Ephram never allowed the windows open in his room. Her fingers were like water skins as she fumbled for another match. The low sound came again, a rattling exhalation followed by the unmistakable creak of the poster bed. She squeezed her eyes closed, even though the room was pitch black, and concentrated on the match that she wanted to scratch across a stone.
A voice came, muffled and desperate and everything but dead.
“Fuh . . . fire,” it said.
Sylva’s heart gave a jump like a frightened rabbit. Ephram Korban was in the room, in the bed. She dared not look in his direction, but the same power that seemed to be weighing down her limbs made her neck turn slowly toward the bed. She opened her eyes and saw nothing but blackness.
“Spell me,” he said, a little more forcefully, almost angrily, but still muffled as if speaking through blankets.
She nodded slowly, though he couldn’t see her in the dark. Nor could she see him. And yet . . .
As she looked at the bed, its form taking shape in her mind from the memory of it, she could picture Ephram lying there, his face stern and his hair and beard flowing onto the pillows. Handsome Ephram, who had never been sick. Ephram, who stayed young and strong while the workers and natives had faded away with their wrinkles and stories and tired, failing breath. Ephram, who was said to never sleep.
Two small dots of light hovered in the darkness of the bed, weakly glowing, the only thing in the room she could see. She tried to turn her head away, tried to strike the match, even though she had now been pulled from mere waking sleep to a helpless awareness.
She washed the sheets. She knew which side of the bed was his. The dots expanded, hovering near the headboard where the pillows were. Where Ephram’s eyes should be.
The eyes smoldered the deep red color of a dying ember.
“Call in the fire,” he rasped, as a sharp flicker of yellow glinted among the red dots. The glowing eyes blurred in her tears as she jerked the matchstick along the stone. It caught and she applied the flame to the paper. At last she could look away from that terrible bed, those impossible eyes. But she had to say those awful words, the ones Momma had taught her.
The spell.
She whispered them, hoping to weaken their power through lack of volume. “Go out frost, come in fire. Go out frost, come in fire. Go out frost, come in fire.”
The fire leapt to life and she put some kindling on the grate. As the wood crackled and heat cascaded onto her face, she found that her limbs were regaining their strength, her scratched flesh no longer stinging.
Not daring to turn now that the room was bathed in firelight, she busied herself stacking a night’s supply of logs onto the irons. Her tears had dried on her cheeks, but she felt their salty tracks. She was in trouble and had committed the most unforgivable of offenses. She could only stare into the flames as they rose like yellow and red and blue water up the chimney.
A hand fell softly on her shoulder. She looked up, and Ephram was standing above her. He was smiling. His eyes were deep and dark and beautiful, alive in the firelight.
How silly I’ve been, picturing them to be red.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her words barely audible over the snapping of the hot logs and the hammering of her heart. “I didn’t mean to be late.”
Ephram said nothing, only moved his hand from her shoulder to her cheek, then up under her long hair until his thumb brushed her ear. She shivered even though the fire was roaring.
She couldn’t help looking around at all the fine things, the oval cut-edged mirror over the bureau, the velvet drapes that plunged from the top of the windows like lush purple waterfalls, the soft silk lace rimming the edge of the poster bed.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice now deep and strong, and her gaze was fixed back to his bearded face.
They said that if you passed him in the dead of night, his eyes changed colors, gold, red, then yellow, the shades of fire. But now his eyes were coal black.
They said when he stood atop the house on the widow’s walk, his shadow stretched two miles in every direction, that he burned black candles in the cellar. But that was what the men said. The house girls said other things, which Sylva equally refused to believe.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was a man.
“Sorry I was late,” she whispered.
“But not too late.”
She started to turn back to the fire, to add more wood, to do her duty. She’d said the words, the way her Momma taught her, and now she was done.
He caught her cheek and his face was near hers. “We burn together.”
She didn’t understand, all she knew was that she had wished for this moment so many times while lying on her straw mattress in the cabin loft. Those dreams had come to her, taken over her body, brought her skin alive. Ephram’s hands on her flesh. But in her fantasies, she hadn’t been this scared.
Then she realized what was wrong. He was behind her and above her, his face lit by the fire. She was kneeling on the hearth, looking up. But, somehow, his shadow was on her face. She couldn’t fix on the thought, couldn’t make sense of it, because other sensations were flooding her. His fervid hand traced the soft slope of her neck.
And again Sylva was smothered in a dream, only under a different power this time, as she rose and let him put his arms around her, as the hellish heat of his lips pressed against hers. She was lost in his warmth, his strength, his great shadow. When he took her hand in his and brought it to the flames, she didn’t whimper or beg. He was the master, after all.
Their hands went into the flames, merged, combusted, and skin and bone were replaced by smoke and ash.
There is no pain. How can there not be pain?
The next thing she knew, she was removing her coarse house-girl skirt and homespun blouse and they merged once more, this time on the floor in front of the fire, the spell lost from her lips, and only Ephram in her senses.
CHAPTER 1
Heights.
Success.
The parallels were so obvious now, as he stood at the edge of the bridge, the steep gorge yawning below, high granite peaks plunging away to a distant death.
“You going?” said the woman behind him.
Mason Jackson grabbed a gulp of the pure Blue Ridge Mountain air. If only it were helium.
The people ahead of him were already across, entering the woods that led to the estate. A horse-drawn wagon had taken the luggage, and Mason was free except for the heavy tools in his canvas satchel.
Enough weight to drop him fast, way, way, down to where—
“Are you okay?” the woman said. The van was already backing up behind them, making the five-mile return trip down the winding road to Black Rock.
Mason nodded. He looked into those cyan eyes, the ones he’d glanced at from time to time during the ride up. At least during those moments when he wasn’t staring out the window at the sheer drop along the shoulder of the road.
“We’re being left behind,” she said. She was nearly as pale as he felt, though she was young, maybe late twenties. Near his age, but he didn’t want to think about that, though she was attractive, with large, dark eyes and straight black hair.
“Run along, I’ll catch up,” he said.
Or, more likely, I’ll run back down the mountain before I step foot on that bridge.
“It’s sturdy enough,” she said. “Those horses must have weighed a couple of thousand pounds.”
“Sure,” he said, tapping the wooden guardrail. “This thing would hold a tank.”
“Acrophobia,” she said. “Everybody’s got some kind of phobia or other.”
Uh-oh. She’s intelligent. This could be bad.
“I couldn’t even climb the monkey bars in grade school,” he said.
“Will it help if you take my hand, close your eyes, and just take a step at a time?”
He smiled, though his throat was tight. “That’s mighty nice of you, Miss—”
“Galloway. Anna Galloway.”<
br />
“But how can I trust you not to walk me right over one of those rock ledges?”
She returned the smile, and it was fetching, though a little weary. “You can’t trust me. But maybe while you are walking, you can pretend you are walking on a giant concrete runway, as solid as—”
“No good. Planes freak me out, too.”
The wind shifted a little, and the autumn canopy around them shivered in gold and scarlet. A faint odor of wood smoke drifted by.
“Well, all the good rooms will be taken if we wait any longer,” she said. “I don’t want to spend the whole retreat in a broom closet.”
“After you,” he said, nearly forgetting the long drop. Her eyes were as deep as the gorge and a fall there could be just as fatal.
Anna edged past him and stepped onto the bridge. She put one hand out, clutching her purse with the other. It was a tidy leather purse, brown, not showy or overly stylish. Compact, like she was.
He took her hand and put his other on the railing. Okay, Momma. See? I can make sacrifices for success.
As he walked, he squinted, afraid to close his eyes but not trusting the darkness. He fixed his gaze on an oak stump on the other side of the bridge, imagining how he would accent its natural shape and turn it into a gargoyle or watchdog.
The bridge bucked once as a breeze skirled beneath the girders, and Mason’s stomach fell away. Anna’s hand tightened around his and pulled with more insistence, and he hurried after her. Then they were on solid ground and he let out a cracked laugh of exhilaration.
She released his hand and he wiped the sweat from his palm. He hadn’t noticed his tool bag had banged against his hip, and a bruise started.
“Thank you kindly, Anna,” he said, looking back, feeling silly now.
She shrugged. “A phobia’s a phobia.”
She was already heading down the dirt road that led into the hardwood forest. He hurried after her, his tools clinking. “So what’s yours?” he said, catching up.
“My what?”
“Your phobia.”
She pursed her lips and looked melancholy. “Death.”
“That’s a good one.”
“Makes the other ones insignificant, right?”
“If you’re lucky enough for death to be the end.”
He mulled on that as they walked, her short, brisk steps in a synchronized punctuation to his long strides.
Then the forest ended and Korban Manor stood before them like something out of an antique postcard. The open fields fell away to a soft swell of orchard, a patchwork of meadows, and two barns stitched together with fencing. The manor itself was three outsized stories high, tall the way they were built in the late 1800s, six Colonial columns supporting the portico ceiling at the entrance. Black shutters framed the windows against the white siding. Four chimneys puffed away, the smoke swirling through the giant red oaks and poplars that surrounded the house.
Atop the roof was a widow’s walk, a flattened area with a lonely railing. Mason wondered if any widows had ever walked those boards. Probably.
One thing about an old house, you could be sure that somebody had died there, probably a whole lot of somebodies.
A painter or photographer would probably kill for the view the widow’s walk afforded. Mason might even commit a lesser crime for the privilege, except he knew he’d grow dizzy with all that open air around him and that deadly depth stretching below. At least he’d have an opportunity to study Korban Manor’s intricate scrollwork from the safety of ground level.
“Can you handle the porch steps?” Anna asked.
Mason frowned, unable to tell if she were teasing. “Yeah. I can always crawl if I need to. I’m pretty good at crawling.”
“Good luck, then.” She bounced up the stairs and entered the tall front door. Inside, the group was milling around, getting settled. He wanted to shout out a final “Thanks” but Anna was gone.
Good luck with your phobia, too.
CHAPTER 2
“Have you seen George?” Miss Mamie asked Ransom Streater. She hated to mingle with the hired help, with the exception of Lilith, but there were times when orders had to be given or stories set straight. The best way to head off gossip was to originate it.
“No, ma’am.” Ransom stood by the barn, his hat in his scarred hands, sweat clinging to his thin hair. He smelled of the barnyard, hay and manure and rusty metal. Around his neck was a leather strap, and she knew it was attached to one of those quaint charm bags. These rural mountain people actually believed that roots and powders had influence over the living and the dead. If only they knew that magic was created through the force of will, not by wishful thinking.
Magic was all in the making. Like the thing she held cradled in her arms, the poppet she had shaped with great love and tenderness.
“I need someone to help the sculptor find some wood tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.
“When was the last time you heard from George?”
“This afternoon, right after the last batch of guests come in. Said he was going up Beechy Gap to check on things.”
Miss Mamie hid her smile. So George had gone to Beechy Gap. Good. Nobody from town would miss him for at least a couple of weeks, and by then it wouldn’t matter.
And she could count on Ransom to keep his mouth shut. Ransom knew what kind of accidents happened to people around Korban Manor, even to those who wore charms and muttered old-timey spells. And a job was a job.
Everyone had a burning mission in life.
Some missions were more special than others.
She took the little doll from its bit of folded cloth. Its apple head had shriveled into a dark and wizened face, the mouth grim with animated pain. The body was made from whittled ash and the arms and legs were strips of jackvine. Ransom drew back from the doll as if it were a rattlesnake.
“Will you take care of George for me?” Miss Mamie asked.
“He was my friend. It’s the least I can do.” A shadow crossed his face. “I need to wait till morning, though. I don’t go up Beechy Gap at night.”
“First thing, then. I don’t want to upset the guests. You know what’s coming, don’t you?”
“A blue moon in October,” Ransom said. His eyes shifted to the barn door. A horseshoe hung above it, points up, the dull metal catching the dying daylight. As if luck mattered.
“You’ve been with us a long time.”
“And I aim to stick around a lot longer.”
“Then you won’t let me down?”
“I’ll bury him proper, silver on his eyes. I take pride in my work.”
“Ephram always said, ‘Pride will walk you through the tunnels of the soul.’”
“Ephram Korban said lots of things. And people said lots of things about him.”
“Some of it might even be true.” Miss Mamie stroked the doll, suffering her own moment of pride at its skillful rendering. Folk art, they called it. The little poppet contained far more folk than anybody knew. “Excuse me, I have a dinner to host.”
Ransom gave a little bow and tugged the strap of his overalls. Miss Mamie left him to feeding the livestock and headed toward the manor. She carried the doll as if it were a precious gift to a loved one. Even though the house was as familiar to her as her own skin, to see it from a distance always brought a fresh rush of joy. The fields, the trees, the mountain wind seemed to sing his name.
This was her home.
Their home.
Forever.
CHAPTER 3
Anna Galloway pulled back the lace curtains of the bedroom window. A bit of dust rose from the windowpane at the stir of air. Sunlight spilled on her shoulders, the October glow warming the floor beneath her feet. The mountain air was chillier than she was used to, and even the roaring fire didn’t quell her shivers. A painting of Ephram Korban hung over the room’s fireplace, smaller than the one downstairs but just as brooding. The sculptor with the fear of heights
was right about one thing: Korban had been thoroughly in love with himself.
She looked out over the meadows. Here she was, at long last. The place she was supposed to be, for whatever reason. This was the end of the world, the logical place for endings. She drove the fatalism from her mind and instead watched the roan and chestnut galloping across the pasture. The display of freedom and peace warmed her.
“It’s so pretty, isn’t it?” the woman behind her said. She’d told Anna that her name was “Cris without the h,” as if the lack of h somehow made her harder and less flexible. And since they were going to be roomies . . .
“It’s wonderful,” Anna said. “Everything I dreamed it would be.”
Cris already had her makeup kit, watercolor brushes, and sketch pads scattered across the bed nearest the door. Anna had nothing but a slim stack of books piled neatly on her dresser. Her attitude toward material possessions and earthly comforts had undergone dramatic changes in the past year. You travel light when you’re not sure where you’re headed.
The pain swept across her abdomen, sneaky this time, a needle poking in slow motion. She closed her eyes, counted backward in big fat numerals.
Ten, round and thin . . .
Nine, loop and droop . . .
She was down to six and the pain was floating somewhere above that far cut in the Blue Ridge Mountains when Cris’s voice pulled her back.
“Like, what do you do?”
Anna turned from the window. Cris sat on the bed, brushing her long blonde hair. Anna was glad the chemotherapy hadn’t made her own hair fall out. Not just because of vanity, but because she wanted to take all of herself with her when she went.
“I do research articles,” Anna said.
“Oh, you’re a writer.”
“Not fiction like Jefferson Spence. More like metaphysics.”
“Science and stuff?”
Anna sat on her bed. The pain was back, but not as sharp as before. “I worked at the Rhine Research Center in Durham. Investigator.”
“You quit?”
“Not really. I just got finished.”
Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers Page 99