The House of Grey- Volume 3 (18 page)

Monson had not thought of that. It was true. The ghost children were a major plot point in the film and of course they ended up being good in the end. They were just kids after all. Now that he was really considering it…

Casey did not seem to understand what Indigo was getting at. “What do you mean, Indigo?”

“I mean the little ghost people are trying to get help so why would they think that scaring the crap out of the lady would further their cause in the slightest?”

“You know she brings up a good point.” Artorius beamed at Indigo. “They should have been like, ‘OK, we’re ghosts, we realize this, but you’re the only person who can help us, so don’t freak out’.”

Laughs broke out as Casey answered. “You two are perfect for each other
-
you’re both incredibly thick. Let me explain this to your goofy selves.”

Casey settled back in his chair. At the same time, Monson stood and moved towards the bathroom. No one said anything, but he felt a few watching his retreating back. He closed the door to his bedroom, thankful to have those searching eyes off him.  Ignace had been watching him all evening and it was starting to get old. 

He was not as desperate to visit the porcelain god as he was in need of a reprieve. Casey and his movie madness became overwhelming at times. Movie watching was very simple for Monson. He watched and either liked it or did not. It was not that complicated. The constant discussion of character development, plot lines, and interpersonal relationships fell beyond his interest or understanding. Nevertheless, he felt inclined to humor Casey, who loved that stuff, and Monson had to admit that sometimes even he could get sucked into the conversation.

Monson finished his business in the bathroom and turned on the faucet in front of the mirror. He washed his hands vigorously, letting his hands enjoy the warm water, and desperately trying to look anywhere but straight ahead. But he could not help himself. He had to look, even for just a moment.

Monson’s big blue-grays searched the surface of his own visage, starting with the concaves of his own eyes. They had not changed; they were the same blue-gray they had always been. Next, his line of sight traveled down the riveted lines of scar tissue that danced across his facial landscape. Ugly, hideous and disgusting, but at the same time artistic and symmetrical as if every line and groove had been carved purposely.

Monson looked away from the mirror. He was such an idiot. Was he so desperate to find something
-
anything to be proud of? So determined that he would try to find beauty where none existed? No, he was not that deluded. He walked away from the mirror fighting the sudden urge to punch and shatter it into a thousand pieces.

He had no answers. He had no relief. He only had darkness.

Casey’s raised voice met Monson as he walked back into the room.

“You guys don’t get it. It’s not like the ghosts have a manual for communicating with the living. They probably don’t know any better than humans how to make contact. So they do the best they can and sometimes it comes across a bit creepy. Not only that, you have to remember that there were two sets of ghosts fighting against each another. That could have made it much harder to make contact.”

Monson stopped dead in his tracks.

Two sets of ghosts…they probably don’t know any better than humans
? Monson thought.

It was time for an official declaration. Casey was a genius, an absolute genius.

That was it! That was his answer!

They probably don’t know any better than humans how to make contact…why didn’t I think of that? It’s so simple….

Casey clicked his fingers in front of Monson’s face. “Grey, snap out of it.”

Monson felt his heart palpitate as the ring of the first period bell cracked his dream-like contemplation. 

“Grey, seriously, you’ve been out of it for the last couple of days
-
what’s your deal?”

Monson glanced around the room to see people packing up and getting ready to continue the first full day of classes in a week.  
“Sorry Casey.” Monson stood up, putting away his own unopened notebook. “I haven’t been sleeping very well the last couple of nights.”

This was completely true. Ever since Casey’s revolutionary comment, Monson had gone out of his way to try to contact his mirrored self. That was two nights ago. However, he was finding that the stupid mirror image never produced itself on command. Because of his mirror image’s inability to be cognizant of other people’s schedules, Monson was currently trying everything in his power to recreate the circumstances in which his mirrors manifest
-
and yes, he meant
mirrors,
as there seemed to be two.

Of course, all that sounded strange, even to Monson, but what other conclusion could he come to? Once he came up with the idea of trying to initiate contact with his counterparts it seemed almost inevitable that he would end up analyzing those few times they had revealed
themselves. Coming to the conclusion that there were in fact two different “Monsons” besides himself was not something he did lightly, but it fit all the evidence.  Whomever he spoke to during his fencing practice the other day seemed connected to that overtly dangerous feeling that sometimes overtook him; he could feel it. It was something about his grating voice. It felt aggressive, but at the same time bored. Such a voice could keep you up at night
-
hair-raising and destructive, the polar opposite of a harmonious state of mind.  Then there were the eyes. Silver glowing spheres that bubbled with some sort of unspoken power. Monson was willing to bet that in the few times that foreign, dangerous emotion fell upon and dominated him, a not-so-coincidental change in his own eye color materialized. Monson was actually very thankful for the revelation as some of his previous befuddling experiences were now starting to make sense.  Those upperclassmen who attacked him the very first day of classes, for example, had run away from him
-
a younger student who was alone, groggy from the smack on the head, and already on the ground.  They had no reason to run away. Yet they did. They ran from him like their very lives depended on it, and as sickening as it was to admit, Monson now believed their flight was for good reason.

The second clone-like person, the mirror image that spoke to him in the weight room, was a whole other story. Thinking back, though the delivery was a bit on the spooky side, there was not anything else remotely threatening about that experience.  The other Monson seemed to be really trying to communicate. He had even said
please
, desperately calling, hoping for a response.   The question was, why? Why was this alternate personality trying to speak to him? What could they possibly have to talk about? Was that normal for multiple personality disorder? He seriously doubted it. Nothing in this research he had been studying said so. Monson considered contacting some of the leading experts in psychology to ask. He was a Coren University student after all. They would be dying to help him. That plan had some risks, though. What if any of this got out? They would probably lock him up and throw away the key. And as
fun
as jail sounded, and
really
it did, he was going to have to opt out of that one. He was far too pretty to be in jail.

It was for this reason he decided to try to figure this out on his own in the late hours of the night
-
hence the dozing through class. Tonight he would again try and contact his wraithlike relatives, but maybe he would start a bit earlier and try not to stay up all night. Even crazy people needed some sleep.

“You know, Grey, you really should go and see that hot school nurse that Arthur was all up in arms about,” said Casey, absentmindedly waving to a blonde girl Monson did not know. “She could probably find you something to help you sleep.” 

Yeah, that’s just what I need,
thought Monson.
Drugs mixed with psychotic behavior. That’s a Special Report waiting to happen.

The boys gathered their stuff, hardly noticing the black-suited man in the back corner of the room.

“Grey,” whispered Casey conspiratorially. “Do you think that guy’s even alive?”

“Dude, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Seriously man, who can stand
that
still?”

“The soldiers at Buckingham Place in London are supposed to be able stand for hours without moving,” offered Artorius, who was also packing up his stuff.  “I would think that these guys should be able to stand for at least an hour without moving.”

Monson and Casey gave him blank looks.

Artorius scowled in response. “Why do you guys act so confused when I know stuff?”

Monson and Casey glanced at each other and broke into laughter as they did.

Artorius’ scowled deepened. “And why does it seem that you’re always making fun of me?”

Artorius’ ringing phone saved Monson and Casey the trouble of responding to that. His hand shot out from his school jacket and his eyes widened as he saw who was calling. “Indigo!”

Casey wiped at his eyes, the diminishing traces of laughter dying out. “Ahh... good times.”

He returned his attention to his belongings. “Come on man, we’d better move it or Masters is gonna make us do push-ups again.”

Monson did not answer but quickly put his school stuff away, ever so conscious of the suited man behind them.

They did not resume their conversation until they were in the hallway. Casey pulled out his phone, checking for RSS updates and news from various websites.

“They finally started reconstruction of Baroty Bridge,” reported Casey. “Seems Christopher Baroty finally gave the go-ahead. He even said he would put in the money.”

“Really?” Monson leaned over towards Casey’s BlackBerry. “That’s pretty cool of him.”

“Not really.” Casey shook his head as he fiddled with the onscreen keyboard of the phone. “It’s not like he had much of a choice. If he didn’t they’d be losing billions of dollars in revenue from the mainland travelers who’d use it.”

Monson straightened up. “Ahh...I guess that makes sense.”

Casey smiled. . “Money sure does make the world go ‘round, doesn’t it?”

“You got that right.”

A thought occurred to Monson, one that was curious enough to make him drop his hands and lean in again towards Casey.

This sudden movement surprised Casey, who stepped back from him. “Dude, what’s
-
”

“What does Baroty look like?”

Casey’s eyebrow shot up in a perfect replica of Monson’s signature expression. “Why do you ask?”

Monson had to wonder if he always looked that stupid when he did it. “Well, if he’s one of the founders of The Baroty Conglomerate, then he was one of my grandfather’s partners.”

“Yeah, that is certainly true.”

Monson checked the immediate surroundings just make sure that no one was listening. “Beyond that I just want to see a picture of him. You know? Maybe seeing his face will jog my memory.”

“Hmm…,” said Casey, slightly perplexed. “Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt. Let’s take a look.”

Casey pulled up a browser window on his phone. The home page of iGoogle loaded and he tapped on the images link of the search engine.  Once that page loaded, he typed in “Christopher Baroty” and tapped search on the mini-keyboard.

Many images came up
-
thousands in fact. Casey started choosing different ones at random. “You know what’s odd?”

Monson’s head shook from side to side. “No, Case, what?”

“Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a picture of
-
”

“You won’t find anything, Casey.”

Apparently finished with his phone call, Artorius caught up to them in time to anticipate the rest of Casey’s thought.

“Why’s that?” asked Casey, sounding a little befuddled.

“Christopher Baroty hasn’t been seen in public in, like, ten years
-
ever since his partner, who we now know to be Monson’s grandfather, left the business.”

Monson and Casey gawked at the new information. “What? Why? And how is it possible that someone that high-profile hasn’t been seen in public?”

“It’s actually not that hard to believe,” said Artorius, his eyes now back on his phone. “The Baroty Conglomerate is part investment company. Yeah, the guy is loaded, but who isn’t these days?”

“I’m not,” answered Monson wryly. “And neither are most of the other seven billion people on this planet.”

Artorius scowled. “You know what I mean, Grey. Baroty isn’t like the Oprahs of the world. He makes his money not on public exposure but through serious business practices. Actually, I’d assume that a certain amount of discretion would be desirable.”

Monson harrumphed. He guessed that Artorius’ explanation was as good as any. What did he know about the business world?  Still, the idea that there was not a single photograph available made Monson very suspicious. It made Monson feel like Baroty was hiding something.