Ink and Bone

by Lisa Unger

  *

  It was a beautiful day, Finley’s favorite kind. When the air was newly warm, and the sky was bright blue with high white clouds. The trees were lush with green, and the wildflowers a chaos all around. Eloise sat on the steps of the church, looking as Finley had never seen her. Once in an old photo album, Finley had found images of a beautiful woman with a dark pixie haircut and glittering black eyes. She had heavy lashes and high cheekbones, and she glowed. Her tiny frame was poured into a white lace shift, her tiny veil like a halo, pearl slippers, a bouquet of white roses.

  “Mimi,” little Finley had asked. “Is that a princess?”

  “No, sweetie,” Eloise had said with a laugh. “That’s your Mimi and your grandpa Alfie.”

  “That’s you?” she said with childish carelessness. “But you’re so—”

  “Young? Pretty? Not old and wrinkly,” said Eloise, laughing. Her grandmother was never a vain woman, never quick to be insulted.

  “You’re still beautiful,” said Finley. She’d been raised by a very vain mother, so she knew how to dole out a compliment—quickly when need be.

  “I was very young,” said Eloise. “In my twenties.”

  “That’s not young!” said Finley. “That’s old!”

  “You think so?” said Eloise, pretending surprise. “Well, I suppose it must seem that way to an eight-year-old.”

  “You were so happy,” said Finley.

  “I was,” said Eloise. “I loved your grandfather very much. So, so much.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s gone from this place,” she said. “But he’s all around us. In you, in your mommy and little Alfie, in my heart and dreams.”

  “Do you still see him?”

  “I do,” she said. “He seems to turn up whenever I need him most.”

  Even at eight, Finley didn’t need that explained to her. “He has glittery eyes and such a nice smile. He looks just like our Alfie.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?”

  The Eloise who sat on the church steps looked like the girl in the picture, youthful and full of joy, everything ahead of her. The golden light that emanated off of her was warm, magnetic. Finley realized that she was lying on her belly on the ground among the gravestones.

  Towering oaks shadowed the white church with its small steeple and bright red doors. A dappling light danced, sunlight fingering through the trees.

  “It’s a lovely spot to rest, isn’t it?” said Eloise. “The Three Sisters deserve their place here, don’t you think?”

  Finley pulled herself to her feet and basked in the warmth of the air. She looked down at her wet and blood-soaked clothes, which were suddenly dry. The parka she’d been wearing was gone. She walked over to her grandmother, and Eloise patted the spot beside her, looking at her with a loving smile.

  “Just the grave markers will be enough,” said Eloise. “All they want is a remembrance. They just wanted to be known. All that youthful energy, combined with the injustice of their murders—it creates such chaos when trapped.”

  Finley didn’t have a voice. Emotion was a ball of cotton in her chest.

  “We hold on so tightly to it all,” said Eloise. “All those negative emotions. We just cling to them. Or maybe it’s that they cling to us.”

  “Or a little of both,” managed Finley, her voice just a whisper.

  “Yes,” said Eloise. “Like a haunting. Places cling, too.”

  “He took them because they were ‘Dreamers,’ ” said Finley. “Like me and like you. All those girls were somewhere on the spectrum. Why did he want them?”

  “Abel Crawley had his own agendas,” said Eloise darkly. “He was a pain giver, a misery maker. As a child, he was content to hurt animals. As he grew older, his appetites changed. Even his own wife Millie didn’t know what he was, or at least that’s what she told herself.”

  Finley watched as Eloise deftly linked wildflowers into a chain—yellow, orange, violet, blue.

  “But his daughter Penny knew what he was. She tried to kill him but killed herself instead trying to escape him. But Millie clung to her, blaming herself for not knowing what her husband did when she was gone working.”

  The chain of flowers grew longer and longer in Eloise’s thin fingers.

  “That clinging love kept poor Penny in these woods. And Abel brought the Dreamers, the ones who could see her—for his shattered wife and to fulfill his own dark needs. Abel Crawley is a bad, bad man.”

  Eloise shook her head, slow and sad.

  “How could she stay with him?” asked Finley. “After everything he did.”

  Eloise looked up at the sky, as if the answer might be there, then back at Finley. “Millie Crawley was quite undone by the loss of her daughter Penny. And she wasn’t all there to begin with, had a touch of what her son Arthur has, a slowness. She stayed because she had nowhere else to go, because she couldn’t leave Penny alone in the woods.”

  Finley knew that it was so. She understood in that moment that it was Arthur she’d inhabited, his childish mind so confused, angry, and afraid. He was trapped here too with Abel.

  “And then when Abel was done with them? Or Millie was? Or they became too much trouble? Then he just killed them?”

  Eloise nodded grimly, her mouth pressed into a tight line of anger.

  “He was also a Listener. He couldn’t stand the sound of The Whispers. He knew, like you guessed long ago, that they wanted something, all those voices.”

  “What did they want?” asked Finley.

  “They want to go home,” said Eloise.

  “So,” Finley said, struggling to understand. “He thought the girls could quiet The Whispers, give them what they wanted—or needed?”

  “Yes,” said Eloise. “Among other darker, more hateful things. He thought because they were Dreamers that they could show the lost ones home. But they were far too young. And their passing was as wrong and ugly as the others’. Even you wouldn’t have been able to help them, Finley. You would have just wound up trapped here, another voice in the trees, calling.”

  “Calling who?”

  Eloise lifted the flowers, which she’d turned into a necklace, and hung them around Finley’s neck. “Calling me. All this time, and I had no idea.”

  “No,” said Finley, a sob nearly taking the word.

  “Everything has its time and its season.”

  “I’m not ready,” said Finley. She knew it was selfish, but she didn’t care. “I don’t want to stay here without you.”

  “You were born ready, my girl,” said Eloise. “You are electric with power. It comes off you in waves. And you’re smart, and stubborn, and have an iron will like your mother. You were more ready at eight than I have ever been.”

  “But I don’t want this,” said Finley. Tears fell, big and wet, an embarrassing flow, impossible to stop. Finley’s shoulders shook with her choking sobs.

  The young and pretty Eloise leaned in close and kissed Finley’s tears away, pulled her close and then released her, rising.

  “We don’t choose, Finley,” she said, her voice warm with loving kindness, but also somehow distant with resignation and understanding. “We are chosen.”

  “Mimi,” cried Finley. “Mimi, please.”

  Eloise opened the door to the church, and Finley found herself backing away from the energy that seemed to flow out of it, the same glittering black pull that emanated from the hole in the mine. It wasn’t tugging at her anymore, it was pushing her away, farther and farther until she stood on the other side of the stone wall that surrounded the graveyard. She was just an observer here, allowed to bear witness.

  “Why do they need you?” Finley yelled. “Why do you have to be the one?”

  “It’s my time,” said Eloise, as if she were talking about an appointment she’d made. She gave a wry smile. “It’s on my way.”

  At the door, Eloise opened her arms, and Finley watched them. Abigail, Patience, and Sarah danced and tugged at one another. Faith corralled
them toward the doorway, giving a fleeting glance back at Finley. Then The Burning Girl dimmed her fire and she was just Priscilla Miller, another victim of violence and neglect. She skipped through the open door. Abbey and the other Snow Angels, as Finley had come to think of them, moved uncertainly, and Eloise extended her hand. And there were others, faces Finley had never seen, so many others. They, too, moved into the luring darkness. But it was not dark at all, not really. It was the presence of all color, a great twist of all the shades and hues of this life and the next. It was the most beautiful and terrible thing Finley had ever seen.

  When the parade had concluded, Eloise stood for a moment in the doorway and glanced back at Finley with the very face of love and compassion. But then she, too, was swallowed.

  And then the church was just a church, a quiet little place nestled deep in The Hollows Wood. And there was silence, a blessed, ­perfect silence, except for the singing of the rose-breasted grosbeak, its pretty notes filling the warm spring air. Finley dropped to her knees and let out a wail that was the single dark note of all her sadness and anger and loss.

  When she came back to herself, she was on the edge of the hole in the mine, her torso hanging over the abyss with Jones Cooper holding on to her ankles, and a pale and shaken Chuck Ferrigno with a gun in his hand, the shot he’d just fired ringing in Finley’s head.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The smell of coffee, the hum of the espresso machine woke her. Bacon, cinnamon, eggs, a culinary symphony of aroma enticed Finley to pull the pillow from her head. But then it all came crashing back, as it did every morning since she lost Eloise. And Finley stayed in bed, pulling the covers tight around her, turning away from the idea of breakfast, even though her stomach was growling and she couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. She looked like a ghoul, haunted and wasting.

  Then came the pounding on the door. She put the pillow back over her head and clung to it, even as he tried to tug it away from her. He finally succeeded.

  “Today’s the day, sis,” said Alfie, loudly snapping the shade open. The light was blinding. What time was it? “You’ve done enough wallowing. This morning, you rejoin the living.”

  “Go away, Alfie,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Enough’s enough.”

  He gleefully stripped the covers off her bed, leaving her in only a tank top and underpants in the harsh cold of an old house in the morning.

  “Go away,” she roared. He ran off laughing, clutching at her blankets. She felt the energy of a laugh, but she tamped it down hard.

  “Kids,” said Amanda mildly, walking into the room. Finley’s mother offered the soft chenille robe that was hanging over the chair. Finley took it grudgingly, got up, then sank into the chair by the window, looking out at the oak tree in Eloise’s yard. It was the oldest oak tree in The Hollows. Today, the branches were bare and black, a stark relief against the blue-gray sky.

  “I think you should try to go back to class today,” said Amanda. Her straw-colored hair pulled back into a ponytail, she wore no makeup. She looked as pale and young as the pictures hanging on the wall downstairs. She was small like Eloise, careful in her movements.

  Alfie had returned with the covers, and Amanda busied herself making the bed. Then she moved to the dresser, neatly arranging everything there—the phone Finley wouldn’t turn on, the brush she refused to pull through her hair, her wallet with no money, keys she hadn’t touched since Eloise’s memorial.

  “I’ll drive you,” said Alfie.

  “I’m not ready,” she said.

  “You’re never going to be ready,” said Amanda, sitting on the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap, seemed to steel herself. “You have to ready yourself to return to life. Trust me. There’s no magic doorway through grief. Sometimes you just have to bust out.”

  Any anger Finley usually had for her mother had drained the night Eloise left. That’s how Finley saw it. Eloise made a choice and left her. Anger and sadness were one ugly mass in her stomach.

  “I can’t.”

  Amanda didn’t say anything for a moment, just regarded Finley with eyes ringed with fatigue. Finley got a glimpse of her own selfishness; Eloise had been Amanda’s mother. Amanda had been here within twenty-four hours and handled everything from phone calls, to funeral arrangements, to reception details. She handled it all with her usual steely panache. She cried at night when she thought everyone else was sleeping.

  Your mother is a stoic, Eloise had said. She holds everything in. I don’t think she trusts anyone to take care of her when she’s vulnerable.

  “Let’s at least try for breakfast at the table.”

  When Finley had come home that first night, alone except for Jones, who slept on the couch and stayed until Amanda arrived, they’d found the letters on the kitchen table. One for Jones, for Finley, for Amanda, Alfie, and Ray. Finley’s sat unopened on her dresser. Everyone else had read his, but no one but Ray had talked about it. It seemed that everyone knew Eloise was sick, except for Finley. It was a big secret that everyone kept.

  “It’s what she wanted,” Amanda had said when Finley confronted her. “A person has a right to choose how she lives.”

  “And how she dies?” asked Finley bitterly.

  “Well, yes,” said Amanda, her face going tight with sadness. “Don’t you agree that we deserve that dignity if we can have it?”

  “How the hell should I know what we deserve?”

  Finley had wished that her father were here. But as usual when he was needed, he was nowhere to be found. He’d called, of course. But when it came to getting on a plane and dealing with the reality of everyone’s grief—that was more than he could do. He’d made excuses about work, his new girlfriend, sent flowers.

  “Okay,” said Amanda, lifting her palms. “Okay.”

  “She was the only one who understood what I am,” said Finley.

  Amanda hung her head. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t mean—” started Finley.

  “No, I get it,” she said. “I screwed up and I’m sorry. Just know, please know, that I was just trying to keep you from having the kind of life she had. That’s all. I’m so sorry.”

  A rare embrace had followed, one which went on for hours and in which Finley got her first good sleep since Eloise left.

  *

  Now, in the kitchen, Finley ate. She started off refusing, then nibbling, then scarfing down everything on her plate. Amanda and Alfie ate, too. Alfie was going home soon. Amanda was going to stay on for a while, so Finley could decide what to do.

  “I never thought I’d be back in this house for any period of time,” said Amanda, clearing the dishes. “But I guess The Hollows gets what it wants.”

  After breakfast, Finley took a shower, letting the near-scalding hot water turn her skin pink and fill the shower with steam. What was notable was the silence. For the first time in her life, Finley was alone. Everyone was gone—even Faith and The Three Sisters. The Whispers had been completely quiet. Eloise was right; they finally got what they wanted. There was nothing left to say.

  *

  Finley had managed to dress herself when the doorbell rang. It had been nearly a month since the service for Eloise, which was held at the little old church in the woods and attended by hundreds of people from all over the world, even though most of them had to stand outside. It had been simple, and brief, just the way Eloise had specified in her notes to Amanda and Ray.

  “There shouldn’t be any grief for me,” she wrote in her note to Ray. “Just know I loved you in my way. And let me go.”

  “She had no idea how much I loved her,” Ray had told Finley after the reception when she’d walked him out to his car. “I didn’t even care that she’d never love anyone but Alfie. I just wanted to be with her, to show her some of the happiness of this world.”

  “I think she’d have let you if she could,” said Finley. “She wanted to come and be with you. She told me so.”


  Eloise had been fighting cancer for the better part of seven years, Finley had learned. It had been in remission until very recently. When it returned, she refused treatment. It was a decision that she’d shared with no one, except her doctor.

  Now, Finley stood at the landing, hearing the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Curious, she climbed down the stairs and was surprised to see Eliza and Betty Fitzpatrick in the foyer. She paused on the stairway and tried not to stare at Eliza, who looked pink and healthy, if a little haunted around the eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” said Betty, when she saw Finley. “I know your family is grieving a loss. But Eliza wanted so badly to come, to thank you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eliza said. “I’m sorry you lost your grandmother.”

  She was a sliver of a girl, with a Dreamer’s eyes, a bright shine. What else would Eliza see with those eyes? Finley hoped nothing but love and light and laughter. But that wasn’t the way of things, was it?

  “She said that it was her time to go,” said Finley, happy to be able to talk about it with someone who could understand. “You couldn’t have done it. And neither could I. It wasn’t our time. Neither of us could have showed them the way home.”

  “Real Penny wanted me to do it.”

  “She was as lost as any of them,” said Finley. She told Eliza about the fire, how Penny had killed herself to escape the father who abused her and the mother who didn’t believe her. But the girl already knew.

  “She didn’t know what she was asking,” Finley said. “They don’t always know.”

  Eliza nodded grimly, and Finley led her over to the couch and took her hands.

  “My grandmother told me that you would not be scarred by what’s happened to you,” said Finley. “That you will move through the pain and trauma in time, and learn to honor the strength and specialness inside you. Can you feel that?”

  Eliza looked toward where her mother had stood and nodded uncertainly.

  “I have nightmares,” she said, starting to shake. “I still see him.”