Nightingale Songs (9 page)

"Reggie," he said, not looking at me as he crushed out his cigarette. "I'm being haunted."

I didn't believe I had heard him right, so I made him repeat what he'd said. Even then, I still had some doubt.

"What do you mean? By the past?"

"No. I mean it literally. I'm being haunted by spirits. Ghosts."

"Of whom?"

"Melinda and Rand. They're following me."

I felt chilled by the oddity of those words spoken aloud, and looked around to ensure no one had overheard us. At least, that's what I told myself. I then lowered my voice and leaned closer to him.

"How long have you thought this?"

"Since just after I left
Hamilton
. It's clear you don't believe me -- which is fine, as I didn't believe it at first either. I'd see Melinda in the window of a store I was passing, or Rand standing on a corner watching me, and I'd think as you do -- that it was all in my mind. Maybe the trauma of all that had happened was catching up to me, and I was seeing people that resembled that murderous Arkin Rand or my dear Melinda. And yet, they continued to appear, at first sporadically, and then with alarming frequency. I see them so often now, I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear they'll be there when I awake."

I thought for a moment before I said anything.

"Do you see them
now
?"

He looked over my shoulder at the empty pub.

"No," he said. "Not at the moment."

"Do they speak to you? Are they asking you to do anything . . . dangerous?"

Again, he shook his head. "Nothing like that. They say nothing, but instead watch me as though they are waiting for something.

"At first, I thought it was tied to my life in
Hamilton
, and that if I moved far enough away I would be able to forget them. But everywhere I went, my awful history followed me. I realized there was nowhere I
could
go that I wouldn't be confronted daily with suspicion. I was a pariah walking the streets -- the only eyes that met mine were those ghostly eyes of the two people I'd been accused of killing, but when they looked at me it was with a dead hunger. It's been horrible for the past few months, and I feel as though I'm slipping away and dying myself, except in this case it's the rest of the world performing the murder."

I leaned back and ran my fingers along my chin. I wasn't sure what, exactly, to say. There was no way the dead were visiting him, yet he sounded nothing if not rational. I could see no signs of the mania I would expect from someone so far gone into his own paranoia that he imagined being haunted by the victims of a crime he didn't commit. It bore further examination, if nothing else, and a pub on my lunch hour was not the place for it.

"Okay, Alistair. You've sufficiently worried me about the state of your mind. Where are you staying now?"

"I
was
staying at a house I'd rented on
MacGregor Street
. I had about two solid nights there without a visitation and without the neighbors catching on to who I was. I thought perhaps I'd finally outrun my problems, but yesterday I noticed the first of the neighbors walking past the house slowly, pointing and whispering, and that night Melinda and Rand had once more returned -- except they were now
inside
the house. I glimpsed them only briefly before I fled. I can never go back there."

I nodded, and hesitated before I said the next words, though only in hindsight do I understand why.

"You can stay with me for the time being. I have plenty of room. Do you recall where I live? I'll give you the key and you can wait for me there if you'd like to get out of the public eye."

"If it's all the same to you, Reggie, I'd much rather stay in your office until you are done for the day. I don't want to be alone at the moment."

"Certainly, but we should go back now. I've already kept Mr. Windershill waiting long enough for his two o'clock appointment.

New
Hamburg
was a small town. So small that one could walk from one end to the other in under an hour, and few of its locals drove anywhere unless necessary. I was no different, yet I wished I
had
driven that day as soon as Alistair and I stepped onto the street. It was earlier than I had expected -- my last two appointments had canceled unexpectedly, leaving me with nothing to do but send Polly home early and get Alistair settled -- and the sky was still bright with the orange of the sun sinking on the horizon. In that cultured light I saw far more people dotting the streets than I would have expected at that time of day, and they had all stopped to watch Alistair and me emerge from my offices. I wanted to say something, but Alistair held out his hand to stop me. He assured me it was futile.

"By now, word of my presence has no doubt spread right across New Hamburg. Everyone wants a peek at the local-boy-turned-killer. Coming here was probably the worst decision I've made so far, but after being aimless for so very long I needed someplace that felt like home."

"Well, I don't like it, nor do I like their chattering. That droning mumble is making my head throb." I looked back at a pair of still figures watching us in the distance. "We'll take a more discrete route to the house. Maybe we can escape them." And we did, for the most part, but that didn't stop Alistair's neck from remaining in motion, twisting and craning as he searched for spectators -- and specters, I imagine. It tired me just watching him, but I said nothing.

I had lived in the same brownstone since I was a child, though I'd remodeled since then, replacing the front windows with a larger set to allow more light through. I regretted that somewhat when I brought Alistair inside and the first thing he did was head straight for the window and draw the curtains. The room fell dark instantly, and once more I felt cold. His shadow then asked, "Where would you like me?"

"I have a guest room upstairs," I said, motioning with one hand while I reached for a lamp with the other. "It's never used, but I have it aired out and turned down once a month, so you should be quite comfortable."

The two of us sat down on the couches in my living room, and Alistair took the opportunity to light a cigarette as we both tried to forget the day that had come before us. I could see that he had already relaxed somewhat being in my home, safe in what was no doubt the first familiar place he'd been in months. In no time at all his exhaustion overtook him, and he fell into a twitching sleep right where he was seated.

At first, the faint mumbling I heard I mistook for the sound of gentle snoring. It filled the room, and when I realized it didn't come from Alistair I stood and listened closer. It was faint, like the rustling of autumn leaves in the wind, and it seemed to be everywhere. Then, through the drawn curtain, I saw the briefest pair of shadows move across the silk, and the voices became louder, though I still could not put my finger on what it was they said. Alistair was slumped on the couch and breathing slowly, unaware of what was happening around him. I stood and went to the window, then drew back the curtain slightly to peer out unnoticed.

On the walk before my house, a group of the day's patients and some of my neighbors had collected to point and whisper amongst themselves. Some stayed for a few moments before leaving, others were permanently planted, but none could take their eyes from my home. There was Mr. Windershill, standing with Mrs. Ostin and her now quiet twins, and beside them Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford, both of whom merely stared. Obviously, word of where Alistair was staying had spread faster than either of us had hoped, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit feeling saddened by the sight of so many good men and women succumbing to such tawdriness. Part of me wanted to step outside and shoo them away, but I knew the damage had been done, and I would have to face their stares as long as I offered sanctuary to my old school friend.

A sharp scream from Alistair turned my blood to ice, and when I turned I saw him on the couch, his hair plastered by sweat to his colorless face. He swallowed hard, and then stood and, trembling, brushed himself off as though he could convince me nothing were the matter.

"Sorry. I thought. . . . For a moment --" He shook his head. "No, it's impossible."

"What was it? Tell me, Alistair."

"I thought I had woken in a pitch dark room, but before I could call for you I heard whispers all around me -- familiar, though I could not place the sound. I wanted to stand but I couldn't move, and then it seemed as though all the air were disappearing, and as I struggled the whispering increased until I heard a single word creak out, a low drawn-out word I knew at once, even in my struggle. It was my name, Reggie. And the voice speaking it was Melinda's."

I nodded because I understood finally. "It was a dream, Alistair."

"But, it felt
real
. . . ."

"They often do, but I assure you it was just a dream. You're safe now that you're awake. Tell me though: did you
see
Melinda this time?

"No, there was nothing but suffocating darkness."

"That surprises me, but nevertheless, I think I know what's happening. When you slumber, you're entering a self-hypnotic state that leaves you highly susceptible to outside influence. If you were to go to the window and look outside right now, you'd see some of the people of New Hamburg gathered on my walk to no doubt gossip about you, and doing so loudly enough that their words are carrying inside the house. I certainly heard them while you slept. Their talk no doubt caused your dreaming mind to create the illusions you believe are real. Illusions like the presence of Melinda and Rand."

"But, I've
seen
them in the daylight. Even while I've been awake."

"The brain is a complicated organ we don't yet fully understand. You've been feeling the pressure of so many eyes watching you, judging you, that the stress has been preventing you from fully resting . . . and it came right on the heels of the stress caused by your campaigning. What's happening is that you're experiencing what we call
microsleep
, a state induced by prolonged sleep depravation. In these moments, your mind is trying to recover the rest it needs and, much like a daydream, you're experiencing sights and hallucinations your brain is tricked into believing are real. As the death of your wife and the accusations are kept foremost in your mind, it's no surprise that visions of her and of
Rand
appear to you. After all, if we were to assume you
are
in fact seeing their spirits, what sense would it make for them to arrive here in my home as well -- a place you have not seen in years?"

He sat quietly mulling over what I'd said, while I leaned back, confident in my deductions. Then, he looked over at me and he seemed calmer, more rational.

"If all that's true," he asked, "then how do I stop them from reappearing?"

Yes, I thought. That was the question.

"Well, you need to get proper sleep, for starters. But you must also find a way of eliminating the stress that is feeding these illusions. It seems to me that you are reminded of the crime by every face you've seen since your arrest. These people, unknowingly, are transferring their presumed guilt onto you, and you're allowing it to happen. You see them and believe what they think and say. After all, as you've admitted, the ghosts leave you alone until people discover where you are.

"The only way to free you is to confront the cause of your troubles." I beckoned him to the window, and then pulled the curtains back. Outside, the crowd looked startled, and some of the younger members walked away in feigned casualness. The rest were too old, too indifferent, to hide their curiosity. "Look," I said, "The number has already swollen."

He leaned closer to the window for a better look, and the site of him only excited the crowd further.

"They are your first step. You must confront them, Alistair. You must make them understand you didn't do the things of which you are accused. Otherwise, you'll suffocate beneath their suspicions."

We stood there bathed in evening light, each casting a doubled shadow on the wall behind us. Alistair's emotions played across his face as he watched the crowd and listened to their incessant whispering. Then he turned to me with eyes that spoke of exhaustion, the kind that runs deep through fissures into one's soul.