by Lisa Unger
They both looked at it. Eloise wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t want to touch it. She looked away, watched a squirrel run lithely across a branch of the great oak tree in her front yard.
“I don’t know how this works,” he said. His wedding ring looked uncomfortably tight on his finger.
“Neither do I,” she answered. She wrapped her arms around herself. It was so cold. She was always so cold lately. She felt as if she’d be shivering even if it were a hundred degrees.
“I don’t believe in this kind of thing,” he said. He kept his eyes on the cheap plastic bauble, not on her.
“I don’t blame you,” she said.
After a moment, she reached for the barrette. At first, there was nothing. It was just a piece of plastic and metal, no energy at all. But then she was there, in the woods. She was above them while he carried her carefully between the trees. Her hair snagged on the branch, and the barrette fell onto the ground.
“It’s hers,” she said.
Muldune was looking at her strangely.
“What?” she asked.
“I just lost you there for a minute,” he says. “You were a million miles away.”
“He knows her. But she doesn’t know him,” Eloise said. “He saw her, but she didn’t notice him. No one ever does. Once he saw her, he followed her all the time. He has access to the school.”
It came out of her in a strange tumble, facts that she had no access to moments before. There was something else. She’d seen it before, but it was just out of reach. What was it?
“Someone saw a car by the side of the road,” the detective said. “It was parked in the shoulder by The Hollows Wood.”
It came to her then, something about the mention of the woods. She’d lost that piece. “The blind,” she said. “He took her to a hunters’ blind.”
Muldune sat up at that. He put the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
“Okay,” he said. He pulled out onto the rural road and started to drive. “Where?”
“Somewhere in the woods,” she said. “He walked miles with her. He’s tall and strong. He works with his hands.”
“We tried to bring the car owner in,” he said. It was more like he was speaking to himself, though, as if she wasn’t really there. “But we can’t find him.”
“Is his name Tommy?” asked Eloise. The name was just in her head. Muldune didn’t say anything. “Does he work with cars?”
Still nothing from Muldune, but he was driving faster. She knew where he was going. He was taking her to where the car had been parked. At first, she didn’t think that was right. The man had been on foot. But then she put it together: he’d driven first and then come up the back way. That’s how he’d made it there so quickly.
After a bit, the detective pulled over. They both got out of the car and headed between the trees without a word to each other. He had a big powerful flashlight that illuminated the way before them. They walked far, getting breathless and tired. Muldune followed close behind Eloise, who had no idea where they were going. But she did know. Of course she did.
When the flashlight beam fell upon the hunters’ blind, almost invisible among the trees, Eloise stopped. A wave of nausea hit her so powerfully that she almost doubled over with it. She had to lean against a tree until it passed. All the while, Muldune kept his eyes on her. He had no idea what to do with Eloise—he was afraid of her, confused by her. He didn’t want to believe in her. All of this, she could read in his concerned frown.
Muldune pulled a radio from his belt and turned it on, its staticky hum filling the night. He spoke softly in a language of shorthand and number codes that she didn’t understand. She heard the trickle of a creek, and she turned toward the sound. Muldune’s flashlight beam filled the area. She saw what she didn’t want to see. One slender white arm. That coldness inside, it spread.
She folded herself over and started to cry.
• • •
Eloise thought that justice was a funny thing. It was a big idea, a romantic one. It was imagined like a satisfying end to a story. Justice must be served. Is one served Justice, like a meal at a table? Or does one serve Justice, like a maid in a grand house? These are the thoughts that Eloise was having as she sat at Barney Croft’s sentencing.
Eloise had spoken for leniency on his behalf. Addiction is a disease. Barney Croft needs help, not just punishment. And she believed that. When she looked at his weeping wife and his small children, their faces confused and sad, it was clear to see that a lifetime in prison served no one—not even Eloise and Amanda. Barney Croft’s children would be broken by this; perhaps they too would turn to drugs and ruin someone else’s life. Surely, there was a better way.
But the judge was not lenient; a life sentence was handed down, parole possible after thirty years. The courtroom erupted in wails of despair, chairs moving, cameras flashing, an angry call to order. Eloise and Amanda hustled out of there before the reporter vultures that never seem to tire of the Montgomery tragedy could corner them. They were in their car, safely driving away before the court adjourned.
“I don’t feel any better,” said Amanda. Eloise’s daughter had dressed in a simple black dress and white cardigan, patent leather flats as if they were going to church. (Which they never did anymore unless her in-laws were visiting. That was Alfie’s thing.) Amanda looked very grown up, a young woman.
“No,” said Eloise. Eloise had thought that she might cry today. But no. Tears came at odd times, not when you expected. Grief was not linear. It came and went in unpredictable ways.
“But I think I can forgive him. Someday,” she said.
“When you do that,” said Eloise. “You’ll feel better.”
“I guess,” said Amanda, unconvinced.
Eloise rested her hand on her daughter’s thigh. Amanda put her hands on top of her mother’s.
Amanda had released some of her rage. At least she didn’t hate Eloise quite as much. She’d apologized for blaming Eloise, even for just a little while. Amanda knew it was wrong. But there were no apologies necessary. Eloise blamed herself enough for both of them, even though she knew it was wrong to do so. The voice that wasn’t a voice had told her that. We all have our time and our design. There are no accidents. And no one is to blame.
At home, the reporters waited, a throng that only seemed to grow. They parked their cars in the driveway. Amanda and Eloise waved politely as they walked easily up the path to the porch.
How do you feel today? Do you think Croft got what he deserved? Why did you speak for leniency? How would your husband have reacted to the verdict? What is your life like now?
Neither Eloise nor Amanda said a word, just pushed in through the front door and closed it behind them. There was nothing to say to anyone, least of all reporters—a pack of hyenas waiting to scavenge the dead. But, she supposed, even hyenas had to eat.
Amanda had picked up the paper on the way in, laid it flat on the kitchen table. The Hollows News and Gazette announced in its front-page headline that the murder trial of Tommy Delano, the mechanic’s son who had murdered Sarah, would begin next week. He had seen Sarah for the first time when her parents brought their car in for repair. He had watched her when he went to the school to work on the buses, as per his father’s contract with the district. He had watched her and watched her. And when he had his opportunity, he killed her, violated and mutilated her corpse. He kept his trophies in a box, a red barrette, her panties, her heart-shaped locket. Or so the accusations stated.
Eloise knew Tommy didn’t kill Sarah. In fact, it had been an accident of circumstance. She had told as much to Ray Muldune. And Tommy, too, pleaded his innocence on that count. But no one believed either one of them—not the so-called psychic, not the man with pictures of girls and a dead girl’s underpants under his bed. And all the evidence pointed to Tommy. It was up to a jury to decide the truth n
ow.
Would justice be served? No, Tommy didn’t murder Sarah. But he was months away from murdering another girl. One who would now, because of what Eloise had done, live and go on to help a great many people. Or so the voice that wasn’t a voice told her. Justice, it promised, will be served in other, more significant, ways.
Eloise wasn’t sure she believed it. But what did she know?
She decided that it was a good afternoon to clear out the garden in the backyard. The perennials needed trimming, the annuals to get pulled up, the soil turning. She had neglected the garden badly, like so many things since the accident. Amanda reluctantly helped pull weeds for a little while, but then she lost interest and Eloise let her go inside and watch television. It was awhile of being out there alone before Eloise was aware of it, how strange was the rustling of the wind through the trees.
She stopped what she was doing and pulled herself up from her gardener’s crouch, stretched out her aching lower back, and listened. The leaves were dancing in the wind that had picked up. And underneath the current of that sound she heard the distinct sound of whispering. Low and musical, eternal, a million voices telling their stories to the sky. She stood there awhile, letting the sound of it wash over her. She knew that she had never heard it before, but that it had been there all along, like a radio station she’d never been able to receive. There was something deeply sad and also joyful, a symphony of all the myriad notes of lives lived. Once Eloise heard it, she couldn’t stop listening. It was mesmerizing, a siren song. What rocks would it crash her upon?
“Mom?”
Emily was standing over by the rosebush Eloise had just trimmed back. “Mom, do you hear it?”
Emily was wearing the dress she’d worn to her first communion. It was a white, lacey thing that they’d had to wrestle her into. She complained the whole day about how it itched, and she’d torn it off and thrown it to the floor the minute she was allowed to change. But she looked like an angel while she wore it. Even frowning and fidgeting, she was the most beautiful creature.
“The whispers?” asked Eloise. Oh, she wanted to take that girl in her arms. It was a deep and powerful ache, but she kept her distance.
Emily nodded sagely. “Yes,” she said. “The Whispers. Not everyone can hear them, you know.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Eloise asked. She didn’t mean to sound sad and peevish, helpless. But she did. And she didn’t mean just about The Whispers. She meant everything. “Emily, tell me. What am I supposed to do?”
Emily smiled—her funny, crooked, one that was always just for Eloise.
“All you have to do is listen.”
Then she turned and left soundlessly through the garden gate. Eloise didn’t call after her. She just let her lovely lost girl go.
THE BURNING GIRL
There was a small, angry girl sitting on Eloise Montgomery’s couch. The girl had a wild mop of tangled hair, was thin as a wisp. She had about her the look of neglect—dirt under her nails, the hem falling on her dress. She smelled of smoke—not cigarette smoke, but of things destroyed by fire. Eloise ignored her, because there was something different about this one. Maybe it was the rage—which was electric. Eloise could feel it as she pushed the vacuum around the living room, looking at the girl out of the corner of her eye.
“Try to stay away from the angry ones,” Agatha had warned her. “And those seeking revenge. They’ll shred you.”
Eloise often found Agatha’s advice difficult to follow. Maybe Agatha was tougher than Eloise, more in control of her abilities. Because Eloise hadn’t been able to turn away anyone yet, not in ten going on eleven years of Listening, as she’d come to think of it. Though it was more than that, of course. More than Listening.
“The dead have no regard for us at all.” More words of wisdom from Agatha Cross—psychic medium, mentor, friend. Agatha was a little bitter about the whole psychic thing and didn’t mind admitting it to Eloise. “We must protect ourselves from them. Or they’ll use us right up.”
Eloise got what Agatha was saying, but it didn’t ring quite true to her experience. There was more to it than that, wasn’t there? She didn’t know what exactly, but it was more than them showing up with their demands. There was another layer.
Eloise moved from vacuuming to dusting. From the end table, she picked up a picture of her daughter Amanda and her grandchildren, Alfie and Finley, who were living in Seattle.
Just looking at the photo made her heart clench. Eloise loved her daughter, and she knew that Amanda loved her, too. They weren’t estranged, exactly. It was just that Amanda wanted to be as far away from Eloise and her “abilities” as she could possibly get. And she didn’t want her children to be exposed to it at all. Eloise could understand all that. But still, it was an ache in her chest. One of many. Eloise could help her visitors with their problems. But she couldn’t help herself, it seemed.
The girl was smoldering.
“What’s your name?” Eloise asked. Most of them didn’t talk to her. But she had a sense that this one wanted to be known. She had a flare for the dramatic.
You can call her The Burning Girl, the voice said. That voice in her head that wasn’t a voice. She’ll be around for a while.
The girl’s hair had turned to flames, and her skin glowed as if there were embers burning inside her. Eloise tried to look away, but the girl’s fury was magnetic, her mouth opened in a silent scream.
Eloise put the photo down and backed away, trying to keep herself from disappearing down the black maw of the girl’s throat.
Agatha had instructed Eloise to make her mind hard like a concrete wall when she didn’t want to get pulled into someone’s thrall. But Eloise hadn’t mastered that trick yet. And then Eloise was gone, sucked away like water down a drain.
• • •
The room Eloise found herself in was dark, lit only by the moonlight washing in through the pane glass window. The girl wasn’t burning now. She was small and sweet like any child. There was another bed beside hers, where a younger child slept peacefully, breathing even, mouth agape.
The Burning Girl lay awake, waiting. Eloise felt how her throat was dry, how her heart was pumping with fear; she could feel the girl’s tension. She held her body in a tight ball, all the muscles clenched. She was listening for footsteps in the hall. The girl knew he would come for her and that there was nothing she could do but lie silently until it was over. Eloise sensed all of this, though she was powerless to do anything but bear witness.
Except for a baby sister, The Burning Girl was alone in this world. Her father had died, and her mother was a shell of a person, barely able to care for herself. Eloise understood these things because she was inside the girl, without being inside her. She was beside her, without being beside. She was there, and she wasn’t. It was an imprecise experience, amorphous and changeable.
Eloise felt the steady pulse of the girl’s anxiety, but also an enormous swelling anger. The girl was young to be so filled with rage. Eloise wasn’t used to it. Her own capacity for ire was low; it didn’t fit in her body, made her sick when it came to call. But some people embraced it, gave it a home inside their hearts. They let it grow and get stronger. This girl was one of those.
Eloise looked around the room. Agatha had taught her how to do this, to be lucid in her visions and gather clues. The faster you can figure out what they want, the faster you can be rid of them. The floors were bare, unfinished wood. The light on the table between the two beds was a gas lamp. There were two desks, some books. Two handmade dolls rested on a simple shelf. There was a rocking chair with a knitted blanket hanging over the top. There were no outlets, no vents. This girl had clearly lived a long time ago. This was a first. Eloise had never gone back in time before, not this far.
She heard it then, the sound of footsteps in the hall. A little whimper escaped from the girl, a sound so helpless and afraid that Eloise t
urned to fend off whoever was coming. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. Eloise was as helpless as a shadow.
The girl sat up in her bed, her face pale and slack, her sky-blue eyes shining in the moonlight. How old was she? Maybe nine or ten, on the cusp of adolescence. A beauty with delicate features, a fine, thin nose, and rose-petal lips. Eloise thought of Amanda and how when she was flowering into her prettiness, the sight of her swelling hips and blossoming breasts used to fill Eloise with fear. How do I protect her? Eloise used to worry. The sad answer was that you don’t. You can’t protect them, not really, though you’d die trying. You try to teach them how to protect themselves and hope that is enough. It often isn’t.
The footsteps grew louder and then came to a stop. Eloise and the girl both stared at the door. The smaller child turned in her bed, issuing a soft groan. Outside, the moon moved behind the clouds, extinguishing the scant light.
“Goawaygoawaygoawaygoaway,” the girl whispered, soft and low like a chant. “Goaway.”
But the knob turned softly, and the door drifted open. Eloise watched as long, thick fingers snaked into view. Terror filled the room with its vibrations, and Eloise felt it in her bones like a dentist’s drill. She couldn’t just stand there.
She ran to the door and pushed it closed hard, used her body to hold it closed against whoever was trying to push his way in. There was a loud knocking that grew louder, more insistent, urgent. She wasn’t going to let him in. She wouldn’t let him hurt The Burning Girl, who wept silently on her bed.
“Eloise!”
She came back to herself on the foyer floor, her body resting against her own front door. Someone was knocking, actually trying to push the door open.
“Eloise,” said Ray Muldune. “What’s blocking the door?”
“Hold on a minute,” she said, pulling herself to her feet. She was confronted by the sight of a haggard and disoriented-looking old woman. Someone too thin, someone haunted and wasting. It took her a millisecond to realize with dismay that she was looking in the mirror that hung on the wall over the long table covered with photographs.