The Ghost Sonata (29 page)

“I guess so.”

“Any history of sleepwalking?”

“No.”

“Even when you were a young child?”

“Not that I know of.”

“On any medication?”

“No.”

Dr. Cudlip removed the stethoscope, sat back down on the stool, and stared at Wendy. “What happened to you last night could be a form of sleepwalking. However, that most often happens to patients who have some childhood history. Of course, sleep deprivation and stress can also make sleepwalking more likely, so we shouldn't rule it out
completely
.”

Wendy nodded. She didn't like the idea of being a sleep-walker, but it was certainly preferable to a brain tumor, or something worse.

“Now, there's also an interesting condition called
sleep paralysis
, and with that condition, people see and hear all kinds of bizarre things—space alien abductions, monsters—you name it. Because their eyes are open, they think it all must be
real
—that they can't possibly be dreaming. In fact, their
brains
are still asleep.”

“Maybe that's what I have,” said Wendy, almost eagerly. “Maybe all these strange things are just my brain being partly asleep?”

“Perhaps, but with sleep paralysis, people generally can't
move
. They say that some alien force is pinning them down in their beds, literally paralyzing them.
You
said you were able to get out of bed and walk down the street.”

“So, it can't be sleep paralysis, then,” said Gilda.

“Well, I expect it's still some kind of sleep disturbance—perhaps a rather unique one caused by stress. My guess is that it will resolve once Wendy catches up on her rest and the stress of an international competition is over. But if the symptoms continue, Wendy, you should have your parents take you to a specialist back in the States. Oh, and make sure you lock your door or place something in your path that will wake you up just in case the sleepwalking happens again.”

The doctor scribbled something on Wendy's chart and stood up, preparing to leave the room.

“Just a moment, Dr. Cudlip,” said Gilda, “I think we're missing a possible diagnosis here.”

“Gilda,” Wendy protested, “please don't.”

“And that might be?”

“Spirit possession.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “I think you'd have to talk to a local vicar about that sort of thing; it's not exactly my field.”

“It is
my
field,” said Gilda, wishing she also had a clipboard to hold. “I'm a psychic investigator.”

“Omigod,” Wendy muttered under her breath.

“I must confess, Dr. Cudlip,” Gilda continued, “that I haven't come across a case quite this perplexing before.”

The doctor regarded Gilda as if he suspected that she should be sitting up on the paper-covered examination table instead of Wendy. The fact that she wore her “London Mod” outfit with spidery false eyelashes and a rather obvious wig of straight black hair didn't help her credibility in his mind. He turned his attention back to his patient. “Wendy, do
you
think you might have a case of ‘spirit possession'?”

Wendy clutched the edge of the table with both hands and bounced her foot nervously. “I don't know,” she said in a small voice.

“I agree that stress could cause sleepwalking,” Gilda continued, “but it
doesn't
explain the fact that Wendy and I actually recorded the voice of a ghost on a tape recorder. We
both
heard it!”

Dr. Cudlip frowned. “I don't understand.”

Gilda did her best to explain how she and Wendy had picked up a mysterious voice on tape after Wendy had recorded the melody that literally haunted her—the melody that often awakened her at night. “I believe Wendy's symptoms are evidence of a genuine haunting, Dr. Cudlip.”

Considering this piece of information, Dr. Cudlip looked thoughtful. He leaned against the wall, clutching his clipboard to his chest. “There is one case of spirit possession I remember from the medical journals,” he said, almost as if talking to himself.

“There
is
?” Wendy and Gilda leaned forward.

“It was a most unusual account—the case of a young man who believed he had been put under a curse by a jealous friend. This boy came from a very well-to-do and respected family, and he had always been well-behaved—a hard worker and a perfect student. But as a result of this supposed ‘curse,' the boy thought he was inhabited by a rather unpleasant spirit who forced him to steal things. Within no time, he became a petty criminal, and he ended up in prison, much to his parents' disgrace. As one might predict, the psychiatrist who examined him assumed that the boy had the early stages of schizophrenia—ongoing episodes of hearing voices that weren't there, feeling that someone else was controlling his behavior, et cetera.”

Wendy turned pale at the reference to schizophrenia—a diagnosis she feared.

“But—here's where the really
strange
part comes in. While the boy was in prison, some of the
other inmates
actually heard the faint voice of an old woman and saw a cold mist that drifted toward the boy and then disappeared inside him. A priest who came to visit the young man also concurred that this was indeed a true case of possession rather than mental illness. So the psychiatrists were faced with a bewildering question: was
everyone
crazy? Or was this boy truly a victim of possession by a spirit? Was this one of those rare cases we can't explain with medical science?”

Both Gilda and Wendy were fascinated. “So what happened?”

“I believe they performed an exorcism and also gave the boy psychotropic drugs just to cover all the bases. One or the other did the trick.”

Gilda turned to Wendy eagerly, but Wendy quickly shut down this idea. “I'm
not
going to subject myself to an exorcism. And I don't want to take drugs either.”

“I was not about to suggest that you do,” said the doctor. “This is the twenty-first century, for goodness' sake, and I'm not convinced that you need medication at this stage.”

“I think Gilda was about to suggest it.”

“I like to be open-minded,” said Dr. Cudlip, interrupting the burgeoning argument between Wendy and Gilda, “so I acknowledge it's possible that the two of you are experiencing something that modern-day medicine can't explain. But Wendy, my money's still on stress and sleep deprivation as the most simple explanation.” He gave Wendy a little wink as he shook her hand. “Come back if things get worse, but at this point, just try not to worry too much. Try to get some rest. And most importantly, best of luck in the finals of the piano competition!”

39

Beneath the Black Water

 

Well, what do you suggest now?” Wendy wrapped a long scarf around her head several times, trying to keep warm. She and Gilda stood in the bitter morning sunlight outside the health clinic, unsure of what to do next. Students bundled in overcoats and scarves sped past them on bicycles.

“I think we should go back to that graveyard where Charles Drummond is buried.”

Wendy wrinkled her nose. “What would that accomplish?”

“After you came out of that trance last night, you said you had a feeling you had to
get
somewhere—that you had left something important behind, right?”

“But I have no idea what ‘it' was, or where I was heading.”

“But you were walking toward the meadow—exactly in the direction of Charles Drummond's grave. What if there's a clue in the graveyard that his ghost wants you to discover?”

“What if he just wanted me to get hit by a car?”

Gilda fell silent for a moment. She had to admit she had no idea whether the ghost had helpful or malevolent intentions. She also had no idea why a deceased English boy would be haunting a Chinese-American girl—except that it must have
something
to do with the piano competition.

“Wendy, I don't know if we'll find anything in the graveyard; I just have a gut feeling we should look there. Besides, I really want you to see this place.”

Wendy considered the stack of music in her tote bag. She knew she should practice, but she was weary of feeling frightened and out of control. Maybe Gilda was right: maybe there was some reason she had been heading toward the meadow. At any rate, it was clear that neither her parents, Mrs. Mendelovich, nor Dr. Cudlip could help her with this problem. She was going to have to work with Gilda and help herself if she wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Okay. If we're going to do this, let's hurry up. I'm freezing!”

 

When she and Gilda reached the graveyard, Wendy stood very still, listening to the rush of wind through the trees, thinking how different this graveyard was from the ones she and Gilda had explored back in Michigan. The graveyard at St. Margaret's Church was far away from the rush of traffic. The tombstones were moss-covered and unpolished. No little pots of flowers were left behind by the living—no neat paths for people to stroll along. Eerily beautiful in their mossy decay, all the tombstones and small monuments of the graveyard seemed to be sinking into the earth.

A small, moplike terrier with muddy paws and unkempt curly fur broke the silence as it trotted through the graveyard. Gilda and Wendy watched as it snuffled happily along the edges of the tombstones, as if on the trail of some small animal.

“Hey, puppy!” Gilda knelt down and ruffled the dog around the ears. “Maybe it lives over at that farm next to the church,” she suggested.

Gilda was about to lead Wendy to Charles Drummond's tombstone when the small dog suddenly bounded away and darted behind the church. To Gilda's surprise, Wendy followed.

As she followed the dog, Wendy felt as if someone were whispering
warmer! warmer!
—urging her to draw closer to something important.

Behind the church, she found the dog lapping water from a hole in the ground.

Wendy stared at the still, black water. She instantly knew that this must be the “treacle well” that was supposed to have “healing” properties. But Wendy also felt there was something almost sinister about it—something that suggested a gloomy world she wasn't sure she wanted to enter. What was she supposed to do? Reach down into the well? Drink the water? Who knew what was down there?

“What is it?” Gilda whispered, appearing at her side.

“I just have a feeling there's something inside this well.”

The dog bounded away, and then returned to drop a long stick at Wendy's feet. It wagged its tail, hoping she would play a game of fetch. Wendy picked up the stick, but instead of throwing it to the dog, she tentatively poked it into the water and quickly pulled it out again, as if afraid of what she might touch.

Gilda decided to follow Wendy's lead. Maybe there was some kind of clue inside the well! She rummaged under the trees until she found a long, slender branch lying on the ground.

Standing next to Wendy, Gilda thrust the stick into the water and discovered that the well was deeper than she had expected. She couldn't reach the bottom, but she did feel something unusual beneath the water—an object protruding from one side of the well. “Can you feel that?”

“What?”

“Over here. It feels like something's wedged into the side of the well.” Gilda wriggled the branch, attempting to pry loose whatever was stuck beneath the water.

“Reach in there, Wendy, and see if you can tell what it is.”

“Maybe
you
should reach in there.”

Both girls gasped, because at just that moment, something floated to the top of the black water.

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