The Ghost and Katie Coyle

by Anne Kelleher

  She stood at the window for a moment, watching the waterfall. The white cat was back, still curled up on the footbridge, sound asleep once again. Piles of boxes rose around her haphazardly. She had to finish unpacking and start organizing her books as soon as possible. The semester would be starting before she knew it, and she had to get her syllabus to Fran Garibaldi by the end of the week. There were some things she needed to check before she wrote it, and at the moment, she didn’t quite remember where those materials might be. She had to get organized to teach, so that she could continue her work on the article she’d hoped would win her the Clancy grant. It centered on the sixteenth-century settlement of Ireland under Elizabeth I. It was a little ambitious, but she had thought she’d enjoy the challenge. Now she wasn’t so sure. Alistair Proser’s work was certain to make her own seem like that of a rank amateur.

  She leaned her head against the cool glass, closed her eyes and let the sounds and the scents of the summer night wash over her. The insects sang steadily, and every once in a while a bullfrog bellowed. The air was sweet with the earthy tang of sun-warmed lavender and oregano. Well, Katie thought, all she could do was her best. She would concentrate on doing a good job. Maybe the faculty at East Bay wasn’t the warmest group of people she’d ever met, but with the exception of Reginald Proser, they hadn’t been overtly hostile, either.

  Suddenly a voice seemed to echo through her mind, a foreign voice, expressing a sentiment she didn’t feel was hers. It isn’t the enemies whom we know about that we must watch out for, it is those we don’t know about of which we must be wary. This was accompanied by a surge of emotion, a bizarre combination of frustration and longing, so strong that Katie frowned, puzzled.

  Where had that thought come from? And why did she suddenly feel as if she was no longer alone, as if someone else had come into the room? A chill ran up her spine and the hair on the back of her neck rose. That feeling of being watched was back. She turned around to face the boxes, half expecting to see someone standing among them. But of course, there was no one there. You’ve got to cut this out, Katie, she scolded herself. You have to concentrate and stop daydreaming. There’s too much work to be done before the semester begins.

  The telephone’s sudden ring rescued her from her daydreams. She fumbled between the boxes, searching for the cordless unit, until she remembered she’d left it in the kitchen. She grabbed it on the eighth ring. “Hello?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t be able to find the phone.” Her sister’s voice was as clear as if she were on the other side of the room, not across the ocean. “How’s the new place?’

  “Meg.” Katie’s eyes filled with unexpected tears as a sudden wave of homesickness and loneliness washed over her. She blinked away the tears impatiently. She was just a little stressed. There was no point in making Meg concerned.

  “Of course it’s me. How’re you doing? How’re the people? Did you dump Josh yet?”

  “Dump Josh? What makes you think that?’

  “He called me.”

  “Called you?” Even three thousand miles away, Katie knew her surprise was palpable.

  “Yeah. He called me, asking me to talk some sense into you. I told him he was being a jerk. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Katie shook her head and wandered into the living room, laughing in spite of herself. She curled up on the couch. “I don’t mind a bit. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “It’s good to hear yours, too. Things are going okay, there?”

  “Yes, of course.” Katie glanced around the room. Despite the mess and the boxes, it felt like home. “I love my place. The people seem okay, too. I’m going to be fine, here, Meggy. Really. Please don’t call Mom and Dad and get them all stirred up, okay?”

  “Who do you take me for? Josh?” Meg laughed. “Look, this is expensive and I’m not the one gainfully employed. You call me next time, okay?”

  “Of course I will. I’ll call you Saturday, okay?”

  “We’ll catch up then. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Yeah. I love you, Meggy.”

  “Love you, too, Katie-did.”

  Katie replaced the receiver with a smile. Her twin’s voice had really cheered her. And the nerve of Josh, calling Meg all the way in Dublin and making her worry. She stood up and paced to the window. She’d know soon enough if he’d called her parents. Meg was right. He was a jerk. What had she seen in him?

  She glanced over her shoulder, and fleetingly thought about unpacking two or three more boxes before turning in. But the summer evening beckoned.

  Above the trees, the evening star shone steadily, and the sky was a wash of mauve and pink and violet. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to take a walk. She’d been so busy all day she hadn’t gone outside except to help the movers until it had been time to go to the reception.

  She stepped through the front door once more, feeling as if she’d reentered some magical fairyland. There was such an enchanted quality about the place—it must have to do with the fact that it was so isolated, she mused.

  She had no idea where her nearest neighbors were. She’d have to make a point to find out, in the event she really did get snowed in. There was no way she’d be able to get up the driveway to the road unless it was plowed.

  She strolled across the footbridge, watching a cloud of fireflies swarming over the pond. The cat had vanished. Dragonflies darted along the banks, and on the opposite side of the pond, a huge splash marked a frog or turtle’s passing. The water gurgled as it fell over the rocks.

  She paused only momentarily. A path led down the side of the lower pond and disappeared beneath the trees. She glanced up at the sky. There was still plenty of light. Feeling adventurous, she started down it, following the curve of the pond until the path diverged beneath the bending branches of a willow. It was like stepping through a green curtain, she thought as the leafy branches brushed against her face.

  The path narrowed until it petered out altogether. Katie paused. In the falling twilight, it was difficult to see exactly how far she’d come. Then a crow cried out, a loud “caw, caw,” and she started. Something caught her eye up ahead, something big and dark and bulky that didn’t look like another tree. She pushed through the underbrush, sticker bushes pulling at the thin cotton fabric of her summer dress and scraping at her lower legs.

  With a gasp, she stepped into a clearing. Before her, at least a dozen stones, each higher than a man, were arranged in a double ring. Katie blinked in disbelief. Standing Stones? Someone had raised Standing Stones in a clearing at Pond House.

  She touched the nearest, hesitantly, half expecting to feel a jolt of energy. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. You really have to stop getting so carried away with this place. The stone felt only slightly damp and cool in the falling dark, and she could smell the moss that grew up one side. She bent to have a closer look. There was something odd about the stone near the ground. It looked as if it had been cut all the way through and placed on some sort of base. She peered down, but the night was getting darker by the minute. Soon there wouldn’t be enough light to find her way back to the cottage. She wished she’d thought to bring a flashlight, but a flashlight was something else she needed to put on her list.

  She started back through the woods the way she’d come, thinking all the time of what she knew about Standing Stones. It wasn’t much, she thought ruefully.

  Groups of standing stones or large megaliths dating to the Neolithic or Bronze Age could be found around the world. The appearance of a set at Pond House wasn’t completely unlikely, although surely someone at East Bay should have mentioned them. No one knew what they were for, although there were plenty of theories, purporting that the stones had sacred, astronomical or burial purposes. As she approached the sandy path that led down to the beach, she wondered if this could be a sacred ancient burial ground. Too bad she knew nothing about Native American Studies. She might be able to interpret some of the signs or symbols she’d tried
to discern on the stones in the twilight. She’d have to go back tomorrow and get a better look in the sunshine.

  As she crossed the sandy path, she was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling that someone else had joined her on the path. She quickened her steps, but the feeling persisted. She glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing. Just nerves, she told herself. Just nerves. Then the branches of shrubs moved, as though something—or someone—was brushing past them, and in the shadowy light, she thought she saw a glimpse of something white.

  “Who’s there?” she cried out.

  The shrubs were still. Nothing moved.

  Completely unnerved, Katie ran back to the house, her heart pounding. East Bay was a nice little place, but that wasn’t to say bad things didn’t happen here. Josh would probably tell her to move closer to town. But there wasn’t any place else. Fran Garibaldi had said so that very afternoon. One of the reasons the university had purchased Pond House was the dearth of suitable housing in the area. As she gained the steps, she smelled the same unmistakable scent as she had the night before, but this time it was much more distinct. A memory clicked into place. It smelled sort of like the aftershave her grandfather used to wear—a scent she associated with old men and Sundays, an old-fashioned fragrance one didn’t smell much any more.

  She slammed the door shut and locked it, and turned to see that a stack of notes on her desk had scattered on the floor. What could possibly account for that, she wondered, as she stared around the living room, suddenly more frightened than ever. The day hadn’t been breezy at all, and the night was just as still. The whole time she’d been outside, she’d felt barely a breeze. That’s what had made the motion of the shrubbery just now so suspicious. Could someone have been in the house?

  Now definitely frightened, she ran to her bedroom where she’d put her tiny jewelry box with her few heirloom pieces in the bottom drawer beneath her sweat clothes. But the bedroom was untouched. Everything was just the way she’d left it earlier that evening. The little jewelry box snuggled safely in its nest of blue and gray. She sank down on the bed, the beating of her heart subsiding. She was being silly. There weren’t any burglars in East Bay. There weren’t any burglars at Pond House. The house was set so far back from the road she doubted anyone who didn’t know it was there would notice.

  She was getting herself all worked up over nothing. The movers had knocked the papers over. A puff of wind had made the shrubs move, a seagull had been caught in the shrubs, and that accounted for the white blur. A random combination of scents had blended into something that smelled a little like aftershave. She’d have a cup of warm milk and then go to bed.

  Everything would seem different in the morning.

  She walked to the kitchen, where she’d left her favorite mug—the one with her name and its meaning—on the sink. She got the milk from the refrigerator and poured it into a small saucepan, then stared in dismay at the drainboard. Her mug was gone.

  It wasn’t where she’d left it, and she did so very clearly remember washing it, rinsing it, and leaving it by the side of the sink at a very deliberate angle to make sure the inside dried, just before she’d left for the reception. It was the last thing she’d done before she walked out of the house.

  She closed her eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. This was ridiculous. No one would break into a house and steal a mug. She walked into the living room and paused, hands on her hips, looking around. The mug was in plain sight. It was sitting by the fireplace on top of a pile of books. Katie’s jaw dropped. Was she going crazy?

  She should have questioned Fran Garibaldi just a little more closely about the house’s “history.” Maybe that was the reason the house had been vacant since April. She remembered her teasing words to Josh just yesterday. Maybe it’s the ghost, she’d said, so carelessly, with a laugh. She looked around. The house was silent, warm, and snug, and looked like the last place a ghost would choose to haunt. She shook her head and returned to the kitchen with a sigh, wishing she’d thought to bring a bottle of her father’s Irish whiskey. Her mother used to scold her father for having what he called a “wee nip” before bed. But at the moment, a stiff shot didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

  • • •

  Black and menacing, the Standing Stones rose from the forest floor, the tops shrouded in mist. Katie peered up anxiously, trying to remember whether or not they had really been that high the first time she had seen them. Nothing but mist and shadows moved within the depths of the gray-green silence, swirling along the periphery of Katie’s vision. She reached out blindly, half afraid of what she might encounter, trying to feel her way through the fog.

  And then she heard the voice. It was clear and distinct, much clearer than anything else in the shadowy, twilit landscape, and she paused, sensing the bulk of the stones rising all around her. The trees seemed to lean in upon each other, pressing close together as if for support or protection. Suddenly she was seized by a sense of menace, of danger, and she felt something press upon her lungs, forcing the air out of her body. She gasped, gulping in great draughts of oxygen, filling her lungs as though she were drowning…‌She sank to her knees as the voice spilled through the shadows, filling the space like the sensation of the water filling her lungs to the bursting point.

  “Help me—help me!” The voice called again, deep and insistent, demanding, rather than pleading.

  The drowning sensation subsided the more closely Katie focused on the voice. She struggled to her feet, gasping in deep breaths of sodden air. “I’m here—where are you?”

  “Help me!” There was an imperious, angry tone to the voice, as though the speaker expected help and was more frustrated than frightened. Katie shivered.

  “Where are you?” she called.

  “I’m here—help!”

  “I’m coming—I’m coming.” Katie pushed through the brambles and the underbrush, the sticker bushes tearing at her clothes. She looked down and saw that she was wearing her nightgown. What was she doing in the woods in the middle of the night, dressed only in her nightgown?

  “Help me!”

  Katie forced her way through the trees, branches snapping in her face, scraping her arms and legs. The path circled and twisted, leading deeper and deeper into the woods. She looked down at her feet. They were bare, and the path was rocky. Sharp shells dug into the sales of her feet, and she stumbled, as the voice cried again: “Help me! I’m over here, Caitlin.”

  “I can’t find you,” she called back. “I can’t find you!”

  Then she tripped across what felt like a log. She looked down. The shape at her feet was long and black. To her horror, it reached up with a skeletal arm, one white hand extended and splayed like a claw. Katie screamed, stumbled backwards and fell, down and down and down, into the swirling mist.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Katie bolted upright. Sweat ran down her back and her nightgown clung to her body. Her heart was racing. She opened her eyes slowly, still half afraid that the awful presence might grab her. The room was shadowed, but through the windows she could see the faint glint of starlight on the pond and could hear the waterfall. Nothing moved outside, and in her bedroom all was quiet and peaceful.

  She drew a deep breath. Such a vivid nightmare. That’s what comes of wandering around in the dark by yourself, she thought. Your imagination is already working overtime. She slumped back against her pillows. But the voice had seemed so clear, so distinct. A man’s voice—and an Englishman’s voice, at that. English—or Irish, she realized. He’d called her “Caitlin”—which means Katherine, or Kathleen in Gaelic. How had he known her name? Because it was a dream, of course.

  But now she was wide awake. She’d make a cup of tea and read for a while, she decided. She turned on her bedside light, pushed back the sheets and gasped. Her nightgown—long, white cotton trimmed with lace—was torn in several places. Almost as though she’d been running through the woods. And her bare feet were dirty…‌really dirty.

  • • •


  Derry moved restlessly through the trees. There had to be a way to get through to the woman—to Katherine. He’d thought to channel the restless energies of Pond House in order to reach out to her, but the dream she’d just had had been too frightening, too uncontrolled.

  Surely there had to be some way to harness the energy he felt swirling all around him. But he had to get her attention carefully or she’d never agree to speak to him, let alone help him discover what meaning or purpose there could be to his continued existence in this perpetual limbo. She’d think she was crazy, she’d deny the evidence of her own eyes—at least that’s what he’d seen time and again when living humans were confronted by the supernatural. And even if he could somehow make her pay attention to him, it might take months or years before she’d listen to him. There had to be another way.

  He sank onto the ground and leaned against a stone. A mosquito landed on his arm and he swatted the insect away, then paused. Within a hundred-foot-wide radius of the Stones, he had a body. A physical body, which seemed to be as corporeal to him as ever the one he’d had in life had been. Perhaps that was the answer. If he approached her within that circumference, he might be able to make her think he was alive. And then, without the necessary nuisance of having to explain that he was a ghost, he could talk to her. And try to find out if there was any way she could help. At the least, perhaps she could help him find out what had happened to Caitlin. This won’t be easy, he thought. Winter was corning, and very soon she’d stop wandering in the woods, and keep close within the cozy confines of Pond House. He had a few brief weeks to make her acquaintance, and try to discover if the remarkable coincidence of her appearance had any meaning for him. But there had to be, he told himself. There had to be. He could feel it—he smiled grimly in the darkness—in his bones.