“You’ve seen it?”
“Nothing more than the dart of a shadow out of the corner of my eye, but there is a cold spot in my bedroom and another in my study. Things have been misplaced or gone missing altogether. I hear voices at night and footfalls when no one is there. I’ve awakened to a cold breath upon my cheek.” He paused. “And just this morning, the mirror in my bathroom cracked for no apparent reason.”
“I can see how that would be unnerving.”
“Unnerving? You’ve no idea. Normally, I’m a rational man, but this...” He trailed off. “I believe the correct terminology for such a disturbance is poltergeist.”
He seemed to expect acquiescence, but my inclination was to say nothing at all. However, like the ghosts that wandered in and out of my life, I didn’t think Jonathan Devlin would rest easy until I gave him what he wanted. “Contrary to your apparent perception of me, I’m no expert in such matters. But people who study the paranormal often draw a distinction between ghosts and poltergeists.”
“People like Rupert Shaw?”
The derision in his voice made me harden my defenses. “Dr. Shaw is certainly the most knowledgeable person I know in such matters.”
“Is he, indeed?”
“You would be far better off speaking to him about this disturbance than to me.”
“What makes you think I haven’t?”
I stared at him in surprise, instantly flashing back to Dr. Shaw’s animosity. “When did you talk to him? And what did he say?”
“I’m more interested in what you have to say. Perhaps you could enlighten me about this distinction.” He watched me carefully.
“Ghosts are considered to be the spirits of the deceased that, for whatever reason, linger in our world. Poltergeists are thought to be forms of energy. A manifestation of negative energy oftentimes left by a sudden and violent death.”
“Like a murder, you mean.”
I tried not to show my reaction. “Possibly.”
“Please go on,” he urged, but I didn’t think it a good idea to pursue the conversation. He’d gone very pale and the tremor in his voice became even more pronounced.
“Are you okay?” I asked in concern. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine,” he said, but I could hear a ragged note in his cultured tone that gave away his distress. “I’d like you to continue.”
“I really don’t know what else to tell you other than to provide a more simplistic explanation. Some consider ghosts passive and poltergeists aggressive.”
Despite his alarming pallor, his dark stare was as intense as ever. “Is that what you believe?”
I knew from personal experiences that ghosts could be extremely aggressive, like the child in Woodbine Cemetery. Jonathan Devlin’s description of his haunting reminded me of her impish behavior, but it seemed too far-fetched to believe there could be a connection. Then again, I really didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Like most Southerners, I’ve heard ghost stories and folktales all my life,” I said. “And in my line of work, someone always has an experience they wish to share. I’ve come to believe that if ghosts truly exist, most linger in our world because they want to be among the living again.”
“If they exist.” He smiled at that and my blood turned cold. I was reminded of who he was and what he might really be after—proof that I was an unnatural.
I clasped my fingers together in my lap. “Has anyone else in the household experienced these disturbances?”
“Not that I’m aware. The malice seems directed at me.”
“Malice is a strong word.”
“I can think of no more fitting a description.”
“Do you know why you’re the target?”
“No,” he said, but he couldn’t quite meet my eyes.
“Earlier you referred to the entity as a she. Do you know who this spirit was in life?”
“Not for certain, but I have a suspicion.”
“Then you must also have some idea why you’ve been chosen as the recipient of the entity’s hostility.”
He paused as a curtain came down over his expression. “I won’t answer any more questions until you agree to help me.”
“Help you how? You say you want me to make the ghost go away, but how do you propose I do that?”
“Use your gift. Whatever it is you do to summon them. Then you can find out what the ghost wants.”
I gave him a doubtful glance. “Even if I had that kind of power, I assure you I would never knowingly summon a ghost.”
He fell into another deep silence. In the interim, I noted the pulse that throbbed at his temple and the infinitesimal twitch at the corner of his left eye. If he had fabricated the story as a lure to gain my trust or a trap to prove my true nature, he was certainly a very good actor. By all outward indications, Jonathan Devlin was a troubled man.
“Would you at least be willing to come to my house and experience the cold spots for yourself?” he finally asked. “Perhaps your presence alone will be enough to entice the entity. If we can somehow placate the spirit, I can be done with this business once and for all.”
His voice had risen in agitation and I tried to say in a calming tone, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Apart from willfully attracting a ghost, I wasn’t so sure I wanted to run into Devlin. Not there. Not in the place that seemed to embody the chasm between us.
“You still think I mean you harm?” Jonathan Devlin demanded.
I returned his relentless gaze. “No, not really. Not in this instance. But I’m not wholly convinced your motives are just as you say. What you’re asking...you must realize how all of this sounds to me. How taken aback I am by your request.”
“You refuse then.” He rose stiffly. “I suppose there is little more for us to say. I’ve come to you with only one intention...to enlist your assistance in expelling what I believe to be a malevolent and supernatural force from my home. A force I’m convinced means me harm. If anything happens in that house...if anything happens to me, my blood will be on your hands.”
I stared at him in shock. “You don’t really believe that.”
“I’m a desperate man, Miss Gray. As you well know, desperate men say and do desperate things.”
Eleven
The walk home seemed to take forever, and the conversation with Jonathan Devlin echoed in my head every step of the way.
There’s a ghost in my house.
There is very little I don’t know about you, Miss Gray.
If anything happens to me, my blood will be on your hands.
On and on and on. The more I replayed the dialogue, the greater my anxiety. I wasn’t surprised a man like Jonathan Devlin would have me so thoroughly investigated that he could anticipate my visit to White Point Garden that morning. The greater shock would have been a passive acceptance of someone like me in his grandson’s life.
No, what worried me—what absolutely petrified me—was his seemingly effortless ability to uncover a legacy that my family had kept secret for generations. And if he could so easily discover the truth...who else might know?
My heart beat faster and harder as I contemplated the implications of his revelation. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to be home safe and sound in my sanctuary and I became increasingly paranoid as I hurried along the awakening streets, certain that shadowy figures lurked in every recessed doorway or that a long black car awaited me in the next alley. With sunrise the city had come alive, but I took no comfort in the rumble of delivery trucks and the occasional blast of a horn. I might have been alone, the sole survivor of a devastated city, so utter my sense of isolation.
Since childhood my aloneness had been a part of me. My instinct had always been to hide myself away behind the walls of my beloved cemeteries, but at that mome
nt, I had a strong urge to seek out a sympathetic ear. I desperately needed to talk to someone about everything that had happened, but who to call? Devlin was out of the question for many reasons, and Temple knew nothing about my gift. She had a progressive point of view, but I didn’t see her opening her mind to the possibility of ghosts.
Normally, I would have gone straight to Dr. Shaw, but for some reason, I felt hesitant to tell him about my encounter with Jonathan Devlin. Maybe it was Dr. Shaw’s animosity toward the man or the fact that he hadn’t told me about his involvement with Woodbine Cemetery. Or maybe it was nothing more than his moodiness. He’d obviously had something preying on his mind during our last visit and I was hesitant to add to his burden.
I didn’t want to go to Papa, either. Despite our shared gift, we didn’t always communicate well, and the revelations from so many of our visits often made things worse. So for now, I had no choice but to keep my worries and fears to myself.
Maybe that was for the best. I hadn’t made a verbal promise to Jonathan Devlin, but he was undoubtedly counting on a tacit agreement to keep me quiet. So be it. I would honor his wishes so long as he kept his distance.
The safe harbor of my home beckoned and I entered the garden eagerly, letting the wrought-iron gate clang shut behind me. But as I bounded up the steps, a movement at the corner of the porch caught my eye and I turned with a start. A sparrow had alighted on one of the window ledges looking—I could have sworn—into my house. The tiny brown head rotated at the sound of my footfalls, but the bird didn’t seem frightened—quite the contrary. The sparrow remained perched with head slightly tilted as if befuddled by my sudden appearance.
The action and expression were so bizarre that I remained rooted to the spot as the bird eyed me for an uncomfortably long time. The thought crossed my mind that I should shoo the creature away from my house, but I couldn’t seem to utter a sound, let alone flap my arms. Because another thought had also entered my head. There was intelligence behind that stare. A normal bird would have flown away the moment I came up the steps. A normal bird would not have been looking into my house.
Was I going crazy? I wondered. Had I finally followed my great-grandmother into the ultimate sanctuary of insanity? How else to explain the peculiarity of that sparrow?
A car went by on Rutledge and the bird flew over to the porch rail where it gazed out across the yard toward the street. Then it hopped around to face me before fluttering back to the window ledge. All the while I didn’t move so much as a muscle. The sparrow’s unlikely behavior stunned me and for a moment, I wondered if those beady eyes had actually bewitched me.
I said aloud, “What is going on here?”
My voice should have scared it away, but instead the head cocked and the beak opened slightly as if the bird meant to answer me, which would have indisputably signaled the final stage of madness.
“Are you even real?” I muttered.
Through the front door I heard the click of Angus’s claws on the wood floor as he propelled himself toward the sound of my voice. A moment later, he popped up at the window. The bird hadn’t seemed in the least concerned by my presence, but the dog’s sudden appearance behind the glass startled us both. The sparrow took flight, lighting briefly on the rail before soaring up into the treetops.
Released from the spell of my own shock, I quickly unlocked the door and dashed inside. I peeked out the window again, but the tiny visitor was gone for good this time. Or at least I hoped so.
My intense relief at the bird’s absence was so irrational, I once again questioned my stability. Maybe the encounter with Jonathan Devlin had left me more shaken than I realized, so much so that I had attributed humanlike qualities to a sparrow.
Get a grip, I told myself sternly as I got ready for work. But I felt off-kilter even inside my own home. The dreams, the sparrow, the strange encounters...it was as if the universe was trying to tell me something that I wasn’t yet prepared to accept.
* * *
By the time I arrived at the cemetery, the sun was just peeking through the live oaks, burnishing a tin roof in the distance and dappling the headstones. Out on Morrison Drive, sirens screamed toward some dire emergency, but here in this tucked-away corner of the city, all seemed well. The ghosts had crossed back over at dawn and the cemetery slumbered in peace.
Grabbing my backpack, I climbed out of the vehicle and headed toward the gate. Two days of rain had softened the ground and just inside the entrance, I spotted a trail of footprints meandering through the graves. Normally, I wouldn’t have given the tracks a second thought. People visited cemeteries all the time, even graveyards as old and neglected as Woodbine. There was no lock on the gate and no posted hours, so visitors were free to come and go as they pleased. But it was still very early and the impressions were fresh.
Unease niggled as I stared down at the prints. They led only one way—into the cemetery—so whoever had arrived before me was either still inside or had left by way of the side gate.
I hadn’t noticed another vehicle parked near the entrance, so my first thought was that the caretaker had walked down from his house to make his rounds or to chase away trespassers and vandals. But there was only one set of prints and I didn’t think they belonged to Prosper Lamb. He’d been wearing work boots when I met him on Monday and these tracks were smallish and narrow, leading me to wonder if the visitor was female.
Kneeling, I took a closer look at the prints, even going so far as to snap a couple of shots with my phone, though I couldn’t say why exactly. An inclusion across one of the heels, possibly a cut or worn place in the sole, caught my attention, but other than the one anomaly, I found nothing unusual about the footprints.
Still, the notion of a woman wandering around Woodbine at such an ungodly hour intrigued me even though I told myself to forget about the tracks and get on with my work. People were entitled to their privacy, especially someone who had come alone to a cemetery to visit the grave of a loved one. I was the last person to intrude upon something so poignant and personal.
Yet I found myself making excuses as to why caution necessitated a quick trek through the cemetery. It only made sense to be aware of anyone in my immediate vicinity. Hadn’t the caretaker warned me about the unsavory element that gravitated to places like Woodbine? Hadn’t I been caught unaware before in an overgrown cemetery? I would be foolish not to take stock of my surroundings.
Shoving aside my conscience, I hitched my backpack over one shoulder and followed the tracks all the way to the rear of the cemetery where the willow trees grew along the riverbank. The footprints seemed to pause at the edge of the grove as if the visitor had stopped there to gather her courage.
Possibly I was projecting my own emotions onto the situation, but as I stood beside those footprints, gazing into the shadowy recesses of the copse, I felt the coldest of chills sweep across my nerve endings. Hidden inside those willow trees was the nameless grave I’d happened upon my first day at Woodbine. I could still picture the infant’s forlorn little face peeking from beneath the hood of the stone crib. I could imagine the ghost girl lurking in the shadows nearby, keeping guard, watching and waiting, perhaps plotting some new trick to lure me into her mystery.
I told myself I would go no further. If the ghost hadn’t drifted back through the veil at dawn, I wouldn’t risk another confrontation. If the visitor still lingered, I wouldn’t intrude upon her solitude. Maybe she had come to the cemetery so early because she didn’t wish to be seen.
But no good intentions or self-recriminations could make me turn away from those willow trees. Instead, I found myself edging closer, searching the ground for the telltale footprints. A mild breeze stirred the wind chimes and I tilted my head to listen. The melodic notes were random, but for me, a siren’s song nonetheless. Parting the willow fronds, I followed the sound into the copse. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the ghost’s
mocking laughter, but except for the mournful clinking of the chimes, all remained silent.
I stepped into the sheltered enclave and shivered. Something lingered. Not a ghostly presence this time, but human emotions so deep and pervasive they settled over me like a shroud. I was trespassing on something very personal here and I had the strongest urge to retreat. Instead I closed my eyes and focused, drawing those feelings deep into my being. Sorrow...loneliness...betrayal. I sensed an old bitterness, too, and a trace of fresh anger.
Suppressing another shudder, I moved to the stone crib, my gaze dropping to the bed from which Prosper Lamb had plucked the corpse bird. Nestled against that soft blanket of pansies was an old-fashioned teddy bear that hadn’t been there on my last visit. The seams had been clumsily repaired and the mohair fur worn thin in places. One of the button eyes was missing. The toy had obviously been well loved, possibly for generations, but who had left it in the crib? The fabric was dry, so I assumed it had been placed in the bed only that morning. By the female visitor? Had she made good her escape through the side gate or did she dawdle in the shadows, having been frightened into hiding by my arrival?
I lifted my head to scour the trees before returning my attention to the teddy bear. I wouldn’t pick it up or even touch it. Tampering with gravesite offerings was anathema to everything I believed in, but cemetery etiquette didn’t preclude a closer look. As I bent over the stone crib, a scent drifted up to me. I closed my eyes yet again and drew it in. Beneath the expected funereal smells of flowers and damp earth trailed a perfume that took me back to the loneliness of my childhood. A tantalizing and nostalgic fragrance that reminded me of my dream and of my mother and aunt whispering beside that open grave.
Familiarity tugged at me and I straightened once more to search my surroundings.
“Is someone there?” I called out.
Silence.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you. My name is Amelia Gray. I work in the cemetery.”
As I spoke, I turned in a circle, peering deep into the shadows. The leaves ruffled as if whispering my name back to me: Amelia. Amelia Gray.
The Awakening Page 8