Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  Stepping deeper into the moment, he raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. The dispassion with which he fired the weapon conflicted with what he felt for the girl. It differed greatly from the impulse present when aiming a gun on a battlefield. Why? Why was he doing this? Yet the bullet met its target. Smoke rose. It wasn’t thick enough to hide the horrified look on Esme’s face. She made no attempt to save herself, dodge the fatal shot. Emotions trounced him—absolute terror as blood spilled from her middle, her small hands clutching the white beaded gown. Esme fell. He dropped the gun and caught her, all before a church bell chimed. His grip was nervous, and she fell to the floor. He scooped her up. Even after killing her, he was consumed by the feeling of how much he loved her.

  Pete turned to the room’s single window, perhaps looking for a coward’s way out. Then his view shifted, moving from the darkened window to the dresser mirror. The eyes of a killer looked back. He exited the scene carrying a lifeless Esme. The body. What would he do with the body?

  Before he found out, the reverse slide began, Pete’s arms and legs flailing as he fell back toward the present. Nothing to grasp. In the distance, a brighter light flickered. A tunnel; a way out. He’d never seen this before. Struggling past fiery desperation, he aimed for it. But the dishonor of the act clung like a cloak made of metal, something that wouldn’t burn. Something holding him to what he’d done. The feeling didn’t ease as he moved through time, traveling from one unwanted wanderlust to the next. From killer to the ritual punishment of guilt. A physical thud hit, like he’d fallen from a tree. Vaguely aware of his surroundings, Pete wiped his hands on fabric, screaming, “Get it off—get it off me!”

  It took light to comprehend the transfer, whether it was sunrise in a bunker in Mosel, a hotel room in Paris, or a boyhood bedroom. He needed light to see that the wetness on his hands was not blood, but sweat like a raging fever.

  Someone disrupted the chaos. Things escalated fast; he was awake but not cognizant. A physical assault ensued, and seconds later it was a full-on brawl. Pete swung and felt his fist connect. Another blow was blocked, an arm nearly as strong as his. When a lamp smashed onto the floor, he heard his mother scream. Pete blinked into his father’s face.

  The mayhem rivaled that of an intruder, but it was only their son. Blood trailed over Levi’s lip, yet Pete’s mind was moving beyond his control, his heart whacking against his chest. He couldn’t process the horrible thing he was doing now, so consumed by the act he’d committed moments ago. Levi came forward, and Pete used his rigid stance, pushing against his father and jackknifing himself into the wall. His shoulder busted through thick plaster, completing the wakeup call.

  Pete blinked into the bright bedroom, fully aware. Plaster flaked and he reached for his throbbing shoulder. “Son of a bitch.” He bent at the waist, absorbing the wicked ache. “Pa . . . you okay?” The blood dripping from Levi’s lip was answer enough, having splattered his white T-shirt. His mother stood in the doorway, one hand clamped to her mouth, the other flat against her heart. Her eyes—Pete’s eyes—awash with terror.

  Welcome home—again.

  A short time later, they all sat in the living room. Aubrey had applied one ice pack to Levi’s bruised mouth and chin, another to Pete’s swollen shoulder. Over the years, they’d amassed a fine collection of first-aid treatments. She hadn’t said a word and neither had Pete.

  Levi sat in the leather recliner that Pete viewed as a part of him. Yet he looked so uncomfortable, in pain. A piece of this was surely his puffy mouth, a red and misshapen jaw. The rest of Levi’s upset was surely knowing how little he could help his son. His mother’s silent state rang loudest. Normally her soothing words would meld into Pete’s ears, combatting the experience he carried from that life into this one. Aubrey would insist that everything could be fine and that there were no rules. Things might change tomorrow.

  But there was nothing.

  Pete winced at his achy shoulder and shifted the ice. He was reminded, once again, of his greatest reasons for leaving home: What if he injured his father to the point of unconsciousness? It was within the realm of possibility. He’d inherited Levi’s stature. He’d surpassed him in strength. Worse, what if Pete did this and then moved on to his mother? She was already so thin and frail. What if Pete attacked the one other person who, somehow, loved him regardless of the misery he brought to their lives? In the dimly lit living room, Pete stared at nothing. Aubrey sat across from him, though her head was turned, her gaze fixed on the cold fireplace. He adjusted the ice pack again, searching for words to comfort her. “Mom, listen—”

  Aubrey held up a hand. She didn’t face him. “I think you should leave.”

  Pete’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Because you think I’m going to hurt Pa . . .”

  “Aubrey . . .” Pete glanced at his father, who’d removed his ice pack from his face but was resigned to putting it back. “Let’s not—”

  Pete cut him off, talking to his mother. “You’re thinking it too, that I might hurt you.”

  She turned slowly, like she hadn’t the strength to run if the house were on fire. “Do you think I give a damn what happens to me?” Her voice was raspy, as if she’d been screaming in her own nightmare. “I won’t do this to you anymore. I don’t want to be the cause of this . . .” In a limp motion, she gestured to father and son. “I can’t fix it. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t make us—our family—live like this.”

  Pete’s first thought was of the normal life she’d fought so hard for, the one that seemed forever beyond her reach. His second thought was that of an addict son. Parents who would go to the end of the earth for a cure. The ones who realized they’d failed. Their son beyond conceivable help. All they could do—for their own sanity—was let go. Pete looked at his father. He believed what his mother said; she didn’t give a damn about herself. But she did care a great deal about Levi. Maybe she thought the poor son of a bitch had suffered enough, bound to psychic mysteries that challenged the toughest, most resilient man Pete had ever known.

  “Just leave, Pete,” she repeated.

  “Go. You want me to . . .” Pete’s shoulder hurt less. A sudden ache took up all the space in his throat. “Now?” In the irrationality of his life, this was a scenario he’d never envisioned—being tossed from the one place where they wanted you unconditionally.

  “As soon as possible, I think.”

  “Aubrey,” Levi said, “come on. You don’t mean that. Pete, you’re not going—”

  She stood. “Yes. He is. And let me be clear . . .” She wore a short cotton nightgown. Her long limbs trembled, one hand gripped over her scarred arm. In the tendons of her neck, the pound of her pulse was visible. “You’re not to come back—ever.” She moved her attention to Levi. “If Pete is no longer bound to me, obligated, whatever channel my presence provides is severed. It’s as logical as anything else. If my connection to Pete no longer exists, specters, Esme, visitant nights have no path. Whatever conduit I provide to his other life is thwarted.”

  “Mom, you don’t . . .” Pete was about to object, but her theory made basic sense. “Do you really believe something like that could work?”

  Through the silence came a speech Aubrey clearly did not want to make. “I’ve been doing this awhile now, Pete. I know what ghosts want. I have respect for their tenacity.” Her words gained momentum. “I understand every nook and cranny they’ll squeeze through—like mice under a wall. I know the evil spirits’ harbor. How they can draw you in, make you their mark.

  “And even the good ones, they’re so clever. Zeke Dublin’s ghost was present for weeks before I realized there was a specter under my nose. It’s my fault.” His mother’s gaze connected to a photo of her long-dead father. “I’ve denied it, wouldn’t say it out loud, but I’ve been aware of the idea for years.”

  “Really?” Pete said this softly. “Tell me more. What else do you know about ghosts that would never fit into a normal family conversation?”

  “
Aubrey, Pete,” Levi said.

  His mother held up her trembling hand. She edged closer to the mantel. When she spoke, her words were like an incantation. “When it comes to evil, I know three kinds of specters. There’s the ghost that will haunt you. Annoying, but not deadly. Common as poison ivy. It makes me think of Eli Serino.

  “The second apparition, this one feeds off physical harm—whether it’s you or your father who ends up injured.” She held out her pockmarked arm. “Or even me. Their actions are fueled by anger, disappointments from their earthly existence. They don’t seek closure. They only want to howl.” Her brow knotted, her attention still on the mantel. “And they’re not really after you, your life. You become their target by default, because they can get to you.

  “After this, there’s one more phantasm. I’ve never encountered it, but your grandfather surely did. This is the ghost that should instill the greatest fear. This apparition has the desire and the means to drive you completely mad. Enough to make you welcome insanity or maybe seek solace by plunging a car off a cliff.”

  “That’s what your father did, how he died.” Pete looked into his mother’s eyes, his own eyes. “And now you’re thinking whatever haunted him, it’s not half as bad as the ghost that’s chasing me.”

  “After tonight, I believe whatever is haunting you possesses the power of all three. What you’ve said about my presence exacerbating that influence . . . you couldn’t be more right.”

  Pete swiped at a sweaty brow. He’d never heard his mother talk like this, and clearly his father was thinking the same thing.

  “Aubrey,” Levi said, “let’s back this up a minute. You don’t—”

  “No, Pa. Listen to her. It’s what harsh truth sounds like.” He looked at his father. “Nothing a person ever wants to hear.”

  “Yes, but . . .” Levi, who’d been sitting cautiously on the edge of his chair, stood. He pointed at Pete. “News flash for both of you: the son’s father gets a say in excommunicating him from our lives. If the two of you think I’m going to allow psychic speculation to run my son out of my—”

  “Levi.” Aubrey’s tone silenced him. “This is fairly straightforward.” She stepped in his direction. “You’re far too connected to me, and ghosts aren’t easily fooled. Surely, that’s the least of what you’ve learned when it comes to psychic phenomena. If Pete is going to have a chance at normal, the break has to be from both of us.” She paused. “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

  “Not true. Pete’s spent the last six years halfway around the world, away from both of us. As a family, we’ve been separated.”

  “That’s subject to interpretation.” Pete delved deeper into his mother’s suggestion. “What I did was find a way to live a life and stay connected to both of you.”

  “He’s right, Levi. It’s all about communication—whether it’s modern technology or even a passé postcard. Anything that’s a conduit. Specters that have nothing to do but search for energy, a way in.”

  “The two of you can’t be serious.”

  “I’ve never been more serious about anything.” Aubrey turned back to Pete. “And imagine the energy between mother and son, particularly considering the traits Pete and I do share.”

  “It makes sense.” Pete drew a shaky breath. “The only way to break the cycle is to break the bond—our bond.” Pete’s mind and heart raced. He didn’t want to say or do any of it. They were his parents. She was his champion. But like a complex math equation, the theory had merit.

  Levi clung to less drastic options. “So we, what? Toss Pete from our lives without even . . .” He flailed a hand at Aubrey. “I don’t know, at least insisting he attempt past life regression therapy? Shouldn’t we at least consider avenues like Dr. Kapoor before we go to such an extreme?”

  “It’s not the answer, Pa. Nobody’s wanted to admit it or go there . . . but Mom’s right.”

  “It’s not all bad,” Aubrey said. “Don’t you see? By doing this, Pete will have a chance at a normal life. Isn’t that the bottom line, what we want for him?”

  “That’s not fair, Aubrey. We shouldn’t have to choose.” Levi slammed the ice pack onto a side table. “This is just great—fucking great.” He turned and headed for the front porch, nearly removing the screen door from its hinges as he went.

  “Let me talk to him.” Aubrey exited and their angry whispers rose into the night air.

  As agonizing as his mother’s conclusion was, Pete comprehended the rationale. The blood-smeared ice pack caught his eye, and a ghostly thought interceded; it was Zeke Dublin’s advice: “Stop running, kid. Start putting the pieces together if you want your life back.”

  Maybe the grifter had been a step ahead, projecting the life Pete would want back.

  He pressed his fingertips to his head, and the movement sent a zing of pain through Pete’s shoulder. The hell with this. He wasn’t twelve. He wasn’t standing in his own fucking living room while his parents fought over his future. His mother might have initiated the idea, but this was his decision.

  Pete moved toward the door, hearing the last of his mother’s tense words: “I know what I felt, Levi. After all these years, do you really want to argue a presence? I know it was Esme.”

  “Tell Pete that now and you only—”

  “Cement my argument?”

  “What was Esme?” Pete pushed open the screen and stepped onto the porch.

  Levi flailed an arm at Pete. “Go for it, Aubrey. You’re so determined to drive him away . . .” His parents traded a fierce look, Levi narrowing his eyes at Aubrey. “Damn you.”

  And Levi’s anger was almost enough to make Pete reconsider. He looked warily between his parents. “Mom, what about Esme?”

  She turned, her dark hair whipping over her shoulder. “I woke up not long before you did tonight. And not for any of the usual reasons—I wasn’t thirsty, I didn’t need to use the bathroom. There was no dream, good or bad. I woke because there was a presence. She guided me into the hall, toward the hall bath.”

  “She?”

  “She.” Aubrey folded her arms. “When I got to the bathroom, her presence intensified—kind of like a Wi-Fi hot spot.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “I’m sure you do. That said, she was still distant, not terribly forthcoming. But I believe it was Esme.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She hesitated as if they’d reached the part Aubrey didn’t wish to share. “The photo album you brought, the pictures of Esme.”

  “A ghost gift, hand delivered by her killer,” Pete said dully. “A larger, wider channel of communication. That’s what pushed you over the edge tonight. Esme.”

  “Yes.” She looked nervous, clearly aware of the marital discourse she was inciting. Regardless, his mother went on. “I believe the photos you brought here enhance her ability to communicate. Assume the postcard was always a ghost gift that connected to Esme. Before today, the card alone didn’t harbor enough energy to facilitate communication.”

  “But now she’s managed to add a note to a once-blank card.”

  “We’d be foolish to ignore it. The photographs represent even a more personal point of access.”

  “What did she want?” Pete said, unsure what to do with the idea of someone else channeling his ghost. “Did Esme make a threat?”

  “Does she really need to? You’ve known about Esme since you were twelve. But there’s always been a distinction between your other life and the ghosts in this one. She didn’t communicate anything to me, but her presence was enough.”

  “Something else that’s changed with this trip home, along with my encounter with her spirit and hearing her voice.”

  “Then we agree.” She glanced at Levi, who’d retreated to the porch rail, leaning against it, his arms crossed tight. “Two worlds . . .”

  “Are bleeding into one. I thought the same thing back on Long Island, almost from the moment I walked into that bungalow.”

  “As it is, E
sme is on to me—the person who intensifies visits to your other life.” She moved away from Pete, the three of them caught in a tight triangle. “I know the terror that lives in your nights. I don’t want to know what happens if it converges with your waking hours. Think carefully about those three kinds of specters, Pete. I’ve no idea what Esme wants. But I do think we’re at a point where we need to be on the offense.” She held out her pockmarked, teeth-bitten arm, doused in the gold glow of porch lights. Levi looked too, and his expression turned grim. Her scars were a sobering reminder of the potential of evil. “Bottom line, I will not give any ghost the chance to do this, or worse, to my son. Not while I’m on this side of the fight.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Back inside the house, the battle continued, but it was only Aubrey and Levi caught up in an all-out shouting match. Pete had moved on, methodically and mechanically heading into his room, stuffing his belongings into the canvas duffel bag. While there was panic and anger all around, Pete was determined to follow through. As long as his mother remained a conduit, Esme or any other spirit would have an open channel. And now, so it seemed, a greater one.

  Pete intervened only long enough to tell them both to stop. “Pa,” he said, going into the hall where both his parents stood. “Listen to me. It’s not so different from when I left at twenty-two. This is what I want.” While the statement wasn’t quite true or the circumstances the same, the mandate subdued Levi.

  Pete also considered something Aubrey hadn’t brought up. If his mother appeared ill when Pete arrived, she looked even more fragile now. Her health, mentally and physically, superseded everything—even Esme. In time, Levi would see this; he’d agree. Pete grabbed his camera gear and laptop and quickly packed them, fueled by the notion of having killed one woman he loved. He’d proven his penchant for violence in this life and his last. Pete wouldn’t test the possibilities. That kind of tragedy wouldn’t occur a second time, not if he could help it. Pete wouldn’t Skype, e-mail, or Snapchat. Hell, he’d cancel their New York Times subscription to keep his photos from coming into the house.