Supervision

by Alison Stine

  “Terrible illness?”

  “And, last but not least, the most promising theory: something is wrong with my gift.”

  He paused. “Your gift?”

  “That’s what my grandmother calls it. My sister calls it a curse, still. But Grandma thinks we should use what we have, the Wong women.” I took a breath. This was hard to say. “I guess every woman in my family can sense ghosts. Somehow. Apparently. Apparently it starts when we turn sixteen—always, as far back as my grandmother can remember. But everyone gets the gift a little differently. My grandmother hears things, mostly. My sister mostly sees things.”

  “What?” my sister said, looking around. “What’s going on?”

  “And you?” Tom said. “What do you do? What’s your gift?”

  “I don’t know for sure yet. Mine came early. And it came wrong.”

  “It made you invisible to the living.”

  “I guess.”

  “It’s not just that you can see the dead,” Tom said. “They’re the only ones that can see you. Is that your gift?”

  “I don’t think so.” I darted a look at my grandmother, by the bookshelf. Could she hear us? “Grandma thinks it happened early to me because it’s extra strong. She thinks it’s thrown things off—thrown me off. It’s so strong, my body doesn’t know what to do, so my body just … faded. I turned off.”

  “The young man,” my grandmother said. She was speaking to my sister as she filed books away, not even looking at Tom and me. “He’s in the doorway. That’s the blue you see. He’s a good man. Good strong voice.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said. To me he whispered, “I didn’t know she could hear us.”

  I shook my head. “Sometimes, I guess.”

  “All the time,” my grandmother said.

  “The eyes are moving,” my sister said.

  Tom slid onto the piano bench beside me. I resisted the urge to touch him, to lean my face close so that he might touch me. I didn’t know for sure how much my sister could see or my grandmother could hear.

  For the first time in weeks, I felt horribly, obviously visible.

  “Amazing,” Tom said. “Between the three of you, you could start a business.”

  “I already have a business,” my grandmother said. “Successful, thank you very much.”

  Silently, Tom made a face at me; I wondered if the Firecracker could see that. But I made a face back at him, sticking out my tongue. He snorted a laugh, and I composed myself. “Grandma?” I said. “It’s a little crowded in here. We’re going to go outside, okay?”

  “Fine,” my grandmother said. “Be back before dark. And stay away from the pond.”

  Tom took my hand. As we walked through the doorway I heard my sister ask, “What’s wrong with the pond?”

  And then we were running, leaping down the front stairs, into the evening. I felt like light. I felt like I could run as fast as Tom; I could disappear and reappear and glide the way he did.

  He picked a spot on the grass to sit down and I reclined beside him. “I never thought ghosts might feel free before,” I said. “But it is. It’s freeing, being invisible.”

  “Especially when people can hear you,” Tom said.

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Especially when you know you’re not alone.”

  “I know,” I said. I watched his face. We lay in the grass while the clouds above us changed from gold to gray and purple, the light in Tom’s eyes dimming as the sun dipped. He touched my face. It was like an electric shock sparking through me. Though the temperature around me was dropping, my body hummed with heat. When the sky turned navy-colored, I could see flashes of black, wings dipping and gliding above the tops of trees.

  “Bats,” Tom said, and when I stiffened, “It’s all right. They can’t run into us. They’re such good navigators.”

  “Even though we’re invisible?”

  “Even though.”

  I sat up. “Tom, bats see you. Cats see you. Do all animals see ghosts?”

  “It seems like it. Haven’t you ever been around a cat that hissed for no reason, or a dog that barked at something that wasn’t there?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That happens a lot around here. Tom, you’ve been here, close to my grandmother’s house, for years, right?”

  “Since I died.”

  “How often did the house change hands?”

  Tom said. “After the Builder died, then Martha and Mr. Black, the Vale family moved out. The house was empty for a long time. Stories started then, stories of how it was haunted. But people always talked, even when the house was being built, about the land, about how long the construction was taking, about how many problems it had. After the deaths, a couple moved in and then out again—some distant relatives of the Builder’s. They said the house was cursed.”

  “Clara probably didn’t help,” I said.

  “But when your grandmother moved in, she wasn’t scared. She wasn’t frightened by stories, or Clara. She’s stayed for a long time.”

  “I lived here,” I said quietly. “I lived here when I was a little girl, me and my sister.” I looked up at him. “Do you remember us? Do you remember me? I had long hair, like I do now.”

  “You were very sad,” Tom said. “We left you alone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t let Clara bother you. I mean, Martha stayed out of your way, and Mr. Black was on his very best behavior around you and your sister. We knew something was the matter, something was making you sad.”

  “How do you remember all this?”

  “I remember. It wasn’t that long ago for me, you know. Just ten years, and I’ve been around for a hundred. I watched you when you were little,” he said. “You were always strong and brave, even then.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything when I came back here?” I demanded.

  “I didn’t know it was you at first.”

  “Well, once you did. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I didn’t want to scare you,” Tom said. “A beau who’s a ghost is bad enough, never mind one that’s a century old, one that knew you when you were a child, one you wouldn’t even remember.”

  “A beau?” I said.

  “A young man. A caller. A—”

  “Boyfriend,” I said.

  He grinned. “Yes, that.”

  I don’t know what I might have said in response. I saw him smile at me, but then his smile fell away. His eyes darkened, as if a shadow had passed over him. He wasn’t looking at me, wasn’t seeing me anymore. He was staring back at the house, at my grandmother. My grandmother stood out on the front porch, scanning the yard, seeing no one, and screaming.

  Tom and I ran to her. She flinched as we pounded invisibly up the front steps. I took her hands quickly. “Grandma,” I said loudly. “Grandma, it’s Esmé. I’m right in front of you.”

  Her eyes focused, settling on a spot nearby.

  “Tom is here too. The young man. What’s going on?”

  “She’s gone,” my grandmother said. “She’s gone.”

  “What’s happening? Who is?”

  “I heard whistling. That was all. Whistling.”

  “Stay here, Grandma,” I said. Tom was already running; I ran too, down the steps and across the yard, after him.

  The Stationmaster had taken her, taken my sister.

  I tried to call out to Tom, but I couldn’t breathe and form words at the same time. I couldn’t run this hard for long, not all the way to the station. I would never catch a ghost. Already, I felt a stitch in my side. I slowed. Then I saw the cat.

  I nearly ran into it, a gray lump in the yard right in front of me. There were more cats standing over the yard. The Manxes, a herd of them. They all faced the same direction, looking at something. And they were all hissing.

  “Tom!”

  But he was gone across the street, far ahead. I turned back to the cats. They stared at the house, though I could see nothing unusual. My grandmother h
ad gone back inside. The front porch steps stood empty, except for cats. More cats were rooted on the path that led to the backyard. They stood frozen, staring. What were they looking at? I backtracked up the hill and followed the path, turning into the backyard. More cats in the backyard. More cats staring at the pond.

  And in front of the pond: the Stationmaster waited.

  I said, “What did you do with my sister?”

  The Stationmaster grinned. His smile was gray.

  “Give me my sister,” I said. “Bring her back. She won’t fall for your tricks. She won’t die for you. She’s strong.”

  The Stationmaster took a step—just one step—forward, and I could smell the earth on him, the decay stronger than on any of the other ghosts. I looked around wildly for a weapon. I saw the garden hose curled at the spigot, a bathtub rusting against the side of the house.

  “You’re wild,” the Stationmaster said. “You and your sister. You got no parents.”

  “I’ve got my grandmother,” I said.

  Was she watching from the windows? Could she hear this?

  “You got no manners.”

  “That’s true,” I said. I grabbed the only thing I could find, a pebble on the path. I lobbed it at him and ran. He ducked and lunged for me. The cats unfroze and scattered. I would run around the house, and down to the road. I would get help. I would get Tom.

  But I heard, rather than saw, the lantern: the creak of the handle as he swung it, the sighing of the rusted joints. I turned just in time to see a red flash as he brought it over his head. The glass in the lantern was a deep red, an iron red, reflecting his face as if it floated in a pool of blood. The glass caught the flashes of what early stars were out already; caught his terrible look of concentration, forehead lined, teeth dug into his lips.

  I reacted instinctively. I caught the lantern in my hands, stopping the blow to my head. But the force knocked me backward, and the heat of the burning lantern shocked me, searing my hands. I cried out, but didn’t drop it. I stumbled back, then looked down in surprise. There was water around my ankles.

  I was standing in the pond.

  “Come on, wild cat,” the Stationmaster said. He began to walk into the water toward me. “Can you swim?”

  I backed up as he approached, sinking deeper and deeper into the water, which swirled around my shins, then knees, brown and cold. I gripped the lantern by its handle, which was not hot. I dipped one burned hand, the worse one, into the water, and said through gritted teeth, “What did those kids ever do to you? Why do you need to hurt kids?”

  The Stationmaster kept coming. “Children should be seen and not heard. You need discipline,” the Stationmaster said. “Manners.” He was moving steadily toward me through the water.

  The mud beneath my feet was soft, catching at my sneakers, pulling me down. My clothes were getting heavy; I was up to my waist in water. The lantern handle cut into my seared hand, but I held fast to it. “What do you want?” I asked the Stationmaster.

  “Discipline,” the Stationmaster said. “Manners.”

  “What do you want?” I was up to my chest in water.

  “Supervision.” The Stationmaster leapt across the pond.

  It was leaping, like flying. No splash. No sound at all. In no time he had crossed the water separating us, and lunged for the lantern with one hand. With the other, he pushed my head, shoving me down into the water.

  All I saw was brown. All I felt was water streaming into my eyes, my nose—his hand, a weight on my head. I shook and flailed. I let go of the lantern, and the pressure on my head released. I shot up to the surface of the water, gasping. He stood over me while I floundered for a foothold, my sneakers sinking in mud. The water was too deep; I was too short.

  The Stationmaster raised his lantern.

  Behind his shoulder, I saw something move near the house. Mr. Black stood on the second story balcony, watching me.

  “Help!” I said. I waved my arms.

  A whistle as the lantern sliced through air. I ducked under the water, pushing myself as deep as I could, and the lantern hit the surface above me with a mute splash. I hadn’t had time to take a full breath, and I popped back up to the surface, sputtering.

  The Stationmaster dragged the lantern through the water. Again, there wasn’t time to breathe. I darted a glance toward the balcony as I pushed myself beneath the surface.

  Mr. Black was gone.

  Another crash above me. Bubbles flooded through the water. I could open my eyes, but I couldn’t see anything; the pond was as brown as earth. I forced myself to stay down and kicked. My lungs burned and my legs in their jeans felt so heavy. When I shot back up to the surface, I had swum into the center of the pond.

  Mr. Black stood on the bank.

  I thrashed and treaded water. “Help me, Mr. Black. You’ve got to help me.”

  The Stationmaster turned. “Black,” he said. “A hopeless case. You were from the poorhouse, weren’t you, boy?”

  “I—,” Mr. Black stammered. “I—”

  “I can always tell. Drunkenness is a sickness, poisons the blood of the mother. You were from bad blood, weren’t you? Inferior stock. You hadn’t a chance.”

  Mr. Black paced the bank.

  I treaded, gasping as I spoke. “Mr. Black, help. He’s going to kill me.”

  “I can’t!” Mr. Black said. “I can’t go in there. You know that.”

  “Please.”

  “No,” Mr. Black moaned. “Not again.”

  The water was rippling, moving in wider and wider waves toward me as the Stationmaster waded closer, speaking steadily, like a chant, “Discipline. Manners.”

  I tried to breathe, tried to summon my strength to swim.

  But when I raised my arms, I felt pain in my head, slicing through me. The Stationmaster was holding my hair. He had grabbed my long ponytail, sending knives of pain into my scalp and down my neck. I screamed. He looped my hair around his wrist like a rope. He yanked me toward him through the water.

  “Mr. Black!” I screamed.

  Water filled my mouth.

  “Discipline. Manners.” The words close to my head. The smell like death. “Supervision.”

  Release. The pain left me.

  My hair was free, floating in the water. Only a dull pounding in my head and in my hands. There was water in my nose, water in my eyes. I fought to reach the other side of the pond, hauling myself through the cattails. I collapsed onto the bank, coughing. I was freezing and dirty. I tasted something salty in my mouth, and spit. Blood ran down the side of my face, a river coming from my scalp.

  I wanted to lie down. I wanted to sleep. But I forced myself to stand, shaking and dripping. I forced myself to look at the pond. There was no sign of the Stationmaster.

  But a man in black floated facedown in the water.

  “Thank you,” I whispered to Mr. Black. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER 15:

  The Lower Vale

  After I had been cleaned up; after Martha had run a hot bath and helped me get into it, peeling off my muddy clothes while I shivered, teeth chattering; after I had been wrapped in a blanket and my burns bandaged; after my grandmother had made hot drinks for all of us, even Tom and Clara and Martha, setting places for them, even though she couldn’t see them—we sat around the kitchen table and waited.

  Tom said there was no sign of my sister at the station. Clara said she had checked the tunnel under the house; Martha, the woods and fields. My sister was nowhere. My sister was gone.

  I couldn’t stop shivering, though I was no longer cold.

  “She’s not dead,” my grandmother said.

  “How do you know?” I whispered.

  “Because I can’t sense her. Can you? Try, Esmé. If she had passed on, you would know. You would feel her.”

  I concentrated for a moment. “No.” But I didn’t know what that would feel like.

  “Ghosts can’t hurt the living,” my grandmother said. “Except …” she paused. “Except f
or people like us, women like us, who can sense ghosts.”

  “Have you ever been hurt by a ghost, Grandma?”

  She nodded. “But only a few times over many years. Scratched. Bruised. Pushed against a wall. Pushed down a staircase.”

  “Who did that?”

  “Someone who was very sad, and very lonely, and very tired of not being heard.”

  “I heard the Stationmaster,” I said. “I heard him loud and clear. Manners, he said.”

  “Discipline,” Clara said.

  “Supervision,” Tom said.

  “If you give ghosts what they want, they disappear.”

  “That’s true,” my grandmother said, surprised to hear me say it.

  “But I can’t give him what he wants,” I said. “He wants to hurt more kids. He wants more people to die for him. I can’t let that happen, so I can’t make him go.”

  “No one is saying you have to make him go, Esmé,” my grandmother said kindly, though she was speaking to a teacup.

  “I hear and see him. I feel him. I’m the only one of us who can.”

  “Your sister is just out of practice,” my grandmother said. “She’ll come home and then we’ll … then we’ll …” Her voice trailed off. She set her cup down without drinking any.

  “There’s a reason I’m invisible. I know you think it’s a mistake, my gift coming much too soon, coming wrong. But I think it’s sharpened everything. I can see ghosts, hear them, touch them—”

  “Touch them?” Clara smirked.

  Martha kicked her under the table.

  “I can hurt them,” I said. “I know I can do that.”

  “But he’s already dead, Ez,” Tom spoke up. “Even if you hurt the Stationmaster, even if you kill him, what’s that going to do? He’s already dead.”

  “Well, dying again is not pleasant.”

  We all turned to see Mr. Black in the doorway.

  Tom stood up from the table. Clara clapped her hands. But Martha was fastest. She overturned her chair, running to him.