Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  “It’s interesting you made the attempt. Fascinating that you befriended a Jesuit priest.”

  “He was a good guy—loved backgammon. The priest gave me advice not necessarily rooted in religion, which is what you’d expect.” Pete quietly stared into the fire.

  “Are you going to tell me what he advised?”

  “He felt confident my answers are out there.” He pointed a finger at the now-black but not silent sea. “However, the priest also insisted peace could only be achieved by faith in the journey I’m resisting.”

  “Profound.” Firelight couldn’t mask the crinkle of Grace’s brow.

  “Or incredibly cryptic.”

  “Did you share the specifics of your life, you know . . . ?”

  “My looming questions? Speaking to the dead, haunted by another life, and having murdered one woman in it? No. Those facts went beyond the boundaries of our association. But the priest also didn’t seem to need to know.”

  “Huh. I stand by ‘profound.’”

  “He did make me think. And I do wonder about the journey, if I’ll ever be brave enough to take it. Will I even know when it begins?” He picked up his beer but put it down, too consumed by the thought to be interested in alcohol. “I keep in touch with him. Definitely not the kind of person you meet every day.”

  “So then, you and a Jesuit priest had something huge in common.”

  Pete sighed, reaching for a fried shrimp. “I suppose we did.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  After going back to the room, Pete sat in a chair as Grace reacquainted him with her nightly ritual. It involved three different kinds of face wash followed by brushing, flossing, and gargling to the tune of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”—or at least that’s what he heard. Pete leaned farther into an upholstered chair that smelled of a dirty vacuum and wet bathing suits.

  He delayed getting into bed with a little help from the Gideon society. After his talk with Grace, Pete was drawn to the motel-room Bible. He concentrated on passages, feeling Grace’s stare as she finally drifted off—long, consuming blinks. Pete wondered if his association with violent behavior was affecting her differently, several years removed from their youth.

  He dozed briefly, startling himself with a gasp and looking into the glare of giant red clock numbers: 2:11. He pulled himself forward in the chair, scrubbing his hands over his face. Grace rolled over, saying Andy’s name, and Pete cleared his throat at what suddenly seemed like his awkward presence.

  Moments later he snatched up the car keys, thinking he could grab a few hours’ sleep in the Audi. By the time he got to the parking lot, he was wide awake. Minutes later, Pete was on a westward journey, heading down Sound Avenue. Since returning from the bungalow on Rabbit Lane, he’d suppressed any connection, trying to pass it off as “the house his mother had inherited.” The property was more than that, but he hadn’t wanted to discuss it with Grace. He didn’t mean it in a negative way. It simply didn’t have anything to do with her. The car’s headlights cut through sea air that had turned misty, the rural road growing thick with a low-hanging fog.

  Pete missed the bungalow on his first pass, like yesterday, and he backed up, turning down its driveway. He squinted at opaque air, surprised to see the Montague girl’s jalopy of a car still in the driveway. He thrust the Audi into park and cut the engine before hurrying into the house, using the flashlight on his phone. His first thought was perhaps she’d scaled one of the taller bookcases and toppled the thing over on herself. Maybe it was her drama lessons, but she seemed like the type—to end up in the crosshairs of a tragic fate.

  Eeriness lit his surroundings with the hair-raising vibe of a good horror flick. The beam highlighted the magic act and heaps of other junk, the creepy carousel horse, and the leather saddle mounted on sawhorses. It was all stunningly quiet, and for a second Pete forgot his mission. It was as stuffy and as unsettling as hours earlier. He shook his head and focused. Where the hell was Ailish Montague? All of the bookcases were upright. There was nothing in the kitchen but what they’d previously noted: a half dozen mason jars, cobwebs, and dirt. Nothing appeared to be in any more disarray than when he and Grace left. There were two small bedrooms that he hadn’t gone into earlier.

  Pete entered the first bedroom and was surprised not to find Ailish asleep on an old mattress propped up on rusted springs. He guessed she might have tired and fallen asleep before locating her prized family photo album. Alone with a beam of light, Pete went into the second bedroom. Aside from a couple of metal racks jammed with costumes and scattered boxes, the main item was a large rolltop desk. He navigated past the cartons and crap, the fusty odors. Ailish appeared to have ransacked every other storage area in the house, but she’d obviously missed this. He looked back at the door. And she what, vanished into thin air? Decided to take a middle-of-the-night walk in the woods?

  Good citizenship, perhaps the decency his parents instilled, almost won out. He nearly left the desk to continue his search for the girl, but Pete erred on the side of reason. Most likely the car she’d showed up in wouldn’t start, and a friend—nearby or from the city—had come to retrieve her. He’d look more thoroughly in a minute. The urge to explore the desk wasn’t a ghostly nudge—he knew that feeling. This was more like fate whispering, drawing him closer. The tight wooden rolltop fought him, though Pete won the wrestling match. “Jackpot,” he said to no one when it opened.

  Under the top was a line of photo albums. They appeared meticulously stored, as opposed to everything else in the house. He sat in an old-time accountant’s chair, its high back creaking worse than any ghost he’d ever encountered, the leather seat split down the middle. The photo albums would be a vintage sight anywhere. With smartphones and computers—based on Pete’s own job—he considered stuff like this passé. Yet these items were preserved, and the word “treasured” slipped into his head. He plucked out the album on the far right. It had a padded floral fabric cover, sticky pages that were deteriorating and yellowed. Opening it, Pete knew he’d found the thing for which the girl had come searching.

  The album began with family photos, people who did resemble Ailish. Most appeared to be taken in a city apartment building. On the pages were little handwritten notes, maybe to remind the keeper of the photo album who these people were, what they meant to one another. In neat cursive, it said: “Zeke’s 10th birthday. L-R: Zeke, Louis Cavatello, Richie Green, Tommy McPhee, and Nora.” The photo verified facts, including where Ailish Montague got her coaxing smile—clearly from her uncle Zeke. The trait was identical, and something Pete recalled, staring at the living half of his long-ago encounter with a spectral entity. The angry noises from earlier erupted again—gunfire and bloody deaths. Pete connected the horror to these people. “She did say murder ran in the family.”

  For a guy who regularly encountered the dead, the razor chill that traveled down Pete’s spine was unexpected. He glanced into the darkness behind him. The cryptic setting, the disturbing thought of homicide, it was enough to rattle even a seasoned ghost whisperer. He returned to the photo album. The pages told a story he supposed the girl would like to know, at the very least be glad to claim for her mother. But then the photos abruptly stopped, as if the family ceased to exist. “I guess it’s a logical aftereffect of murder,” he said to himself. The pattern of photos and thoughtful captions ended after August fifteenth, Nora’s eleventh birthday. He turned a blank page, then another. Jammed into the crease was a handful of random photos.

  His breath caught as he flipped through the stack. Many included pictures of his mother and Zeke Dublin. In some photos, she looked to be in her early teens, college age in others. He noticed that in each image, as his mother got older, Zeke got closer—his arm tight around her in the last one. Well, she’d never claimed his father had been her only date in life. In fact, until he mentioned it to Grace, Pete had all but forgotten a first husband, his existence so inconsequential. But this guy, in these photos, clearly he meant a great deal
to his mother.

  He smiled at Aubrey’s younger face, unable to recall too many photos from her youth. Pete’s eyes were so like hers, their only mirroring physical feature. In nearly every picture, he also saw the orbs floating through the surrounding space. Spiritual dots. It was how he’d come to think of them, having seen so many in his own family photos. Orbs often posed with Pete and his mother. He also understood the expression on her face: someone faking normal, assaulted by sounds, voices, tastes, and sightings that only she encountered. Or combated . . .

  He closed the photo album and leaned back in the chair. The line between gift and burden was an exhausting tightrope. The two of them—and his grandfather, he guessed—forced to inch across, a lifelong high-wire act. Pete rubbed his fingers over his eyes, which reminded him that it was the middle of the night. Enough. Where the heck was the girl? He’d found the photo album; he wanted to return it to its rightful owner. He still had no good reason for having driven there in the first place, and Pete suddenly felt exhausted—like maybe sleep wasn’t the worst idea.

  He stood. As he reached for the Dublin photo collection, the light on his phone shone on a different album. This one was on the far left, much older. The kind with a leather cover and string laced through the binding to hold its pages together. He couldn’t say how or why, but a sense of bravery fell over him as he tugged it from the row. He opened it, and tiny paper triangles scattered, black-and-white photos falling too. Pete sat again, trying to retrieve the mess of pictures that had slipped silently into dark corners. He glanced at the ones left in front of him. There was no order, no careful notation—nothing like what Zeke Dublin’s mother had preserved.

  In fact, it wasn’t until Pete’s hand made contact that a vibration took hold. They looked like carnie pictures, but even older. From the clothing—knickers, boater hats, and flapper-style dresses—he placed the era: early twentieth century. One large man wore a raccoon coat. “Shit. That coat had must have put a dent in the procyonid population.” He widened his eyes. The truck. It appeared in several of the photos. It also looked brand-new, the man in the raccoon coat standing by it, the paint fresh and revealing. Oscar Bodette’s Traveling Extravaganza. “Oscar. I’ll be a son of a . . .” Pete was positive this younger man was his great-grandmother’s husband, whatever the number.

  There was a mix of people as the photos went on, all from the early 1920s. Two men posed tight as one, almost an embrace. Pete raised his brow at the close-knit imagery and period setting. “Huh . . . ,” he murmured, tipping his head at the photos.

  People varied, with some onstage, though one outdoor venue repeated. It caught his eye. It looked like an entire faux city made of plaster, buildings, rides, even elephants wandering in the background. A lighted sign identified it as Luna Park. There was a single photo of a young girl, her expression dull, her wide ears a distraction. The photo was marked 1916. Pete flipped through the images again. “So, Oscar, was this your entire troupe? I hope their talent exceeded their photogenic appeal.”

  Pete turned the black paper page, so dry and fragile. But the tiny triangles held tight to a single larger photo. He stopped dead. Out of pure instinct, part terror, Pete plucked the photo from its paper grip. The woman in the picture took his breath away, branded him. So did the photo. “Son of a bitch!” He dropped it—same as he had Esme’s dead body. Touching the photo was akin to plunging his fingers into his beach fire. Pete looked at his upturned hand under the beam of light. Bloody blisters rose on three fingertips and his thumb. He shook his hand and repeated the swear words like an angry incantation.

  A pencil sat in a desk cubby, and he grabbed it with his other hand. The photo had landed in a darker corner, and Pete used the eraser end to pull it closer. A strange light sparkled over the image. The aberration gave him a jolt; it was like the tiniest of orbs floating downward. Pete rolled back the chair until it collided with boxes. The Levi part of his brain said, “It’s dust. Years of dust, caught in the light.” But it wasn’t. “Shit. Holy . . . shit.”

  He’d never observed anything like this, the sight of orbs floating outward from a photograph and the girl pictured in it. The two things tantalized his senses and ground into his mind. Pleasure and pain. The woman was posed like a true vaudevillian, lying on a chaise in a satin gown, her hair done up like she’d just come from makeup and wardrobe. In one arm was a long-stemmed spray of roses. Of course, Pete had never seen her in any way, other than with a horrified expression, seconds before her death.

  He struggled with the beautiful image, trying to turn the dead into the living. On the corner of the photo was an embossed studio signature, “Royal Photography, NYC”—commonplace for the era. Yet, for Pete, the composition was as telling as DNA. He studied the photo, how the geometry of leading lines subtly guided his perspective across the image. Any viewer’s eye would be drawn to hers—a natural human response. But you had to know how to finesse the subject, separating amateurs from professionals from artists. The photographer made certain the eye accelerated as it traveled the curvature of her body: shoulders, bust, and hips, gliding and swooping out of the frame. Her fair hair spread against the dark chaise, surely a deliberately chosen prop. And the flowers, set to the right, broke up the negative space, never hindering sight lines. The camera lens, perhaps that was the most telling, the way it captured visual tension. Shadows created a sense of intrigue, while her facial expression was both light and grim, giving a sense of hidden troubles.

  He knew this photographer’s eye.

  The pencil rattled in his hand. Pete managed to get the tip beneath the photo and flip it over. Written across the back were words that underscored his lifelong knowledge; they made a haunting vision true, reading: “Esmerelda Moon, one year, five months before her death. August 1917.”

  A feeling of malaise enveloped the room, seeping through the floorboards and onto the leather chair. It traveled up his pant leg and scaled his spine like tiny spikes. Knowledge sank hard into his gut. It crushed his heart. Moon. E.M.—Esmerelda Moon, her whole name, written in Pete’s handwriting. He’d know his work anywhere—even from a hundred years ago. Pete flipped the photo once more and said the name he’d been avoiding since his past had begun to seep like a stain onto his present: “Esme . . .”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Pete sat frozen in the desk chair. He felt the heavy hit of heart to chest. “And I do what with any of it?” He raked his uninjured hand over his pant leg, a nervous, guilt-filled motion. While Pete or a good psychiatrist might explain the war medal, saddle, and truck, seeing his handwriting on the back of the photo read like a confession. The penmanship was unmistakable—the oddly pretty, left-handed cursive so like his father’s.

  Twisted curiosity made him turn one more page. It revealed the depth of his depravity. Another searing burn might have been a concern, but the images negated personal safety. Lying loose in the album was a strip of photos—all were of Esme. Head shots. Various poses. The execution of these photos was far more clinical, though Pete still recognized his work. He also knew the film processing technique, which was obsolete. “Wet plate photography,” he said, words populating his head. The photos seemed to offer documentation of a damn good beating, or so the back said—“Esme. Just to show. January 1919.” The strip of photos also bore his handwriting.

  Each picture accentuated a different injury: bruised cheek, blackened eye, swollen lip, marks around Esme’s neck. Vomit raced up his throat, and he pinned his fist to his mouth. Pete thrust his blistered hand forward and stared at it. A weapon.

  He couldn’t get air into his lungs. The images were fantastic proof, a memento of how he’d viciously abused the woman he loved. Was this how men who committed such acts felt? Remorse after the rage, a fucking coward who knew it was a deplorable act, yet would still claim . . . love for the women they’d battered? He wanted to know, because these were the emotions winding through Pete—disgust at himself and profound affection for her.

  One cl
ean, intentional gunshot, aimed at Esme. Pete had lived with that fact for so long it was possible he’d grown numb to it. Biting hard into his lip, he tasted blood. His lungs burned from a lack of breath, and his scorched fingers felt the same. Tears blinded him. Through them, Pete examined the bloody blisters, rubbing his raw fingers against the edge of his palm. The pain was exquisite.

  He dropped the photos and retreated. Pete had lived on an edge for the past sixteen years, and he didn’t know what sliver of sanity was left to hang on to. His T-shirt clung to his body, a sweaty footnote of his state of mind. Outside the house, he leaned and pressed his hands to his pant legs. A growl of pain emanated from his gut. He held out his trembling hand and blood dripped off his palm. A fresh surge of vomit charged up his throat, and Pete gave in to it, heaving into the overgrown shrubs.

  He lived with the knowledge of having taken lives on a battlefield, most vividly in a place called Belleau Wood. They were tightly mixed with other memories of the Great War. The idea that he was defending freedom, keeping himself from getting killed in the waves of gruesome slaughter, offered rationale. But the haunting visual of having killed Esme, it was the obstacle he couldn’t clear, dragging her murder along like a chain that linked his past life to this one.

  Pete staggered away and looked back at the house. Then he squinted upward into a foggy moon.

  Moon. Esmerelda Moon—

  Her name echoed in his head and Pete shuddered at the surreal photos. Disjointed thoughts mounted, and he considered modern-day escape routes—quick fixes for avoiding his past. A sports magazine had contacted him a while back, something about shooting a surfing competition in Australia. He’d taken a hard pass. But if he reconsidered, by tomorrow or the next day, he’d be thousands of miles from here and from her. From those damning photographs.

  Pete backpedaled into the Audi, his calves making contact with the front bumper. He stared at the dark outline of the house. If he backed up a few feet more—or better yet, drove away—he wouldn’t see it at all. His mind hit the one-eighty mark; it won, screaming at him to get the hell out of there. Fine. He continued to choose to run.