The Seer of Shadows

by Avi

  The smiling face! His words made me realize he had seen yet a different face from the one I had. Then what face had Mrs. Von Macht seen?

  I said, “Was Mrs. Von Macht . . . glad it was there?”

  “Glad? Why, do you know, Horace, I think she was . . . alarmed. But then, I suppose any parent would be alarmed if they saw the ghostly image of a beloved dead child appearing in a photograph. I can imagine my feelings if I saw my late, unlamented father hovering over my shoulder in a photograph.” He laughed.

  “Sir,” I said, “what will happen next?”

  “I’ll send her a bill. Believe me, Horace, it shall be a hefty one, too. I worked hard, didn’t I?”

  “Will that be the end of it, then?” I would have been greatly relieved to have it be so.

  He became thoughtful. “I predict . . . Horace . . . Yes! I believe that in a few days I shall hear from Mrs. Von Macht again. Let’s see: She’ll ask me to call on her. I’ll be happy—of course I will—to meet with her. This time, perhaps with her husband. Can you imagine, Horace, what will happen when she shows him the picture? Rather an angry fellow, wasn’t he? Never mind!

  “Very well, then, here’s my prediction: She’ll want more photographs. To make sure it was not an accident.” He began to laugh again.

  “Will you make them?”

  “Make them? Horace, I intend to make many such spirit pictures and thereby make my fortune! For here’s another forecast. Within one month’s time I shall hear from one of her friends who has lost someone or other. My goodness, children are dying all the time. I know, pitiful. But what’s that saying? ‘It’s an ill wind that blows no good.’ Exactly! All right, then. Let some profit blow my way. Come along! We really must dine again at O’Tooly’s. This time I shall treat you to a plate of oysters! Horace, we shall make a night of it.

  “My young friend,” he cried, clapping me on the shoulder, “you did very well!”

  Oh, how I detested him then! How his willingness to mock and profit by another’s grief disgusted me! How his smugness put himself first in all things! And beyond all else, he was so bent upon swindle, he was utterly unaware that something extraordinary was happening.

  NINETEEN

  WE CONTINUED WALKING as all the while I turned over in my mind how I might proceed. More than anything I was determined to meet with Pegg that night. At length I said, “Mr. Middleditch, sir.”

  “What’s that, Horace?”

  “Perhaps you’ll excuse me, sir, but I’d rather not dine out. My . . . stomach is a little too queasy for oysters.”

  “Have a porterhouse steak.”

  “I’d just as soon not eat at all, sir.”

  “Suit yourself, Horace,” he said, still in high glee. “I would have enjoyed your company. But if you’re determined not to come, be aware, I’ll eat your portion.”

  “I hope you will, sir.”

  With Mr. Middleditch so full of energy, we moved on quickly. It was only as we approached our rooms that I said, “Mr. Middleditch, sir, there is something that puzzles me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The image in the picture, the photograph you gave Mrs. Von Macht it . . . it wasn’t right.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course it was right.”

  “The picture I took—the image from the servant girl’s room—the one you used to make the double exposure was not the same face on the photograph you gave Mrs. Von Macht.”

  He considered me blankly. “Of course it was.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  It was as if I’d told him I’d sprouted wings and could fly. “Horace,” he said, “that’s absurd!”

  “Exactly, sir—”

  “Horace,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “I’m afraid it’s not just your stomach that’s a bit off. Your head is, too. I know! You’ve been listening to that colored girl.”

  I turned away in disgust. My only hope was that Pegg could provide some explanation. But I would have to wait until nine o’clock.

  Mr. Middleditch was so full of his success he could not keep still. After pacing about for a while, he bolted from our rooms with an over-the-shoulder call of “Hope you feel better!” I suspect he went off to find someone to whom he could more agreeably brag about his successful hoax.

  That was fine with me. I had no desire for his company. On the contrary, I was considering quitting my apprenticeship or, I should say, him. Unfortunately, I was only too aware I would have to speak to my father about the matter, as I knew neither the terms he had established nor if he might incur a financial loss. Besides, I was fearful my father would only scoff if I tried to describe the events I had experienced.

  But what really held me was this: While I could no longer deny that something extraordinary was occurring, more than anything I wanted to understand it rationally, to find some science that could explain these bizarre events. But to do so I needed to be very sure what was happening. It required patience—and Pegg.

  That left me some idle hours before our meeting. Trying to use my time effectively, I repaired to our processing room and took up the circular glass negative that contained the four images I had taken with the concealed camera. From it I made a new print.

  In the studio I found one of the prints Mr. Middleditch made when he constructed his spirit photograph. These were his practice prints, created before he made the one he offered to Mrs. Von Macht.

  What I observed was disturbing. The circular images were, as previously noted, four in number.

  Recall: The first two images were of Eleanora Von Macht’s painted portrait in the hallway of the Von Macht house.

  The third image was of the picture that Pegg had in her room on her little table.

  The fourth image was also of Eleanora, the one I was convinced I did not shoot but which, without doubt, was taken in Pegg’s room.

  Now, insofar as Mr. Middleditch had used the third image for his composite picture, I compared the print I had just made with Mr. Middleditch’s practice print.

  They were the same.

  Therein lay a new puzzle: I was absolutely certain that when I had looked at the photo Mrs. Von Macht put into my hands, it was not the same image.

  And what about the face I had seen—or thought I had seen—in the background when I first entered the room?

  All this, in the words of Mr. Middleditch, was absurd. The only explanation based on reason was that someone or something was creating these appearances. But who? Surely not Mr. Middleditch!

  Is it any wonder that I was beginning to doubt my judgment? Were not my own eyes seeing things that made no sense?

  The results of my examination left me more restive than ever. Though my meeting with Pegg was still some hours away, I could no longer confine myself to our rooms. Besides, I did not want to chance an early return by Mr. Middleditch. It would be harder to get away. So I sallied out into the city determined to pass my time as best I could. With me I took an extra print of the secret pictures. I needed to share it with Pegg. To get her response. Her reaction. I needed a reasonable explanation.

  TWENTY

  IT WAS ABOUT SEVEN in the evening when I set out from our rooms. The last glimmerings of twilight still held sway. The air was soothing. As I walked uptown along wide, crowded Broadway, I wanted to lose myself among the throngs. Shops were doing a brisk trade. Saloons and rum houses were overflowing. Streets were full of horse-drawn vehicles, walkways crowded with bearded or mustachioed men with top hats and bowlers. Newsboys hawked on corners. Workmen aplenty in rough cord trousers and slouch hats headed, I supposed, for their tenement rooms. Ladies passed in fashionable skirts both wide and long. And many a solitary child, grubby and ill-kempt, hurried by, no doubt returning home from their employment too.

  These sightings were of everyday things and people, things that I had observed countless times and had made little of, a mere catalog of city life. That evening, however, I did not see things in my ordinary fashion. That is to say, I saw everythi
ng as if it were a photograph: isolated, framed, and distinct. Never before had I been so aware of the city’s vitality! It was as if I had new-made eyes. Whether objects or persons, everything was sharp, vivid, intensely alive in the lens of my mind. It was as if I had found a new way of seeing. Was it because I had taken my first photographs?

  So transfixed was I by what I observed, I lost myself in simply looking. I don’t know how much time I spent, but with a start, I recalled my appointment with Pegg and bolted.

  When I finally reached Fifth Avenue, it was all but deserted of pedestrians. Yellow light from house windows fell upon the empty sidewalks as if the whole city were now a darkroom. Now and again a carriage or omnibus clattered by, the clop-clop of horse hooves clear and sharp in the night. I was reminded of the ticking grandfather clock in the Von Macht house and its monotonous count toward infinity.

  I’m not exactly certain how close to nine o’clock it was when I drew up to the Von Macht house. The windows were dark, but I knew them to be heavily curtained. With luck, the Von Machts had gone out. I could only hope that Pegg would be able to talk to me.

  I made my way into the little forecourt and then down two steps until I stood beneath the stoop. Though the night was dark, I could make out the door. I tapped on it softly.

  It opened immediately. Pegg, her face darker in the night, looked out. “Horace?” she whispered.

  “It’s me.”

  She grasped my sleeve and pulled me forward. A tiny click informed me she had shut the door. She led me to the scullery door. “The key.”

  I gave it to her. We went into the room where I had processed the plates. Once inside Pegg locked the door behind us.

  Pegg lit a small candle. It burned between us, like some fortune teller’s golden orb, as we silently looked at each other. I confess, I wondered whether or not I could trust her. I have no doubt she considered me with the same question. Without doubt, she was taking the greater risk.

  Under the pressure of possible discovery, I made myself speak. “Why did you wish me to come?”

  She must have caught the nervousness in my voice because she whispered, “Don’t worry. The Von Machts are not here.”

  “Good.”

  “Please,” she said, “I need you to explain the photograph your Mr. Middleditch gave to my mistress.”

  “Did you see it?

  “After you left, Mrs. Von Macht went to her bedroom. I was able to look at it then. Horace, there was a . . . ghostly image of Eleanora in it.”

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” I said. She described the angry face.

  I considered telling her the truth as I understood it right then, but I held back. “Do you,” I asked, “believe it’s her ghost?”

  “I don’t know. But Horace, if she has come back, I’ve great fears.”

  “Why?”

  “If it is Eleanora and she’s still angry, she’ll do great harm.”

  I understood perfectly that we were talking about a ghost. Yet the two of us were speaking rationally about something I thought mere superstition. It was as if, having always believed coal was black, I now began to see it as white!

  I said, “What do you mean, ‘still’ angry? I wish you’d tell me more.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Pegg, I beg you. I know nothing about her. Or you, really. You said Eleanora was not the Von Machts’ real daughter. That they treated her cruelly.”

  She sighed. “It’s a sad story,” she said. “And a long one. I don’t know when the Von Machts will be back. The moment they return, they’ll call for me.”

  “I can always let myself out,” I said, impatient for her to begin.

  Pegg was quiet for a moment, then blew out the candle. “The darkness fits the story,” she whispered.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “Eleanora,” Pegg began, “was the daughter of Mrs. Von Macht’s sister, Chloe. Chloe’s husband, Eleanora’s father—his name was Tobias Sedgewick—was an Abolitionist, a defender of the Union, and a radical Republican, active in Lincoln’s government. His iron mill supplied plate metal for the Union navy’s ironclads during the war. It brought him a great fortune. When he died suddenly in the early years of the war, Eleanora and her mother inherited his wealth, more when his business was sold.

  “Soon after her husband’s death, Mrs. Sedgewick, Eleanora’s widowed mother, moved with her daughter to New York City to a house on Park Avenue. They wanted to be nearer to her family. The Von Machts welcomed Chloe and Eleanora, but when Mr. Von Macht tried to take control of their fortune, relations became strained.

  “My own parents were escaped slaves, fleeing from the South not long before the war. Noah Longman was my father’s name. My mother’s was Pegg, like mine. I was born here in the city in 1859, the same year as Eleanora. Shortly after arriving here, my parents died of exhaustion and illness. I was placed in the Colored Orphan Asylum on Fifth and Forty-third Street. That’s the asylum that burned down during the riots of 1863, when so many blacks were killed by those protesting against the army draft. So at the age of four I was all alone for a second time.

  “Eleanora’s mother had the same ideals as her husband, which included believing in equality for all. She took me in. And more than that, she considered me her second daughter. I called her Mama. Eleanora and I, being the same age, were raised together, treated the same, educated equally. We became loving sisters, sharing all, with great tenderness and kindness.

  “In our happy days before we came to this house, Eleanora and I loved to dance. She would wear a black dress, I a white one. Pretending to be elves, holding lighted candles and each other’s hands, we danced in the dusk like fireflies, laughing all the time.

  “Then, in 1870, Mama died in the city’s cholera epidemic. We two girls were eleven years old.

  “I was orphaned yet again, and since Mama had not finished fully adopting me as her daughter—I had nothing. Eleanora, however, was a very wealthy heiress.

  “The Von Machts immediately gathered her up and went so far as to officially adopt her. They hoped to control her wealth and establish more firmly their place in New York society.

  “When they took Eleanora, they took me, too. But I was brought along not as a sister but as a servant—an unpaid servant.

  “Eleanora was furious about their treatment of me. And she didn’t hide her feelings from the Von Machts. For my part I was willing to accept my new role so as not to be separated from my sister. Besides, where else could I have gone?

  “Around this time Mr. Von Macht suffered some business reversals. Once again he tried to take hold of Eleanora’s wealth. He drew up some papers and asked her to sign them.

  “Eleanora, still seething about the way they treated me, refused. She found a way to complain to Dr. Sloper, the family doctor, and to the family lawyer as well. Mrs. Von Macht was enraged, fearing that Eleanora might ruin her position in society.

  “That was when Eleanora began to be mistreated. Neglected, punished for trifles, deprived of food. It was all done privately. To the outside world the Von Machts treated Eleanora as their beloved daughter. They claimed she had an illness and could not be seen. In fact, Eleanora was constantly watched, restrained, so she could not seek assistance.

  “When she became ill and asked to see the doctor, the Von Machts offered Eleanora treatment only if she would sign the papers. She continued to refuse.

  “But she and I,” Pegg went on, “held on to our love, supporting each other as only sisters can. Not a day passed that we did not share our mutual misfortunes. Our many embraces were blessed by our loving tears. Eleanora swore she would not abide her mistreatment or mine. It was all one to her.

  “We began to suspect that the Von Machts were working toward that day when Eleanora would die—that they might inherit her wealth.”

  “Didn’t you think of running away?”

  “We planned to.”

  “What happened?”

  “Eleanora, trying to find someone
to help us, told Cook. But Cook, in fear, told Mrs. Von Macht. From then on, Eleanora was confined to that top-floor room.

  “I watched as she grew ever weaker and more ill. I pleaded with Mrs. Von Macht to get a doctor. The woman called me terrible names, said Eleanora had only to sign the papers and all would be well.

  “Eleanora was not so much stubborn as enraged. She would not yield.

  “Did the Von Machts mean to murder her? Perhaps not. But Eleanora and I knew the end was near. I begged her to sign the papers and save her life.

  “Then,” said Pegg with the utmost solemnity, “she made a sacred vow. She said that when she died she would find a way to come back and wreak her revenge—for the two of us—on the Von Machts.

  “In the end she hadn’t eaten for ten days. They still refused to get a doctor.”

  “But . . . they are monsters!” I cried when I’d heard the whole story. “Why didn’t they turn on you?”

  “Why should they? The lowest servant. I had nothing they wanted. Horace, I think Eleanora died the better to avenge herself.”

  “Committing suicide?” I cried in dismay.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” said Pegg. “I think she chose to let go, the better to have her revenge.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I asked.

  Pegg hesitated a moment, then asked, “Was the photograph truly her?”

  I hardly knew what to say.

  “Horace,” she said, grasping my arm, “Eleanora is dead. But I think you’ve given her a way to come back.”

  “Me?”

  “Those photographs that were taken, they seem to have done it.”

  “But how?” I said, quite astonished.

  “I don’t know.”

  For a moment we were both silent.

  “Horace,” said Pegg, “do you remember that crack on the photographic plate?”

  “I thought you did it. I’m sorry for that.”

  “I think it was Eleanora.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Maybe,” she said, as if feeling her way in the dark room, “maybe the crack was like a . . . door. She came from wherever she went, back here . . . that way.”