“Oh, God.”
“Yup.” My cheeks burned just remembering it. “But then halfway through my speech, I looked down at the open coffin below, and saw Joel’s cold, dead face, and I broke down completely. I’d loved him, for all of his faults, and he was gone and I hated myself for it. I fell to my knees and sobbed and howled and kind of … tore at the carpet. My friend Cindy dragged me away, but not before this delightful display was caught on camera and posted on the internet.”
“Fuck.” Bianca shifted the violin box again.
“Yeah. Fuck is right. So by the time I’d calmed down again, my boss Clyde was already on my case about ruining the firm’s reputation. I had to take two month’s forced leave just so they could recover the trust of my clients. Luckily, in our business, you don’t get many repeat clients, so I was able to keep my job.” I laughed ruefully.
“That’s a horrific story, Elinor. But it doesn’t explain this rather ungainly box I’m carrying.” We’d reached the corner of Blossom Road. Bianca rested the violin on the ground and fumbled in her pocket for her keys.
I shrugged, and picked up the box. “I just … Eric seems like ten times the man that Joel was. I feel tremendously sad that I didn’t get to meet him in real life. And according to the papers his violin hasn’t been found yet. I wanted to do something to honour him. Is that weird?”
“A little.” Elinor laughed. “But I think it’s lovely. This is definitely going to be an interesting funeral.”
I said goodbye to Bianca outside, and walked back to Marshell House. The gardeners had done a fantastic job on the front so far. The lawns were freshly mown, all the weeds cleared away, and all the statues cleaned and set upright again. A couple of guys were standing on a scaffold in front of the master bedroom, water-blasting the house. They’d even cut back the wisteria around the porch. Now the vines looked quaint and rustic, instead of as if they were trying to consume the house. Bit by bit, Marshell House was losing its creepiness. It was actually almost quite beautiful.
Inside, I called Eric’s name, but he didn’t answer. He must still be up in the attic. Good. I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to face him. I stared down at the violin in my arms, and my stomach clenched with nerves. What was I doing?
I had sworn just yesterday that I had given up on him. I knew we could never have a relationship. I should just give the violin to Allan, since he was so desperate to find Eric’s one for himself. But I couldn’t stand this … standoff we were having. I wanted us to remain friends, if that was possible. Eric’s life had been hard enough, and his afterlife even worse, and part of that was my fault. His funeral was in two days time, and that was going to be so difficult for him to face. I had to do something.
I crept up the stairs, and opened the door to the attic steps. The door at the top was still closed. I took the steps slowly, wincing each time they creaked. I couldn’t hear anything from the room beyond. Maybe Eric wasn’t even there.
No, he was there. It was strange, but I could almost sense Eric’s presence. In just a few short days I had become so attuned to him that I reacted to him as if he was actually a corporeal being. I reached the door and turned the handle, pushing it inward a crack. I thought I heard him sigh from beyond the door. It was now or never.
“Eric?” I called, pushing the door inward and stepping into the room. My heart was pounding like a bass drum.
ERIC
“Eric?” Elinor’s voice punched through my thoughts.
I peeked out from behind the box of photo albums I’d been hiding behind. I could see Elinor peeking through the door, her black-rimmed glasses pushed up her nose and her hair down, framing her beautiful heart-shaped face. She looked nervous.
What could she possibly want? Only yesterday she’d told me she was done with me. I hadn’t expected to see her again for the rest of her stay. And yet there she was, looking shy and eminently fuckable. I opened my mouth to say something, to apologise. But I couldn’t find the words. So I stayed silent, hidden from her view behind a huge stack of my mother’s possessions.
It didn’t matter, because Elinor spoke first. Her voice was firm, resolute. “I’m not here to apologise, and I don’t take back anything I said. I just wanted to tell you that I got you something. A present, I guess.”
A present?
She still hated my guts, but she’d got me a present?
Now I was curious. What kind of present does one even buy for a ghost? I tried to speak again, but again, words failed me. My chest ached when I watched her face searching the boxes for me. I wanted to run to her so badly, to wrap her up in my arms and kiss that hard, hurt expression from her face. But she was right about everything, and an apology wouldn’t fix things between us. I had to accept that.
“Um … I’ll just leave it here for you. Sorry to disturb you.” Elinor placed a long box on the floor, opened it up, and backed out of the room.
As soon as she was gone, I floated across the attic and stared at the object. My heart thudded against my chest. It was a violin.
Not just any violin. It was a Cremona. My violin. At first I thought Elinor must’ve found Isolde, but then I saw the clean, scratch-free body and the price tags still stuck on the neck. Elinor had bought me a violin.
Seeing that instrument brought it all back to me, all the joy the instrument had bought to my life. I remembered playing in secret with my father during the day while my mother worked, his fingers moving mine across the stock to teach me the chords. I remembered the first songs I’d composed, back in high school when I was lost and alone, and how it had so perfectly captured my melancholy in a language that wasn’t my own. I remembered playing in front of thousands of people, all screaming with ecstasy as they heard their own pain and misery and hope pouring out through the notes.
I reached down with shaking fingers, my eyes closed, hoping against hope that my strange solidness from the other night would return once more.
My fingers struck solid wood. Yes!
I wrapped my fingers around the neck and picked up the instrument. I rested it into my neck, breathing out as I felt the familiar weight of it against my shoulder. My fingers rubbed against the strings, and I plucked a few notes pizzicato, forming the notes that had become an extension of me.
I drew the bow across the strings, relishing the rich note that rang out, echoing through the attic. I had missed this so much.
I started to play.
At first it was just scales, as my fingers sought to remind themselves what to do. But then the melody of a song called to me, and I launched into it with a passion as powerful as the time I performed for the Queen. This song was not one of Ghost Symphony’s hits, in fact, it wasn’t even finished yet. I’d written it shortly before I died, and it was to be released on our next album. It was a song of longing, of a life that had been unfairly taken, played with wrenching, dissonant solos and intense vibrato. I’d written it for my father but, as my fingers stretched over the fingerboard, and my arm drew the bow with fierce conviction, I realised I’d also written it for myself.
Giddy with pleasure, I turned through the attic, my body sweeping with the notes as I danced to a tune that represented my life, to the joyful embracing of all my sorrow. My whole mind became one with the music—I no longer saw, heard, or felt anything that was outside. All that existed was the song, the melody.
The last, lingering notes faded into silence, and my body trembled as I came back to the real world again. When I lowered the violin, I heard the faint sound of someone clapping.
My heart skipped a beat. I realised that Elinor hadn’t left after all. She was on the other side of the door, in the stairwell, listening to me play. She had heard everything. She had heard the song of my heart.
“Eric, that was beautiful.” Elinor’s voice sounded muffled, husky, as if she’d been crying. I peered through the open crack in the door, but couldn’t see her. She must be right at the bottom of the stairwell.
“I wrote it for my father.” I said into th
e empty stairwell. “It’s the best piece of music I’ve ever written. We were going to record it on the next Ghost Symphony album, but I guess that won’t happen now.”
Silence. I waited for several moments, but Elinor didn’t say anything else. I was just wondering if she’d already left, when she suddenly stammered. “I … I’m glad you enjoyed the violin. I have to go.”
“OK.”
I heard her footsteps sprint down the hall. She was gone.
“Thank you,” I whispered, into the darkness of the attic. The violin fell from my hand and clattered to the floor. I reached down to pick it up, but my fingers fell right through it. I was a ghost once more.
ELINOR
I sat beside the window in the study and stared out, trying to kid myself that I wasn’t listening hard to hear if Eric was playing his violin upstairs. All I could hear was the chirping of birds in the flower garden below the window and the ominous ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
My phone rang. I was expecting a call from the forensic accountant, so I pulled it to my ear and said in my business tone, “Elinor Baxter speaking.”
“Is that any tone to take with your best friend in the whole world?”
“Cindy?” The sound of her voice startled me out of my Eric-focused stupor. What could she be calling about? Was it to tell me the truth about how she’d stolen Damon from me?
“Hey, girl! What’s up? Seen any more ghosts lately?”
I knew I was supposed to laugh, but all I could manage was a hollow cough. “It’s fine, actually. I quite like it up here. Nice and quiet.”
“I hope you’ve at least been getting out of that house. There must be a pub in that town you could check out. Or a knitting circle, that might be more your scene.”
Cindy was teasing, but I didn’t feel much like laughing. “I have been going out, actually. I met this cool girl named Bianca. She’s a tattoo artist, and we’re becoming good friends. And I’ve even managed to wrangle a date for this weekend.”
“What?” Cindy screeched. I held the phone away from my ear, my mood growing fouler with every passing second. You don’t have to sound so surprised.
“Yeah. Allan Lachlan, the drummer from Ghost Symphony. He’s hot, actually much hotter than Damon. And his music is better.” I grinned, imagining Cindy squirming on the other end.
“Oh, so Operation Shag Damon is over, then?” asked Cindy. I detected a hint of hopefulness in her voice.
“No way.” I wasn’t going to let her off that easily. “I’m just enjoying a fun distraction. But as soon as I get back to London it’s going to be all about that sexy Russian DJ again. So what’s the plan for this weekend? Can you do some more Damon reconnaissance for me?”
“Actually, that’s what I’m calling you about. Remember last week you mentioned having me up at the house for the weekend? Well, I’ve actually got some good news for you. It turns out work got given some tickets to a weird goth funeral this weekend, and they were wondering if anyone wanted them. I noticed that the name of the house was identical to the house you’ve been banished to, and Doug agreed to give me the weekend off to attend …. and since I know how much you wanted me to come …”
“You mean, you’re coming to Crookshollow?” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. I’d completely forgotten that I’d practically begged Cindy to come spend the weekend when I first got here, but that was before everything else had happened. How was I going to survive the funeral without letting on to her? How was I going to hide Eric’s presence from her?
“Yeah, and I was wondering if we might be able to stay in one of the rooms in that enormous haunted house of yours? It would save us paying for a hotel. It looks like weird goths have booked out every place in town.”
“Us?” My stomach sank.
“Yeah.” Cindy paused. “That new guy I was telling you about? It’s pretty serious. I basically haven’t left his bed since the weekend. Anyway, between all the mind-blowing sex, I’ve been telling him all about you and he’s super keen to meet you and see this crazy old house. So I’m bringing him up, if that’s OK?”
“You mean your mystery guy who you haven’t told me a thing about?” Is this really happening to me? Is my life really this cruel?
“I’m sorry. I just … you’ve been so sad lately, I didn’t want to make you feel bad.”
Oh, yeah, because stealing my crush out from underneath me is totally the way to make me feel great about myself. You’re a real pal, Cindy. “Look, you’re my best friend. You should tell me if something big happens in your life. I’m happy because you’re happy. So tell me about the guy. Where did you meet him, exactly?”
“Er … at Damon’s party last weekend,” Cindy said, her voice sounding strange, far away. “Listen, Ellie, I have to go. But I’ll fill you in on all the details this weekend, I promise. I just want you to keep an open mind when you meet him, OK? Give me time to explain everything first.”
“Why? Does he have some kind of disfigurement?” Like that he’s fucked in the head?
“Ha, ha. No, seriously. Just promise you’ll wait for me to tell you the whole story before you judge him, OK?”
“OK, sure.”
“Cool! I’ll see you on Saturday, then! I can’t wait to meet your new guy.”
I hung up, then threw my phone down on the chess board in disgust. Little marble chess pieces scattered everywhere.
So Cindy was coming to Crookshollow, and bringing Damon Sputnik with her. The weirdest thing was, I wasn’t at all surprised. Of course Cindy would think it was perfectly alright to double-cross me and then bring the guy along to what was supposed to be our all-girls weekend. Of course she would think that if she apologised, it would make everything fine. Why would she expect anything else? That had always worked before. At university she would abandon me at parties to go off with guys, or say she’d meet me somewhere but then not show up because she’d got a better offer. And I’d just let her do it, because that’s what best friends are for.
But I was starting to realise that maybe I was tired of letting people just walk all over me. That wasn’t the way things had to be. I couldn’t imagine Bianca blowing me off just because some guy waved his crotch at her. In fact, I think Bianca would probably laugh in the guy’s face.
I glanced over at the ghost books stacked on the table, briefly entertaining the idea of opening them again. But I shook it off. Let Eric sort out his own problems. If he wants my help, he can come to me and apologise. This is a new Elinor Baxter, and I’m not doing shit for anyone else without a little appreciation.
From now on, I was looking out for number one.
***
I was on hold with the Lichtenstein bank where Alice Marshell had one of her accounts when I heard Eric calling my name from upstairs. At first I ignored him, because the New Elinor Baxter didn’t go running just because someone commanded her presence. But after a while his begging became insistent, and the Lichtenstein hold music was annoying, so I cradled the phone against my shoulder and walked upstairs.
“Where are you?” I called out.
“In my bedroom!” Eric called back. “Hurry. I found something!”
I bolted up the stairs two at a time, panting as I pushed through the door to Eric’s old bedroom, the one I’d been sleeping in ever since I arrived. He was kneeling beside the bed, his black jeans and shirt covered with a layer of dust, and his dark ringlets hanging over his face. staring at a long, black wooden box he’d pulled out from beneath it.
“Eric …” I stood in the doorway, folding one arm across my chest, the other holding tightly to my phone. The hold music still droned on. If he thinks I’m going to help him with anything, then he’s going to be sorely disappointed.
He glanced up, and recoiled when he saw my expression. “You are upset,” he said simply.
“Not upset. Just miffed. I was very clear, Eric. I’m not going to help you any longer—”
“Elinor, I’m sorry.”
Eric blu
rted the words out, his face screwed up as though saying them was somehow painful to him. He blinked, watching my face for a reaction. When I gave him none, he continued.
“You were right about everything, and I’m sorry. You were very clear about your boundaries, and I pushed you into something more because I was so desperate for a connection to the real world. I let you do all the work tracking down my killer, and I barely even thanked you for it. And, most importantly, I’m sorry about the way I treated you over Allan. I can be pretty protective of the things that matter most to me, but I have to learn that I don’t have a claim on you.” Eric looked pained. “Will you accept my apology? Can we please … be friends?”
I sighed. On my shoulder, the hold music continued to warble on. “I’m sorry, too. I may have overreacted about some things. On the surface, I’ve adjusted quite well to learning of the existence of a ghost, but in reality I’m having a harder time with it than I think even I realise. There wasn’t a textbook in law school about handling an estate with a ghost attached to it, and there’s some things you don’t know about me that are making me extra sensitive, I think I just needed a bit of space to clear my head, and I’ve had it now, and I’m ready to be friends … if that’s what you want to call it.”
In a second Eric was on his feet and standing in front of me, his eyes gazing intently into mine. He held out his hand, his fingers outstretched toward me. “To friendship.”
“To friendship,” I reached out to shake his hand, but my fingers fell through him. The familiar buzzing heat arched up my arm.
“Sorry,” Eric stared down at his hand in dismay. “I can’t seem to control when it comes and goes.”
“I know. But we might be able to change that. I have some books downstairs about ghosts. They talk about a kind of spirit called a shade. Shades are different from ghosts because a ghost is just the shadow of someone who lived in the past marking a place, whereas a shade is the spirit of a person that’s left its body prematurely, usually during tragic and untimely deaths. I think that’s what you could be.”
Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1) Page 115