by Cat Winters
A disorienting bout of light-headedness threatened to stop me from making my way up to the front porch, but I gulped deep breaths and persevered, still keeping an eye out for crows. And the flu. My dizziness and confusion could have been the first signs of fever.
Mr. Darning’s raps against the front door sounded as loud to my ears as cannon blasts. We waited almost a minute, with no results, and then he knocked again.
I reached out to the wall below the porch light for support. “What if Julius isn’t home?”
“Shh. Let’s listen for his footsteps and make sure he’s not avoiding us.”
We tipped our ears toward the door and stood stock-still, but I only heard waves breaking on the shore across the street.
Mr. Darning swallowed and looked my way. “He might be dead.”
“Oh no.” I jiggled the brass doorknob. Locked. “No!” I pushed against the door as if I were truly strong enough to break it down. “This can’t be happening. His cousin came to our house just yesterday. Julius was alive as of her visit.”
Mr. Darning shook his head. “Being alive yesterday doesn’t mean a thing with this flu.”
“Don’t remind me. My aunt …”
“I’m sorry.”
I glanced behind me at the empty lawn where the lines of photography customers had waited. I thought of the studio … and the porthole-style windows.
“Oh … wait … Stephen’s entrance.” I tore down the front steps.
“Where are you going?”
“Stephen used to climb through the studio’s windows,” I said, my feet squishing across the dew-soaked front lawn, “to save the equipment at night when Julius left them open.”
Mr. Darning trailed after me with his brown case of glass plates in hand.
Around the corner, beyond the studio’s entrance, I saw three round windows—all open to allow the chill from the night to settle inside the house. Or else left open by a man unavailable to shut them.
Stephen’s grandparents had built the openings six feet off the ground, so the portholes were more a useless nautical decoration than a means of view or escape. A larger window faced the ocean at the front of the house, but I had always seen its shutters closed and locked, perhaps so Julius could further provide a dim and ghostly atmosphere inside the studio.
Two options existed: a coral tree with thick branches that reached out to the windows and a sturdy white trellis that was attached to the wall next to the leftmost porthole. I didn’t feel like shinnying up a tree trunk in my taffeta dress, so I grabbed hold of the trellis’s latticed wood and started to climb.
“You can’t go into that house alone,” said Mr. Darning. “Not when Julius might be in there.”
My head still felt dizzy, so I didn’t dare look down at him. My hands brushed past a flowering vine that tickled the backs of my fingers. “I’ll run”—I grunted and kept going upward—“straight to the side door … and let you in right away. I just hope Stephen isn’t furious at me for coming.”
“Why would Stephen be furious?”
I wrapped my right hand around the bottom edge of the left window. “He believes there are creatures inside the house that want to hurt me. Nightmare creatures.” I peeked inside the studio.
“Do—do you see anything in there?”
I shook my head. “It’s empty. The lights are off. I’m going in.” I clutched the trellis again and went a few inches higher. “Please turn away, Mr. Darning. This won’t be ladylike.”
“Be careful.”
“I’ll try.” I reached out to a nearby tree branch, gripped it with both hands, and swung my feet to the bottom edge of the round window. I then slid my legs carefully through the opening so I wouldn’t take the six-foot drop in one loud go. With my fingers still locked around the branch, I held my breath and listened for Julius’s footsteps. Or Stephen’s voice.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Darning called from down below.
“I’m fine. I’m going to push the top half of my body through and see if I can twist around and hang on to the ledge before dropping.”
Somehow, I did exactly that. With a swish of black taffeta and the thuds of tumbling feet and elbows, I landed on the studio floor—bruised but intact.
The house inside tasted of smoke and poison and blazing-hot metal. It felt wrong to be there, and I would have bolted out the door if I hadn’t felt in my gut that Stephen’s room hid the missing piece in the puzzle of his death.
“What are you doing in here?” asked someone behind me.
I leapt to my feet.
Julius came toward me through the open pocket doors, but he staggered rather than walked. His pace was slow and his footsteps unsteady, like the movements of a drunk. His pale face had grown thin compared with his appearance just four days earlier, and his wild black hair needed a good brushing.
I ran over to the side door and opened it for Mr. Darning.
Julius stopped in his tracks when he saw the other photographer entering the studio. “Why are you both here?” he asked.
“We thought you were dead from the flu.” I grabbed hold of Mr. Darning’s arm for support. “You weren’t answering the door. We got worried.”
Julius took four more labored steps and spoke as if we were idiots. “Why. Are. You. Here?”
I steadied my breathing. “I’m here to put your brother to rest. I’ll sit for that photograph you want.”
Julius’s eyes—so bloodshot they must have burned—blinked as if I’d just woken him from a long sleep. He stood up straight and made his voice deeper. “Why are you with her, Darning?”
“I’m curious about her abilities. I agreed to accompany her to ensure you’ll be sending a legitimate photograph of your brother’s spirit to that contest.” Mr. Darning lifted his brown case. “As usual, I’ve brought my own plates, marked with my initials, to prevent you from switching to your own doctored versions.”
Julius scrutinized Mr. Darning through uneasy eyes. “You sure you’re not plotting to get me arrested?”
Mr. Darning lowered his case. “I swear I’m only here for the sake of psychical research. I believe this girl is genuinely capable of luring your brother into a photograph. If we can get him to come, there would be no need for you to be arrested, would there?”
I lifted my chin and tried not to let my fear get the best of me. “Please let me help your brother, Julius. I know he’ll come to me. You know he’ll come to me.”
Julius leaned his hand against the wall for support, right next to the picture of the white-draped phantom and me. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “You look terrible, Mary Shelley. Are you sick or something?”
“No—just tired and anxious to contact your brother. Will you let me?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and hesitated some more. My eyes and throat stung as if a cloud of cyanide hovered overhead, and Julius looked equally sickened by the toxic atmosphere.
To speed things along, I spoke to his way of thinking. “Are we ready to win this prize, Julius? Should we help both you and Stephen get out of this house for good?”
“How much is the prize?” asked Mr. Darning.
I kept my eyes on Julius. “Two thousand dollars for solid proof of the existence of spirits. Isn’t that right, Julius?”
Julius stirred back to life once again. He pushed himself off the wall. “Bring Stephen quickly … and then send him far away from here. I don’t want him anywhere near me, so don’t—”
I hurried out to the house’s main entryway.
“Hey! Where are you going, Mary Shelley?”
Julius and Mr. Darning followed me out to the hall, their footsteps amplified in the deep, hollow space, which still reminded me of the belly of a ship with its dangling brass lantern and knotty wood walls.
“Why are you out here?” asked Julius. “The studio’s back—”
“Shh.” I lifted my finger, for I thought I had heard a whisper down the way.
The grandfather clock continued
to preside over the far end of the hall, but the second hand ticked louder than I remembered. A shadow hiding the round white moon face seemed to lengthen across the wall to the clock’s left and stretch toward the staircase. I remembered what the stairs looked like—the shine of the dark wood, the green runner trailing up the steps behind Stephen. An electrical hum rose in their direction, drowning out the ticking of the clock.
I kept an eye on that back portion of the house. “We have to photograph him in his bedroom to catch him with your camera.”
Julius shook his head. “No! Absolutely not. You are not going into his room.”
“Isn’t that where you hear him?” I asked.
“I don’t want you in there.”
“Then there’s no point in trying. That’s where he is. I bet if I called to him right now, he’d make a sound up there …”
“No.” Julius ran over and grabbed my shoulder to stop me from going to the staircase. “Don’t call him.”
“I’d listen to her, Embers,” said Mr. Darning. “She seems to know how to find him. He was already coming to her in my car outside your house.”
Julius turned even paler. “He was?”
Mr. Darning nodded. “I heard him. This is going to be a spectacular photograph. I can feel it.”
Julius gulped like he might throw up. Then he said, “All right. I’ll take the photograph upstairs. But I have conditions, too.”
I tensed. “What are they?”
“You have to take off that mask. No more photographs of you in goggles or gauze or other bizarre accessories. This has to be a professional sitting. You’re here only to pose for the picture and to send him away. No dramatics. No snooping.”
I looked to Mr. Darning, who gave me a comforting nod and said in that gentle tone of his, “You know it’s probably already too late for gauze masks. The judges would appreciate seeing your face. You don’t want to look like you’re hiding anything.”
I nodded. “I’ll take the mask off, then. May I use your washroom to cool my face before the sitting?”
“I—all right.” Julius rubbed his eyes and swayed for a moment. “Go make yourself presentable. I’ll fetch my equipment and start setting up.” He pointed at Mr. Darning. “You wait right here, Darning. I don’t want you sniffing around his room before I’m up there.” He stumbled back inside his studio, and I half wondered if he’d collapse and pass out.
Mr. Darning set his brown case of photographic plates on a small marble table in the hall and popped open the lid. “Go get yourself comfortable, Miss Black. You’re doing well. I’ve never seen a braver girl.”
“Thank you,” I said, although I didn’t feel brave in the slightest. The vile tastes of poison and blood flowed across my tongue and warned of imminent pain.
I wandered down to the grandfather clock on unsteady legs and stopped for a moment to watch the brass pendulum swing in its hypnotizing rhythm. The second hand journeyed to the bottom of the white moon face, and the gears—those thin cuts of circular metal moving in perfect synchronicity—spun and clicked deep inside the heart of the contraption.
I glanced back at the staircase and longed to hear Stephen ask me again what I saw through my goggles’ lenses. I wanted to tell him a new answer: I see the future, and I know it can all be changed if you stop yourself from heading off to the army when you’re still in school. Don’t run away from your home life just yet. The battles will rob you of your mind, and someone will destroy your body. Your photographs will be lost. You’ll never get to grow up.
I clenched my fists and continued through the house, past the humming staircase.
The washroom consisted of a pull-chain toilet, a white shell sink, and more cedar wall panels that smelled of wood and toxic fumes. Only a sliver of natural light came through a small window near the ceiling, so the room felt dark and crowded and uncomfortable. I removed my mask and splashed cool water over my sweating cheeks and nose. The peaked face staring back at me in the mirror above the sink belonged to a petrified kid, not a confident spirit medium. My skin lacked all color, and my hair seemed darker than usual. I already looked like a black-and-white photograph.
I dried my face on a limp yellow towel that reeked of darkroom chemicals. The noxious air inside the house kept me from inhaling deep enough to calm my racing heart. With my throat dry, I twisted the doorknob and walked across the hallway in my double-reinforced Boy Scout boots that could still help me run at a moment’s notice.
I approached the bottom of the staircase, my pulse beating in the side of my neck. I could feel Stephen there, sitting the same way as when I saw him back in April. My left foot slipped on a polished floorboard, but I righted myself, regained my balance, and inched farther. The bottom step of the staircase came into view, along with a foot in a gray sock. The buzzing of electricity grew so loud my eardrums felt they would burst.
I stepped around the corner and saw him.
Black-red blood still covered his entire face and shirt, so close and clear and grotesque in the daylight. I shut my eyes and gagged.
“Don’t go up there,” he told me. “Get out.”
“You don’t look right.” I braced myself against the wall and tried so hard not to ruin everything by vomiting all over the floor.
“Are you ready?” asked Julius in a voice that buzzed as much as the stairs.
I peeled one eye open and couldn’t see Stephen anymore.
Julius thumped down the staircase in his huge brown shoes. “Mr. Darning just observed me placing his own plates in the camera upstairs. The equipment and lighting are ready.”
“I’m ready, too,” I said in a voice that sounded as if my vocal cords had turned to sandpaper. My head pulsated with pain to the beat of the blood churning through my veins. My body wouldn’t last much longer—if the flu didn’t overtake me, my nerves would. The need to reach Stephen’s bedroom fueled my strength to endure the walk up that staircase.
I’d read about pilots describing a change in air pressure when their planes ascended into the sky. That’s how it felt climbing up to the Emberses’ second story. My stomach rose into my chest the way it did on a Ferris wheel, and the blood vessels in my temples seemed poised to pop. My throat burned hotter. I gripped the rail for support, as my legs melted beneath me.
At the top of the staircase, Julius turned right, toward a bedroom. The broiling air gusting out the opened doorway blew against my face like heat from an oven. The sound of a thousand lightbulbs, restless with electricity, droned within.
“Do you hear the buzzing?” I asked Julius.
“What buzzing?”
I eyed a wooden bed across from the door, below one of three windows that washed the room in an eerie sunlight I’d seen in photographs of empty barns and graveyards.
Mr. Darning waited for us just inside the door, offering me another nod of encouragement. “It’s all right, Miss Black. I’m here.”
Julius entered ahead of me, and I noticed the unsteadiness of his legs, the hesitancy with which he approached his camera. The leather bellows stretched toward the mattress, which was covered in nothing more than a dusty brown blanket. A chill spread from the nape of my neck to the small of my back. That ratty old cloth was probably hiding Stephen’s blood. There was no longer a pillow.
“Well?” Julius steadied himself by holding on to the black box of his camera’s body. “Aren’t you coming in?” His voice squeaked an octave higher than usual. He kept his neck stiff and his eyes alert, searching for something over his shoulder.
I stepped across the threshold of Stephen’s bedroom, which smelled rancid and stale. My legs might as well have been wading through a pool of molasses. The air pushed me backward as if it were alive, forcing me away from that buzzing and angry bed, breathing hot fumes against my face.
I staggered forward and reached my hand out to the brown blanket, the same way I’d try to grab a log if I were drowning in a river. Static stung my palm. I knew touching that mattress would give me a shock as potent as
the lightning bolt’s, but I bent forward, pushed through the molasses air, and climbed onto that bed.
A jolt of electricity whacked me in the back. I fell and shut my eyes through spine-rattling pain that shuddered through my teeth and made me bite my tongue. The room went black.
When I opened my eyes, I found the world dark and my wrists bound to a bed by coarse ropes that burned through the layers of my skin. I was on my back, and there was whispering near the door.
“Wait until I put on the mask. I don’t want him recognizing me.”
“Who cares if he recognizes you?”
“I don’t want anything in his eyes slowing me down, all right? I didn’t smoke enough dope tonight. I’m losing my nerve.”
“I told you, too much dope might slow us down. What a waste it would be to forget to photograph him.”
“Are you sure something’s going to show up?”
“We’ve got to try, right?”
I struggled against my ropes. Dark figures shuffled around me, guided by the dull light of a single candle. They wore black clothing and kept the flame far enough from their faces for me to see anything but pure-white surgical masks and the glint of their watchful eyes. One of them positioned a camera near the bed. I heard the turning of the tripod’s handle and smelled the firework scent of magnesium powder poured across a flashlamp’s tray. Scuttling noises emanated from everywhere, as if rats were scurrying around the room. Every sound was magnified.
One of the figures turned toward me, and his mask mutated into an enormous white beak. I sucked in my breath and blinked my eyes, but he wouldn’t change—the creature looked like an ungodly bird with the body of a man.
A light flashed, and I was deep in the belly of a trench in France, cradling my rifle, waiting for the sound of artillery fire alongside other panting men. The mixed stink of rotting flesh, cigarettes, sweat, rum, urine, and stagnant mud turned my stomach into mush. I huddled on the ground at the far end of the line, and not more than six feet down from me lay the body of a soldier with reddish-brown hair, his flesh soft and pale, the blood on his face still drying.
A group of cawing carrion crows descended over the poor soul and pecked at his glassy brown eyes with their scissor-sharp beaks jabbing, jabbing, jabbing—fattening themselves on the ruins of war, gorging on a dead nineteen-year-old boy. One of the birds raised its head and stared at me with its beak smeared red and hunger brightening its ravenous eyes. I’d woken with one of its kind pressed against my rib cage before, digging at my uniform, smelling the blood in the fibers until I fought it off me to prove I was still alive.