Dangerous Spirits

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “It seems likely,” Henry offered. “And their children were staying elsewhere?” Their sobs and cries still seemed to ring in his ears.

  To his surprise, Jo shook her head. “No. After we got there, while Lizzie helped Mr. Ortensi, I asked the girls what I could do. They told me what happened.”

  Henry straightened. “What did they say?”

  She glanced between him and Emberey. “They said they slept in the downstairs room, just like always. Their mother and father were upstairs in the bedroom. They woke up to find a lady standing over them. She yelled at them to get out.” Jo bit her lip. “As soon as they set foot outside, the whole house caught on fire. As if it was just waiting for them to leave.”

  “The legend says the ghost spared the children when the original Whispering Falls burned,” Ortensi murmured. “Apparently she’s still repeating the pattern.”

  “Which gets us precisely nowhere.” Emberey scowled. “What does it matter if the ghost has a woman’s soft heart for children, if she burns down the town and kills the rest of us?”

  Henry bit back a protest. He could only hope Emberey didn’t have any offspring of his own. “We should speak to them,” he said instead. “I…I know I’ve no right to make any suggestions, but perhaps they can shed some light as to why the ghost took their parents?”

  “A good point,” Ortensi said, rather unexpectedly. “Perhaps you and I can question them, Mr. Strauss.”

  Why this sudden apparent peace offering, Henry had no idea. “Of course.”

  “And while you’re engaged,” Lizzie said, “I’ll pursue another avenue of inquiry.”

  A frown creased Vincent’s handsome face. “Lizzie?”

  She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “Our attempts at guessing what the ghost wants have come to nothing. Therefore, I intend to ask her directly.”

  “An automatic writing session?” Henry asked. At the same moment, Vincent exclaimed, “You can’t be serious!”

  “Yes, and I’m very serious.” Her expression remained smooth, unruffled. Admitting no doubt.

  “No.” Ortensi leaned across the table and fixed Lizzie with his gaze. “I forbid it.”

  “Sylvester—”

  “No,” he repeated. “At least, not yet. Let Mr. Strauss and I discover what we can in a less hazardous fashion. If we fail, we’ll discuss other options. But I won’t have you risk this unless there is no other choice.”

  Lizzie’s mouth tightened. “I know you’re concerned, Sylvester, but you saw what the ghost wrote. ‘Tomorrow.’ We don’t know exactly what she meant, but finding out will likely result in more deaths.”

  He reached over the table and took her hand. “Trust me, Lizzie. Please.”

  For a moment, Henry thought she’d argue. Then she let out a long sigh. “Very well, Sylvester. If you insist.”

  Emberey rose to his feet. “If you’ve settled on your work, get to it,” he ordered. “This has gone on long enough. You will remove this ghost, or I’ll find someone who can.”

  ~ * ~

  The streets of Devil’s Walk were busier than Henry had yet seen. Several families piled furniture, clothing, and other belongings into carts. Groups of men hurried in the direction of the train station, while a few others pushed handcarts along the road heading out of town.

  Many of them glared at Henry and Ortensi. “You were supposed to keep us safe!” a woman shouted. Henry flinched, but Ortensi kept walking, his head up and his back straight, until they reached the site of last night’s fire.

  The scent of wood smoke still lingered in the air while a group of men worked to clear away the burned wreckage. Whatever didn’t seem of use was piled into a cart, while other items appeared to be set aside for sorting. Given the intensity of the flames, little of the last category remained.

  They stopped work when Henry and Ortensi approached. The man in charge seemed to recognize them; his eyes narrowed into a scowl. “What do you want?” he asked Ortensi. “Haven’t you already done enough?”

  “Not by half,” one of the others muttered. “They ain’t stopped the ghost. Maybe they’ve made her angrier.”

  An ugly sound of agreement rumbled through the group at the final suggestion. Henry’s heartbeat quickened as he glanced from unfriendly face to unfriendly face. These men were rough, work-hardened, with dirt beneath their fingernails and skin weathered from the sun. He was suddenly, painfully aware of the picture he must present to them, with his clean-but-shabby suit and skin gone pale from long hours in his shop. Certainly he lacked their musculature. If they decided he and Ortensi were easy prey, just soft outsiders whose failure made them ideal scapegoats, things might turn ugly.

  Ortensi seemed undisturbed, however. His gold rings flashed as he spread his hands apart. “It’s true—we believed we had defeated the enemy.” His voice boomed like an orator’s, conveying a mixture of grief and determination. “But she has proved far more resilient than expected, and has taken her revenge against a good man. We will bring her to justice, gentlemen—this I swear. But we must discover why she made Mr. Brooks her target.”

  There came a shuffling and muttering. “What, you think she was after Walt for some reason?” someone asked.

  Henry gestured to the ruins. “The fire claimed only this house, when it could have—should have, by the laws of nature—spread to those beside it.”

  “Does anyone know why the ghost might have focused on Mr. Brooks?” Ortensi asked. “Did he do anything odd at the work site in the woods, perhaps? Take anything from it?”

  There came a general shaking of heads. “You can ask his daughters, though,” one said, and pointed down the street. “They’re staying with their uncle and aunt. Third to last house on the left.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Ortensi gave a little bow, then turned and started in the direction indicated. Henry hurried after him.

  “Well done,” Henry said, once they were out of earshot. “For a moment, I feared they intended to give us a beating instead of information.”

  “I’ve long experience working crowds,” Ortensi said with a wave of his hand. His expression sharpened slightly, and he glanced at Henry. “May I speak frankly, Mr. Strauss?”

  The words put Henry on edge. This must be why Ortensi chose him instead of Vincent for this task. “Of course.”

  “You seem somewhat fond of Vincent.”

  Somewhat fond? What the devil did Ortensi mean? Did he guess their relationship, or did he merely think them business partners? “I am,” he said guardedly. “I believe we work rather well together.”

  “A point on which I’m afraid I don’t agree.”

  Henry came to a shocked halt. “Pardon me?”

  Ortensi stopped as well, a look of sympathy on his face. “Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Strauss. I’m certain your inventions have merit—Vincent spoke to me of your recent triumph before the Psychical Society.”

  All the moisture seemed to have evaporated from Henry’s mouth. “D-Did he?”

  “But Vincent is a medium, not a tinkerer such as yourself,” Ortensi went on. “And I fear, due to your differences, you can’t truly appreciate the extent of his gifts. He can do better than a tiny shop in Baltimore.”

  Henry’s heart sank. “I…I’m sure he could.”

  “I’m glad you agree. You’ll understand, then, when I say I mean to ask him to accompany me to Europe.”

  A cry of objection half-escaped Henry, before he closed his throat around it. The idea of Vincent leaving, of sailing off to another continent, forever out of Henry’s reach, felt like a live animal clawing its way out of his chest.

  Losing Vincent was inevitable. He had no choice but to accept the idea. But he hadn’t expected the reality to come like this. Not yet.

  “I…” he said, but no other words would come.

  Ortensi gave him a look tinged with pity. “You see it’s for the best, don’t you? Vincent is a great medium, one of the best I’ve had the privilege of meeting, but his talents
are wasted here. In Europe, his heritage will be an advantage. Crowds will flock to see the genuine Indian medicine man, come all the way from the Americas.”

  “Vincent isn’t a—a sideshow attraction,” Henry snapped.

  “Nor do I mean for him to be one. But his skin will open doors to him that would remain closed here.” Ortensi shook his head. “If you are his friend, you must know I speak truly.”

  “I see.” The clawing thing in his chest had escaped, leaving him hollow. A part of Henry wanted to argue, to point out Vincent might not agree to leave with Ortensi.

  And Henry would have…if only he had something to offer Vincent in return. Something more than an empty promise that someday, somehow, they might find themselves performing before the noble families of Europe.

  Ortensi could offer such fame now. Henry had nothing but a handful of lies and a workshop filled with devices proved largely worthless.

  “I’m glad you understand.” Ortensi’s hand came to rest on Henry’s shoulder, a heavy weight he didn’t want to bear. “I worried Vincent might refuse me out of loyalty, which is why I chose to speak to you now.”

  “Yes, I…yes.” Words chased each other through Henry’s mind, but they were all meaningless. “Vincent is free to accompany you. I have no…no claim on him.”

  Ortensi’s fingers tightened, then he removed his hand. “Good. But for now, let’s see to our work.”

  ~ * ~

  The man who opened the door at Ortensi’s knock greeted them with a glower. His scowl remained fixed while Ortensi explained why they’d come. When the medium finished, the man spat, barely missing Henry’s shoes.

  “You were supposed to get rid of the ghost,” he growled. “Instead, I’ve got a dead brother and three more mouths to feed. What about my own children, huh? What about them? Are they supposed to go hungry so I can feed Walter’s brats?”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Brooks,” Ortensi replied. “But if we’re to have any hope of stopping the ghost, we have to find out why she targeted your brother.”

  Brooks’s scowl turned into a look of fear. “Targeted Walt? You mean she was after him?”

  “It would seem so.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “And she’ll come after us next, as we took in the girls?”

  “No!” Henry exclaimed. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he couldn’t make such a statement for certain. But from the look on Brooks’s face, the man meant to turn the children out if he thought there existed the slightest chance of danger.

  “May we speak to you about your brother?” Ortensi asked. “About the work he did on the mill site?”

  Brooks took a step back, as if he might shut the door in their faces. “I don’t know nothing about it. Walt put on airs, him being a foreman and all. Too high and mighty for the likes of me. Now he’s gone and gotten himself killed by a ghost.”

  Wonderful. “His daughters, perhaps?” Henry tried. “I don’t wish to deepen their grief, but if we might speak to them?”

  Brooks shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  They followed him into the small home. The three girls worked in the kitchen, alongside another girl and a woman who must be Mrs. Brooks. “These men need to talk to you about your daddy,” Brooks said.

  Tears welled in the eyes of the younger two. The eldest blinked rapidly, but stepped away from the vegetables she’d been slicing. “I’ll do it,” she said, giving Ortensi and Henry a little curtsey. “Nellie and Irene can stay here.”

  Considering the other two were probably too young to question anyway, Henry nodded. “Thank you, Miss Brooks. Perhaps we can speak in the parlor?”

  After refusing an offer of food and drink, they settled into the parlor. Miss Brooks sat with her eyes downcast and her hands folded into her apron. She appeared around fourteen—the same age as Jo, when she came to Henry. Leaning forward slightly, so as not to loom above her, he said, “We’re very sorry for your loss, Miss Brooks. And please believe me, the last thing I want is to upset you further.”

  “Not sure as that’s possible, sir,” she said.

  “Of course.” He glanced at Ortensi, but the medium seemed content to let Henry continue. Perhaps he thought Henry of some use after all. “Before last night, did anything odd catch your attention? Anything about your father?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Did he seem worried about something, perhaps?” This would be easier if he had a better idea what questions to ask. “Something to do with the steel mill, or the woods, or the ghost?”

  “Just that the work stopped, and he wasn’t getting paid.” She chewed on her lip. “He was angry at Mr. Emberey and at Mr. Ortensi for not doing more. Sorry, sir.”

  “Quite all right,” Ortensi said. “Miss Brooks, I must ask…last night, you told Miss Strauss that a woman woke you from slumber, before the fire began.”

  Her lower lip began to tremble, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Y-Yes,” she said in a small voice. “We sleep—slept—in the back room downstairs. I woke up, and a lady was standing over us, only…only all burned up!”

  The horror in her voice dug into Henry’s heart like a rusty hook. “Go on, Miss Brooks. You’ve been very brave.”

  “Th-thank you, sir. She was so awful, I wanted to scream, but all the breath seemed frozen in my lungs. The cold was unnatural. She said to get out, and to take my sisters with me. And she said…she said she was sorry.”

  Ortensi frowned. “Sorry?”

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I just…I grabbed Irene and Nellie, and we ran. And a minute later, the house was on fire.” Tears slid down her face. “I should’ve woken Mama and Da, I should’ve…”

  “You saved the lives of your sisters,” Henry said. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to the weeping girl. “It was the right decision, no matter how difficult. Never doubt it.”

  She nodded, probably in too much pain to answer.

  Ortensi rose to his feet, and Henry hastily did the same. “Thank you for your time, Miss Brooks. You’ve been most helpful.”

  As soon as they were out on the street again, Henry said, “Rosanna saved the children. Just as the legend claimed.”

  “Hardly something we didn’t already know,” Ortensi replied.

  “Perhaps, but she apologized. Why?”

  “For killing their parents?” Ortensi shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The child knew nothing of substance.”

  None of it sat well with Henry. Why did Rosanna save the children, both when she died and now? Why apologize for making these three into orphans, dependent on their uncle’s bare charity?

  “She’s a spirit of rage,” he said aloud.

  “Yes,” Ortensi replied. “What of it?”

  “I don’t know. I wonder…Vincent told me the old parish records from Whispering Falls were in the church.”

  Ortensi eyed him uncertainly. “Yes. Why?”

  “Just a feeling. I want to look at them.” Henry turned away. “I won’t be long. Go back to the hotel without me.”

  Chapter 13

  Henry walked quickly to the church, keeping his eyes averted from the graveyard. The hole where they’d exhumed Zadock’s bones still gaped open, like a mouth accusing him of failure one more time.

  Would Mr. and Mrs. Brooks be laid to rest in the convenient hole, or did they already have a burial plot? And what would happen to their daughters, now at the mercy of a man who didn’t want them?

  The church door creaked as he opened it. A small group of people clustered on the pews. “Deliver us from evil,” an old woman prayed aloud. “Lord, save us from the scourge of the witch! Protect us from this minion of the devil!”

  Fitzwilliam claimed God sent the witch to punish the town. Clearly his fellow townsfolk considered Satan to be the responsible party. They cast Henry curious looks as he passed by.

  “Just checking something,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the vestry door. “To help us stop the, er
, witch.”

  Either the group trusted him not to misbehave in a church, or didn’t care. At any rate, no one moved to stop him.

  Vincent had mentioned the condition of the old record book, so it took little effort for Henry to find it on the bottom shelf. Henry took the crumbling book up carefully and laid it on the desk. The pages threatened to fall to pieces when he opened it, and he held his breath as he searched for the last records.

  Vincent and Ortensi had dismissed Lizzie’s earlier speculation that Rosanna had greater cause for anger than lovesickness over Zadock. But Henry couldn’t help but wonder if Lizzie had been right all along. If the clue—Rosanna’s consistent sparing of children—hadn’t in fact been in front of them the entire time.

  The entry appeared not far from the end, just below the record of Zadock and Mary’s wedding. Rosanna Cooper, delivered of a son. Stillborn. No man acknowledges paternity.

  Burial on consecrated ground refused.

  Henry stared at the damning words until they swam before his gaze. Surely the child belonged to Zadock.

  How must Rosanna have felt, holding her dead infant in her arms, when Zadock refused to acknowledge his son? Or when the church turned its back, judging the child unfit to be laid to rest on consecrated ground because its father married another woman?

  She’d been angry. Of course she had. Something so petty as sexual jealousy hadn’t motivated her vengeance against Zadock. It had been the deep rage over his betrayal of their child.

  Henry closed the book and bent his head back, massaging his neck.

  Inscribed on the wall directly in front of him, which had been blank only moments before, were the words: Help me.

  He stumbled back, casting about frantically. But there came no show of violence, no stench of burned flesh.

  “Help you?” The words grated out of his throat, but he tamped down on his fear. “Help you how? Help…oh. Never mind. I understand.”

  Rosanna didn’t want them to bring Zadock’s bones back.

  The bones she sought belonged to her son.