Ghost Gifts

by Laura Spinella

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On the outskirts of Surrey, Levi turned into a dusty café parking lot. “We’re stopping,” he said. Aubrey had handed him the keys in the driveway of Acorn Circle, taking refuge in the passenger seat. She pressed her head to the cool glass of the window. “Questions.” Levi said, thrusting the car into park before twisting toward her. “I need to ask you questions.”

  “Fine, as long as the only thing moving is your mouth.” With her arms wrapped tight around her belly, Aubrey leaned forward and shot him an ill-feeling glance. “Think of it as the queasy aftermath to the carnival ride you wished you’d skipped.”

  If a person could storm out of a car, that was how Levi proceeded. She was taken aback when he appeared on her side and opened the door. Aubrey shed her bright red sweater and lagged behind Levi as he marched into the café. She spent a few minutes in the ladies’ room pressing a wet paper towel to her face and fishing fresh Band-Aids from her satchel. A glance in the mirror revealed a ragged Aubrey, though her neck showed only faint red marks. She swung the bathroom door open, prepared for what was bound to be Levi’s hardnosed inquiry. Sliding into a booth, Aubrey saw the disbelief on his face. Levi’s fact-finding nature would not acquiesce, and his first line of defense was to be expected: she’d staged the whole scene, going into the house with a full knowledge of its history.

  “Sure, I suppose I could have,” she said hoarsely, thinking, “Yep . . . you’re onto me . . . you win, Levi . . .” Still woozy, Aubrey guessed it might be the fastest way out for both of them. The thought was sidelined as a waitress delivered hot tea.

  “He said he didn’t know if it was milk or lemon, so I brought both.”

  Aubrey blinked wide at Levi. But a thick Cockney accent barged in, spiriting her attention away. “Florence . . . Florence . . . Florence . . .” It was not the voice Aubrey expected—not Brody’s voice. But in the aftermath of her morning, everything, earthbound or otherwise, seemed off. Inside the café, Aubrey battled to keep other spirits at bay, her topsy-turvy state of mind reeling. She felt like her teenage self and Aubrey drew an unsteady breath as she reached for the milk.

  “Ah, I knew she was a milk gal,” the waitress said. “Good for you, sweetie. It appalled my husband Virgil to see Americans take lemon with their tea.” She served Levi his coffee. “I’m Flo. Shout if you decide you want breakfast.” She sashayed away, mercifully taking Virgil with her.

  “Did you want something to . . .” Levi said. Aubrey waved him off, stirring the milk into her tea. She took a deep breath and pushed up the sleeves of her cobalt blouse. Levi stared at the indentations on her forearm.

  “Yes. The scars are part of it. I’ll explain them if you want.” Aubrey pushed the blouse sleeves back down. “For now I think the house on Acorn Circle is enough to deal with. It, um . . . what we experienced was more than I anticipated.” He sipped his coffee casually, as if to dampen pointed curiosity. “What you suggest, me staging the whole thing, it’s plausible.” Aubrey looked toward the gravel-covered parking lot. “It’s not even terribly clever, right? I embellished the same news stories you recalled—the pinging sound was a nice touch, a little theater blood on the handkerchief.” She eyeballed him. “Damn. I am friendly with the secretary at the ME’s office—insider information. I didn’t even think about that.”

  “I did.”

  “Of course you did. So maybe that’s where I got my facts. If I was putting on a show.”

  “Which is what they do in carnivals.”

  “Which is what we do in carnivals,” she agreed, nodding. “It all makes for a great gaslight effect. But to what point? Why would I do that, Levi?”

  “Because . . . well, because you believe it. Maybe you’re completely sold on your own . . . ”

  “Psychosis?” He didn’t object. “Wow, scammer to psychotic in .08 seconds. That might be a new record.”

  “Sorry, Ellis. But either seems more rational than your explanation.”

  “Yes, because sitting here while you decide between crazy or liar is such an appealing way to spend my morning.” Aubrey’s back thudded against the booth, and she folded her long arms. “Newsflash, Levi, you’re not the kind of person carnies try to hustle. Can we agree on that much?” His attention turned toward the same parking-lot view. “You’re so sure it’s a story of sorts. Work the angles,” she suggested. “Go for it. Align pieces the way you do all tales that come with helter-skelter parts, things that don’t make sense to the average eye. Where would you start?”

  He looked back. “The glass from the door in the library.”

  “Good choice. Biggest most undeniable evidence first—kind of like a skeleton falling out of a brick wall. What did you see aside from the obvious?”

  “Aside from glass being where it didn’t belong . . . I saw your reaction. That’s when you got spooked.”

  “You’re right. When you pointed out the glass, that’s when things started spiraling out of control. That house, it was a mistake. I assumed its urgent draw was me neglecting my job. Turns out the specter inside had an ax to grind, desperate for a conduit to move its energy. Nobody tried to break in, but a very specific entity was trying to get out. The French door, the pinging, which Marian aptly ignored . . .”

  “Shed some light on that. Have you ever discussed the house in that way with Marian Sloane?”

  “Not a word. Ask her if you like. But you saw it yourself, her nervousness and quick exit. I’d imagine Marian’s experienced things she really doesn’t want to know any more about. And why do you think the homeowners vacated without selling? Trust me; nobody wants to be in that house—the Serinos or Marian Sloane.”

  “Isn’t that illegal? Don’t they have to report something like that?”

  “To who? Ghostbusters?” Aubrey offered him a confounded look. “Careful, Levi, you’re starting to make an argument for the other side.” She paused to sip her tea. “Just FYI, in the state of Massachusetts realtors are required to disclose homicides that took place on a property but not suicides, certainly not suspected ghosts. Whoever ends up with that house is in for a time. Until, of course . . .”

  “Until what?”

  “Eventually Eli Serino will make his way out. The parents can move all they like. But in my experience you can’t ditch the spiritual world by changing your address. Eli’s issue isn’t with a house—though he appears stuck in the one where he took his own life. It’s strange . . .”

  “You think?”

  “Eli Serino is not my first encounter with someone who committed suicide. There’s an irony to their presence. People who take their own lives come to me surrounded by a different energy. Their ability to move on is weak, but their link to here is ferociously strong.”

  “So, purgatory?” he said, rolling his eyes.

  “That’s not a word I’ve ever heard from them. I don’t know that it defines their state. It’s more about the fallout from an unfinished life. Suicide’s a messy business. In most instances, there’s so much left unknown . . . unsaid.”

  “Okay, enough psychological . . . theoretical analysis,” he said. “Back to the house. You know I heard the pinging. I saw the glass. I’ll even go as far to admit that a two-hundred-pound chandelier rattled despite an obvious catalyst. But what did you mean when you said you saw Eli Serino. Like what . . . like a vision?”

  “The stronger the entity the more vividly my gift translates it. Sight is probably the sense I rely on least. Most specters don’t harbor enough energy to create a visual presence, but the one living in that house. It was incredible . . . and evil.”

  “Evil.”

  Aubrey touched the scar on her chin. “Not every soul is looking to send a positive message, make amends.” She cocked her head at him. “The Long Island Medium never mentions that, does she?”

  “The . . .”

  “Forget it. To answer your question, yes. I saw Eli
Serino.” Aubrey pushed herself hard into the vinyl-covered seat, her shoulders arching. “My particular ability exceeds the boundaries of most clairvoyants. It runs in the family,” she said, deadpan.

  “So what you’re telling me is you see—”

  “If you’re about to say ‘I see dead people,’ I’m so not continuing this conversation.”

  “But that’s what you’re telling me, that’s what you’re asking me to believe.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. Believing it is strictly your call.”

  Levi rubbed his fingers across his forehead as if trying to straighten the twisted thoughts. “Look . . . even if I were inclined to buy into what you’re saying, there’s got to be a more logical explanation.” It was a standoff stare, his hole-burning, hers more that of a passive trial witness.

  “Levi, taking you to that house was a first. I don’t give on-demand performances. I don’t do this for profit or recognition, not even in my carnie days.”

  “You’ve never deliberately told anyone in the newsroom . . . Malcolm, Kim . . . Ned?”

  “Not even Bebe.”

  “And Charley is aware . . .”

  “Of course she knows. My father . . . As I said, it runs in the family. My father had the same gift . . . affliction, whichever. Trust me; growing up in a carnival was the less colorful part of my childhood.”

  His forehead knotted. “Color.”

  “What about it?”

  “You were wearing that long, bright red sweater. On the days you visit houses, I’ve noticed . . .”

  “I wear bright colors—very observant, Levi,” she said, genuinely impressed. “They’re drawn to color. It’s not so far removed from nature. Animals with dull coats are less noticeable. Earthy tones help minimize the effect of . . . well, of me. It’s one of many coping mechanisms.”

  “Coping mechanisms? Such as . . .”

  “Mmm, that’s a long conversation. Most of it is internal . . . abstract. It’s about keeping myself grounded, having a stronger will than whoever is looking for a way in. My job at the newspaper was a big turning point. I don’t have an answer for everything. I don’t know why I was suddenly given a course of action. Unbeknownst to MediaMatters, my gift seems to be the reason they hired me for the home portrait fea . . .” Verbally, the thought petered out. Aubrey drew the conclusion in her head: it seemed the dead, Missy Flannigan and Brody St John, were responsible for delivering her and Levi to the same place. “As I was saying, with the exception of today, it’s been a workable plan—for both sides.”

  “The Stallworths.”

  “What about them?”

  “The first time you mentioned them, it was a conversation with Jerry Stallworth. We talked about how stubborn he is, and how my father is the same way. You said that’s why you ran late that first morning—you were talking to Jerry Stallworth.”

  “That’s right,” she said, stirring the tea again.

  “Then yesterday . . . when you were on the phone with Kitty, you said her father was ‘resting in peace’ now.”

  “Did I?” she said, smiling at her error.

  Levi leaned back. “I brushed it off—because we were busy with Missy Flannigan or because I thought I’d misunderstood.”

  “You didn’t. Jerry Stallworth died last April.” Aubrey placed her spoon on a napkin, her fingers folding like a prayer. “The day you arrived at the Surrey City Press, Mr. Stallworth’s spirit was present at his house on Harper Street. Kitty was willing to help research Missy’s car because of what I found in the house and what I returned to her—an annuity for close to a million dollars.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Jerry directed me to a piece of paper so squirreled away in the wet bar with dry rot that no one would have ever found it. Once Jerry was able to communicate that, he moved on . . . at peace, just like I said to his daughter.”

  Levi’s hand ran rough over the back of his neck. “That’s . . .”

  “Thank you so much for not saying crazy.”

  “Hard to fathom.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “And your ex . . .” he said, working another tangent. “Owen. What’s his take on this?”

  Aubrey sat tall and tighter. She hadn’t thought about including her personal life in an explanation to Levi. “Owen knows now. I didn’t tell him before we were married . . . He, um . . . he found out accidentally.”

  “So, on some level, that would make you . . .”

  “A liar?”

  “Yes.”

  “On some level. On the other hand, that lie was almost our final undoing. Breaking up isn’t what I wanted, which would make it illogical for me to confess to something so untrue.”

  Levi drank more coffee, his dark eyes scanning over her. “Aside from the big picture, here’s what makes even less sense. Why? Why are you telling me any of this? The person least likely to believe that you can . . . do what you claim.” Aubrey’s gaze, slow and deliberate, drifted to Levi’s leather-banded watch. His hand flew protectively over it. “No!”

  “No what?” Good, keep going, Levi, connect the dots . . . You come up with the reason . . . Say it!

  “I don’t know how you know . . . but this is total bullshit!” Levi lurched from the seat, throwing a ten-dollar bill onto the table. He didn’t look back, bolting for the parking lot. But since they came in Aubrey’s car, she knew the rational side of Levi would prevent him from leaving. She watched as he stood there, his arms pressed stiff into the car’s hood. It was as if he was trying to get unwelcome emotion to drain from his body.

  Watching from the café window, Aubrey sipped the last of her tea and said to herself, “That went well.” She considered pushing the point, telling a slightly vulnerable Levi what she knew. His brother had been waiting years, dropping a breadcrumb trail onto her path for weeks. If Levi were willing to hear her, she might just spell it all out. Then she considered Brody’s reluctance. He wasn’t going to show until his brother was ready to listen. The ghost demanded more. The task fell to her. “Bully for St John tenacity,” she said, setting down her cup and exiting the café. On her way out, Aubrey heard the disappointed pleas of anxious specters. Her nose filled with rose-scented bubble bath, scones, and fish—trout maybe, cooked over an open campfire. On her palate were a myriad of tastes, so many that they were impossible to discern. She forced it all away, ambling into the bright sun of the parking lot. Here, empty space greeted her. Levi leaned against the car, his face shadowed with skepticism.

  “What happened to your parents?”

  Aubrey shuffled to a stop. There was a plain breeze, and on it scents and tastes faded to October air and tea. “I’m fine now,” she said, ignoring the question. “I can drive back to the newsroom.”

  “Are you going to answer me? Surely, at this point, you can’t think it’s none of my business.”

  Halfway around to the passenger side, Aubrey turned back. “It will only complicate what you refuse to acknowledge. That and it has nothing to do with—”

  “I want to know. I already know that they’re dead. How did they die?” Aubrey’s glance cut across the car. This was Levi St John, compiling information, arranging facts, steering the interview. “You claim your father was like you.”

  “Like me . . . but not like me.” His face looked perplexed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to confuse what you already can’t grasp. My father . . . Peter Ellis, he was never able to negotiate his ability. It haunted him, much like Eli Serino haunted that house. Ultimately, I believe my father’s gift cost him and my mother everything . . . everything in this life, anyway.”

  “She knew this about him? She believed it?”

  “My mother knew. She accepted it. But with me . . . I think the same gift scared the hell out of her.” Aubrey dropped her satchel onto the hood, guessing Levi wasn’t unhappy about a two-ton vehicle separating
them. “Some of my earliest memories are of having conversations with people in my bedroom.”

  “But you weren’t talking to stuffed animals or a make-believe friend.”

  “No. Not from the look on my mother’s face. I remember her holding me . . . rocking me, pressing her hand to my head, saying, ‘Stop, Aubrey, just stop . . .’ I didn’t understand. It all seemed perfectly natural to me, like learning to read. But watching my parents, how my father suffered . . . Even at four or five, I grasped the idea that there was nothing normal about it. Eventually”—she paused and waited for a couple of patrons to pass by—“my father ended up in a sanitarium.”

  “A sanitarium.”

  It was the “Ah ha!” he’d been waiting to hear. “Yes. The place where they put you when your mind doesn’t fit the norm. Feel better?”

  “Not particularly. Keep going.”

  “Ironically, it was the worst possible place for someone like him. My parents were living abroad at the time, in Greece. That’s where my mother was from. I don’t think she knew what else to do. But she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand to see him so . . . haunted. He couldn’t cope with this.” Aubrey grazed a hand downward, as if offering herself as evidence. “My mother was afraid he’d injure himself, or worse . . . me. Peter Ellis couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t learn to live with it. The way Charley tells it, the sanitarium was worse than the in-between life of the ghosts who visited him. In time, enough was enough and . . .”

  “He killed himself.”

  “No. If he had, I believe things would be different. When I was five, my mother checked him out of the sanitarium. She took him to live in the country. She thought distancing him from people might be the answer. Apparently, it didn’t help. That summer Mother packed up everything I owned and sent me to the states, to Charley. While I was gone . . .” Aubrey paused, examining the surrounding scenery, always curious if her parents might be listening. Then she looked straight into Levi’s eyes. “My parents went for a drive into the mountains. It was a treacherous road in good weather. The day they went, there were torrential downpours, even mudslides. According to the police, the car skidded off a hairpin turn at a high rate of speed.”