“Watch where you’re going, Isa,” Dad said behind her. Reluctantly, Isabel turned from the glass counter, seeking Mom’s back—and recoiled with a gasp, thumping against Dad’s chest. “What is it, hon? Are you okay?”
“It’s him!”
She couldn’t look away from the man sitting on one of the counter stools, and if she’d had any doubts before, they evaporated when he turned her way and frowned, watery blue eyes so deep set they were almost hidden even in the bright fluorescent lighting. She pointed. “It’s him! It’s Old Charlie!”
“I didn’t touch her,” the man said loudly, raising both palms in a hands-off gesture, though they’d been on the counter and nowhere near Isabel. “I don’t know what she’s on about, but I didn’t touch her.”
“Honey?” Dad took her shoulders and spun her away from the man with the raised hands. “What are you—”
“That’s him,” Isabel insisted. “Old Charlie. I was looking right at him, Dad, and even when he passed us he was looking back at me, and”—she pointed again—“that’s him!”
“Is there a problem?” said a new voice. Isabel half-turned to see a pair of uniformed sheriff's deputies rising from their stools at the far end of the counter.
“I’ll say there’s a problem,” Mom said from behind them, having left the waitress standing in confusion by an empty booth. “We just got here, and on the way in from Eaton someone harassed us and tried to run us off the road. Almost killed us trying to get by.”
The deputies had turned to Mom as she spoke, but the old man, hands resting on the counter again, just stared straight ahead, as if he had no idea he was the topic of discussion. “Hey, Went?” said the cop closest to him. “I didn’t see you come in, but you haven’t gotten through a whole lot of that burger yet. And you live up outside of Eaton, don’t you?”
The old man made no move or reply, just stared even harder. Isabel followed his gaze to something she hadn’t seen before, a serious break in the theme: a good-sized flat screen high-definition TV behind the counter, right across from where Went sat. The sound was off so as not to disturb the patrons, but the closed-captioning was on, words flashing across the bottom of a screen showing a football game in progress. The deputy stepped closer, laying a hand on a bony shoulder. “Hey, Wentworth? I’m talking to you.”
The old man’s head snapped around. “Huh? Look, I done told you: I don’t know her, didn’t touch her. Dunno what she’s on about, but the game is on. Lemme watch, I got . . . I’m a fan, all right?”
“You probably have money on the game,” said the second cop, looking at his watch. “And kickoff was just five minutes ago. You barely made it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Went?” said the first deputy, hand still on the old man’s shoulder. “Did you almost run these nice people off the road?”
“Well, they were going too slow!” the old man bellowed, even now trying to keep at least one eye on the game. “My TV’s busted, and I was trying to make kickoff. I got—I mean this is worth—look, I’m a fan!”
The deputy’s eyes shifted to Dad and Isabel. “Sir, would you like to file a complaint against this old buzzard here? I’ll gladly take your statement, if that’s what you want.”
“You bet I want,” said Dad. “And I’d like to get the ticket I got cleared up, too! Old Went here was all high beams and honking horn, but your Deputy Campton claimed he never even saw him and gave me a ticket! That’s ridiculous, and I—”
“You saw Campton?” the deputy interrupted.
“Yes! He pulled me over and gave—”
“Looks like we got us another one,” the man said over his shoulder, and the second deputy nodded.
“Another one?” Dad said, just as Mom asked “Another what?”
“Another, uh,”—the second deputy searched for a word—“sighting, I guess you’d say. You saw Deputy Campton?”
“Yes we saw him,” said Dad, pointing at Went. “And I told him about this guy. Can’t you radio him or something? He’ll back my—”
“Can’t do that, sir,” said the first deputy, the older of the two. “Old Charlie Campton died pursuing a couple of drag racers almost eleven years ago.”
“Old Charlie,” Isabel whispered, while behind her, Dad sounded a bit strangled.
“What are you talking about? Campton pulled us over. Talked to all of us. Even gave me a ticket, for Christ’s sake!”
Dad reached into his shirt pocket to fetch the half-crumpled piece of paper to wave at the deputies. He poked, prodded, and patted, moving from shirt to pants, checking every pocket twice.
The ticket was nowhere to be found.
The Thin Place
Morgan Sylvia
Analea was nothing but shadows and mist, the first time I saw her.
I was in the garden tending my roses, my black and white husky, Lela, dozing at my feet. My husband, Jacob, was at sea, so I was home alone. I’d just finished watering the flowers, and the rich, earthy smell of plants hung heavy in the late summer air. In the fading golden daylight, the blood-red roses looked so vivid that they almost glowed. Through the towering pines in the back yard, I could see the rocky cliffs of our coastline, and the blue-silver-gold waters of the harbor. Lobster boats and windjammers dotted the waves, a peaceful and familiar sight.
Someone called my name and I looked up, startled. Though we lived near town, our house stood on a wooded, isolated road. With the exception of old Mr. Harrett, who never missed his daily stroll, few people walked past.
I didn’t see anything at first. But as I turned, I smelled smoke, which immediately made me uneasy. It had been dry, that summer. Too dry. Wildfires blazed across lower Maine, and the weather reports were filled with warnings and fire restrictions.
Fire terrified me. Just the smell of it, the sound of crackling flames, made me nervous. Not long after my wedding, a massive wildfire had ravaged the island, razing everything in its path. Everyone had to evacuate, and fast. Local fishermen took dozens by boat, while bulldozers worked frantically to clear the main road so vehicles could get through. Jacob was at sea, so I drove our new Chevy through the inferno, joining the caravan of cars fleeing the flames. My best friend, Marie, sat beside me, her face pale and frightened in the flickering orange light as we sped through a blizzard of sparks, the night sky above us lit with a hellish glow. Flames licked the side of the road, transforming the ancient forest into a hellscape.
The smell of smoke brought it all back. I could almost see the flames approaching. Uneasy, I looked around.
That’s when I saw her.
A pale thing stood in the trees at the edge of the yard, on the border between shadow and sunlight. She wore a white dress, and her hair fell long and loose. I could not see her face. I thought at first that she was real; a lost tourist, perhaps, exploring the wrong trail.
Then I realized I could see through her.
The ghost did not move or speak, but just looked at me. The world went silent around us: the familiar sounds of seagulls and the waves crashing against the shore seemed distant, muted.
A moment later, she was gone. I would have doubted that I ever saw her, but Lela looked in that direction and tensed, growling. I grabbed her collar just before she lunged, and spent what seemed an eternity hauling her back inside.
Jacob and I had always suspected that we weren’t alone in the house. Strange, though trivial, incidents had plagued us since we’d moved in. Doors opened themselves. Things disappeared, only to turn up in strange places. We would find rooms we never used rearranged. Once, we discovered the attic window open, though neither of us had been up there in weeks. We’d heard things, too: sobbing coming from the cellar, children laughing outside, footsteps running through the kitchen. The dirt basement was the worst: its spiderweb-draped beams and dank earthy smell always made me nervous. Even Lela refused to set foot—or paw—in it. The previous owners had left a big wardrobe down there, an elaborate, antique mahogany piece wi
th mirrors on the inside of both doors. I often found it open, though the latch was sturdy. That wardrobe always gave me the creeps.
Grandma sensed it when she visited us, the summer before she died. As I was showing her the house, she had paused at the cellar door and looked down the stairs, frowning.
“What is it, Grandma?” I asked, frowning. “You look pale.”
“Just a vision,” she said, putting her hand to her forehead. I took her arm and gently guided her to a chair. Her voice was weak and shaky, as was she. “This is a thin place, child.”
A thin place, according to Grandma, was a spot where the veil between worlds was thin.
“There are many types of thin places,” she told me. “Doors, windows, mirrors, lakes, caves. Even a cupboard or a closet can be thin. There are thin times, as well. Like Samhain, when the doors between worlds open. And ghosts aren’t the only things that can come through.”
“What do you mean?”
“These northern woods are full of phantasms,” she said. “Ghosts and werewolves and all sorts of beings. And fetches, spirit doubles that come to take the dead. Some say that such things don’t exist. But mark my words, child, the old myths are true. I myself saw one of the ghost ships that sail these waves, The Aria, a phantom spirit at her bow.”
I believed her. How could I not? We’d all grown up hearing about The Aria. Our tiny harbor had its fair share of ghost stories. Haunted inns, farms, caves, and forests: we had it all. That wasn’t even counting the numerous tales of ghost ships and sea spirits. Stories of the restless dead hovered around the campfires of August and the fireplace flames of December alike. One legend held that the gates of hell were nearby, at Salisbury Cove. Marie and I had both seen the ghost of Ledgelawn Inn. And then there was Witches Hollow, a cranberry field just down the road. According to legend, the witch, Sarah Browne, had caused the deaths of two children, and haunted the place to this day.
Marie and I had grown up playing at Witches Hollow. For a time, we were fascinated by the supernatural. We read tarot cards and told ghost stories, and had slumber-party séances. Her mother had inherited an old, beautiful, intricately carved spirit board, and we spent many a night summoning spirits, until at last we grew frightened and locked the board in a chest in her cellar. We never stopped going to the cranberry field, but after that, we spent our time there drinking blueberry wine, reading magazines, and gossiping.
The harbor buoy bell rang, tolling the familiar, specific note of our harbor. Shivering, I went back inside. Our old farmhouse was plain and tiny compared to the millionaires’ castles that dotted the coastline, but it was clean and cozy. The wooden floors and furniture gleamed against the white walls, and the colorful rugs and pillows and whimsical art gave it a bright, welcoming air.
The world around me appeared unchanged. The waves still beat against the shore, the seals kept sunning themselves on the rocks, and the sea wind carried the haunting cries of gulls and the scent of pine and saltwater. But something wasn’t right.
I listened to the news, hoping the sound of human voices would soothe me. But the topics—forest fires, the Paris Treaty, rising tensions with Russia, UFOs, and the Doomsday Clock—were hardly reassuring. I settled in to watch The Wizard of Oz, Lela sprawled out at my feet.
That night, I suffered a horrible night terror. Shadowy figures clustered around me, calling my name, dragging truth and secrets from my soul. The air around them shimmered, as though I were underwater. One of them wore Marie’s face and Marie’s voice, but I knew it wasn’t her. I sensed something nearby, something dark, but I couldn’t run or even move.
I woke at midnight, sweaty and frightened, in a tangle of sheets. Lela was pacing back and forth, restless. Unable to fall asleep again, I went to get a glass of water. Glancing up, I looked through the kitchen window.
The dead thing stood at the edge of the rose garden, clearly visible in the moonlight filtering through the pines. She looked washed out, a black and white character in a color movie. An ethereal, opalescent glow emanated from her pallid skin.
Her whisper cut through the night air like a knife. “The sea takes what is hers,” she said. “And then quietly kisses your feet.”
My blood ran cold. Jacob had said those very words to me once. We’d been at the shore, near Thunder Hole. I remembered him throwing a shell into the waves as he spoke, and then turning to smile at me. He’d been trying to soothe me, knowing I was worried about him sailing off. I enjoyed the ocean’s beauty, but I also understood its power: I’d almost drowned as a child, and had never forgotten the feel of the cold dark waters closing in over my head.
The ghost faded into nothingness. I backed into the shadows of the house.
The next morning, I stood on my porch for hours, staring at my dying garden.
* * *
The next few days passed without incident. I hoped at first that the ghost had gone back to where she’d come from, but as time went by I began to feel that something wasn’t right. I often sensed that I was being watched. I would see movement out of the corner of my eye, or notice things I hadn’t touched misplaced. I went about my usual tasks, but the heaviness in the air became a constant burden.
Every day, my garden faded a bit more.
Every night, the apparition drew closer.
Then, when the moon rose full, I found the phantasm in the kitchen, pale and faceless. Her greyish flesh didn’t look solid, or even real; it reminded me of television snow. Her eyes were black, pupil-less holes, watching me. I wanted to tell her to move on, that she was not welcome. But the words stuck in my throat.
The cellar door swung open silently. Analea turned and walked down the stairs, into the darkness below the house.
As soon as she was out of sight, I heard her voice in my ear. Her breath tickled my cheek. “They never called me by my real name.”
I spun around. There was no one there.
Then the power went out, leaving the house pitch black.
* * *
In the light of day, I almost convinced myself that I’d been dreaming, but the lack of electricity was harder to dismiss. I tried calling the power company, but the phone was dead. After discovering that the car wouldn’t start, I walked into town.
Summer was over. The crisp air smelled of coffee and burning leaves, the trees had changed, and the trappings of autumn were everywhere. This did nothing to lift my spirits. I hated fall. The blaze of color that transformed the island was, to me, a living memory of that terrible fire. I also dreaded what was coming, the long cold months of darkness, the feeling of being trapped in isolation by snow and ice.
The wind coming in off the sea was cold that day, the waves choppy and capped with churning froth. Most of the businesses had already closed for winter, leaving the storefronts boarded up and lifeless. Even the harbor seemed deserted: only a few weather-beaten lobster boats dared the rough waters. I wound through half-empty streets, passing gruff, bearded lobstermen and a few leaf peepers. When I finally reached the power company, the office was closed. I’d forgotten it was a weekend.
When I turned to make my way back through town, I found myself standing outside the fortune teller’s shop. Madame Cara, the sign said. Clairvoyant. 2-for-1 Specials.
I had always dismissed the lady as a charlatan. Grandma insisted that her séances were nothing but parlor tricks, that she could no more talk to the dead than she could call the president. But I had no one else to turn to.
I entered the shop. She looked up, startled to see me. This was to be expected. With winter closing in, her business was slow.
“You’re troubled,” she said, by way of greeting.
“There’s a ghost in my house,” I said.
She looked at me thoughtfully, and then closed her mascara-laden eyes and did some mumbo-jumbo with her hands, her heavy rings flashing in the light.
A moment later, her eyes snapped open. “Analea,” she said. “A victim of the fire.”
That explained why I always smelled sm
oke when she was near. “What does she want?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes the dead linger. Sometimes they are bound here. Sometimes they need help moving on. And some are trapped, bound to a certain place or object.”
“Why?”
Madame Cara laughed, a chuckle that turned into a cough. “There’s as many answers to that as there are ghost stories.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at the drama in her voice, the theatrics Grandma had warned me about. But I couldn’t dismiss what she’d said. “There’s something else. Dark figures come into my room at night. They stand around my bed, and force me to answer questions.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Mirrors and spirit boards,” she said, “are nothing to toy with.”
“I haven’t fooled with any of that in years,” I said. “But I live in a thin place.”
She frowned, disapproval clear on her face, and then lit some incense. The air filled with sweet, thick smoke. I began to feel lightheaded. “What do I do?”
Madame Cara made some signs over me. I felt nothing, save a vague annoyance and a mild headache.
After a few moments, she shook her head. “I cannot help you.”
I stared at her. “What? Why?”
“The dead don’t move on until they are ready,” she told me. “And besides, you think I’m a fraud.” She waved me out, her hand flapping like a bejeweled fish. “Go home. Get some rest.”
Angry, I turned and walked out, setting the bells on her door jangling as I left.
A group of girls passed me on the street, laughing and chattering, their conversation hanging the salty air like a cloud. One of them looked back as they went by. Something about her reminded me of Marie, and a lump rose in my throat.
I paused once more on the way back, this time at the edge of the cranberry field. The crimson berries stood out against a colorless, drab bog.
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 24