Some said the fire had started there. Marie and I had been there that day, eating berries and drinking hot apple cider from the orchard down the road. Her fiancé was out of town, so she was spending the night.
She’d just bought a bright red lipstick. We both tried it on. “It looks better on you,” I told her. “It makes me look like I’ve eaten too many of these berries.”
“That’s the point.” Marie laughed and put her cigarette down, rubbing her heel against it. “When does Jacob come home?”
“Not for several months. I’ll have to finish the redecorating myself, before he returns. There’s just so much to do.” I looked at her, smiling. “I may need your help, if I’m going to finish it before the baby comes.”
Her face lit up, and she hugged me. “Elizabeth, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!”
We stayed a few minutes longer, laughing and talking, and then ran home. It was very windy that day. Gusts caught at our dresses and whipped our hair around, and sent fallen leaves fluttering down the road. Looking up, I saw a crow fighting the wind. It gave up, and perched on a fencepost.
I’d always wondered, afterwards, if that cigarette was really out.
Looking at the cranberry bog, I could almost hear our laughter. A fog was rolling in from offshore, cloaking the land in cold mist. I huddled into my coat, and hurried home.
When I reached the house, I found every single light on, even the cellar light. The radio was blaring at full blast, and Lela was barking frantically. I had to take several deep breaths before I found the resolve to go inside.
The radio and lights turned off as soon as I stepped through the door.
Horror rose through me as I looked around. The paint, which had been fresh and white just hours before, was dirty and chipped. Several floorboards had rotted out, and the sink was covered in rust stains. The windows were grimy and cracked. One of the kitchen floor tiles was displaced, and an ugly yellow water stain marred the ceiling. My windowsill herbs were dried and shriveled, though they had looked green and healthy when I’d left that morning. Only the pictures on the wall seemed unchanged. But when I reached out to touch my favorite—Jacob at the dock, standing before his father’s lobster boat—it crumbled to dust.
That night, the dark figures again gathered around my bed, calling my name.
The next day, desperate, I returned to the fortune teller. But the business was boarded up, closed for the winter. Like the birds and tourists, she had gone south to warmer lands to escape winter’s frozen bite.
The haunting continued, as did the drought.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, the house began to show more signs of wear. The lawn and garden shriveled, leaving my prized roses nothing but dried, withered husks. I often felt weak and dizzy, as though I, too, were fading. Lela ran away, disappearing into the mists one moonless night. I spent days wandering the woods looking for her, but to no avail.
One day, not long after that, I had to go down into the cellar to bring up some winter things. I made quick work of sorting through the trunks and boxes for my warmer clothes.
I wasn’t fast enough.
When I started up the stairs, Analea was standing at the door, looking down at me. Startled, I stumbled backwards, losing my balance. My stomach gave sickening lurch as I fell through the air. I tumbled down the steps, and fell through a cloud of spiderwebs before hitting the dirt floor.
The blow stunned me. I closed my eyes and wiped the spiderwebs away, telling myself it wasn’t real, that she would be gone soon.
She wasn’t.
When I looked up, she was coming down the steps towards me. Her feet never touched the stairs. I could not make out her face, but I again smelled the acrid tang of smoke.
My heart thudded in my chest. “Go away,” I shouted. “This is my house!”
The ghost regarded me for a moment. She opened her mouth, which hinged back to an impossible angle, like the jaws of a snake, and screamed my rage back at me. As she did so, her flesh—or the semblance of her flesh—turned dark. The light fled her, as though she had banished it. Instead of emanating a pale glow, the ghost now appeared blackened and shriveled. Thin trails of vapor seeped from her skin. Tendrils of that foul smoke curled around me, invading my mouth and nose.
The world faded to black.
When I woke, my head was pounding, and I felt weak, disoriented. The wardrobe lay on its side, the door on the bottom fallen open. When I looked up at the open cellar door, the light from upstairs hurt my eyes, and made my head throb. As much as I hated the cellar, I almost wanted to stay there, in the cool darkness. But one glimpse of that wardrobe was all I needed.
Going up the stairs was an almost impossible chore. When I reached the top of the stairs, the light was so blinding I had to shield my eyes.
I made my way into the back bedroom and rested there in familiar shadows, fading in and out of consciousness.
* * *
I woke after dark on Samhain, to the sound of breaking glass. Rising, I found my wedding picture on the floor, the glass shattered. I stepped on one of the shards and cut my foot, but though I left bloody footprints on the rotted floorboards, I felt no pain.
The smell of smoke hung heavy in the cold autumn air.
I stepped onto the decaying porch in my nightgown, looking at the peeling paint, the decaying steps, the dirty windows. All that remained of my prized gardens were a few dead, withered bushes. Nightshade climbed up the side of the house: the poisonous vine was the only thing still thriving. Most of the leaves had fallen by then. The trees looked bare and skeletal, like bony fingers reaching into the night sky.
The woods seemed unnaturally still and silent. I heard no gulls, no wind. Even the sea was a rare, flat calm.
In the distance, I heard a familiar bark. I froze. “Lela?” I called.
I strained my ears to listen. The distant trailing sound of children’s voices carried through the air. Far below, the waves crashed against the rocks.
And then I heard Lela again. I ran into the yard, looking around. But the dog was nowhere to be seen. I looked and saw a girl in a white dress and a boy in shorts running through the trees. They moved out of my sight, flitting into the woods, and were soon swallowed in thick shadow. Moments later, old Mr. Harrett trudged past, looking, as always, neither left nor right. I thought of calling to him, but he was rather senile, and would have been of little help.
I sensed it before I saw it.
On the trail that led to the shore, a shape was taking form in the darkness.
Analea.
She no longer looked pale, or ethereal, but flesh and blood. She moved towards me, her eyes fixed on my face, her stride quick and purposeful. Terror rose through me, an icy hand clenching my heart. I raced back towards the house. As I grabbed the doorknob, a searing pain shot up my arm. I snatched my hand back, shouting. Looking down, I could already see burn marks forming on my palm.
I glanced back. Analea was halfway across the yard. Behind her, a thick black fog was rolling in, draping the forest in shadow.
“We didn’t mean to start the fire!” I shouted.
She kept coming.
I gritted my teeth, and, using my skirt as a buffer, opened the door. Once inside, I locked it behind me and backed away from the door, moving further into the room.
Shadows and spiderwebs clustered in gloomy corners. As I stood there, the darkness in the room grew thicker. A black, pitch-like substance began to drip from the walls and ceiling, oozing across the floor. Dark spores of mold covered the cabinets. Vines grew across the dusty windows, blocking out the pallid moonlight. The swirling grey-black mists thickened, enveloping the house in fog. I heard a creaking sound from the cellar that I knew was the wardrobe door opening.
And then I heard something behind me.
I turned slowly. Analea stood there, so close I could feel the chill she emanated. As she moved closer, I felt a sense of the void, an endless black emptiness, a darkness that could sw
allow suns. Fear paralyzed me, leaving me unable to run or scream.
She reached out her hand, beckoning me, and I saw the scar on her wrist.
Somewhere in my soul, I felt a sickening realization take hold. I glanced down at my own wrist, upon which lay an identical scar, which I’d gotten courtesy of a rusty nail in an old barn. Stunned, I looked at the pale dead thing standing before me. That was when I finally saw her face, and recognized her features as my own.
The world fell away from me then. Or perhaps, I fell away from the world.
The house decayed around me in a matter of seconds. The walls and ceilings blackened, and the windows cracked and shattered. Beams collapsed, and chunks of wood and plaster fell to the floor, raising huge clouds of dust. Then, with a massive rumble that shook the ground, it all blackened and crumbled to ash.
I looked into the face of the dead thing, and saw truth flickering like flames in her dark eyes. Visions and memories rose through my thoughts, shapes taking form in the gloomy mists of my mind. The past came rushing back, and I felt the fires reaching for me once more.
We had joined the desperate stream of cars fleeing the fire. But our attempts to escape the inferno had been blocked at every turn. Desperate, we drove back to the house. Marie wanted to take the trail down to the shore, saying that we could get into the water if worst came to worst. But I was afraid of the cliffs and the pounding waves, terrified that I would fall and hurt the baby, or that the crashing surf would dash me against the rocks. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d just learned about Jacob’s ship going down, and the shock was still raw and fresh. As the flames drew nearer, I’d told Marie to go on without me. As she ran down the trail, I saw the eerie orange glow in the sky, the dance of flames reflected on the water, the wall of fire approaching. A huge fireball shot out over the ocean as I watched. I’d grabbed Lela and gone down into the cellar, certain that the fire would pass over us.
It hadn’t.
I coughed and tried in vain to fight off the flames, but the inferno refused to let me go. Lela and I climbed into the wardrobe as a last resort. Then everything melted into a searing crimson blur.
Analea died gasping, staring at her own reflection in the mirror as her lungs filled with smoke.
Afterwards, I rose in a swirl of vapor, and stood on my porch, which was a smoldering mass of charred beams, looking out at the smoking, burnt forest before me. The ancient evergreen forest I had grown up in had been transformed into an eerie, desolate wasteland. As far as I could see, there was nothing but ash and embers and the blackened bones of scorched trees. Only my chimney still stood, a bony finger wrapped in acrid smoke.
A pale glow shone in the distance. I looked, but I didn’t see Jacob among the line of souls trudging towards it. I knew he wasn’t there. I could feel it. And so I fled in the other direction, sinking into the cool depths of the earth, into coal and ash and dirt. As the blackened ground closed in around me, I summoned a final, cindery tear, and then shut my eyes and let death’s brighter dreams envelop me.
My death certificate bore the name the orphanage had given me, which neither I nor my adoptive parents had ever used.
Analea.
The town forgot me. The forest and the waves forgot me. Only my fetch remembered. I slept, dreaming in eternal nothingness with the dead and the unborn, until Marie’s granddaughter found that old spirit board and called my name, awakening me.
Memory made me whole, if not free. The mists lifted, leaving the sky clear. The stars seemed almost close enough to touch, and I noticed strange hues of color in the night sky. I looked around at what had once been my yard. Wilderness had reclaimed the land. The ruins of the house and garden were draped in thorns and bramble and winterberry bushes. Only a few charred timbers and a foundation gave any indication that a house had ever stood there at all.
I felt Analea beside me.
“I know who you are now,” I said. “I know what you are. I saw you the day of the fire. I was splashing water on my face, and I saw your reflection in the mirror, beside mine. And then later, as we were driving away from the fire, I saw you in the rear-view mirror, sitting in the back seat. But I was so distraught over the news about Jacob’s ship, I thought I was hallucinating. I had forgotten these things. But I remember now.”
The voice of the fetch was like the sound of dead branches shivering in the wind. “You’ve been dreaming long enough. It’s time to go.”
Looking up, I saw a paling in the sky. The air shimmered, and an opal, swirling mass took shape. The vortex sank through the sky, drawing closer, until it was right before me. On the other side, I saw the familiar scene of Marie’s parlor, and looked at the girls gathered around the spirit board.
Marie’s granddaughter called through the vortex. The sound of her voice cut through the darkness, seeming to come from the sky. Are you there? Give us a sign.
Reaching forward, I put my hand through the veil.
The fetch watched quietly, its black, pupil-less eyes filled with warning.
I withdrew my hand.
Something caught my eye. I looked up and noticed the two children I had seen earlier standing at the edge of the yard, holding hands. Mr. Harrett walked past again, his eyes fixed on the ground before him.
In the distance, I saw the glow of fire against the sky.
The fetch did not react to any of this. “Come,” it said, in a voice of smoke and dried bones. “You’ve been waiting here since 1947. It’s time to move on.”
The sound of the harbor bell rang out through the darkness. It wasn’t the familiar peal I’d heard all my life, but the tone of another harbor, a darker, funereal note that sounded off-key, discordant. I looked down at the mirror-calm water, and saw an old schooner pass into the mists, a spectral woman standing at her bow. The world shimmered and blackened around the edges of my vision, a fading dream.
The fetch held out its hand.
I looked back one last time. A single white rose grew amidst the winterberries, in the wild tangle of brush that had overtaken the lot. In the ruins, something bright shone with a pale, ethereal glow, reflecting the moonlight.
I frowned, seeing it. “The wardrobe mirror . . .”
The fetch followed my gaze. “The world is full of thin places,” it said.
Lela appeared on the trail, tail wagging. She barked once.
Still I hesitated.
“The flames cannot touch you where you are going,” the fetch told me. “Come. Jacob is waiting.”
I took her hand and let her guide me down to the sea.
Tripping the Ghost
Barry Lee Dejasu
Mark looked up from the spread of papers on the desk before him when he heard a vehicle pull up outside. He glanced at the clock: six-thirty on the dot, exactly as Constance had promised.
“Chad,” he called into the next room, “she’s here.” He got up from the desk and moved to the front door, and found a grey minivan idling in their driveway, and was even more surprised to see a bald man climb out of the driver’s seat. The late September sun had almost completely set, but the man was wearing sunglasses.
What is up with these people? Mark thought. “Can I help you?” he called to the man.
Instead of a response, the man went around to the back of the van.
Footsteps approached Mark from behind. “Where’s Constance?” Chad said.
“Dunno,” Mark muttered.
“Who is that?” Chad asked, moving closer.
Mark turned and shaped a word with his lips, but couldn’t bring himself to speak as a sick, cold feeling wriggled through his chest.
Maybe Constance hadn’t felt the need to be present for the drop-off. Although logical, this thought brought only a fleeting sense of comfort—because what if this man wasn’t an associate of hers at all?
Chewing on his lower lip, Mark stepped back inside and reached up to a secret shelf they’d installed above the nearby curtains, and removed a .38 revolver.
“Ah, fuck,” Chad sa
id, turning and walking further into the room behind them. Mark knew he was probably going for the shotgun hidden beneath the desk.
Holding the revolver down against the back of his thigh, Mark slowly headed back outside.
There was a thump from behind the van, and something big and dark moved into view from behind its open rear doors. Tensing, Mark lifted the gun—then lowered it as he saw the man step into view, clutching something big and dark above his right shoulder.
“Did Constance send you?” Mark asked him, but the man didn’t reply. If he nodded, it was hard to tell, as his head and torso were crooked under the case’s weight. As he approached, he showed no signs of strain or even discomfort, nor even made any sounds of labored breathing; Mark could only hear the soft thumps and crunches of the man’s feet on the dead grass and leaves. He stopped directly in front of Mark, then waited.
“Oh, uh—” Mark unconvincingly tried to tuck the gun behind his leg; but if the man had seen it, he didn’t seem bothered. “Just follow me,” Mark said, turning to find Chad waiting in the doorway, one arm out of view, no doubt holding the shotgun. Mark shook his head and started walking around the house, and he heard the man follow him.
The backyard was a pool of shadows crowded by a tight ring of trees. The property was never something that Mark or Chad had invested much time or money in; even during the day it was dark and foreboding, choked with weeds and shrubs and the occasional yard pest. The lack of care had been a big price cut on the property, along with the realtor’s allegation that the house itself was haunted; it had been the perfect place for Mark and Chad to set up their business.
Mark nodded to the sloped cellar doors. “Right over here.” He glanced sheepishly at the man, but couldn’t make out much more than his shape in the dark, crookedly crowned by the case. Praying he didn’t accidentally shoot his foot off, Mark twisted and shoved the revolver into his pocket. He reached for the short, heavy chain that had been threaded through the handles on the cellar doors and undid the combination lock, then pulled the chain out with a noisy jangle. As he did, a hairline of pale light appeared between the doors and around their edges, and muffled thumps rose from within. The left door thumped, then popped open, swinging up with a rusty squeal. Chad appeared, silhouetted by the lights from the basement. He looked to the man and frowned, then back at Mark, who offered a slight shrug in response, then pulled the other door open, and the man stepped forward and carefully descended the concrete stairs.
Wicked Haunted: An Anthology of the New England Horror Writers Page 25