A Darker Shade

by Laura K. Curtis

  “You most certainly will not.” Prescott’s tone would have stopped me dead, but Hailey opened her mouth to argue.

  “It’s the wrong time of year for that,” I put in. “Plus, there’s no comfortable spot for a sleeping bag. It’s totally overgrown. In the spring, we can weed an area, cut back the overgrowth. Put in a bit of work and you’ll have a place to lie down once the weather warms up.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Hailey agreed. I glanced over and found Prescott’s dark eyes studying me. I hoped I hadn’t overstepped, but denying a teenager would only make her plan more appealing. Forcing her to wait and work for what she wanted was both easier and, in most cases, a more effective deterrent.

  After dinner, I returned to my room while the others played their board game. Liza had not pressed me about the book, but I knew it was only a matter of time and I wanted to read as far ahead as possible before plunging in with her. Having made the case for the “openness” of children to hauntings with the Fox family, the author moved into the meat of her topic: how to contact the dead.

  Several methods of communicating with the spirits have developed since the days of the Fox family’s rudimentary knocking alphabet. The most commonly used of these is the Ouija board. While many consider these to be harmless toys, they are descended from the original “talking boards” or “spirit boards” and not to be used by the inexperienced.

  A memory struck, so strong and sudden that I had to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe. It was a soupy, sweaty day not long after we’d moved to Hartford. My aunt had sprained her ankle, so she was home with Ali while mama and I went out for a day on our own. We’d gone to the park and ridden the carousel, mama side by side with me. I wanted to go faster, faster, but my mount bobbed slowly up and down while my legs stuck to the sides. The carousel stopped and I peeled myself off the horse. We wandered by an artist doing caricatures and a man making balloon animals, then stopped for an ice cream. Near the big white ice cream truck sat a woman with a red scarf tied over her hair. Tinkling golden bells hung from the scarf and long, sparkling earrings dangled from her ears. A flowing skirt and embroidered peasant blouse completed the outfit. She sat on a tall stool, with two more stools in front of her. One held a deck of cards and a board with writing on it, the other was empty. Waiting for a customer.

  I knew what she was. We’d seen women like that in New York. This was the kind of woman my father referred to as a “carnival queen,” a fake Roma. One lived on our block, a woman I’d heard speaking in a lilting, melodic cadence when clients arrived at her door, but who shooed me away in a harsh, discordant accent when I approached her. The sign in her window said Psychic Readings by Sultana.

  The woman noticed me watching her and winked as a man walked up. She smiled up at him for a second, then her head snapped back sharply, as if she’d been slapped. The man sat on the empty stool and laid a hand on the little wooden pointer that sat atop the board. I was watching, fascinated, when my mother grabbed my shoulder, spun me toward her, and thrust the swirl of chocolate and vanilla into my hands.

  “Let’s go.”

  “What’s she doing?” I asked.

  “Calling the spirits,” said my mother.

  “She can’t really do that, can she? She’s just a carnival queen, isn’t she?” Besides, no one called ghosts under the sun’s bright heat, with joggers passing by and bums begging for change. That couldn’t be right.

  “The board is not a toy.” My mother leaned down and stared into my eyes. The day disappeared and my ice cream dripped unheeded down my hand. The scent of her apple shampoo tickled my nose. “You never, ever use the board. Do you understand me? Never. When you call out to the other side, you don’t know what may come.”

  Unable to speak, I nodded. If the spirits could be called, right out in public without ceremony or magic, could I talk to my father? Could I ask him how to cope with this strange life we had assumed in Connecticut? Would he advise me?

  But I never found out. Long after the summer’s heat had died and winter’s snow prevented trips to the park, long after the ice cream trucks went into hibernation, my mother’s warning had stayed with me.

  I forced my attention away from the memories and back to the book. Ms. Holt discussed the history of the talking board—a mercifully dry topic—and the ways one might be used. She advocated a minimum of two people with their fingers on the planchette because a single user was too apt to be fooled by her own subconscious. She also recommended having an independent observer ask control questions to which only she knew the answers in order to test efficacy.

  The recommendation seemed sensible, making science out of the magic of my childhood. Quickly, however, the author descended back into what Prescott had characterized as New Age tripe.

  For those who are truly open to the spirit world, a simple sheet of paper with letters and numbers will suffice. Any token can be used as a planchette, especially an object of particular significance to the one who has passed. A barrette, a favorite photograph carried near the heart, a wedding ring, or even a money clip can serve as a pointer. The important thing with a talking board, as with any form of spiritual communication, is that the caller be open and willing. The ritual use of the formal board and planchette merely oils the hinges of the door to the other side, making it easier to open. With practice, the sensation of the planchette beneath the medium’s fingers becomes a trigger, a way of inducing a trance without effort.

  A floorboard creaked in the hall. I snapped the book shut and stuffed it under my pillow. Neither of the girls were likely to drop in without knocking, but I was not prepared to answer Hailey’s questions should she ask about my choice of reading material. I counted to five, then ten, but heard nothing more. The house was old. Almost every stair, every square foot of the second floor creaked or squeaked or moaned when pressed. How could anyone, even a slight, skinny child like Liza, traverse the hallway without making a sound?

  And yet, the longer I lay there, the more convinced I became that someone stood outside my door. It had to be Hailey, taking revenge for being frightened in her dream and, more seriously, for having admitted that fright to me. If I hoped to maintain my authority, I could not let her get over on me, even in her own head. I could not hope to make it to the door unheard, but neither could Hailey escape undetected. I eased my legs over the side of the bed and darted to the door as quickly and quietly as possible, all the time composing the confrontation in my head.

  No one was there.

  A shudder shook me and goosebumps crawled over my skin like an army of spiders. I’d been so sure I’d heard a footfall. Old houses made noises—it had taken me months to get used to the way Mrs. Sutter’s house settled at night when I’d worked the night shift—but the sound that had pulled me from my reading had been sharp and distinct. And then there was the clutch in my heart, the certainty that a listener waited on the other side of my door.

  “Get over it,” I said aloud, letting the familiar sound of my own voice fill the space

  I heard the girls come upstairs and prepare for bed, followed by the adults, but that strange, single footfall was not repeated. Working in care, you learn to sleep anywhere, anytime you can—I suppose it’s a bit like the military. One week you might be working days, the next nights. A nap here and there can save your sanity.

  Still, despite the darkness of the room, the comfort of the thick mattress and fluffy duvet, sleep proved elusive. Every tiny noise startled me from my restless doze, but at least I was not visited by the specter of my cancer-riddled mother.

  At six, I gave up trying to sleep. I scribbled postcards to my sister and my aunt, dressed, and went downstairs. I roused Rocky from his crate, snapped on his leash and headed out for the mailbox.

  I’d hoped to see the property but was frustrated yet again. A thick mist rose from the earth. It clung to my clothes and skin and curtained off the road mere feet in front of me. As long as I could see the path beneath my feet, however, I would claim this tim
e for myself.

  Rocky whined and pulled at his leash, trying to turn back for the house the minute he’d finished his business. Too bad, buster. We’re out and we’re staying out. Once I made my intentions clear, he resigned himself to his fate and trotted beside me, stopping occasionally to bury his flat face in the wet grass.

  By the time I clipped my postcards into the mailbox door and raised the flag, the heavy fog had soaked through my sweatshirt and jeans. The sun struggled to rise, a pale ball strangled by thick haze, but it did nothing to reduce the biting chill. If I intended to make this walk on a regular basis—as I would have to do after weather cut off the cell access and my ability to text my sister—I would have to get more winter layers. Maybe I’d make myself some leg warmers while teaching the girls knitting and crochet.

  As I approached the house, a woman’s voice floated out of the mist. I couldn’t tell precisely where it was coming from, so I stopped short.

  “I told you she’s just balking temporarily. There won’t be a problem.”

  A deep voice murmured indistinctly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a phase. She’ll get over it.”

  I was almost certain the woman was Jennifer Prescott. Who else could it be? Mrs. Vogel’s voice was raspier. We had no guests and no one had driven past me as I trudged back toward the house.

  The man mumbled again and the woman laughed. Definitely Jennifer. Why was she standing outside in the foul weather? And who was she talking to?

  “You worry about your own part,” she said, “I’ll handle mine.”

  I had already deduced that she would be the most obstructive part of this particular job. If she believed I’d overheard something I shouldn’t have, she’d find a way to get rid of me before I could complete my contract. She had Prescott’s ear. All she had to do was say that I was being inappropriate with the girls or not teaching them what I should and I’d be gone, all my dreams of providing for myself and Ali up in smoke.

  If I could hear her, however, she could also hear me. Pitching my voice slightly louder than necessary, I praised Rocky effusively. Since he’d done nothing to merit such acclaim, he looked up at me with confusion in his bulging eyes. I counted to fifty, then moved forward far more slowly than my normal pace, giving Jennifer plenty of time to get out of my path. Apparently she did, for I saw no sign of her or her mysterious companion as I approached the house.

  I was feeding Rocky in his crate when Mrs. Vogel arrived.

  “You’re up early.” For the first time, I heard approval in her voice.

  “He’s had a walk and food. He should be okay for a couple of hours. But I got rather wetter than I expected, so I am going to run up and change.”

  “Bring your things down and I’ll put them in the dryer. They don’t need a wash, do they?”

  “No. Thank you.” What a luxury. In most of my jobs I was responsible for everyone’s laundry.

  Upstairs, I peeled off my jeans, socks, and sweatshirt and changed into a virtually identical outfit. In eldercare, the uniform was simple: scrubs. I had nine pairs. Most of my clients liked the scrubs because they created a clear class division. Working with children was different. The parents wanted you to look neat but not uniformed. The strange, liminal position of being below the children in status but above them in authority was reflected in choosing appropriate outfits. When I expressed my concerns to Sandy about how to dress for living in, she’d assured me jeans would be fine so long as my shirts and sweaters did not have slogans on them or holes in the elbows.

  I stepped into the hall, wet bundle in hand, and the door to Prescott’s room opened.

  “Miss Allworth. Good morning. Have you been out already?”

  I touched my wet hair. I hadn’t bothered to take it down and re-braid it when I returned from the walk. “I took Rocky to the mailbox.”

  “How very industrious of you.”

  Was he making fun of me? His dry tone gave no clue.

  “Have you and Jenn come up with a suitable plan of study for the girls?”

  Involuntarily, I glanced down the hall toward Jennifer’s room before answering. Did Prescott know that she didn’t believe his daughter would ever go back to a normal school? I couldn’t imagine he agreed—he was far too focused on getting Liza to speak to have given up hope.

  “Pretty much. I won’t know how the schedule works until we actually get into the process, and Jennifer doesn’t think they need to start until after Matt leaves. As long as that’s okay with you?”

  His foot hesitated on the stair for just a moment. “Far be it from me to contradict Jenn,” he said with a touch of bitterness, “or to inconvenience Matt.”

  I couldn’t help myself. As we reached the bottom stair, I laid my hand on his sleeve. His forearm radiated warmth through fingers still chilled from my walk. “I am here for Liza. Jennifer and Matt are not my concern. If you want Liza to start work this morning after breakfast, that’s what will happen.”

  He stared down at my hand resting on his arm and I snatched it away. An expression I could not interpret flitted across his face and he blew out a breath.

  “No. When Matt leaves will be fine.”

  Chapter 7

  Since Matt was leaving on Sunday, on Saturday night we all went out to dinner in Portland. This saved me from having to make dinner, since Mrs. Vogel had weekends off and those were my designated cooking days. She’d left a casserole for Sunday and I’d managed tuna salad and egg salad with fruit and cheese for lunch, but I wasn’t up to preparing a real meal for Matt.

  Not that he would ever have said anything negative. He’d been flirting lightly all week. He didn’t mean anything by it—I’d caught him flirting occasionally with Mrs. Vogel, though not as intently as he did with me. He never pressured me, and it was impossible to know what he’d do if I took him up on his implicit offers, but the admiration warmed me and I’d have hated to lose it by showcasing my lack of cooking skills.

  The restaurant we went to was basically a pizza joint, which suited both my taste and my wardrobe, but with a farm-to-table atmosphere that brought it above the norm. With a view right out over the bay and a big wood-fired oven, it was clearly a favorite of both girls. Liza smiled like a perfectly normal child as she studied the menu.

  At home, Prescott and Jennifer usually sat at the head and foot of the dining table, but here we were at a round table with Liza between me and her father and Matt on my other side.

  “So I guess on Monday you become the evil teacher,” Matt said. He leaned around me and waved a piece of pizza in Liza’s face. “Now you, young lady, you be nice to your teacher.”

  She grinned and opened her mouth to snap off a bite of the pizza. I was not actually worried about Liza. Aside from her disinclination to speak, I expected her to be a hard worker and an above-average student.

  “You, too, Hailey,” Matt said. “Do your best.”

  “Have you talked about what you’ll do for visual arts?” Jennifer asked.

  I hadn’t. I’d been having a good time, taking Rocky out for walks, flirting with Matt, feeling almost like one of the family. Even the ghost book had gotten short shrift; I’d managed only a few pages a night once I’d read what I’d assigned myself to be ready for the girls’ classes to begin. But Liza, similarly exhausted by all Matt’s games, hadn’t requested that we begin it yet. I was definitely slacking in my duties. Luckily, I’d decided for Hailey the day I took Liza to the bookstore.

  “Fashion and fiber arts,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

  “Fashion?” A laugh lurked beneath Matt’s question.

  At the same time, Hailey crowed. “Fashion—that’s so cool! That counts as school?”

  “The history of fashion. The fiber arts will be handwork—knitting and crocheting. Liza and I already picked out yarn.”

  “Knitting is very practical.” Jennifer chuckled. “Hailey, I think your uncle would love a handmade present for Christmas.”

  His eyes widened. �
�No, no. I don’t need anything.”

  I’d figured the woman was bloodthirsty, but sticking her brother with a beginner’s scarf or hat that he’d have to wear cheerfully any time he saw his niece was truly devilish. “That’s a great idea,” I said.

  Matt had left immediately after breakfast. Although he promised to write to all of us, even me, once he got back to New York, I knew before Jennifer’s “you always say that and you never do” that it was an empty vow. He was, after all, a lawyer, and likely very busy. He might spare a phone call to his sister or the occasional email, but sitting down and writing a letter by hand to the hired help? Not likely, even after the flirtation.

  A sharp drop in temperature reflected the drop in spirits, and a cold gray rain forestalled any plans to trek the grounds. The air tasted like snow, sharp and bitter, and the radiators along the walls burped and rumbled louder than usual.

  Jennifer suggested hide and seek. “We played all the time growing up. There are great nooks and crannies on the third floor. Thane has a service in once a month to clean and they were here two weeks ago, so it shouldn’t be terribly dusty.”

  I’d given up hide and seek after about seven years old. Liza and Hailey were twelve and fourteen.

  “The third floor is creepy cool,” Hailey said in response to my dubious expression. “One of Uncle Thane’s relatives was into hunting and there’s a ton of taxidermied dead stuff.”

  We mounted the steps and Hailey explained their rules to me. The game was as much tag as anything, which explained not only why it was more fun for older children, but also why they had to play on the third floor, not the second. I could only imagine how the thunder of running footsteps overhead would affect Prescott’s work.

  At the end of the hall, above the master suite, a library with glass-fronted shelves housed a massive pool table that had to have been constructed inside the room. The rest of the furniture—a grouping of chairs around the granite-faced fireplace and a leather-topped desk with matching chair by the far window—was equally substantial. Heavy green curtains, matching the baize of the pool table and the shade of the banker’s lamp on the desk, closed the room off from the world outside. An enormous oriental rug in shades of bark and jade completed the picture of gentlemanly privilege.