“Lobscouse,” I answer.
“Looks like beef stew to me.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth and sighs, his eyes closed in utter contentment. “Whatever it is, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“It’s known as sailor’s beef stew,” I explain as both men tuck into their lunch. “The recipe originated with the Vikings, but they used fish. As the recipe traveled with sailors around the world, the fish was replaced with beef instead.”
“Yay, beef,” Billy mumbles.
“And beer,” I add. “There’s lots and lots of beer in this dish.”
Billy raises a fist. “Yay, beer!”
“Come on, Billy, you can’t just inhale it. You have to tell me what you think about it.”
“I’d eat it again.” Of course he would. When it comes to food, Billy is the least discriminating person I have ever met. He’d eat roasted shoe leather if I placed it in front of him.
But Ned takes his time as he spoons chunks of potato and beef into his mouth and he thinks as he chews. “I’m guessing this is a lot tastier than what those old-time sailors ate,” he concludes. “This definitely needs to go in the book, Ava.”
“I think so, too. I’m glad to have the Ned Haskell seal of approval.”
“What’re you cooking for us next week?” Billy asks.
Ned gives him a punch on the shoulder. “She’s not cooking for us. This is research for her book.”
A book for which I’ve already compiled dozens of worthy recipes, from a generations-old French Canadian recipe for tourtière pork pie, luscious and dripping with silky fat, to a saddle of venison with juniper berries, to an endless array of dishes involving salt cod. Now I can test them all on real Mainers, men with appetites.
Billy gobbles down his stew first and heads back upstairs to work, but Ned lingers at the table, savoring the final spoonfuls.
“Gonna be real sorry to finish up in your turret,” he says.
“And I’ll be sorry to lose my taste testers.”
“I’m sure you’ll have no end of eager volunteers, Ava.”
My cellphone rings and I see the name of my editor pop up on the screen. I have been avoiding his calls but there’s no way to put him off forever. If I don’t pick up now, he’ll just keep calling.
“Hello, Simon,” I answer.
“So you haven’t been eaten by a bear after all.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called back. I’ll send you a few more chapters tomorrow.”
“Scott thinks we should drive up there and drag you home.”
“I don’t want to be dragged home. I want to keep writing. I just needed to get away.”
“Get away from what?”
I pause, not knowing what to say. I glance at Ned, who discreetly rises from the table and carries his empty bowl to the sink.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all,” I say.
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Now you are really barking up the wrong tree. I’ll call you next week.” I hang up and look at Ned, who is meticulously washing the dishes. At fifty-eight years old, he still has the lean, athletic build of a man who works with his muscles, but there’s more to him than mere brawn; there’s a depth to his silence. This is a man who watches and listens, who takes in far more than others might realize. I wonder what he thinks of me. If he considers it odd that I have isolated myself in this lonely house with a badly behaved cat as my only companion.
“You don’t have to do the dishes,” I tell him.
“It’s okay. Don’t like to leave a mess.” He rinses his bowl and picks up a dishcloth. “I’m particular that way.”
“You said you’ve been working on this house for months?”
“Going on six months now.”
“And you knew the tenant who lived here before me? I think her name is Charlotte.”
“Nice lady. She teaches elementary school in Boston. Seemed to like it up here well enough, so I was surprised when she packed up and left town.”
“She didn’t tell you why?”
“Not a word. We came to work one day, and she was gone.” He finishes drying the bowl and sets it in the cabinet, right where it belongs. “Billy had something of a crush on her, so he was real hurt she never even said goodbye.”
“Did she ever mention anything, um, odd about the house?”
“Odd?”
“Like sounds or smells she couldn’t explain. Or other things.”
“What other things?”
“A feeling that someone was…watching her.”
He turns to look at me. I’m grateful that at least he takes the time to actually consider my question. “Well, she did ask us about curtains,” he finally says.
“What curtains?”
“She wanted us to hang curtains in her bedroom, to keep anyone from looking in the window. I pointed out that her bedroom faces the sea, and there’s no one out there to see her, but she insisted I talk to the owner about it. A week later, she left town. We never did hang those curtains.”
I feel a chill ripple across my skin. So Charlotte felt it too, the sensation that she was not alone in this house, that she was being watched. But curtains cannot shut out the gaze of someone who’s already dead.
After Ned heads upstairs to the turret, I collapse into a chair at the kitchen table and sit rubbing my head, trying to massage away the memory of last night. When considered in the light of day, it could only have been a dream. Of course it was a dream, because the alternative is impossible: that a long-dead man tried to make love to me.
No, I can’t call it that. What happened last night was not love but a taking, a claiming. Even though it frightened me, I ache for more. I know what you deserve, he’d said. Somehow he knows my secret, the source of my shame. He knows because he watches me.
Is he watching me even now?
I sit up straight and nervously scan the kitchen. Of course there’s no one else here. Just as there was no one in my bedroom last night except for the phantom I’ve conjured from my own loneliness. A ghost, after all, is every woman’s perfect lover. I don’t need to charm or amuse him, or worry that I’m too old or too fat or too plain. He won’t crowd my bed at night or leave his shoes and socks strewn around the room. He materializes when I need to be loved, the way I want to be loved, and in the morning he conveniently vanishes into thin air. I never need to cook him breakfast.
My laughter has the shrill note of insanity. Either I’m going crazy or my house really is haunted.
I don’t know whom to talk to or confide in. In desperation I open my laptop computer. The last document I typed is still on the screen, a list of ingredients for the next recipe: Whole cream, knobs of butter, shucked oysters combined in a rich stew that would have simmered on cast-iron stoves all along the New England coast. I close the file, open a search engine. What the hell should I search for? Local psychiatrists?
Instead I type: Is my house haunted?
To my surprise, the screen fills with a list of websites. I click on the first link.
Many people believe their house is haunted, but in the vast majority of cases, there are logical explanations for what they are experiencing. Some of the phenomena people describe include:
Pets behaving oddly.
Strange noises (footsteps, creaks) when no one else is in the house.
Objects vanishing and reappearing in a different place.
A feeling of being watched…
I stop and glance around the kitchen again, thinking of what he’d said last night. Someone must watch over you. As for pets behaving oddly, Hannibal is so focused on scarfing down his lunch, he doesn’t once look up from his bowl. Perfectly usual behavior for Mr. Fatty.
I scroll down to the next page on the website.
The appearance of vaguely human forms or moving sha
dows.
Feeling of being touched.
Muffled voices.
Unexplained smells that come and go.
I stare at those last four signs of haunting. Dear god, I’ve experienced all of these. Not merely touches or muffled voices. I have felt his weight on top of me. I can still feel his mouth on mine. I take a deep breath to calm myself. There are multiple websites devoted to this, so I am not the only one with this problem. How many others have frantically searched the Internet for answers? How many of them wondered if they were going insane?
I focus once again on my laptop screen.
What to do if you think your house is haunted.
Observe and document every unusual occurrence. Record the time and location of the phenomena.
Record video of any physical or auditory occurrences. Keep a cellphone nearby at all times.
Call an expert for advice.
An expert. Where the hell do I find one of those? “Who ya gonna call?” I say aloud and my laughter sounds unhinged.
I return to the search engine and type: Maine ghost investigations.
A fresh page with website links appears. Most of the sites are devoted to tales of haunted houses, and it seems Maine has generated scores of such stories, some of which made it onto television shows. Ghosts in inns, ghosts on highways, ghosts in movie theaters. I scroll down the list, my skepticism growing. Rather than true hauntings, these look like mere myths, meant to be told around campfires. The hitchhiking woman in white. The man in the stovepipe hat. I scroll down the page and am almost ready to close it when the link at the bottom catches my eye.
Help for the Haunted. Professional Ghost Investigations, Maine.
I click on the link. The website is sparse, only a brief statement of purpose:
We investigate and document paranormal activity in the state of Maine. We also serve as an informational clearinghouse and we provide emotional and logistical support to those who are dealing with paranormal phenomena.
There is a contact form, but no phone number.
I type in my name and phone number. In the space for Reason for contacting us I type: I believe my house is haunted. I don’t know what to do about it, and hit send.
It flits off into the ether and almost immediately I feel ridiculous. Did I really just contact a ghost hunter? I think of what my ever-logical sister, Lucy, would say about this. Lucy, whose medical career is rooted in science. I need her advice now more than ever, but I don’t dare call her. I’m afraid of what she’ll say to me, and even more afraid of what I’ll say to her. I won’t call my longtime friend and editor Simon either, because he’ll certainly laugh at me and tell me I’ve gone round the bend. And then remind me how late my manuscript is.
Desperate to distract myself, I scrape the remaining beef stew into a bowl and carry it to the refrigerator. I yank open the door and focus on the bottle of sauvignon blanc gleaming inside. It’s so tempting I can already taste its cold, crisp bite of alcohol. The bottle calls to me so seductively I almost miss the chime of the email landing in my in-box.
I turn to the laptop. The email is from an unfamiliar account, but I open it anyway.
FROM: MAEVE CERRIDWYN
RE: YOUR HAUNTING.
WHEN WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?
Nine
It’s a two-hour drive from Tucker Cove to the town of Tranquility, where the ghost hunter lives. According to the map it’s only fifty-five miles as the crow flies, but that old Maine saying You can’t get there from here has never seemed so apt as I navigate from back road to back road, slowly making my way inland from the coast. I drive past abandoned farmhouses with collapsing barns, past long-fallow fields invaded by saplings, into woodlands where trees crowd out all sunlight. My GPS directs me down roads that seem to lead nowhere, but I obey the annoying voice issuing from the speaker because I have no idea where I am. It has been miles since I’ve seen another car, and I begin to wonder if I’ve been going in circles; everywhere I look I see only trees and every bend in the road looks identical.
Then I spot the roadside mailbox with a pale blue butterfly painted on the side: #41. I’ve arrived at the right place.
I bounce up the dirt driveway, and the woods part to reveal Maeve Cerridwyn’s home. I had imagined a ghost hunter’s house to be dark and ominous, but this cottage in the woods looks like a home where you’d find seven charming dwarves. When I step out of my car, I hear tinkling wind chimes. Behind the house is a stand of birch trees, their white trunks like ghostly sentinels of the forest. In the sunny patch of front yard, an herb garden blooms with sage and catmint.
I follow the fieldstone path through the garden, where I recognize my usual culinary friends: thyme and rosemary, parsley and tarragon, sage and oregano. But there are other herbs here that I do not recognize, and in this magical woodland spot I can’t help wondering what mysterious uses they might have. For love potions, perhaps, or the warding off of demons? I bend down to examine a vine with blackberries and tiny purple flowers.
When I rise to my feet, I’m startled to see a woman watching me from her porch. How long has she been there?
“I’m glad you made it, Ava,” she says. “It’s easy to get lost along the way.”
Maeve Cerridwyn is not what I expected a ghost hunter to look like. Neither mysterious nor scary, she is a petite woman with a plain, sweet face. The sun has freckled her skin and etched deep laugh lines around her brown eyes, and her dark hair is half silver. I can’t imagine this woman facing down ghosts or battling demons; she looks like she’d bake them cookies instead.
“I’m sorry you had to come all this way to see me. Normally I drive out to the client’s house, but my car’s still in the shop.”
“That’s all right. I felt like I needed to get away for the day.” I look at her garden. “This is beautiful. I write about food, and I’m always on the hunt for new culinary herbs I haven’t tried yet.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to cook with that one,” she says, pointing to the vine I was just admiring. “That’s belladonna. Deadly nightshade. A few berries could kill you.”
“Why on earth do you grow it?”
“Every plant has its uses, even the poisonous ones. A tincture of belladonna can be used as an anesthetic and to help wounds heal.” She smiles. “Come on in. I promise I won’t put anything in your tea except honey.”
I step into the house, where I pause for a moment, looking around in wonder at the mirrors that hang on almost every wall. Some are mere chips of glass, others extend from floor to ceiling. Some are mounted in lavishly decorated frames. Everywhere I look I glimpse movement—my own, as I turn from reflection to reflection.
“As you can see, I have an obsession with mirrors,” she admits. “Some people collect porcelain frogs. I collect mirrors from around the world.” She points to each one as we move down the hall. “That’s from Guatemala. That one is from India. Malaysia. Slovenia. No matter where you go in the world, most people want to look at themselves. Even guinea fowl will sit and stare at their own reflections.”
I stop before one particularly striking example. Encircling the mirrored glass is a tin frame decorated with grotesque and frightening faces. Demons. “Interesting hobby you have,” I murmur.
“It’s more than a hobby. It’s also for protection.”
I frown at her. “Protection from what?”
“Some cultures believe that mirrors are dangerous. That they serve as portals to another world, a way for spirits to move back and forth and cause mischief. But the Chinese believe mirrors are a defense, and they hang them outside their homes to scare away evil spirits. When a demon sees its own reflection, it’s frightened away and it won’t disturb you.” She points to the mirror hanging above the doorway to the kitchen, its frame painted bright green and gold. “That’s a Ba Gua mirror. Notice how it’s concave? That’s so it absor
bs negative energies, preventing them from going into my kitchen.” She sees my dubious expression. “You think this is all hokum, don’t you?”
“I’ve always been skeptical about the supernatural.”
She smiles. “Yet here you are.”
We sit in her kitchen, where crystals dangle in the window, casting little rainbows on the walls. In this room there are no mirrors; perhaps she considers the kitchen safe from invasion, protected by that obstacle course of demon-repelling mirrors in the hallway. I’m relieved that I can’t catch glimpses of myself in this room. Like those demons, I’m afraid of my own reflection, afraid to look myself in the eye.
Maeve sets two steaming cups of chamomile tea on the table and sits across from me. “Now tell me about your ghost problem.”
I can’t help a sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry, but this feels ridiculous.”
“Of course it does. Since you don’t believe in spirits.”
“I really don’t. I never have. I’ve always thought that people who saw ghosts were either delusional or prone to fantasies, but I don’t know how else to explain what’s happening in my house.”
“You believe these events are paranormal?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, I didn’t imagine them.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But old houses come with creaky floors. The wood expands and contracts. Faucets drip.”
“None of those things can explain what I saw. Or what I felt when he touched me.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “Something actually touched you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My face. He touched my face.” I won’t tell her where else he touched me. Or how he pinned my body to the bed with his.
“You said on the phone you also smell things. Unusual odors.”
“It’s almost always the first thing I notice, just before he appears.”
“Odors are often described as sentinels of a supernatural presence. Is it an unpleasant odor?”
The Shape of Night Page 7