by Krista Wolf
Jeremy had actually been a good relationship. They’d dated nearly a year — a very solid year — during which they explored anything and everything together, including each other.
Especially each other.
They’d met at the Manor itself, both of them between assignments at the time. Kara was staying at the Blackstone, working on honing her retrocognitive skills. Jeremy was the recently-promoted star of a big success story. Apparently he’d been in the right place at the right time, and had captured sixty-two seconds worth of hi-resolution footage of a fully-interactive, anthropomorphic apparition.
Kara hadn’t ranked high enough in the Order to be permitted to view the tape… at least not yet. But Jeremy had shown her anyway, and the video had fundamentally changed Kara’s entire perspective on things. It still chilled her, just thinking about it. On the tape, she watched in rapt fascination as Jeremy very clearly carried on a minute-long conversation with a full-blown ghost.
It was life-altering. The once-in-a-lifetime type of experience that made you question everything.
Somehow Xiomara found out, and the resulting shit-storm raged for the better half of a blistering hot summer. For the other half, the two of them carried on a torrid affair. They were together constantly, sneaking off to be alone wherever they could. Solitude wasn’t always easy at the Blackstone, but in the warmer weather the Estate gardens had always been her favorite hangout. Kara knew exactly where to go, and when no one else would be there. And there were always the lush forests out past the fields, too.
Jeremy was tall and well-built; strong and ruggedly handsome. None of that hurt of course, but in the end it was his geeky side that won her over. He was rule-follower. A by-the-book kind of guy. It was Jeremy who’d showed her the more wondrous side of the Manor’s massive library, and how Kara could best use it to her advantage. He exhibited a nerdy innocence she learned to love… but also, ultimately corrupt.
Intra-Order relationships were historically frowned upon, but not explicitly forbidden. Yet the more Xiomara condemned them? The closer it drove the two of them together. Kara had taken him as a lover for the first time in the stacks of the library, behind shelves of relics no one had touched for decades. After that they rutted like animals, wherever they could. Whenever they could.
And they could often.
The sweltering summer gave way to fall, and they became strong and inseparable. She taught Jeremy how to laugh, how to let go of certain ideals and tenets he held just a little too tightly. She also taught him how to bend some of the Order’s less rigid rules, even break them at times, in order to have a little fun. Whenever he tried to protest, Kara always got around it. When it came to her, he couldn’t say no. It was always easy to persuade him… just as she had with the tape.
In turn, he taught her structure. To a certain extent, even responsibility. The best lessons however, were lessons of the mind. Jeremy showed her how to consolidate her power, even call upon it at will; something Kara — even under Xiomara’s tutelage — had never quite been able to do. Her clairvoyance was never so strong as when he was guiding her, helping to clear her head. Showing her the most effective ways to channel what was happening around her, and to prolong the experience when it did.
Kara couldn’t count the number of times they’d laid in the garden staring up at the sky, talking about life and death and all the grey areas in between. They balanced each other out. Made each other better.
Perhaps that’s why Xiomara let it go on for so long.
They wintered together at the Manor — no longer hiding their relationship — and those were Kara’s fondest memories of all. They spent their days with other ranking members of the Hallowed Order, learning, teaching, exchanging ideas. Together they enjoyed the camaraderie of their closed little universe, even venturing out to explore the snowy upstate New York countryside whenever they got a little stir crazy. Which with Kara’s wanderlust, was often.
By springtime, Jeremy was gone.
Officially, he’d been given an overseas assignment. One that rushed him and his things away in the dead of night, much like the one Kara was on now.
Unofficially, she knew the Head of the Order had separated them. And despite all Kara’s rantings and ravings and brave little tantrums, Xiomara had stayed cool and collected throughout the onslaught.
“This isn’t your own private fucking lovenest,” Xiomara had scolded her. “There’s work to be done here, LoPresti. Work for Mr. Manning. Work for you.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d butted heads with the tiny African woman. But it was the first time it actually hurt. Kara’s affection for Jeremy had let her guard down. She’d been caught without her armor, letting the emotional closeness of their relationship get in the way of work. A work she chose at a young age, but which also chose her. A work she thrived upon.
She swore it would be the last time she’d ever allow such a thing to happen.
Xiomara sent her away on another assignment almost immediately, probably to clear her head. For that she was grateful. The Manor — and its sprawling, antiquated splendor — had lost all charm for her. At least for the moment.
It had been two years since she’d last seen Jeremy, and almost as long since they’d had any contact. Whether he’d written her off by choice, or by official decree from the Order’s council, it made little difference. He’d still made his own decision.
Now he sat across from her. Here again, after all this time. After what seemed like an eternity of silence.
“You okay?” Jeremy asked.
He was staring at her with his chestnut eyes, through the familiar frames of his half-rimmed glasses. Kara wondered if they were the same ones. The same frames and lenses he used to stare down at her in the Estate gardens, all summer long, while nestled snugly between her legs. While buried inside her…
She sat up straight and sipped her coffee. Thankfully it was delicious.
Kara raised her cup. “I am now.”
Thirteen
Work was work. Right now that’s all Kara wanted, especially considering she was seated across from Jeremy. And especially when it came to Logan.
“So you’ve been here for three weeks,” Kara said. Her elbows were propped up on the table as she held her cup with two hands. “What do you have?”
Jeremy fidgeted with his glasses. It was something he did often. Kara used to think it was cute. Right now she wasn’t so sure.
“For the first two weeks I didn’t find much,” he replied. “But in the last few days…”
“Things have ramped up.”
“Yes.”
He reached down into a briefcase and returned with a familiar red folder. Kara had to chuckle. She’d never seen Jeremy with a briefcase before, but somehow it suited him.
“This,” he said, extracting something from within, “is probably the most important thing that I found.”
He pushed something across the table, between the both of them. Kara snatched it quickly and brought it over to her side.
It was an old, dog-eared, photograph. Not quite a tintype, but one of the earliest developed color images. Autochrome, probably — all muted beiges and browns and grays. A frozen slice of time.
In the photo, a man with long mustaches sat a rounded table wearing a turn-of-last-century suit and tie. His hands were flat on the table, palms down.
“Who’s this?”
“That,” Jeremy went on, “is Rudolph Northrop. Or rather, was. The photo you’re holding is a hundred years old.”
Kara went to work scrutinizing every last faded detail. The table was covered with a cloth. Across its surface were several items they all recognized: a thick leather book, a small bell, a lit candle with some kind of markings scratched into one side. A round scrying crystal glimmered in the dead center, mounted on a cast-iron frame. It refracted the candle’s light, throwing the outer edges of everything into shadow.
“He’s performing a ritual,” said Logan. It was a statement, not a question.
Jeremy nodded. “Yes, I thought so too.”
The finer details of the photo fell under Kara’s analytical eye. The bell was likely silver. She could tell that from the color. And the feathered markings on the candle looked triangular, although she couldn’t make them out. The book she didn’t recognize either, but its leather-bound cover was protected with thick brass corner-guards. It looked old. Everything did.
“Where was this taken?” she asked.
“Somewhere in the hotel,” Jeremy replied. “At least that’s what the owner tells me. I found this photo hanging on the wall of their lounge, along with some others just as old. All of them depicted the hotel back in its heyday, when it was first built.”
“But you only took this one?” Logan asked skeptically. Jeremy shot him a disdainful look.
“This was the only one that seemed relevant.”
Kara examined the background details. The man sat flanked by two tall bookcases, looming behind him. They were plain and nondescript, but a spectacular Venetian mirror hung horizontally between them, eerily reflecting the back of his head.
“So all this stuff back here—”
“Doesn’t exist anywhere in the hotel,” Jeremy answered before she even finished. “Trust me, I’ve looked.”
Logan chuckled and leaned back. It was more of a scoff.
“So that’s it?” he sneered. “You’ve been here three weeks, and all you have is a single photo? Of a guy who’s maybe performing a seance?”
“A ritual,” Jeremy corrected, “not a seance. But yes, definitely some kind of ceremony.”
Logan sighed. It wasn’t a good sigh. Kara was about to agree with him when—
“Now turn the photo over.”
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t done it until now. It was almost inexcusable.
Distractions… distractions…
Kara flipped the photo in her hands. On the back, scrawled in the immaculate penmanship that people of that time period used to take pride in, were the words Rudolph Northrop. And just beneath that, Twenty-Second of December, Nineteen-Hundred and Eighteen.
“See the date?” Jeremy said unnecessarily.
Kara nodded. “The winter solstice.”
“Exactly.”
Jeremy folded his hands on the table in a gesture of vindication. He stared smugly at Logan, who made a wry face.
“None of this means this man’s name was Rudolph Northrop,” said Logan finally. “That could be the photographer’s name. Or the guy who developed the photograph. Or a previous owner who hung the photo. Hell, it could be anyone.”
Calmly, Jeremy reached back into his red folder. He slid out another photo of the same man, attached to a small docket in what Kara recognized was his own handwriting.
“Here,” he said. This time he shoved the summary package in Logan’s direction. The photo was taken at a different time, a different place, but it was obviously the same man. “Meet Rudolph Northrop. Grew up in late 1800’s New England, an only child, son to Mary and Richard. He was a printer by trade. Turned to the ‘occult’ sometime in his twenties, although if you asked him what he offered he’d say they were suppression rituals and spiritual cleansings.”
Kara stared down at the second, black-and-white photo. Northrop looked younger. His beard was shorter.
“As far as I can tell he traveled the East coast performing ceremonies designed to halt spiritual activity and create peace of mind. He made his living that way.”
Logan’s expression was doubtful. “I wouldn’t have thought people paid for that.”
“Back then? People were a lot less skeptical. They believed more. Every knock or creak you heard in your house was a ghost in the attic. Every rattle of the window, a wind-demon.”
“Think Northrop was actually gifted?” Kara asked.
Jeremy turned back to face her. She found herself distracted by the curve of his jaw, by the dark stubble over his cleft chin. It was all so familiar. So fresh in her memory, even now.
“Hard to say,” Jeremy went on. He stared at the photo. “He could’ve been the real deal. He could’ve been a complete charlatan.” He shrugged. “Impossible to tell.”
“But that’s definitely him,” said Kara, pointing downward. “And that means…”
“That by the time he came here, the Averoigne was already haunted,” Logan finished. He seemed pleased with himself. Overly pleased.
“Experiencing paranormal activity,” Jeremy corrected. “But yes. That.”
There was a long pause as they stared at the photos some more. Breakfast arrived. Kara had already finished her coffee, and called for a second cup.
“So he came here during the winter solstice,” Logan theorized, “because he knew it was the height of the hotel’s activity. It was the best time to do something like this, to perform his ceremony.”
Jeremy nodded. “Either that or he was summoned by the owner. Hired to do it specifically when the Averoigne was most active.”
It was cute, watching the two of them actually get along, even if only for ten seconds. Kara almost chuckled. Instead, she speared another piece of sausage.
“Of course, a third possibility also exists.”
They both cocked their heads. Turned to look at her.
“Instead of coming here specifically at that time of year,” Kara said, “what if it were the other way around?”
Her two paramours looked back at her curiously.
“What if whatever’s going on during the solstice…” she jammed her finger onto the photo. “He caused it.”
Fourteen
The two men stared back at Kara while she chewed her eggs. For a long while, neither of them said anything.
“So you’re saying Northrop did something,” said Logan. “Right here, on the day of this photograph.”
“Yup.”
“During the winter solstice.”
“One hundred years ago exactly,” she said. “Give or take a few days.”
Jeremy actually looked thoughtful, but also a bit frustrated. It was obviously an idea that hadn’t occurred to him. And if Kara knew anything about Jeremy, that bothered the hell out of him.
“The hotel does have a few scattered reports of activity before 1918,” he said. “But it’s all word of mouth stuff. It’s entirely possible they were hearsay.”
“Like you said,” Kara continued, “people jumped at their own shadow back then. They believed more. When exactly was the hotel built?”
“Twenty years before that.”
Kara shrugged. “Maybe the original owners wanted to ward off spirits ahead of time? Or at least make it look that way. So they hire this guy to perform a preemptive ceremony. They take his picture. Hang it up on the wall, to ease people’s minds. Show all the guests that the Averoigne has been cleansed or suppressed. You gonna finish this?”
Without waiting for an answer Kara reached out and grabbed Logan’s coffee. She dumped some more sugar into it before continuing.
“So lets say this guy is for real. And his ritual — or whatever it was that he did — ends up making the hotel more susceptible to the paranormal instead of less.”
“So now they’re actually haunted,” Jeremy reasons. His eyes seemed to lose focus as he ran mentally through a whole field of possibilities. “And this would make sense because the activity takes place every year, right around the time he performed the ceremony.”
Kara finished eating and dropped her fork. “Voila.”
Fuck you Xiomara, she thought smugly. See? I could’ve done this all alone.
“Wait a minute,” protested Logan. “We don’t know any of this for sure. All we’re doing here is speculating.”
Kara wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I’d say more like deductive reasoning,” she said. “But yeah. Sure.”
A waitress came over and cleared their plates. Logan picked up the first photo and shook it between two fingers. “We don’t even know for sure if any of this took place in this hotel
. Even Jerry here—”
Her other lover cleared his throat. “Jeremy.”
“Yeah, whatever. Even Jeremy said he couldn’t pinpoint any of the stuff in the background, much less—”
THUD.
The sound came with an abrupt whoosh of air as Jeremy reached into his briefcase and slammed something down in front of them. Kara and Logan sat gaping at it from across the table.
It was the book. The exact book from the photo.
Logan’s mouth was stopped open mid-sentence. He closed it.
“Well, shit.”
Kara stared at the object for several moments, her eyes shifting from the book, to the picture, and then back again. In the faded old photograph, it was nothing more than a big book. But seeing it here on the table… in the flesh, so to speak? It made everything strangely real. As if Jeremy had cemented the book’s reality by pulling it forward, a whole century through time.
“Found it in the hotel library,” Jeremy said at last. “Which by the way, is now the hotel lounge.”
“And bar,” Kara added. She shrugged as they both looked at her. “Hey, it’s not my fault I notice things.”
She reached for the heavy, leather-bound tome and slid it in front of her. A silk bookmark was clasped between two of its yellowed pages, somewhere in the middle. She opened the book to that point.
“Careful,” said Jeremy.
“Why?”
“Because that’s the page that was marked when I found it.”
Logan blinked. “So?”
“So maybe that’s the last page that was read, possibly even by Rudolph Northrop. The one used for the ritual, or whatever it is he was doing.”
“You don’t know that,” Logan said, and not for the first time today.
“We don’t know lots of things,” said Kara. “But Jeremy’s right. It’s good to know where the book was last marked.”
She flipped through the pages without moving the bookmark. Everything was gibberish. It wasn’t even in a different language, it was more like different characters. Logan leaned over her shoulder the whole time. She resisted the urge to push him away.