murky black waters that sucked me right in, until I was swirling and spinning, pulled deeper and deeper—like water rushing down a drain, rainfall spilling into a gutter, I was falling, flailing, and there was no way to stop it.
No way to claw my way back.
No way to spare myself from her limitless grief.
I was drowning.
Fighting to keep my head above the dark, murky pool of tumultuous, oily, swirling black waters that violently churned all around me. Coughing and blinking and trying my best to tilt my head back and just float, reminding myself to relax, to stay calm, that panicking would just make it worse. Calling upon everything I’d ever learned in every swimming lesson and junior lifeguard class I’d ever taken. Desperate to keep the water from flooding my lungs, even though deep down inside, I knew they didn’t exactly exist anymore.
But it was too late.
Despite my attempts, despite my legs continuing to kick, despite my hands grasping and clawing, I couldn’t overcome her. I was being pulled under. And for someone who just a few moments earlier didn’t even breathe, I somehow knew that my very existence, not to mention my sanity, required me to hold on, to hang in there, to embrace the breath that now bubbled my cheeks, and to not let it go, no matter what became of me.
And just when I was sure I couldn’t hold on any longer, a hand came out of nowhere, plunging straight toward me from somewhere above, as a voice called out to me.
A voice I immediately recognized as Bodhi’s.
My fingers stretched toward his, as my legs furiously kicked, desperate to propel myself upward, vaguely aware of his fingers circling my wrist, and giving it a nice, firm tug that yanked me above the water, up to where there was oxygen, and air, and room still to breathe.
I gasped and sputtered, blinking that thick, oily water from my eyes, only to see Bodhi floating before me, his lips moving frantically as he said, “You have to stop looking. Now! Turn toward the wall and she’ll have no choice but to release you—it’s the only way! Do it, Riley, do it now! Please.”
But I didn’t.
I didn’t turn toward the wall.
And if you asked me why, well, at the time, I wouldn’t have had an answer.
I guess some things are just automatic.
Instinctive.
Some things you just do, despite the fact that your entire being is shouting against it.
Some things just don’t make any sense, until later.
Much later.
And this, as I would soon learn, was one of those things.
20
Bodhi was furious. Truly furious. Eyes narrowed and glaring at me as he shouted: “Dang it, Riley, I’m your guide, which means you have to do what I say!”
Which was soon followed by: “This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring you here. This is my task, not yours. I’m the only one who can take care of this. So, for the last time, please, I’m begging you, turn away!”
But even after all that, I still didn’t stop looking. I just stayed right there in place, floating, struggling to keep my head above water as the seas finally calmed down all around me, glad my dog had the good sense to sit this one out too.
“What’s this about?” I asked, my voice sounding small, scared, and needy in a way that embarrassed me and aggravated him. “And where exactly are we right now? I don’t get it.”
Bodhi looked at me, his hair damp and clinging to his cheeks, having lost his jacket in the current, and I couldn’t help but hope that the nerd glasses had gone along with it.
“We’re in her world now,” he said, voice resigned like a sigh, clearly sick of arguing with me. “And it happens to be a dangerous one. One that is no place for children, and certainly no place for the faint of heart. So please, if you refuse to do what I ask, if you refuse to turn away and save yourself, then at the very least stay quiet. The water should stay calm now. Calm enough for me to leave you here on your own. But I’m warning you, Riley, no matter what happens next, no matter what you see or hear, do not head toward the rock. No matter how dire it may seem, you are much safer here. So please, just do what I say and stay put. Do not get involved no matter how bad things get. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
I nodded. Unsure if I could really follow through and keep a promise like that, especially if things really did get as bad as he seemed to think they would. Not to mention if the waters went all crazy and churning and scary again, then the rock would be the first place I’d head. But knowing he needed me to agree in order to get on with his task, I nodded my assurance, even though I wasn’t sure if I could actually live up to my promise.
I watched as he floated away, cutting through the current as easily as a fish, before climbing onto what appeared to be a small, lonely island somewhere out in the distance, and what further squinting revealed to be a large, jagged rock jutting out from the sea.
And that’s when I saw it.
And I’m pretty sure that’s the same moment he saw it too.
The second he climbed up and secured himself there, we both watched, from our own separate vantage points, the exact cause of the ghost lady’s anguish for the last several hundred years.
She was a murderer.
A child killer.
Or at least that’s what everyone said.
Falsely accused of what was pretty much the worst crime a person could ever commit—that of killing her very own children.
Her three beloved sons, whom I immediately recognized as the golden-haired Radiant Boys I’d just crossed over a few moments earlier.
Only thing was—she was innocent. She’d done nothing of the sort.
She was merely a poor widowed mother left to take care of her sons on her own, forced to find work right here at the castle, and just naïve and innocent enough to trust the wrong person to look after her boys while she was gone.
A stable hand who promised to take them on a so-called fishing trip where instead of baiting a line, he drowned all three of them. Cleaning up nicely and planting just enough evidence to make it appear as though she’d done it—only to vanish nearly as soon as he’d come, never to be seen or heard from again.
And after being tried and punished with death, she took one look at the golden veil of shimmering light that led to the bridge, saw the way it glowed and swayed and beckoned for her, offering nothing but comfort and love and compassion and forgiveness—all of which she’d long been denied. But instead of joining it, instead of seeking the solace only it could provide—she turned her back, and chose instead to wander away. So driven by her overwhelming grief, her insurmountable blame, convinced she’d played a big part in it by being so naïve, by not looking after them properly, by not doing nearly enough to keep them all safe, she returned to the very scene where she first heard the news.
To the place where she stood looking for them, waiting for them to return . . .
And suddenly, just like that, I knew exactly where we both were.
We weren’t so much in her head like I’d originally thought. Nor were we settled into a front-row center seat watching the memories she stored in her broken and damaged heart.
Nope.
Where we both were, Bodhi and I, was the darkest part of her soul.
The place she’d shut off from the world long ago. The place she’d condemned herself to. A self-imposed imprisonment for the last few centuries.
And now, like it or not, we’d joined her.
Were locked in with her.
And I had no choice but to watch as Bodhi braced himself against the rock, his arms spread wide, his head tilted back, his mouth open, as he started to take it all in.
Determined to swallow it—every last bit of the horrible grief that’d kept her chained to the earth plane for hundreds of years.
Determined to claim
it for himself.
To steal it from her and make it his own.
21
Bodhi’s body bucked and convulsed, as his eyes rolled back in his head. But when I started to swim toward him, he immediately stopped me in my tracks. Flashing his palm in warning, and telling me to stay back. Telepathically reminding me of the promise I’d made, that no matter how bad things got, I’d stay in my place.
This particular job was his, and I’d better not come any closer or interfere in any way.
So I shrank back, watching as his entire being continued to spasm, realizing he wasn’t exactly fighting against it like I’d first thought. He wasn’t battling against the tsunami of overwhelming grief he took in.
He was fighting against her.
Her refusal to rid herself of it.
To give it to him.
To unburden herself and move on.
It was like she’d stayed so long at that window, spent so many years crying, and moaning, and wailing her nonexistent heart out, she’d gotten to the point where she couldn’t remember anything else.
Her grief had come to define her.
Without it, she feared she might cease to exist—completely disappear.
Unaware of how that very disappearance would actually be the best thing for her.
Sure, the sad, old version of her would fade away without a trace, but only so a new, improved, happier version could find a new life on the other side of the bridge.
I watched the struggle continue, knowing I had no right to interfere, that it was forbidden, that Bodhi wouldn’t allow it. But still, that didn’t mean I couldn’t surround him with hope. Imagining the color in my mind as the most beautiful, radiant, rose-petal pink, I turned it into a giant, glistening bubble, and wrapped it around him as I held the wish near.
Eager for this to be over—for Bodhi to find enough strength to take it from her, release her from her grief, so that she could be free.