But as Halloween approached, it was hard not to think of ghosts. Abby remembered Halloween from her childhood as being a relatively simple affair: buy or slap together some flimsy costume, grab a pillowcase, go out and collect as much candy as possible—and then eat it as fast as possible. Now every storefront boasted elaborate displays and offered an endless array of kitschy items, including lights and things that talked or howled or moved. Abby wasn’t sure what the point was, even while she admired the ingenuity and/or absurdity of some of them. Her primary concern was to avoid being at home on Halloween night—not that she wanted to shortchange any earnest young trick-or-treaters, but looking around her neighborhood, she doubted that there were many young children, and even if there were, they would probably be reluctant to venture down her long and unlit driveway merely for a candy bar. It would be easier just to douse the lights and be somewhere else until all the festivities were over. The problem was, where to go?
She was relieved when Ned called on the Friday before. “Hi, Abby. Do you want to go trick-or-treating this weekend?”
“I hope you’re kidding,” she said dubiously.
“Well, yes, actually. But I thought it might be a little spooky for you, sitting in that big empty house while there were spirits—or at least random teenagers—milling about. I know a place that makes a mean pumpkin pie, in honor of the season.”
Abby wondered if he’d read her mind. “That sounds great! I was wondering what excuse I could come up with to vacate the premises. My alternative plan was to turn off all the lights, climb under the quilt with a flashlight and read. Lame, huh?”
“Not at all. But the Eve of All Hallows is a great time to discuss the general phenomenon of spirits and hauntings. If you can stomach it. Have things been quiet?”
“As a tomb.” Abby almost giggled. “Sorry, bad joke. But, yes, I’d like to know more about specifics, if you’ve got any good resources. As long as we’re in a nice, brightly lit place.”
“Not a problem. Pick you up at five? It gets dark about then, and that’s when the spirits begin to prowl.”
“Sure. See you then.”
* * *
Ned appeared promptly on Sunday as the sun was setting. Abby grabbed a jacket and joined him in the car. As they drove back toward Concord, Abby could see small groups of children shuffling through the piles of bright leaves along the side of the road—few near her house, but in increasing numbers as they approached the town. She didn’t recognize many of the costumes—things had moved on since she had been in their shoes. How long had it been? Ten years, maybe? And in this increasingly motorized society, where parents feared for their children’s safety even in broad daylight, how long would traditions like this survive? But she remembered well the unaccustomed feeling of freedom, being allowed to run around at night, and actually being rewarded for it with large quantities of chocolate and sugar.
“What’re you thinking?” Ned asked in an offhand tone.
“I was just wondering how long Halloween is going to survive in this country. It seems like such an anachronism.”
“Ah, but it has very deep roots . . .”
The restaurant he had chosen was small and unpretentious but filled with good smells. They ordered, and then Abby sat back and said, “All right—tell me about Halloween.”
“Well, for starters, the custom goes back over two thousand years—well before Christianity. The Celtic Druids thought October thirty-first was the end of the year, so they celebrated a successful harvest, and somehow wrapped it in with honoring the dead. Once the Romans conquered the Celts, they figured it might help convert them to Christianity if they absorbed some of the elements of the old culture. So by the seventh century, the church moved All Saints’ Day, which was when they honored dead martyrs, from May to November. Tricky, eh?”
“Well, the Romans were pragmatists, as I recall. Good at getting things done—look at all those roads and aqueducts and stuff.”
“Good point. Strategic people, especially when they were conquering other people. Anyway, to get back to our Halloween, it made it to this country early, with Irish and Scottish immigrants. Somewhere in there it lost its mystery and became more of an occasion for fun.”
“Where did the costumes come in?”
“Well, one theory is that way back, people believed that the disembodied spirits of the dead would come back looking to borrow a new body for the coming year. This was possible only on the one day—sort of like a free pass between the spirit world and the real world. But the living didn’t want to be possessed, so they would dress up in weird costumes and wander around the villages, making noise and trying to discourage the spirits, drive them away.”
“And trick-or-treating?”
“Yet another tradition—Halloween really is a catchall. That was European rather than Celtic. On All Souls’ Day, November second, which is the day after All Saints’ Day, early Christians would wander around begging for cakes, promising to pray for the dead relatives of the donors in return. The more cakes, the more prayers.”
Abby found she was enjoying herself. “You, sir, are a font of trivial knowledge. One more question—the pumpkin carving?”
“Probably Irish again, although they carved turnips in Ireland. They found it easier to use pumpkins once they got over here. Although I can’t quite imagine carving a turnip—if they’re big enough to carve, they’re pretty tough. Anything else you want to know?”
Their food arrived. They chatted amiably during the main course, and then Ned insisted on the much-touted pumpkin pie. While they were waiting, Abby tried to put into words something that had been troubling her.
“You said that the Celts or Druids or whoever believed that there was a link between the spirit world and the real world—or the one we’re living in. And that the spirits can pass through, at least sometimes. Do you think that’s what’s happening to me? That I’m seeing spirits from some other parallel world?”
Ned took his time answering. “I suppose it depends on how you define spirits. It pains me as a scientist to say this, but you seem to be running into very specific individuals, not projections of your own belief system.”
“Hmm,” Abby said pensively. “That’s an interesting way to put it. You’re saying that if I subconsciously wanted to see ghosts, I could convince myself that I was seeing ghosts, but they’d be generic, rather than real people?”
“Kind of. As I keep saying, it’s hard to be rational about what you’re seeing.” Ned stared down at his coffee cup. “Look, you can tell me if I’m out of line here, but . . . did you ever tell Brad about what’s been going on?”
Abby sighed. “I started to, but he said exactly what I expected—just told me either I was barmy or I didn’t have enough to keep me busy. He cut me off before I got to the details. If you’re asking, that wasn’t what split us up. Maybe it was a symptom—he wanted me to be what he wanted, not who I really was. I went along with it for a long time. But if this thing with Shanna is any indication, he got tired of trying to mold me to his specifications. Throw in one off-the-wall problem like seeing things, and the whole thing comes crashing down.”
Ned nodded. “I’m sorry. It’s never easy, whatever the cause. Or causes.”
You’ve got that right, thought Abby. She wondered what had happened between him and Leslie, and she wondered if she’d ever ask. They certainly seemed like very different people, but then, so were she and Brad, and that hadn’t worked out. Good intentions did not guarantee a good relationship. She looked at her watch. “Think the hordes have retreated yet?”
“Probably. You ready to go?”
“I think so. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“How’s that going?”
“Really well. I’m enjoying it even more than I expected. And I love this area—there’s so much to do, when I can find the time. I think you and Leslie are my guardian angels. So maybe I should get home.”
They drove the few miles back in a companionable silence. Ned turned
into the long driveway and pulled up in front of the house. “Let me see you to the door, make sure everything’s all right.”
Abby was relieved—she hated walking into a dark house, although she was getting more comfortable with the place. She dug out her keys as they walked to the door and had them ready. “Thanks—for dinner, and the lecture. I’ll let you know if I find anything else new, but right now I’m mostly waiting for people to answer my queries.” She unlocked the door and stepped in to disarm the alarm system.
“I know how that goes—slow and painful. Well, I enjoyed dinner. Any time you want to talk, I’m around.”
For a moment they stood facing each other awkwardly. Abby wondered if he was going to try to kiss her good night, but instead he reached out a hand to clasp hers.
When he made contact, she jerked away as if she had been scalded and stepped back hastily, staring at Ned. She managed to mutter a strangled “Good night,” then slipped inside and shut the door quickly. Then she leaned against it and waited for her heart to stop pounding.
She hadn’t been worried about Ned making a move on her. In truth, she had to admit she had wondered if he would, and when, and what she would feel. And she was no blushing virgin. But when he had touched her, skin to skin—it had been like an electric shock. And for a fragmented moment, the air had been filled with sounds, voices, something—she couldn’t even describe it. It was like when a car full of teens passed by on a city street, radio blaring, bass thumping—a few seconds of intense sound, bracketed by silence. What had happened? What must Ned be thinking? And what was she supposed to do about it?
She hadn’t heard his car pull away, but when she looked, it was gone. She was left alone to sort out her chaotic emotions. She needed to talk to him; she didn’t want him to think she was repulsed by him. But she needed to understand what had happened, which was like nothing she’d ever experienced with a man before this. She should call him—but what could she say? When she could finally move away from the door, she threw down her coat and purse and paced restlessly. How long would it take him to get home? Should she call him tonight? Should she wait until she was calmer, tomorrow?
And had he felt anything like this? Or did he just think she really was crazy?
And then it hit her: it was touch. That was what had triggered all her other experiences, when she touched part of the Flagg house, the tombstones, the chair. Nothing had happened until she had laid hands on them. She tried to remember if Ned had ever touched her before. Sure, of course: he’d helped her up, guided her around obstacles. But there had always been clothing between them. A barrier. Tonight was the first time that she could remember touching skin to skin, and it had been like a bolt of electricity. Like what she’d experienced all those other times, but ten times stronger, and more chaotic.
Like an automaton she went through the house turning off lights, getting ready for bed. She lay down and turned off the reading light, and then lay in the dark, staring at nothing.
What was going on? There was only one way to find out: she’d have to talk to Ned. And the idea terrified her.
23
Abby decided to take the easy course and wait until the next day to call Ned. It was cowardly, she knew, but she wanted to try to digest what had happened when he touched her. Had he felt anything out of the ordinary? Was her response somehow related to the “visions,” as she suspected? Or was she really going over the edge now? She didn’t know, and she was afraid to find out. Maybe the visions had only been the beginning, and something more—bigger, worse—was developing, like a spreading fungus or a cancer. Maybe she was going to start getting “shocks” from everyone, or from everyday things like the washing machine. Was she supposed to avoid touching people, and everything else as well? Not that she’d ever been a touchy-feely person anyway, but that had been out of respect for other people’s space, not fear.
But had she been frightened last night or just startled? She certainly hadn’t been prepared for what she had felt. She hadn’t been prepared for any of the strange things that had been happening lately, but she was coping. Sort of. Except somebody kept upping the stakes.
She felt lucky to have her work. Monday morning she could go back to her untidy little office and work on her tour spiels. At least that space and those people hadn’t thrown any curveballs at her—yet. She fervently hoped that they wouldn’t: she needed to have some safe haven where she wouldn’t flinch at every odd noise and movement, see things out of the corner of her eye. And she didn’t think Ned would call her at work, so she could chew over what she wanted to say for a few more hours.
But once she got home Monday evening, she knew she had to call him. Holding her cell phone in her hand, she jumped when it rang. She expected it to be Ned, but when she looked at it, she recognized her mother’s number.
“Hi, Mom,” she answered, and braced herself, sighing inwardly: she had been putting off saying anything about Brad, and the job, and all of that, and now she’d have to come clean.
“Abigail Kimball, where on earth have you been? I called your apartment and most of the time nobody answers, and then when I finally get Brad, he says you moved out! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, it all happened kind of fast, and I wasn’t sure it was permanent . . .”
“Well, is it?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Oh, baby,” her mother sighed. “And I thought you two were so happy together. Everything seemed fine when we were there. What happened?”
Abby turned over her options. If she made some nice safe statement about growing apart, different interests, et cetera, et cetera, her mother would probably nurse the hope that it would all work out and that she and Brad would get back together. Better to bite the bullet now. “He was cheating on me.”
“No! That weasel! Oh, sweetie, I am sorry. But . . . there’s no way you can patch things up?”
“Mom, I really don’t want to. That wasn’t the only problem, just the worst one. But I’m really fine with it.”
“But where are you now? What are you doing? Do you want to come home?”
“No, Mom,” Abby said patiently. “I have a new job, at a museum in Concord, and I really like it—it’s more like teaching again. And I found this great house-sit for the next few months, so I can stay here until I figure out what I want to do. I’m fine, really.”
“If you’re sure . . .” Her mother did not sound convinced. Then she went on in a brighter tone, “Will you be coming up for Thanksgiving?”
Abby hadn’t even thought that far ahead. “I don’t know yet—I don’t know what kind of time off I’ll have, with a new job and all. Let me check at work and I’ll tell you later, okay?”
“Well, you know we’d love to have you. Oh . . . what do you want me to tell your father?”
Abby thought about that for a moment. She knew her father wouldn’t judge her or try to change her mind, but she didn’t want him to worry about her. “Just tell him I dumped Brad and I’ve got a great new job and a good place to live, and everything’s fine. And if I can’t make it for Thanksgiving, I’ll see what I can work out for Christmas, okay?”
“Whatever works best for you, sweetheart. Now you take care, please. Maybe you think you’re doing fine, but I know it’s hard, and I don’t want you getting all depressed. You’ll call me if you feel blue, right?”
“Of course, Mom. I love you, and don’t worry.”
“Oh, one more thing. Ever since you asked me to find the family records, I’ve been sorting out the stuff in the attic, and I found something else that I think you should see. No, I won’t tell you what it is—let it be a surprise. Give me your address and I’ll send it off in the morning.”
Abby reeled off her new address. She and her mother exchanged more good-byes, and then she hung up, but she didn’t put the phone down. Before she lost her nerve, she punched in Ned’s number and walked over to the window overlooking the meadow behind. Not that she could see anything, other than her reflection
in the window. Please answer, Ned. I need to understand this.
“Abby.” When he answered his tone was neutral, wary.
Abby felt a stab of panic and lurched into her speech. “Ned, I just wanted to explain about last night.”
“Abby, you don’t have to explain anything. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“No! That’s not what I mean. I mean, I didn’t mind that you touched me, but it’s what happened when you did.” So he hadn’t felt anything odd?
“Ah.”
The silence lengthened. Abby could hear the faint crackle of static on the line. She wasn’t sure what to say next if he hadn’t noticed anything odd. Finally he spoke.
“Abby, I think we need to talk. Unfortunately I’ve got business out of town, and I won’t be back for a couple of days. Can we get together over the weekend?”
She felt a brief flare of resentment that he was going to leave her to stew about this. “Sure, fine, whatever works for you. I just didn’t want you to think . . .” What? She wasn’t sure.
“Don’t worry, I understand. I’ll call you when I get back to town, all right? And keep working on your family tree.”
With that cryptic comment, he hung up. Abby was left staring at the phone. That hadn’t cleared much up, although at least he was still talking to her. Why did her family tree matter to him? Puzzled, she went slowly toward the kitchen to put together something for dinner.
* * *
Her exchange with Ned had left her dissatisfied, Abby decided, as she drove to work the next day. She wasn’t sure how to interpret his response—what he had said, and what he hadn’t. She really didn’t know him all that well—even though, she had to admit, she had come to depend on him, at least to tell her she wasn’t loopy. Heck, maybe he was crazy too and he was just egging her on. And why did he care about her family history? Well, she now knew—and he knew—that Elizabeth and William, and her great-grandmother’s chair, were all connected to her, but that didn’t explain the Reeds. And it didn’t explain why some things brought on the “seeings” and a lot of others didn’t. She still couldn’t guess where the next “appearance” or “experience” or “event” would come from. She wasn’t sure she was looking forward to it anyway—she had enough on her plate to keep her busy, psychologically, without spirits butting in.
Relatively Dead Page 18