Perception

by Eliza Lainn

With her voice trailing off, she played the last message.

  Only there was nothing. No sound came from the speaker. Just two minutes of silence.

  Cyril took a few steps closer as Bronte played the message before it. Oliver watched from beside her.

  Again, nothing but silence came from the speaker.

  Still frowning, she pulled up the text messages. "What the–?" she breathed, staring at the massive green bubbles. But no text. It was like Stella had sent her nothing but empty messages.

  The strange part was they varied. As if text should have been there. Some were short. Some long.

  All were blank.

  Bronte set her coffee mug aside and played through each voicemail. All of them were silent. No voices, no sounds echoing through the receiver, no breathing.

  Just silence.

  Cyril stood behind the couch and peered over Bronte's shoulder. "Malfunction?" he mused aloud.

  "Like a phone glitch? Something happened to Stella's phone?"

  Bronte backed out of Stella's voicemails and played a months' old message from her mother. That one worked—her mother's voice floated easily through the speaker, as distinct as a bell. Then she moved on to the last voicemail, the first one sent, and played it.

  "I've got a bad feeling about this," Oliver breathed.

  Bronte scowled down at her phone.

  "Wait," Cyril whispered, leaning closer. "Do you hear that?"

  It sounded like shuffling—no, like sliding. The way soda cans slid across the table or the sound of a mouse gliding across a desk. Only slower. Much slower. Seconds stretched into a single slide.

  "What is that?" Oliver mumbled, leaning closer to the phone.

  The rhythm began to pick up. Faster, as if falling into a grove, a rhythm.

  Then the phone shocked Bronte. Startled, she jerked back, dropping it. Her fingers stung from the shock, the tips aching. The phone fell to the carpet. Static replaced the shuffling, loud and obnoxious.

  As she reached for it, thunderous pounding resounded from the phone's background. Bronte's fingers closed around the phone and she brought it back up to rest in her lap as the thundering intensified. Louder, louder, so bellowing Cyril half expected the phone to shake from the reverberations.

  A roar exploded from the phone.

  Cyril and Oliver flinched back but Bronte remained perfectly still. It was only then that they realized Bronte had been watching Oliver, not the phone.

  When she saw his gaze meet hers, she shook her head slightly. "I couldn't hear anything. But it looks like you could. Is it the bad thing?"

  Oliver hesitated in answering. Cyril flew over the couch to dominate Bronte's vision. He nodded.

  She stared at him for a heartbeat, neither one looking away. Then she grabbed her phone and rose from the couch. "Then we're heading back. Now."

  On her way out, she grabbed the pocket watch from where she'd left it on Rose's kitchen table.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "I can't find anyone that's died recently on this area of land," I mumbled, scrolling through newspaper archives on my laptop. Again.

  "It doesn't have to be recently," Noah reminded me—again—over my shoulder. "Click that."

  "Will you stop backseat researching?"

  "Will you give me the laptop?"

  "No."

  "Then I'm going to keep backseat researching, thank you very much."

  Annoyed, I shoved the laptop aside. Noah pounced on it, pulling it into his lap and resuming the scrolling.

  We sat in the center of the living room, both of us on the floor. Somehow that felt safer than sitting on the couch or lingering near the edges of the ward. We'd be researching for hours. At this point, I couldn't decide if the creature was still out there or not. Did ghost monsters even get bored?

  I glanced at Noah out of the corner of my eye. He was tired. Sweat coated his forehead and he was breathing raggedly. As if he'd been running.

  My gaze shifted to the ward. Noah continued to power up the ward every ten minutes, just as the shimmer began to fade. Or, at least, it'd started out every ten minutes. We were down to five minute increments now between recharges.

  It was draining him. I could see it and surely he knew it too. But neither one of us voiced it aloud. Voicing it aloud felt like surrender, almost.

  We wouldn't be able to go another two hours before Noah keeled over, exhausted.

  Despite that, his fingers flew over the keyboard, still searching for a name.

  After making sure the ward reached into the kitchen, I went to get a glass of water. Thank God we'd decided to put the ward in the living room.

  I brought the glass back to him. "Here."

  He looked up, his eyes focused on the glass. Then he looked up at me, confused. "For me?"

  I shook the glass a bit and he reached out to take it. Downing the entire glass in a single go, he held it back up to me. "Thanks."

  Before I knew it, I blurted, "If you start to feel too tired, tell me."

  "I'm fine."

  I lightly banged the glass against the side of his head. In for a penny, in for a pound. "Seriously, Frat Boy, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you look like crap. If we can't find a name, we can't stay here. The ward is slipping."

  He sighed. And when he didn't look around to check the ward, I knew I had him. "Yeah. We can't stay in here forever."

  I took the laptop from him. "Ok, Plan B."

  "Which is?"

  An idea had been forming in the back of my mind for the last hour. Again, not something I wanted to voice aloud, because the idea scared me more than the thought of being trapped in a ghost ward by a ghost monster. But Noah looked terrible. The sooner we lowered the ward, the better.

  "Do you trust me?"

  "No," he said immediately.

  I blinked, surprised.

  He gave me an unapologetic shrug. "No offense."

  Oddly enough, I felt a stab of affection for Rose's beau. Those two words had felt the most genuine coming from him yet. In that moment, I could see past the frat boy exterior, past the ghost-hunting bravado, and could see the frightened boy underneath. Uncertain and scared. And, finally, not afraid to admit that he was. "None taken. But I'm still taking the lead."

  He waved a hand. "Be my guest."

  Setting the laptop and empty glass on the kitchen bar, I turned toward the room. "I would like now to address the thing currently hanging out outside of our magic ward here. Please," I added, thinking of Bronte and her manners.

  Noah had opened his mouth to protest, and had even leaned forward a bit as if to physically stop me. But he stopped now and watched. And waited.

  For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened. The same stillness from inside the ward dominated, cutting us off from outside. No sounds, no voices, nothing.

  And then, just when I'd started to give up hope, I heard it.

  Deep and guttural.

  Laughter.

  Like the sound you'd expect your childhood nightmares to make as they leaned over your bed, your parents a world away. The sound you swore came from beyond your closet door or underneath your bed. A sound that lived in dark places and thrived on dark things. A sound that chilled.

  Because when monsters laughed, nothing good followed.

  "I'm Bonnie," I said, knowing now that giving out names to anybody was a terrible idea. And silently praying this monster hadn't been alive during the duo's infamous reign. "This here is Clyde. And we'd very much like for you to go away. Now. Please."

  The laughter continued. I couldn't tell where it came from. Even Noah's head swept the room, searching, listening. It sounded like it came from all around us.

  "What's your name?"

  Noah cut me a disbelieving look just as the laughter stopped. Both of our expressions shifted into unease. I found myself inching closer to Noah, just as he scooted closer to me.

  Something like hissing filled the room. "Sssssssssstella."

  My skin crawled at hearing my na
me coming from this monster.

  It chuckled and then hissed out my name again. "Sssssssssstella."

  "Bzzt. No, I'm sorry, that's actually not the correct answer. Let's go for Ghost Names, five hundred please."

  "Sssssssssilly."

  "Ok, seriously, not to insult the talking impaired, but if you're going to keep doing that creepy hissing bit, you can just stop talking right now because I'm seriously unimpressed."

  It laughed again.

  "That too, while we're at it. Invisible monsters really don't need to be laughing so damn much."

  Noah, still seated on the floor, grabbed for my hand. He was too far away so he missed, his hand latching onto my pajama pants instead. With strength I didn't think he had at this point, he tugged me closer as he hissed: "Will you stop insulting the homicidal ghost, please?"

  "I'm nervous," I snapped. "I get snarky when I get—"

  "Scared," the voice answered, no trace of hissing in its tone. The word seemed to come from everywhere, all around us. And not like a thunderstorm-of-voices kind of around us but more like we were ants standing before a behemoth, it's voice so deep and wide that it enveloped us completely.

  Noah's hand began to shake and I had to step away from him. Otherwise he'd have been likely to pull down my pajama pants. And seriously, the last thing anybody needed was me flashing my underwear to a malevolent ghost.

  "Ok, you know what? I'll admit it. Yes. I am freaking terrified. But that's not going to stop me from shoving my foot up your ass if you don't cut this shit out right now."

  The chuckling came back, as all-encompassing as his last word had been.

  "So are you going to tell me your name or what? I mean, isn't now the time the bad guy monologues? Especially if you want to tell me who it was that's going to kill me or something?"

  "And why, dear Stella, would I give my name to a psychic gifted with manipulating names?"

  My stomach dropped. I had to resist looking down to see if it'd spilled on the floor in front of me. "How do you know that?"

  It chuckled. "I've seen everything. I've been watching for weeks, my oblivious little Stella."

  "Watching?"

  "Hunting."

  I shivered. I heard Noah let out a soft gasp.

  "Two little ghost boys pining for two little human girls. Waiting, watching for the little human girls to finally perceive the little ghost boys. Yet so afraid of that course too."

  I continued to stare up at the ceiling. "How did you know we'd perceive them?"

  Its voice dropped to a purr. "Shivering little human girls. Stirring at unspoken voices. Wincing from unseen shadows."

  He'd seen us. He'd seen me react to voices coming from nowhere. Had seen Bronte flinching at nothing when she thought I'd come into a room. Our sudden shivers. Conversations dancing about things we refused to voice aloud. He'd been here for it all.

  Still purring, it continued. "Waiting for the pining little ghost boys to charm the sweet little human girls. A little scare to push things along, to get your emotions...high."

  I held up a hand, signaling for it to stop. Whether or not it saw me, I have no idea. But I did have the space to speak. "Excuse me. Our little ghost boys haven't put the moves on anyone—you're jumping the gun here. So if you want to give it a few weeks then come back, I'd totally understand."

  It chuckled again. I hated the sound. How feline it sounded. Like a panther or a jaguar, tail twitching, as we little mice had no choice but to cower before it. "And miss my glorious opportunity?"

  "What?"

  "Number ninety-seven."

  "Number ninety—"

  It clicked.

  I whirled around to see Noah noticeably paling. Eyes widening. Panic setting in.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Noah's head swung back and forth. I couldn't tell if he realized he was doing

  "Noah," I said, calmly but sternly, dropping down onto my knees in front of him. "Noah, I need you to not freak out on me."

  His head kept shaking. I slapped my hands on either side of his face and forced his head to stop moving. "Noah Walker, take a breath."

  He obeyed, taking in a deep breath at my command. Then he took another one on his own. His eyes began to focus on me, the distance in them fading.

  "I'm not going to let it get you."

  Chuckling echoed throughout the room.

  Noah flinched at the sound.

  With my hands still on either side of his face, I gave him a soft jolt. "Noah, I am not going to let it get you. But I need you to stay with me, ok? No running off to La La Land here, ok?"

  It took him a minute, and visible effort, but he nodded once.

  "Atta boy," I said, letting go of his head and rising.

  The chuckling continued.

  I had felt brave up until that point. But now that I was back up on my feet, I had no idea what do to. Without a name, I couldn't do anything. And Noah's ward was failing fast.

  It would get in here soon.

  Any my options were limited.

  If we waited for the ward to fall, or if Noah broke it on his own, we could try and make a run for it. But for whatever reason, this monster didn't seem to play by the same abode-dwelling rules as Cyril and Oliver. Probably because it seemed to haunt tears in the layers more than places, and, well, wouldn't you know it, Noah and I were walking, talking, living tears. We wouldn't be able to outrun it.

  And we wouldn't be able to keep it out forever. Noah had probably less than an hour before his ward fell.

  There wasn't really anyone we could call for help. Unless the Ghostbusters answered to their catchy jingle the way Bloody Mary did with a bathroom mirror.

  Those were our negatives. Our positives? I could command it if I knew its name.

  Only, we didn't know its name. And it knew not to give it to me.

  I took in a deep breath. If we couldn't run and we couldn't stay, our only option was to use my power. I had to figure out how to get its name from it. Like every single good fantasy story I'd ever read, I'd have to beat the monster at a battle of wits.

  God, how pathetic was it that my social anxiety was kicking in at the thought?

  I let out my held breath and looked back up at the ceiling. "Ok, here's what's going to happen Ted—can I call you Ted?—because here's what's going to happen. You're going to disappear. You're going to leave Noah and Bronte and the ghosts alone—everyone, you're just going to leave everyone alone. Or I will order you to."

  It chuckled. "Dear, sweet Stella. Lying has never been your strong point."

  "You don't know I'm lying."

  "If you knew my name, little Stella, you would have ordered me to flee already."

  "Then how about I figure out your name? Rumpelstiltskin style."

  It chuckled. "You have until dear Noah collapses to find my name."

  "You've got to give me a hint or something. That's only fair. All the big villains are doing it these days."

  It didn't answer.

  "Crap." So much for that.

  Behind me, I heard movement. I turned to see Noah had risen from the floor and moved toward the dining room table. I was about to call out to him when I saw him swipe Bronte's candle and matches from the decorative centerpiece and bring it back to where I stood.

  He sat back down, wiped sweat from his forehead, and lit the candle.

  As soon as the match struck, I could see the shimmering film of the ward brighten. Noah blew out the match as the candle's little flame flickered. "Fire is a purifying force," he explained without bothering to glance up at my confused expression. "It'll fortify the ward. So I don't have to push myself as much. Should buy us some extra time."

  "How long?"

  He shrugged and rolled his head, causing his neck joints to pop softly. "Maybe fifteen minutes?"

  "That's good. Really good."

  He scoffed at my obviously fake enthusiasm. Whether it was fifteen minutes sooner or later hardly seemed to matter—neither one of us held much hope of getting
out of this alive.

  I stared at the candle. Bronte's candle. She loved them—had multiple candles in every room of the apartment. Often with different scents burning at the same time to make something new.

  I wasn't going to see her again.

  And the last thing I'd done was betray her trust.

  The small flame danced at the wick's tip.

  I'd be leaving her defenseless too. As soon as the monster finished with me and Noah, it would go after Bronte, Cyril and Oliver. Raising its kill count all the way to ninety-nine.

  I looked up from the flame, to Noah. "How did you beat it back before?"

  He'd been staring at the flame too, lost in his own thoughts. "Hm?"

  "When you were a kid? After it had killed your widow—Clara. How did you survive that? You never said."

  "It won't work again."

  "But how did you do it?"

  "Stella—"

  "How do you know it won't work again?" I pressed, dropping down beside him and inching closer. I tried to mask the excitement in my tone but some of it squeezed through. "We could maybe use that trick again. It was a long time, maybe it doesn't—"

  "He set his home ablaze."

  I flinched from the purring reply.

  It chuckled at my reaction. "So much fire, I had to flee. When I came back, he had left. Scared little boy. It took me years to find him again."

  Noah stared even harder at the flame. "An accident," he mumbled. And I wasn't sure if it was directed toward me or him. Whether he wanted to convince himself or me.

  "Oh," I whispered, settling back into place.

  It wouldn't work—not again. Not in an apartment full of people. We might make enough fire to distract the monster, force it to flee from its purifying force or whatever, but not without risking others. And even then, I doubted the monster would fall for that a second time. Not when it heard us talking about it.

  I stared at the candle, at the small little flame. And I tried to imagine it growing, spreading. A pinprick of fire growing into a raging inferno. It would roar as smoke billowed into the sky. Melting and twisting and cackling. All from a single drop of flame.

  We'd be safe then.

  "Hm?"

  I looked up from the flame to see Noah staring at me. "What?"