The Seer of Shadows

by Avi

  A few more steps and I saw something of the table’s surface. A little farther on, relief swept through me. The key was there.

  When I was close enough to the table, I reached out and picked up the key in my shaky hand, then moved closer to the door. Even as I touched it, I heard a sound coming from behind me. I started, and looked back.

  The door of one of the side rooms slowly opened. Light behind it bloomed. But the open door hid the figure behind it.

  If I had had my full wits about me, I would have unlocked the front door and fled. But I was so frightened, I stood frozen.

  The first thing to appear from behind the hall door was Mrs. Von Macht’s three-pronged silver candlestick. Its candles were lit, the flames fluttering as if caught in a breeze. A shadowy figure followed, small, indistinct, moving noiselessly, effortlessly toward the main stairwell.

  Gradually I perceived long, fair hair and a black dress teased by the same currents that fluttered the candle flames. Before me was a girl, barefoot, very thin, arms almost twiglike, so that her dress hung limply.

  It was Eleanora Von Macht.

  She reached the stairway and began to climb. Halfway up the steps she stopped, and to my horror set the candlestick against the wall. She was going to set the house on fire!

  In that instant I recalled that Pegg must be on the third floor. And of course the Von Machts were in their rooms. Before I could consider what I was doing, I cried: “Stop!”

  Eleanora whirled about and looked right at me. Oh, the wicked, hateful grin upon her thin, hollow-cheeked face! The next second she vanished, taking the flames with her.

  My shout must have woken someone. From above, I heard a door open and slam, then hurried footsteps. I spun about, fitted the key to the front door lock, yanked the door open, threw the key down, and fled.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I RAN SOUTH FOR MANY BLOCKS, until I had to stop to regain my breath. My head was awhirl. If I’d not been there, Eleanora would have set fire to the house. Eleanora! I could hardly believe that I had seen her! But not only had I seen her: I saw how full she was of murderous intent.

  Shivering with cold and my own tension, I walked on, glad that it was dark. I didn’t want to be seen, consumed by the bizarre notion that anyone who saw me would know what horror I had beheld.

  What next? I had to make a test of what Pegg had called my powers as a seer. I must take a photograph of someone not connected to the Von Machts. I considered my family, but decided that would take too long. Then I realized it would be easy to photograph Mr. Middleditch. Surely that would answer my question.

  I was caught up in my plans for this experiment when I heard shouts of “Fire! Fire!” The next moment a crowd—boys as always leading the way—was running down Bleecker Street. I looked up, and while I could see nothing but people, I could smell smoke.

  After what I had just witnessed, the thought of fire anywhere filled me with the greatest apprehension. I quickened my pace.

  By the time I reached the site, a large crowd, mostly men and boys, had gathered to watch. Teams of firemen began to arrive, running alongside the horse teams that pulled the pumpers. These pumpers carried primed steam engines ready to push water through hoses. The firemen, twelve to each pumper, quickly put their hoses to use, working to keep the furious flames from spreading.

  As the fire roared, the excited crowd rippled with talk of people who might be trapped within. No one knew if there were any.

  City policemen in their dark blue uniforms and caps soon appeared and used their wooden batons to keep the boisterous crowd in order. I squirmed and pushed my way through to the front lines, receiving little buffeting for my efforts.

  Once in front of the crowd, I saw that the fire was consuming a large wooden warehouse. The air was filled with a ghastly stench.

  Then I saw a long, newly made sign atop the building that provided the name of the business.

  F. VON MACHT—TRADER IN FISH

  It was already smoldering. Even as I looked on, there was a great Whoosh! as a ball of flame erupted. With it came a hideous scream from within the burning building. Simultaneously, I saw Eleanora Von Macht in the fire’s midst. In one hand she clutched the Von Machts’ three-pronged candlestick. The features of her face were twisted with a terrible, hateful glee!

  Stunned, I turned to see if anyone else had seen what I had. It surely did not seem so.

  The next moment the entire structure collapsed. The large crowd let forth a collective moan of despair as—on the evidence of the scream—it was thought that a grisly death had occurred. All delight vanished. Now tragedy had been witnessed.

  Did the scream proclaim the death of some innocent? Was it Eleanora’s cry of wickedness? I never knew. What I did know was that I was terrified. I bolted through the crowd and sped away toward our rooms where, as you might guess, I slept but poorly. My thoughts were churning upon the ghastly events of the night, tormented by dread of what might yet happen.

  TWENTY-NINE

  AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE Mr. Middleditch asked, “Is everything ready at the Von Machts’?”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, not about to tell Mr. Middleditch one word of what I had seen and experienced.

  “Did that colored girl tell you where you can find more pictures of Eleanora Von Macht?”

  Willing to tell him anything to ensure my continued presence at the Von Macht house, or should I say near Pegg, I answered, “I think I can get more.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Sir,” I ventured, “would you mind very much if I . . . practiced some picture taking? We have some hours to spare, and I really haven’t had that much time with any camera.”

  “Now that you’ve started taking pictures, it’s an excellent idea.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “I could take a couple of pictures of you.”

  “If you’d like.”

  Which is exactly what I did, taking three pictures after posing him on our receiving room sofa. What’s more, I did not use the spy camera.

  He was, as I had hoped, quite uninterested.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll develop them now,” I announced, all but numb with foreboding.

  “Suit yourself,” he returned, already absorbed in his newspaper.

  I repaired to our studio and went through the usual preparations. It wasn’t long before I was bent over the developing tray, watching images emerge.

  Mr. Middleditch’s face rose up with considerable clarity, his handlebar mustache distinctive in the negative. But there, hovering over his left shoulder, was a vague image—the face of an elderly man. He was dour, full-bearded, bleakly staring straight out at me. I gazed at this face of the old man even as his dejected, staring eyes held me. These eyes were full of hard sorrow and seemed to come from a great distance.

  I did not have the slightest doubt that it was a ghost.

  With a sinking heart I deliberately let the plates remain in the developing bath long enough to be sure that both Mr. Middleditch’s face and the ghostly image dissolved into darkness.

  There was but one thing left to determine, and the occasion for it came over lunch when Mr. Middleditch asked me if I was planning to have dinner with my family the coming weekend.

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “Family is a good thing,” he said blithely.

  “Mine surely is,” I said.

  “Lucky you,” said Mr. Middleditch.

  I took the opportunity. “Sir, may I ask, what was your father like?”

  “Oh, him?” he replied, laughing. “The old duffer . . . I fear he and I didn’t get along as well as we should have. Always accusing me of being lazy. Hard-faced old skinner, with rather a bleak stare about him. Sorrowful, too. Never laughed. Rarely smiled. Not like me at all.”

  “Full-bearded?”

  “How did you guess?”

  I shrugged, hoping I was masking my despair.

  “No,” continued Mr. Middleditch, “I shouldn’t like to have him hovering over my shoul
der.”

  Greatly disturbed, I asked to be excused and took a walk around the block to think. I walked slowly, breathing deeply. It was chilly, but I was sweating. How glad I was I’d let the images vanish!

  Pegg was right. I was what she had chosen to call a seer. A seer of shadows. And if my experience with Eleanora was true, there was something much more. I knew, for example, that if I continued to take more pictures of Mr. Middleditch, I would bring his dead father’s ghost to life. Not as a living person, but as a freed ghost.

  Indeed, I was sure if I took pictures of anyone, I would bring forth shadows of the departed. Could there be anything more astounding—or disturbing? I, a seer of shadows!

  And what did it mean for me? What was I supposed to do with this . . . ability? Surely it was a curse!

  My emotions quickly gave way to something even more urgent: What were Pegg and I to do about the ghost of Eleanora Von Macht? For I had no doubt that the spirit I had brought back to this world was determined upon murder.

  THIRTY

  IT WAS TIME TO GO to the Von Macht house.

  Before we left, Mr. Middleditch laid out what he assured me would happen. While he took more photographs of Mrs. Von Macht, I would use the spy camera to find and take more pictures of the girl. He then would construct another spirit photograph. “One more spirit photograph,” he predicted, “and they will be completely taken in.”

  “Sir, aren’t we taking a great risk?”

  “It went smoothly before, didn’t it?” he countered.

  The best I could reply was “I think Mr. Von Macht is suspicious.”

  “That type is suspicious of his own shadow. Anyway, I doubt he’ll even be there. He doesn’t like me. In these matters it’s the woman who counts. Our only need is that you get some more images of that dead girl.”

  My thought was: I’ve already taken too many.

  In due time the carriage came, and we set off, the spy camera once more hidden beneath my coat.

  When we arrived at the Von Macht residence, the first thing we noticed were two policemen on guard by the stoop.

  “Sir,” I whispered, “maybe you shouldn’t go in.”

  “Nonsense!” said Mr. Middleditch. “It has nothing to do with us.”

  But as we made for the stoop, one of the policemen hailed us. “Hold on, sir.” He took a pad of paper from his pocket along with a pencil stub. “Name, sir?”

  “Enoch Middleditch.”

  “Place of residence?”

  “Forty Charlton Street.”

  The policeman wrote this down. “And your business here?” he asked.

  “Photographer. The Von Machts are expecting me. What is all this about?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge, sir. You may pass.” They didn’t question me. But I was sure I could guess what was afoot.

  Pegg, as always, let us in.

  By this time I counted Pegg as my true friend and trusted her completely. That said, I had not known her for so long as to be able to fully read her expressions. When she opened the door, she gazed upon me with such intensity that all I could guess was that her look was a warning.

  As we walked in, I glanced at the stairwell. Scorch marks streaked the wall.

  Mr. Middleditch, of course, was oblivious of what passed between Pegg and me, or anything else, for that matter. But when Pegg opened the door to the parlor, we saw not just Mrs. Von Macht and her husband, but another gentleman as well. The moment we appeared, I sensed great tension in the room. As it was, our entry was followed by an awkward silence.

  Nonetheless, Mr. Middleditch went forward and made his little bow. “Mrs. Von Macht. Mr. Von Macht, sir . . .”

  Witnessing everything from behind, I glanced at the writing desk. That candlestick was gone. But Eleanora’s face was among the palms, her look one of mockery. I had almost expected to see her. I was sorely tempted to speak out, but who would have believed me? Instead, I tried to give no reaction, and just averted my glance.

  Mrs. Von Macht was sitting on the sofa, hands clasped tightly before her, mouth rigid, eyes staring vacantly. On earlier occasions her hair had been perfectly combed and brushed. It now appeared quite untidy.

  As for Mr. Von Macht, I had met the man twice, and both times there had been nothing but aggression in his demeanor. Now he appeared very pale, and whereas his hands had been like hammers, I thought I detected a slight tremor. In short, he appeared shaken.

  Mr. Middleditch spoke up with his normal bravado. “Well, then, good day!” he called. “I trust I find you all well. Shall we proceed with the photograph session? I’ll have my boy here bring in the camera.”

  “One moment,” said Mr. Von Macht. “There are some matters to which we must attend.” He gestured toward the other gentleman in the room. “This,” he said, “is Captain Fogerty of the City Police Detective Corps.”

  Mr. Fogerty was a short, slim fellow, with a large, beaklike nose, a slack mouth showing small teeth, and frilly side whiskers—rather weasel-like, I thought.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Mr. Middleditch. I could see he had become alarmed, though he struggled to hide it.

  “Mr. Middleditch,” Mr. Von Macht went on, “since we last met, we have suffered a considerable loss.”

  “I am so very sorry to hear it.”

  “Last night one of my businesses was destroyed by fire.”

  “Dreadful!”

  “Arson,” proclaimed Mr. Fogerty, and the penetrating gaze he bestowed on Mr. Middleditch suggested he was making a connection.

  “I can only hope,” said Mr. Middleditch, beads of sweat forming at his temple, “the criminal will soon be apprehended and brought to justice.”

  Silence filled the room.

  I looked toward Mrs. Von Macht, who had yet to say a word. A tiny tic fluttered upon her cheek. Her right hand clenched and unclenched. I believe I saw traces of gray in her hair where I hadn’t seen it before.

  “Mr. Middleditch,” Mr. Von Macht announced, “we shall not go forward with another photograph.”

  “How unfortunate,” said Mr. Middleditch. “I was so much—”

  “Your picture was a fraud,” snapped Mr. Von Macht.

  “Sir?”

  Mr. Von Macht turned and brought Mr. Fogerty forward. The police officer cleared his throat and then, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, said, “Mr. Middleditch, sir. A photograph of a ghost, a ghost which is presumed to be Mr. and Mrs. Von Macht’s late, beloved daughter is, on the face of it, preposterous.”

  “But—”

  “Sir,” said the officer, “you will pay heed. No recognized scientific examination will allow for such a thing as ghosts, surely not a photograph of one. Ghosts are nonsense. Ergo, your photograph is a fraud, a swindle. It will not stand, sir. No sir, it will not. I am, as an officer of the law, considering swearing out an arrest warrant against you.”

  “I want to know where you got the picture of Eleanora,” put in Mr. Von Macht. “That laughing image.”

  Mr. Middleditch’s face turned quite pink. “Sir,” he said, addressing only the policeman, “I must reject your . . . insinuation,” he stammered. “Completely! If . . . if the Von Machts do not wish to proceed—”

  “Furthermore,” Mr. Fogerty interrupted, “you, Mr. Middleditch, are herewith requested—ordered—to bring any and all negative images that you may have produced of Mrs. Von Macht to me for my examination. Failure to do so shall ensure that I shall seek a warrant for them. And as you can see, sir, while I may not be a professional photographer, I know enough of the photographic process to determine if you have made a double image.”

  Mr. Middleditch, for once, was flummoxed.

  “I don’t know,” pressed the inspector, “if you have anything to do with the arson committed upon Mr. Von Macht’s property—or the attempted arson in this house or the theft of a silver candlestick—but the circumstances are most suspicious.”

  “What . . . what possible connection could any of that have with . . . me?�
� cried Mr. Middleditch.

  “We are searching for one,” said Mr. Fogerty.

  “Sir—”

  “Mr. Middleditch!” shouted Mr. Von Macht. “You are dismissed!”

  “But you must bring those negatives to me,” added the police inspector. “And be advised I know where you reside.”

  At that point Mr. Middleditch, his face now quite flushed, turned about and simply marched out of the room. A moment later I heard the front door slam.

  I was so taken aback by what was happening, I remained where I was.

  “I think that’s the last we’ll see of that fiddle,” said Mr. Von Macht.

  Mrs. Von Macht had yet to say one word.

  Then, realizing I had remained in the room, Mr. Von Macht barked, “You, boy! Are there things belonging to Mr. Middleditch in the scullery?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Remove them, and get out of here.”

  I glanced at the place where I had seen Eleanora’s face. She was there—as I knew she would be—laughing silently.

  “Do as you’re told, boy!” cried Mr. Fogerty. “Before I choose to charge you, too!”

  I bolted from the room. Behind me I could hear Mr. Von Macht say, “Pegg, go after him. Make sure he takes nothing that’s not theirs and be certain he leaves the house promptly.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  PEGG AND I, not daring to speak, hurried down to the scullery. Only when we were inside the room with the door shut did we begin to speak in anxious whispers.

  “They’ve suffered a terrible loss,” she said.

  “The fish-packing firm? F. Von Macht, Trader in Fish?”

  She looked at me oddly. “How did you know about it?”

  “I watched it burn,” I said.

  “They claim someone lit it.”

  “Pegg, it was—I’m certain of it—Eleanora.”

  For a moment she did not, could not, speak. Then: “What do you mean?”