The Visitor (13 page)

Twenty-Three

D
evlin and I had an early dinner together downtown and then a brief stroll along the Battery to watch the sunset. As we walked along the waterfront, I slipped my arm through his and, for a short time, pretended that neither of us had anything more pressing on our minds than watching the sailboats glide into the harbor.

The shimmering water reflected an exotic palette of ruby and cerulean, and I could smell gardenias in the warm breeze that ruffled Devlin's hair. I closed my eyes, drawing a deep breath as I rested my head against his shoulder. It was one of those moments that seemed already imprinted upon my memory, tugging loose a dreamy nostalgia that I knew from experience could too easily turn into loneliness.

Devlin had fallen prey to his own thoughts. His eyes were distant and brooding as he looked out over the sea, and I knew that he'd gone to a bad place—here or in the past—where I had no business prying. But he wasn't entirely oblivious to our surroundings. I felt him tense at the sound of a child's laughter drifting out from White Point Garden. The echo of joyous innocence would always be bittersweet to him.

I looked up and saw a shadow steal across his features a split second before he turned away. There was something disturbing in his eyes, a fleeting darkness that reminded me of legacies and expectations. Despite my unease, I didn't pull away a few seconds later when he bent to kiss me, even though we were far from alone on the walkway. I sensed he needed the contact. Whatever his turmoil, I was his touchstone.

He didn't kiss me, though. Instead, his head came up abruptly, his gaze going past me to scan the milling tourists on the walkway. Reluctantly, I glanced over my shoulder, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary in the crowd.

The air shifted as the sun hovered over the cityscape of steeples. The waning light brought a prickle to my scalp and I lifted my face to the wind as I detected a faint trace of ozone even though there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

I turned back to Devlin, my breath catching at the look on his face. I could sense the bristle of his every instinct. Wariness hardened his eyes and in the deeper depths, I saw a glimmer of dread.

When I would have tightened my hold on his arm, he moved away. The rejection seemed unconscious, but in that instant it hit me anew just how fragile our relationship had become. Despite everything we'd been through, despite moments of harmony and deep passion, Devlin and I were still breakable.

* * *

Long after he'd left my house to return to his grandfather in the hospital, I sat out on the porch, still warm from a shower and the afterglow of our lovemaking, and pondered the situation. Devlin was no longer haunted by ghosts, but something bedeviled him just the same. He'd been aware of something on the Battery. A scent? An aberrant presence? He would never admit it, of course, but I had often wondered if his refusal to acknowledge the supernatural was his way of keeping the demons at bay.

An image of Mariama sprang to mind and I shivered. For all I knew, she could still be lurking somewhere in the gray waiting for a chance to slip back through the veil. In which case, I should take care not to topple Devlin's defenses.

Besides, I had my own otherworldly stalkers to worry about. Until I could decipher all the clues, neither would leave me alone. I wanted to believe their banishment was a simple matter of solving an old mystery—finishing earthly business—but deep down, I knew it wouldn't be that simple. Dealing with ghosts and in-betweens was never a straightforward proposition.

As twilight slanted down through the trees and the air filled with the dreamy scent of Confederate jasmine, I got up and went inside, turning on a lamp in the foyer to guide me through the house. The rooms hadn't seemed so empty earlier, the hush quite so menacing in Devlin's company. But now with the rosy flush of sunset melting into the violet horizon, I felt the weight of an all-too-familiar presentiment descend upon my shoulders.

Trying to ignore the unease, I made a cup of tea and carried it to my office where I stood for a moment, gazing out at the gathering darkness. Then, deliberately turning my back on the shadows, I sat down at my desk for an evening of research and speculation.

My thoughts once again turned to Rose. Given her appearance in the stereogram and the location of her burial, I had little doubt that she'd somehow been involved with Ezra Kroll. Had a romantic relationship been the catalyst for all those deaths?

Passion and jealousy were powerful motivations. As old as time itself. If Rose had been in love with Kroll and his life had been cut short because of their liaison, I could well understand why her ghost would need closure if not vengeance. I tried to put myself in her place. What would I do if Devlin were taken from me? How would I ever make peace with such a loss?

It was not a question I wanted to examine at length. But no matter how hard I tried to squelch my earlier anxiety, I couldn't forget the ominous emotions I'd picked up from him as he'd scanned the crowd on the Battery. Or the way he'd snatched his hand away when I'd tried to trace that moon-shaped scar in his palm.

Hardening my resolve, I once again shoved aside those niggling doubts and buckled down to my work. I'd just found a new mention of Ezra Kroll in an obscure article about communes when a sound in the quiet house brought my head up with a jerk.

I sat very still, listening to the silence. When nothing came to me, I turned in my chair to scour the garden. Night had fallen in earnest while I worked. Stars twinkled through the treetops and I could see the faint shimmer of what might have been a ghostly face in the deepest corner of the garden. I watched for only a moment before averting my gaze.

Rotating back to the desk, I returned my attention to the laptop. But in the instant before my eyes dropped to the screen, I detected a flickering shadow just beyond the kitchen in the murky niche where the foyer light didn't quite reach. I watched and waited, my stomach knotted in apprehension.
Something was inside my house.

My first instinct was to reach for the phone. I would call Devlin and have him rush back from the hospital. Then my hand fell away. This was no flesh-and-blood prowler. Already I'd caught a whiff of decay.

I could see nothing of substance in the dark, but I knew she was there just the same. She had come up from the basement and traveled through the walls to get to my hallway. The same intruder that, for whatever reason, had left a cicada husk on my nightstand in exchange for the bookmark. The same interloper that had tossed a key down into the cellar and made herself a nest in the stairwell. A squatter that was human but not human.

The flickering shadow vanished and the house once again fell into an intensified stillness. I sat transfixed, my breath coming quick and shallow as I waited.

Into that loaded silence I heard a flurry of scratching and scrabbling, as if something was clawing its way through the walls.

Slowly, I pushed back my chair and got up from the desk, mentally preparing myself for what I might find as I followed the sound through the kitchen, down the hallway and into my bedroom. As I stepped over the threshold and reached for the light, the noise in the walls stopped. In the half beat before I flipped the switch, I could have sworn I heard a hitched breath.

I stepped into the room and glanced around.
I know you're here.

My gaze raked the walls, searching every corner and crevice and taking inventory of the knickknacks on my bureau—silver hairbrush and mirror, a picture frame, my mother's pearl necklace. And the basket of polished pebbles from Rosehill Cemetery that I had once been foolish enough to think would offer some protection against the dangers of the unknown.

My things were just as I'd left them and nothing else seemed out of place. If any of my belongings had been taken, I didn't miss them.

I heard nothing, saw nothing, but I knew my visitor was there, just behind the plaster. Somehow she had found a way through the boarded-up stairwell and once again crawled into my walls. I could feel her presence in the shiver down my backbone.

I slipped across the room to the wastebasket where I'd tossed the cicada husk and bent to retrieve it. As I straightened with the twig between my fingers, lamplight poured through the transparent shell, turning the insect's remains to amber. It was really quite lovely. As eye-catching in its own way as the bookmark.

Carefully, I placed the twig on top of the book jacket where I had found it and lifted my gaze to the wall behind my bed. “No more offerings,” I said firmly. “No more trading. Leave my things alone and get out of my house.”

Then slowly I walked to the door, turned off the light and went back to the office where I dropped, with a pounding heart, onto my chair and waited.

Twenty-Four

I
wasn't sure what I expected to happen. Certainly not the intense quiet that followed. For the longest time, I heard nothing more than the hum of the refrigerator, the swish of the ceiling fan. No scrabbling in the walls. No thud on the basement stairs or ping of a dropped key.

My ears were so acutely attuned to the loaded silence that the chime of my phone had the effect of a gunshot. It was all I could do not to jump.

I checked the display but didn't recognize the number. Lifting the phone to my ear, I braced myself to hear a cicada rattle or that piercing whistle on the other end. Such an expectation undoubtedly spoke as much to the acceptance of my alternate reality as to my fear. Anything seemed possible in my world, even a phone call from beyond.

“Hello? Hello? Are you there?” inquired a concerned voice on the other end. “Amelia?”

“Dr. Shaw?”
Thank God.
I'd never been so happy to hear his voice. My grip relaxed on the phone as I let out a relieved breath. “Yes, I'm here. Sorry. I didn't recognize the number.”

“I'm calling from my cell phone. Are you all right, my dear? You don't sound yourself.”

“I'm fine, thank you. Just a little frayed around the edges. Too many things on my mind these days.”

“I hope our earlier conversation isn't one of them. You looked distressed when you left the Institute this afternoon so I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I also want to apologize. All of that business about a calling was nothing more than speculation on my part. A bit of whimsical conjecture based upon what I know of your history. In hindsight, I feel I should have been more circumspect. Given all you've been through, I can see why you'd find even the suggestion of such a mission distressing, if not downright harrowing.”

“I admit, death walker is hardly the job I would aspire to,” I tried to say lightly. “But I'm not upset by the suggestion. I came to you for advice. You're the only one I can talk to about these things and I value your counsel. So, please, no apology necessary. And anyway, our visit is the least of my concerns at the moment.”

“What's the matter? And what can I do to help?”

My gaze flicked warily back to the hallway. “It seems something has invaded my walls and cellar, even the barricaded stairwell that runs up to the kitchen.”

“
Invaded?
I take it you don't mean the usual suspects of mold or rodents,” he said carefully.

I should be so lucky.
“I don't know what it is. My upstairs neighbor thinks we have something nesting in the cellar. Rats, as you said, or maybe opossums. Normally, I'd be inclined to agree as I can hear scratching behind the plaster from time to time. But there have been other incidents that I can't so easily explain away. Things I didn't mention when I came to see you earlier.”

“Such as?”

“An insect husk was left on my nightstand in place of a missing bookmark. And I saw someone...something...with a hump on her back creeping through the shadows at Oak Grove Cemetery. She was very small. Shriveled, I would say, and dressed all in black. When she turned to look at me, she made this strange rattling sound in her throat. Almost like a cicada. Then last night, I spotted the same apparition—or one like her—in my garden. I can't help wondering if this...being is Mott Toombs. She's trying to make contact for some reason.”

“An interesting theory,” Dr. Shaw said thoughtfully. “But there may be another, less alarming explanation.”

“I'm all ears.”

“Would it reassure you to know that such a sighting as the one you just described isn't all that uncommon?”

“You must be joking.”

“No, no, I'm dead serious, my dear. Have you never heard of the Old Hag Syndrome?”

“Papa used to tell me stories about boo hags,” I said. “Is that the same thing?”

“Tales of boo hags are particular to our part of the country, but people all over the world have experienced the night-hag phenomenon.”

“Which is...?”

“A feeling of being watched, of something lurking about or standing over you. Even if nothing is actually seen, there's a common perception that the watcher is a dark, female figure, usually old and wizened. Even more common are reports of audio hallucinations—scratching, scraping, buzzing, static. The medical explanation is sleep paralysis, or more specifically, hypnagogic or hypnopompic hallucinations. A state that usually occurs right before you fall asleep or are just waking up. In other words, a visual and audio representation of a dream while you're partially awake.”

“A lucid dream, you mean. I don't think that would explain what I saw at the cemetery,” I said. “I assure you, I was fully awake. Nor do I think it would explain the cicada husk and the missing bookmark, let alone the key that was tossed down into the cellar.”

Dr. Shaw fell silent for a moment, but I could sense his keen interest. “You didn't mention a key before.”

“It happened yesterday when I went down to the cellar to look for other stereograms. I didn't see anyone at the top of steps, but the key landed right at my feet. I couldn't have missed it.”

Another pause. “And you're worried that the instigator of all these incidents may be Mott Toombs?”

“Yes, that is precisely my worry.” I clutched the phone. “Dr. Shaw, I believe all of these events are somehow connected to that stereogram that I brought to your office. In fact, I'm certain of it. Someone or something is leaving clues for me to follow, only I don't know how to interpret them.”

“I would agree there appears to be a connection.” His voice now held a note of concern.

“I feel as if I'm being manipulated.
Herded
is the term that comes to mind. As frightened as I am by the clues, I'm even more afraid of what might happen if I don't follow them.”

He must have heard the panic that had crept into my voice because he said in a soothing tone, “I'm here to help you, Amelia. We'll figure this out together. The most important thing to remember when confronting the unknown is to remain calm. Negative energy attracts even more unrest. As you know, my dear, I've conducted dozens of investigations into the supernatural over the years, and more often than not, a logical answer can be ascertained if one cares to dig deeply enough. Even in your case, I should think.”

“Nothing would make me happier.”

“Noises in walls, for example, are almost always caused by animals. The aforementioned rats and mice, the occasional opossum or squirrel. We've also run across our share of raccoons. Crafty little beggars with nasty dispositions and the very devil on wiring. If something is nesting in your cellar and walls, I would suggest we first eliminate the normal before we tackle the abnormal. Nine times out of ten, a vermin infestation is the source of the problem.”

“And the one time out of ten?”

“Inconclusive,” he said after a nerve-racking pause.

“Somehow those statistics don't reassure me.”

“Better to know what we're dealing with, is it not?” he asked gently. “Then we can decide how best to proceed.”

“Yes, I suppose.” His logic made me feel a little better. “So what do we do first?”

“As it happens, I know of a very reliable exterminator. He's humane, discreet and very good at what he does.”

“And if he doesn't find any animalistic evidence?”

“Then I can send over a team to do some readings. Or I'll come myself if you prefer. But one step at a time.”

The reasonable way he laid it all out could almost make me believe that rats and mice had indeed taken up residence in my walls and that the figure I'd seen at Oak Grove and in my garden was nothing more than a visual interpretation of a dream. Hallucinations and vermin infestations had never sounded so appealing.

But something inside me balked at having my sanctuary further violated. A persistent voice warned that outsiders, even someone as open-minded as Dr. Shaw, might somehow exacerbate the problem. Might somehow stir the unrest.

“Amelia? Are you still there?”

“Yes. I was just mulling over your suggestion. I don't know that I'm comfortable having an exterminator come in without my landlady's permission.”

“As I said, he's very discreet. And if you're at all concerned about having a stranger in your home, let me put your mind at ease. I've known him since he was a child. In fact, I first met him and his grandmother when my team was called in to examine a problem similar to yours.”

“What do you mean ‘similar to mine'?”

“He was convinced that something lived in the walls of his bedroom. His grandmother decided the best way to disabuse him of such a notion was to have the Institute launch an investigation.”

“Did you find an animal?”

“Not so much as a dropping. And the absence of physical proof only strengthened the boy's conviction that a
duende
resided in his walls. I've sometimes wondered if his profession is a direct result of that childhood obsession.”

“What is a
duende
?”

“I suppose you could say it's a variation of the Old Hag Syndrome. The legend differs from culture to culture, but the grandmother described a small, humanoid creature that sometimes crawls out of bedroom walls or other close places to barter with children.”

A cold fist of fear closed over my heart. “What do they barter?”

“Coins, trinkets, toys...anything that would catch a young eye in exchange for the child's soul.”

My mind went instantly to the key necklace I'd found on the headstone and to Papa's ominous warning in the deepening twilight of Rosehill Cemetery:
Take nothing, leaving nothing behind.

Had I inadvertently bartered away my soul when I took the key from the grave, leaving the clover chain in its place?

I didn't really believe that, of course. As fantastical as my reality now was, I still had limits of acceptance and belief. And yet it hadn't been long after I'd found the key that the ghosts had entered my world.

“You don't really believe such creatures exist, do you?” I asked fearfully.

“I always try to keep an open mind to any possibility,” Dr. Shaw said. “And despite all the logical answers that we've found over the years, there are many things in this world that will never be explained. The
duende
could have been nothing more than a hallucination or the product of a lonely little boy's imagination. Or the child might well have been the target of a poltergeist or some other form of restless spirit that was attracted to his warmth and energy. The earthbound entity either became trapped in the wall or wanted to remain there to be close to the boy.”

“You said you found no evidence,” I said.

“No physical evidence of an animal infestation.”

“What did you do?”

“We treated the
duende
as we would any other unwelcome presence. We smudged the house to cleanse the negative energy, and we commanded the spirit to leave the boy alone.”

“Did that work?”

“Only temporarily. In any case, I don't know that I would recommend such a direct approach in your situation. As you said, all of these events seem to be connected to the stereogram you found in the cellar. If you're being harassed by a spirit that's somehow bound to Kroll Colony, a confrontation could have serious repercussions.”

“What kind of repercussions?”

“Think about what happened to those colonists and to Ezra Kroll himself. You may be dealing with some very powerful emotions.”

I couldn't help but shudder. “I showed the stereogram to John. He once knew someone from Isola who believed the deaths weren't suicides at all but mass murder perpetrated to cover up a single homicide.”

“Yes, I've heard that theory, as well. Amelia...” Dr. Shaw trailed off as if reluctant to voice his next thought. For the first time during our conversation, I heard doubt in his voice. Maybe even a hint of fear.

“What is it?”

“You may need to prepare yourself for the possibility that the spirit you've encountered isn't just leaving clues. And the endgame may not be justice or even revenge. Indeed, you may not be dealing with a single entity at all, but a manifestation of mass rage. A pent-up fury that needs a conduit. In other words, it needs you, my dear.”