Haunting the Deep

by Adriana Mather

  “But I thought you guys were just at Sam’s,” Jaxon says. He makes no effort to let go of Niki’s hand.

  “And I thought that when we talked about how we both protect our parents, you wouldn’t bring up spirits in front of my dad and worry him,” I say.

  Jaxon shrugs. Maybe he’s trying to punish me for not dating him. Or worse, maybe our friendship really doesn’t mean to him what it means to me.

  Niki’s mouth twitches toward a smile, and she leans into his arm.

  “You’re welcome,” Alice says. She looks at their clasped hands. “And those bracelets your dance committee’s selling are ugly as shit, by the way.”

  Mary nods.

  Niki narrows her eyes. “You know where the door is.” She pulls Jaxon toward the stairs. “Let’s go up to my room.”

  Susannah gently touches my arm. “I’m sorry,” she says just loud enough for me to hear.

  Mary turns to Alice in the front seat of the Jeep. “So you agree that Niki and Blair are involved now, right? That your friends were unmistakably right, and that you, no matter how much it pains you, were wrong.”

  Alice rolls her eyes and drives away from the curb. “They’re involved in some way. I’ll give you that. Doesn’t prove they’re masterminding anything.”

  Susannah touches her bottom lip. “They could be working with someone.”

  “Also, I know you guys said that he’s not a Descendant, but don’t you find it weird that Wardwell was involved in pushing a dance theme?” I ask. “Not only did he support it, he convinced the history department to teach it. Seems extreme.”

  Alice pulls up to the curb in front of my house.

  “I was just thinking about that,” Susannah says. “Especially after how you said he told you about the dog collar.”

  I open the Jeep door and get out. My dad’s car isn’t in the driveway. “If Niki and Blair are connected, doesn’t it make sense that he could be, too?”

  Alice walks next to me up my brick driveway. “At this point, I don’t know what I know.”

  Mary’s face scrunches up. “Weeell, he does have a weird story.”

  “Also true,” Susannah says.

  I open my door for the girls and lock it behind us.

  Mary stops in the foyer and looks at me. “This is what happened. Wardwell was some hotshot museum director and moved to Salem ten years ago or so. He immediately started dating his now ex-wife, and they got married super fast. She thought he was a Descendant because of his last name, but two years later it came out that he actually had no relation to the Trials. It was this big scandal, and it destroyed their relationship. They divorced, and that’s when he became a teacher at our school.”

  “You’re saying he pretended to be a Descendant? And that his wife actually cared that he wasn’t?”

  Mary nods. “It was all really dramatic.”

  “Could he have a grudge against Descendants because of it?” I ask.

  “I’ve never noticed that from him,” Susannah says. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t. He is a history teacher who used to be a museum director. Plus, his love for the Titanic is obvious.”

  “And he’s in our school; he has access to all the people we have access to,” I say.

  “My instinct is still to say no, but I just said that about Niki. And as Mary so wonderfully pointed out, I was wrong,” Alice says.

  I pause. “Oh, shit. You know what? He came to my house once. A long time ago. Vivian said he was repairing my window….He could’ve seen Myra and Henry’s painting then and known who they were.”

  “Then we definitely need to look into him,” Susannah says.

  “It’s way more risky than sifting through Niki’s room,” Mary says.

  “Not necessarily,” I say, even though I hate that I’m suggesting this. “I could ask Elijah.”

  They all look at me.

  Susannah turns for the stairs. “Okay, then. We’re gonna head upstairs and start researching Myra and Henry.” The girls follow her, with Mary stealing glances at me over her shoulder.

  I rub my hands over my face. How am I going to start this conversation after I told him I didn’t want his help?

  I walk into the living room, mumbling to myself, and stop so fast I almost trip. Elijah’s already there, standing next to the fireplace with his hands behind his back.

  For a second I just stare at him. “So you were listening to our conversation?”

  “There is no need to make this more difficult,” he says.

  “Me make this difficult?” I fake-laugh.

  “I will do it,” he says. “Investigate Wardwell.”

  “Fine.”

  He turns so that he’s facing me. “We can have this conversation as an argument if you so choose, but it is not the most effective option for someone so concerned about time.”

  “Says the person who stole our spell ingredients last night.”

  His expression is calm. “If you did not charge ahead recklessly, I would not have to interfere.”

  I have an overwhelming desire to shake my fist at him, undeniably proving his point that I’m the difficult one.

  “I have been looking for Myra,” he says.

  I pause. “You have?”

  “But I have not found her.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I ask.

  “Spirits who do not pass on tend to stay near their homes. But when I looked for your relation Myra, she was not in New York City. I know she traveled when she was alive, but unfortunately I cannot seem to locate any journals or letters that tell me where she frequented. I do not have any good leads as to where she might be. And then there are the other passengers—”

  “What other passengers?”

  “I have been looking for all the Titanic passengers. Not just Myra.”

  “Oh.” So he was helping, even though I told him not to?

  “Oftentimes with tragedies like this, spirits feel unresolved about how things ended. Many of them stay here like I did, finding it difficult to pass on. Even the passengers who did not die in the shipwreck could potentially feel bound to the Titanic. Large-scale traumas sometimes affect the afterlife of the entire group. I do not know why,” Elijah says.

  “You’re really blowing the concept that when you die, things suddenly make sense,” I say.

  “Yes, well. I imagine that when I do pass on, everything will become clearer.” There is an emotion in his voice that I can’t quite place.

  “After everything that happened in the woods, you had the opportunity to pass on. Didn’t you? Your sister came to get you. Am I missing something here?”

  “As in life, death is not always simple or easy,” he says, his eyes asking for me to understand.

  There is something so sad and genuine about his voice that I suddenly have the desire to reach out to him. I frown. What’s wrong with me?

  Elijah must see something in my expression, because he breaks eye contact and clears his throat. “As I was saying, I have been to the passengers’ homes and their towns. But I have not found any of them.”

  I sigh, happy to move on to easier subjects like death warnings and unexplainable missing spirits. “Maybe some of them liked to travel the way Myra did? Maybe they’re just not hanging around in obvious places. Or maybe most of them passed on.”

  “Unlikely,” he says. “With a tragedy on the scale of the Titanic, I should have found at least a hundred by now. I have even asked other spirits in the passengers’ hometowns. None of the passengers have been seen in months. Some of them have not been seen in decades.”

  “I don’t understand. Where could they all have gone? And why am I seeing Ada, but you can’t find any other spirits? That doesn’t make sense.”

  Elijah’s eyebrows furrow. He takes a seat in an armchair. “That is what worries me. From the way you describe her, Ada always speaks in the present, as though she does not remember that she is dead. I have seen many deluded spirits in the past three hundred years, but none believed they
were still living. They knew they were dead.”

  “So then what’s going on with Ada?” I sit down on the fluffy couch. “Could she be under a spell?”

  Elijah leans forward. “I have been asking myself that very question.”

  “And if you can’t find Myra, why shouldn’t we try Alice’s suggestion?”

  “Forcing a spirit to appear is one of the worst things you could possibly do. The only thing we have is our freedom of choice. If the spell went wrong, you could wind up with a very angry spirit, one who would consequently tell you nothing. Spirits are not missing socks. They are people.”

  I stiffen. “I never thought of Myra as a missing sock, and you know that. But even you can’t find her, and she’s one of the only leads we have right now. And considering how little we understand, that’s saying a lot. There must be something we could do to try to get in touch with her.”

  Elijah’s quiet for a moment. “You could try speaking to her the way you speak to me.”

  “By saying her name?”

  “Indeed.”

  He blinks out.

  Susannah and I sit on one bed and Alice and Mary on the other. Laptops, books, and handwritten notes about the Titanic surround us.

  “I’m not finding anything else about Myra. Are you guys?” I ask.

  Mary shakes her head.

  “Nope,” Alice says. “Your letter tells us almost as much about her as anything else I’ve seen.”

  “It’s just so weird. Even Elijah couldn’t find her.” I chew on the end of my pen.

  Alice looks over her notes. “Let’s run through these connections again. It started with the dress and a note from her.”

  “And in my nondreams people accept me as the Harpers’ niece. I’ve spent time with Henry, but I’ve never seen Myra.”

  “That letter you found was about her. The key Alice got was to her stateroom. And we’re assuming that the dog collar could be from Myra’s Pekingese,” Susannah says. “It’s probably fair to assume the seasickness spell is connected as well.”

  Mary lies on her stomach and props her head on her hand. “Didn’t that letter talk about Henry being sick with ‘grippe’? I looked it up. It’s an old-fashioned word for the flu. And if he had the flu on the Titanic, he would definitely feel seasick,” Mary says nonchalantly, and we all look at her.

  “Not a bad theory,” Alice says. “And any which way, seasickness refers to being on a boat. So that only leaves the bowler hat.”

  There’s a knock at the door. I cover the old spell book with a pillow.

  “Come in!” I say.

  My dad peeks his head in. “You girls need anything? I’m headed to bed, but if you get hungry, there’s enough food in the kitchen to feed the whole town. Don’t stay up too late. Make sure you get some sleep.”

  We nod in agreement, and he closes the door behind him. We listen as his footsteps disappear down the hallway.

  “Are you going to tell him about Mrs. Meriwether and the potion?” Susannah asks.

  “I just don’t see how that could turn out well. You guys see my dad all friendly and happy. But I’m telling you, he does not react well to anything magic-related.”

  “Whatever you do, just don’t get yourself grounded. It will seriously interfere,” Mary says. “Parents worry.”

  “Not mine,” Alice says. “I’m not even sure they know what my name is sometimes.”

  Mary wraps her arms around Alice. “I know I should feel bad for you, and I do. But I also selfishly love that you stay at my house all the time.”

  Alice leans her cheek into Mary’s curly head.

  “Maybe we could just remake the potion from Mrs. Meriwether’s garden and save you the conversation,” Susannah says. “We have the spell book.”

  “She would know immediately if we went over there,” I say. “Plus, it’s only just getting warm out, and I’m not sure she’s even growing all those things yet. I’m just gonna have to figure something out.” I pick up the spell book. “But in the meantime, there’s a memory spell in here that might be worth a shot. Maybe help with my nondreams?”

  “Can I see it?” Susannah asks, taking the book from my lap. She skims the page. “We could definitely try this tonight after we call Myra. Although it looks like a potion might be the better way to go for potency.”

  I glance at the spell book. How am I going to slip all this spell casting past my dad and Mrs. Meriwether?

  Alice puts down her notebook. “Speaking of which, we should get started.”

  Mary frowns. “I just want the record to state that I really don’t like this.”

  “Since we can’t easily move the Myra painting from the attic, and it’s where you found the letter, I’m thinking we should just do the spell there,” Alice says.

  “I was actually going to say the same thing,” I say.

  Mary groans.

  “I’ll grab the candles and the intensifying oil,” Susannah says.

  We slide off the beds, collecting our notes.

  “I’d like to point out that we still don’t know what side of this Myra’s on. What if she does something to Sam?” Mary says. “What could we even do about it?”

  “If she wanted to hurt me, she could probably do it anyway. Calling her wouldn’t change that,” I say, and open the door.

  “But there’s—”

  “Mary, I swear, if you make noise and Sam’s dad catches us, I will smother you with a pillow,” Alice says.

  Mary makes a face at Alice, but doesn’t say another word.

  All four of us creep through the dark hallway, me leading the way with a flashlight and Susannah bringing up the rear with a chamberstick candle, or whatever she called it.

  I unlatch the attic door, and the girls follow me up the stairs. Elijah waits for us by the crate of paintings, bowler hat in hand.

  “Elijah’s here,” I say.

  He gives me the hat, and it becomes visible in my hand. Mary nervously glances around at the rough beams and protruding nails.

  Alice kneels down to arrange three black candles in a triangle and Susannah lights them. Mary and I place the dress, letter, dog collar, hat, and key on the floor next to the painting.

  I put down my flashlight. “We should start by saying things we know about Myra. Trying to tune in to her life and what was important to her. The painting and these items might be enough of a draw, but they might not. The more personal we can get, the more likely she is to hear us. At least, that’s how it worked when Elijah first showed up.”

  “Got it. You want to start us out?” Alice asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “Myra Haxtun Harper was born in February of 1863. She was married to Henry Sleeper Harper in 1889, and for a while they lived with her widowed father in Manhattan.”

  “Twelve years later they purchased a home overlooking Gramercy Park. They never had kids, and they spent their time traveling,” Susannah says.

  Alice nods. “Myra and Henry got on the Titanic after touring Europe and Asia. They brought Hammad, their interpreter from Cairo, and their Pekingese dog.”

  “They were all saved in Lifeboat Three, and Myra lived the rest of her life in Manhattan, until her death in 1923,” Mary says.

  Elijah paces with his hands behind his back and his brow furrowed.

  Susannah leans over the crate with her candle and peers at the painting. “Hmmm. Maybe there’s something we can tell just from looking at her.”

  We all stare at Myra.

  “Strong eyes,” Susannah says.

  Alice nods. “And a subtle smile.”

  “She looks happy,” I say.

  “Like she’s in love,” Mary says. “Which would make sense if her husband was also in this painting.”

  “Let’s try this,” Susannah says.

  She links hands with Mary and me, and we circle the candles. Alice pulls a small vial out of her black blazer pocket and drops some of whatever’s in it near each of the candlewicks. As the oil heats, a strong scent fills the air.
/>
  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Tea tree oil and a few herbs,” Mary says. “It helps with focus and intention.”

  “Everyone take a deep breath and close your eyes,” Susannah says, and we do. “Picture Myra as she was in this painting, a proud and private woman who traveled all over the world.”

  I focus.

  “Keep your image strong and specific as we say her name,” Susannah says. “Myra Haxtun Harper.”

  “Myra Haxtun Harper,” we all say together. “Myra Haxtun Harper.” Our voices merge and become more forceful. “Myra…Haxtun…Harper.”

  I open my eyes. We all do. Mary nervously looks over her shoulder, and I can’t help but do the same.

  “Anything?” Alice asks.

  “No,” I say. Nothing but a pacing Elijah, who is looking around the room even more suspiciously than Mary. “Let’s try again, maybe say her name a few more times.”

  We close our eyes. “Myra Haxtun Harper. Myra Haxtun Harper.” Our voices weave in and out of one another like a song as we say her name over and over.

  We open our eyes.

  “Not here,” Elijah says, and I tell the girls.

  Alice breaks our handhold. “Maybe she doesn’t want to come? Or maybe she never really cared about these things? Although that seems strange since someone obviously went to a lot of trouble to get them to us.”

  “Maybe we could look again, try to dig up more on her past that would help us connect with her?” Mary suggests.

  Elijah clasps his hands behind his back. “I have looked. And if I cannot find any documents, then they likely no longer exist.”

  I repeat his words.

  “Okay, tell us again how you got Elijah to talk to you the first time, any details you can think of,” Susannah says.

  I nod. “I found an old stack of letters hidden in my armoire, which had belonged to his sister, and I sat down at my vanity to read them. Halfway through, the lights went out in my room.”

  “And did the letters have any information about Elijah in them, personal details?” Mary asks.

  “No, actually, they didn’t even mention his name,” I say.

  “I came because I was aware of anything related to Abigail, those letters in particular,” Elijah says. “I spent many years wondering about her after she passed on. If you had said her name, I would have heard you more easily than if you had said my own.”