Aftersight

by Brian Mercer

  The rain had stopped and overhead a seam had opened in the clouds, revealing brilliant, creamy moonlight and stars pulsing in the night sky. I wasn't falling now but rising, moving upward on a gust of wind like a wayward helium balloon. Waltham Manor's giant number eight shape grew smaller and smaller below me, the fountains in its north and south courtyards gleaming like eyes in the dark. To the south, east, and west, the park-like span of lawns, paths, and trees spread out into the hills. To the north, a dense forest showed a small lake and dozens of thread-like rivers passing through the surrounding wilderness. Something deep in the woods glowed brightly, something that looked like a miniature, earthbound moon, and around it tiny circling dots like quivering stars.

  I was falling now and what had been moonlight changed into something brighter and warmer, like the reflected glint of afternoon light seeping in through windows and bouncing off walls. I wasn't outside anymore but hovering near the ceiling joists of a small, primitive kitchen.

  The walls were painted white and though the room wasn't big, it was bright and cheerful. In its exact center crouched a heavy wood chopping block that supported a half-dozen knives and cleavers and what looked to me like a small axe. Dried out bundles of herbs and flowers draped from the walls and, dangling upside down from the rafters, hung four dead rabbits and the corpse of a bird, its colorful plumage resembling a brightly painted toy.

  A young woman stood beneath my shapeless form. She wore a plain dress of grey and brown, a stiff white bonnet, and an apron stained with blood and a day's worth of vegetable and fruit wipings. She was crushing green herbs in a wooden bowl with a fat, iron pestle, creating a fine green mush that filled the room with a fresh summer fragrance, like basil or cilantro.

  The woman's hair was as blond as hay, her creamy complexion flushed with pink. Her wide blue eyes filled her face like the sky. She was only a teenager, really, no more than twenty years at most, but I felt intuitively that she was considered mature, even old, in the time period she lived in; I realized that my out-of-body experience had taken me someplace out of time and that the woman below me had lived long ago.

  I knew her, even if I couldn't put a name to her face or a place to our first meeting. Is that me? I asked myself. Am I that girl? I had no immediate answer, but every part of my being was drawn to her, consumed by her irresistible presence. By today's standards most people would have found her pudgy and unattractive, but to me she was stunningly beautiful. I reeled with the overpowering urge to crawl into her skin, to become her.

  A second person walked into the room, an old man dressed completely in black. At first I thought he was wearing a dress, but after narrowing my concentration I realized it was more like a long tunic than a dress. Black hose, matching pointy shoes, and a black, bill-less cap, like what a surgeon might wear, finished off the outfit. He must be the woman's father or grandfather, I thought, but then he pulled her close and started caressing and kissing her. The girl responded eagerly, helping him lift her onto the table.

  A seductive wave of sensual energy swept through me at the sight of the old man's lust. My arousal was immediate, my desire overpowering. A dizzying sense of disorientation passed through me before my vision cleared. Now I wasn't looking down from the ceiling but standing over the woman, pulling her closer, kissing her passionately. I wasn't an invisible bystander anymore. Now I was experiencing everything from the man's perspective, throbbing with his desire, craving this lovely woman in every way imaginable.

  Love! So much love!

  I felt tenderness, devotion, and intimacy the way I'd never felt it before. My connection with this woman was all-consuming. With every kiss, I felt as if I really was becoming her. This is what I want! I thought, this is what I've been looking for! All this time I've never known what love could be!

  ****

  It wasn't like a dream, I wrote in my journal early the next morning. It seems as real now as is it did then. More real maybe. I tapped my pen thoughtfully to my lip. How could I explain this sense of longing? Not longing for the woman, necessarily, but for the love that I'd felt, that sense of complete connection to another human being.

  What's happening to me?

  All morning it haunted me. Before we even ventured into the luncheon hall for breakfast, Becky, Sara, Nicole, and I had resumed our search for a way to reach our upstairs neighbors. Yet the anger I'd felt the night before had disintegrated into a fog of lingering desire, of a love found and lost in almost the same moment.

  "A fine parcel of psychics we are," Sara said as we retraced our steps from the night before. "All this otherworldly help and we can't find our bums in our own back pockets."

  "I'm doin' the best I can," Nicole snapped.

  "Let's just tell Mrs. Apple and let her take care of it," Becky said. "I'm hungry. Let's get breakfast."

  I was trailing behind the others, letting them turn the corner into the next hallway without me. Moving from door to door, I twisted knobs and peeked in rooms. When I got to a broom closet I'd seen the night before, I reached for the overhead light, a string turning on a naked bulb. The space was filled with dry mops, feather dusters, and dustpans. Containers of cleaning supplies sat on old wooden shelves. Three buckets and an ancient steel vacuum cleaner guarded piles of folded sheets and linens.

  I worked my way toward the back of the storeroom where the room elbowed to the left and out of view. Somehow I knew before I turned the corner what I'd find: a door. Small, unassuming, it didn't have the intricately carved wood or brass doorknobs of Waltham's other doors. This one was plain, with an ancient-looking iron handle and a thick coat of paint that seemed to glue the door to its frame.

  Surely it would be locked. It look liked no one had used it in generations. But I knew before I even reached for the handle that it would turn easily. With a rusty creak, the door swung back to reveal rutted, water-stained steps moving up where light shafts exposed swirling phantoms of dust.

  "Guys," I called out uncertainly. "Guys? I think I found it."

  The stairs led up, not to the fourth floor but to a dusty old attic. It was exactly the kind of attic you might imagine in a place like Waltham, with unfinished wood floorboards and cobweb-filled rafters and old junk piled here and there, neatly but haphazardly. Tattered white sheets had been thrown over gatherings of grimy old furniture so that they looked like a party of ghosts on Halloween. Small dormer windows let in just enough eerie grey to lead the four of us back to our corner of the manor house, just above where we slept.

  The going was maze-like, with roof planes joining together at low and awkward angles. Sometimes the ceiling would slope so low that it almost cut off our path. Finally, we found the spot we'd been searching for. We could tell we were above our corner of the house by the octagonal shape of the roof, the walls that were in the same shape as our downstairs sitting room, and the chimney that grew out of the floor and up past the roofline.

  It was clear from the dust on the ground and the footprints we were making in it that no one had been up there in a long time. We each came to the same conclusion, I think, but only now did any of us say it out loud.

  "Looks like someone up here's been fixin' to get our attention," Nicole said, "and that somebody doesn't have a body anymore."

  ****

  "I say we go up there tonight," Sara suggested excitedly. "Get to the bottom of this once and for all." She hungrily attacked her toast and marmalade. None of the rest of us had touched our breakfasts.

  "I-I-I don't know," Becky said. "I think we've gotta tell somebody. I mean, come on, people. You heard the noises up there. I don't think we should be messin' with this stuff on our own."

  "What does Charlie say?" I asked Nicole.

  "He says it's noisy spirits but that's about it."

  "Let's spend the night up there," Sara insisted. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

  Becky sighed in exasperation. She seemed to be trying really hard to keep the nervous warble out of her voice. "First of all, there are no lights in that cr
eepy old attic. We'd be stuck using flashlights. And even if it wasn't filthy, think about how long it took to find that little corner where our rooms are. And that's when there was light coming in from those little windows. If we're up there in the dark and something happens and we have to get out in a hurry, it'll take forever to find the stairs. Screw that. Count me out."

  In the end it was Becky who the next day told Ravi, her meditation partner, about the hauntings, and it was Ravi who informed Mrs. Apple. That's how the investigation started. Waltham Academy had some of the world's leading and most up-and-coming psychics, and all their powers were directed to find out what was going on. Yet even with all that psychic talent, there wasn't much they could tell us. Over the next several weeks, all types of spiritual sensitives trudged through our rooms and the attic above it, but no one could find anything out of the ordinary. The nighttime noises had ended abruptly, robbing us of the evidence we needed to prove that what we'd heard was more than just floorboards settling or creaky old wood moving around in the wind.

  When no further disturbances took place, the girls and I felt embarrassed about the commotion we'd caused. Even Becky regretted telling anyone.

  "I think I might know why no one can find out anything," Nicole said one quiet night when we were all lounging around the fireplace in our sitting room. "If Waltham really is full of bright, vibrant energy, maybe it's powerful enough to erase any negative residue, kinda like rain washin' away footprints."

  Of all the people who tried to learn something for us, it was Ravi — Becky's meditation partner — who finally had something to offer. He visited our rooms one Saturday afternoon when the clouds had parted enough to show hints of blue sky and passing gleams of sunlight.

  "This is appearing to be a male presence," he told us after meditating quietly for almost a half hour. "Something that has not been alive in a long time. It seems like a foreign energy to me, something that did not live here or die here. But it knows you," he added, opening his eyes and looking at each of us in turn. "It knows you girls and is not liking you. There is a malevolence about it that is there just under the surface, but that exists nonetheless. It tries to hide the extent of its hate, fearing detection. This is very bad. Very bad energy, indeed."

  "Should we ask Sir Alex for other rooms?" Becky suggested. "Maybe if we were in a part of the house where there were more people around..."

  Ravi shook his head. "You could, of course, but this thing would just follow you. It seems to me that if you like these rooms that it is as good a place as any to confront it. And confronting it is something you are having to do, because this is not something that will leave you alone. It will keep provoking you and provoking you until you pay attention to it. It may be quiet now, but I am thinking that this is not something that will be ignored."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Becky

  Stables, Waltham Manor

  March 27

  "What," Cali asked, wrinkling her nose, "is that smell?"

  "Why, that is horse," Sara answered. "Only the most wonderful, fragrant, aromatic scent known to man. Roses would be delighted to smell as good."

  "It smells," Cali went on, "like the zoo."

  Sara, Cali, Nicole, and I were headed toward Waltham's stables. The rain had stopped for all of three days and the sun had made a rare appearance, taking curtain calls between opening and closing screens of clouds.

  "Shhh! Quiet. They'll hear you," Sara said, referring to the horses. But too late. It felt like they'd heard us already. "You're lucky they're slow to take offense."

  "Why, young Miss Sara. Hello." Old Mr. Chalmers stepped into view as if he'd been expecting our visit. "And Becky! How are my favorite students? Please, introduce me to your friends."

  "We're here to see the horses!" Sara exclaimed after Mr. Chalmers exchanged pleasantries with Cali and Nicole.

  "Go in through that door." Old Mr. Chalmers pointed to it. "I dare say the beasts will be right happy to see you again, Miss Sara. You haven't been out to the barn in almost a week."

  Sara stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth and sagged like a scarecrow with all its stuffing suddenly pulled out. "Schoolwork. Schoolwork. Schoolwork."

  The four of us had just come from the kennels, where Sir Alex reared and trained hounds of different breeds. His most prized dogs lived in the manor house and often followed him on his daily rounds, but the kennel dogs were just as well treated. In some ways it seemed like their facilities just north of the house were better than in the house itself. The dogs appeared to think so, too, though there seemed to be a certain pride when the dogs were invited into the main facility.

  "I try to come out here at least every other day to pet and talk to the animals," Sara explained as she led us into the barn and down an aisle of ponies. "Most all the horses here are happy and well-cared for, but there are two new arrivals — an elderly mare and a young, speckled stallion — who are still rather shy, both having informed me as to being mistreated by previous owners. But I was able to convey to them how kind Uncle Alex is and how much love and respect they will be shown here. Animals understand far more than we give them credit for. It really is quite simple to communicate with them, if only we try. And listen, of course. That's the most important part."

  We reached a second row of stalls. "Thoroughbred and Arabian mixes," explained Sara. The ponies all seemed to know Sara and got excited when she moved in their direction. A pair of young mares nodded to get her attention.

  Sara introduced us to the horse master, Yates, before moving down a row where our own mounts were stalled. All of them were geldings. For me, Sara had picked an old and tranquil chestnut named Jasper. For Nicole there was Yorick, a roan with a little more spirit. For Cali, a shiny black fellow named Maestro.

  I fed my horse an apple and petted him tentatively. "Are you sure he's safe?"

  "I've explained to all your animals how nice you are and told them that they should take especially good care of you."

  Nicole extended a handful of carrots toward Yorick. "He has a mischievous look in his eye."

  "Yes, well, maybe just a little," Sara admitted.

  Cali kept several paces back from the stalls, careful to keep me, Sara, and Nicole between her and the horses. "They're big."

  "They're just ponies with a little thoroughbred mixed in, to give them some flavor." Sara put a mound of alfalfa cubes into Cali's cupped hands. "Maestro's perfectly gentle. You'll see."

  Cali swallowed hard but did not get any closer. "I grew up with dogs but, crap, a horse. He's a flippin' monster."

  "It's okay." Sara shoved Cali toward Maestro's stall. "He doesn't bite... usually."

  Cali stumbled hesitantly up to the big ebony horse. Maestro wagged his head, blowing and nickering happily. Cali stifled a scream as the animal scooped the treats from her hands with his big, pink tongue.

  "Oh, he likes you," said Sara. "He's very happy to see you. Who is Anderlyn?"

  Cali shook her head and shrugged.

  "He seems to be under the impression that your name is Anderlyn and that he used to be your horse."

  Cali laughed nervously. "I think he's got the wrong girl."

  "Are you sure?" Sara asked. "He seems quite insistent."

  Maestro whinnied and bucked in his stall. "I must smell like someone he knows."

  "Perhaps," Sara replied uncertainly. "He wants to be ridden and he wants you to ride him."

  Maestro whinnied again, louder this time, and kicked out. His rear hooves connected with the back of the stall with a terrific crash. We all jumped and backed away. Cali turned a sickly shade of green.

  Old Mr. Chalmers appeared from a side door. "Hello. What's this?"

  "It's Maestro," Sara said. "He seems quite worked up."

  "Why don't you girls wait outside?" Old Mr. Chalmers instructed. "I'll take care of this."

  Maestro nickered again and shoved his full weight against the stall door as we retreated from the stable. "It's all right," Sara assured us as we
emerged into the warmth-less sunlight. "He's just got a little spring fever. Anxious to get some exercise out in the sun, I expect. When the trails dry out long enough for us to start riding, he'll be as calm as an old cat. You'll see. He's a fine, dependable animal."

  ****

  I looked up from the dark hole and into the sky. The pit was cramped and muddy, filled with too many people — girls like me, dressed in dirty white shifts that were too flimsy to keep out the numbing wet and cold. Overhead snow fell like tattered tissue paper against a grey canvas of clouds. The darkening night was stealing what precious light there was. I couldn't stop shivering.

  More shouts erupted from beyond the lip of the hole. The mob was growing more frenzied and desperate. I could just make out an orange flickering — light from torches and the bonfire that the crowd had built in front of the hole to keep warm. I wanted its heat so badly, to get up out of the hole, change my drenched clothes, and feel something besides the fear that deadened everything else. I didn't have long. We were all going to die, weren't we? My growing terror pressed out my ability to sense what was coming.

  The first stone shot down from the lip of the hole. It thudded sickly into the side of my sister's skull, taking her down. Now fear became panic as the second projectile rained down, then a third and fourth. Something banged hard into the side of my knee. The pain reached through the cold and numbness, filling my vision with white terror. I started screaming but it was dampened by the frenzied cries of the mob. Even as the first crumbles of dirt spilled over the rim of the hole, then a shower of mud and debris, a voice — Jenny's calming, singsong whisper — cut through the mob.

  "He's co-o-o-oming. He's almost here."

  I awoke, mentally exploring the shadows around me. Sara's steady breathing in the bed beside mine gave me an idea of where I was, a context to the grey, predawn light.