The Whispering Hollows (15 page)

After a bit, the girl seemed to pull herself together. She dressed quickly, grabbed her phone and her bag, and left the apartment.

Then they were on the sidewalk, Eloise hustling to keep up with her. She wasn't so familiar with New York City, but she figured they were somewhere downtown. It was quiet, almost deserted with wide buildings and cobblestone streets. She looked around at signs. Hudson Street. Finally, the girl hailed the lone cab that bounced over the uneven, potholed surface of the road. A quick cab ride brought them to the Bowery and Fifth Street. A sleek new structure reached above the sagging postwar buildings around it.

Michelle rang the buzzer, once, twice, three times.

“Hello,” a groggy male voice.

“It's me,” she said. “Michelle.”

Silence. Then, “What are you doing here?”

“Who's up there with you?” she said, her voice shrill.

“Shell,” he said, exasperated. “No one.”

“Then let me up,” she said. A dare.

There was another long pause. The girl shifted from foot to foot, hands dug deep in the pockets of her jacket. The avenue was quiet, just a few cars racing past. There was a ruckus from the bar across the street. “Walk” turned to “Don't Walk.”

“Just go home, honey,” said Eloise. “He's not worth it.”

The buzzer sounded then, and she pushed the door open. They were in a plain foyer, rows of metal mailboxes, a gray leather bench, some artsy installation that looked like someone had tacked half eggshells on the wall.

In the elevator, Michelle's breathing was shallow. She was a wreck, hair wild, mascara in thick smears under her eyes. She was still pretty, though, fragile and lovely as a doll. Eloise could feel her desperation, her twitching anxiety. She wanted to put her arms around the girl and hold her tight.

“Call a friend,” Eloise said. “Someone who loves you and can talk you out of this.”

Michelle walked out into the hallway, gray tile floors, white walls, slick brushed metal sconces casting an amber light. A door clicked open at the far end of the hall.

“It's midnight, Michelle,” he said. He held the door open for her, and then they were in his small studio apartment. A bachelor's mess, pizza box on the counter, magazines piled on the floor. The dishes in the sink were piled high; a laptop sat open on a stand-up desk.

“You stood me up,” she said.

“No,” he said, lifting a palm. “I said maybe we would get together tonight. I had to work late.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “Stop playing games.”

“I'm not,” he said.

But Eloise could see that he was playing games, that it was all he ever did. He ran a hand through his careless blond waves, looked at her through striking green eyes. He was bare-chested, every muscle sculpted and defined. He was used to playing games, enjoyed it a little. He liked to lead them on, and then look on helpless and confused as they fell off the edge. He had a nose for the vulnerable ones, those that
needed
to be loved. Eloise knew his type. Predators often came in the most beautiful packages, and they wanted all sorts of things from their prey.

“Come here,” he said. His voice was gentle, coaxing. “Have you been crying? I'm sorry.”

“No,” said Eloise firmly. “Walk out of here and don't come back.”

But then Michelle was in his arms. Eloise watched as Michelle shed her purse and jacket. They fell to the floor in a heap. He pushed her hair back, pressed his mouth against hers. He pushed off her shirt, unstrapped her bra, ran strong hands down her back. She melted into him, moaned as he took her breast into his mouth. And then they were on the bed, she astride him, head back. His hands gripped her hips, drawing her in and back in the rhythm of pleasure.

“Oh, Michelle,” he whispered. “You're so beautiful. I love you.”

Michelle released a deep, breathy moan. Exactly what she needed to hear, the only thing she wanted. Eloise could feel the charge of Michelle's relief, the filling of that emptiness inside. It didn't even matter if it wasn't true. The girl just needed someone to say it. She needed it so desperately.

Then Eloise left, and found herself still on the porch. Michelle was gone. Eloise sat awhile, wondering about that emptiness inside Michelle, that place that needed to be filled.

•    •    •

Finley and Eloise took the Prius to have dinner with Agatha. Finley offered to drive Eloise on the motorcycle, maybe sensing her grandmother's curiosity with the machine. But Eloise had declined. Imagine if Amanda had discovered that Eloise was riding around on the back of Finley's motorcycle. Amanda would “stroke out,” as Finley liked to say. Imagine if
anyone
saw her. Eloise was already such a circus freak.

Eloise tried to set an example of safe driving—keeping to the speed limit, making full stops at signs. But Finley just tapped away on her iPhone, oblivious.

“So, how did you know so much about The Three Sisters?” Eloise asked. She'd been wondering about it. Eloise wasn't sure if Finley had already done the research, or if they were known to her. She didn't remember mentioning them.

Finley stopped tapping, didn't say anything right away. She kept staring at the screen. What was it that people saw in those devices? They absolutely confounded Eloise. She had a flip phone at Amanda's insistence, but she'd used it only once, when her car broke down. It did come in handy then. But really, how could people just walk around all day with those things in their hands? In front of their faces? Always taking pictures of everything they saw and of themselves. Did anybody see what was in front of them anymore, or was the whole world being metabolized through a little screen? Eloise waited, wondering if Finley had heard her at all.

“I've been seeing them since I was a kid,” she said finally. “I didn't realize who they were until today.”

“You never mentioned them,” said Eloise. Eloise had never seen them herself. Even after she knew their story, they did not visit her.

Finley didn't say anything, just looked at the road ahead. Then, “They're not like the others.”

Eloise felt a little chill crawl up her spine.

“What are they like?”

Finley was unusually reticent. She and Eloise normally discussed everything at great length. When Finley first arrived, the floodgates opened wide. Everything poor Finley had been holding inside, hiding, afraid of, couldn't share with her parents came pouring out to Eloise and to Agatha. And Eloise had shared everything she knew, had learned, much of what she'd experienced. She had even learned quite a bit from Finley, who was a native speaker. Eloise never sensed that Finley had held anything back.

“When I was little,” she said, “they used to get me in trouble.”

Eloise felt a notch of fear in her throat.

“Not just when I was little,” Finley said, looking over at Eloise. Her pixie features were grim and pale. “Up until just before I left Seattle.”

This was news.

“Is that why you left?” asked Eloise gently. She turned onto Agatha's drive, pulled up the long, winding road that led to her house. She picked up speed a little, the gravel crunching beneath her tires.

“That's part of it,” Finley said. “I thought I could move away from them. Today I realized that they're
here
. That they always intended for me to come to The Hollows.”

Amanda's instincts to get out of The Hollows, to keep Finley away, had always been so powerful. It was just that she didn't realize certain things and places couldn't be fought. The pull of The Hollows was as inexorable as the tides, the phases of the moon. What had Amanda called The Hollows? A hell mouth. Is that what it was? Even Eloise, even Agatha, wasn't quiet sure what.
A vortex
, at least, Agatha had posited.
An energy center
.

“I see,” said Eloise. She pulled in front of Agatha's grand white house and shut off the car. “You said that they weren't like the others.”

“Right,” said Finley. “It's not like the ones who come and you know you have to do something for them. They don't want help. They want other things.”

“Like The Burning Girl,” said Eloise.

“Right,” said Finley with a light of recognition. “Sort of like her.”

Agatha came out onto the porch and waved. Finley shifted off her jacket and yanked her loose right sleeve up. There on the inside of Finley's arm were The Three Sisters, the image shockingly similar to the one Eloise had brought home from the HHS library.

“I had this done a while ago,” said Finley. “Just before I came.”

“Oh,” said Eloise. She shouldn't be surprised by anything like this. But she was, and not happily.

“Agatha taught me how to ask them to leave,” she said. “And I did that.”

“But they're still with you?”

“Sometimes,” she said. She offered a little shrug. “I used to love them. They're so strong, Mimi. So powerful. I never had to be afraid when they were around.”

Agatha was moving carefully off the porch, holding on to the railing. Eloise suspected that the old woman was into her nineties now. She was slower lately, sometimes even walking with a cane. But Eloise knew better than to jump out and help her.
The day I can't walk on my own is the day I'll stay home for good.

“What has been frightening you?” asked Eloise, taking the girl's hand. She always thought of Finley as a firecracker, fearless and wild. Was it an act? What really had been going on in Seattle?

“Nothing,” said Finley. She blew out a breath. “Everything. I don't
know
, Mimi.”

Agatha knocked on the window, and they both startled even though they'd seen her coming. Finley rolled it down with a sigh. Agatha's warm energy and fragrant scent washed into the car.

“Is this a private session?” asked Agatha. “Or do you girls need some help?”

•    •    •

“Unlike a lot of the poor souls that got burned in Salem,” said Agatha, “the Good sisters actually
did
have powers. Strong ones. Patience was the sweet one. But Abigail and Sarah, they were hell-raisers. They
loved
to cause trouble.”

They sat in Agatha's cavernous, richly appointed dining room. The table could have seated twenty people, maybe more. But it was set for only three, and they gathered at the corner near the stained-glass doors that opened into the chef's kitchen. A large mirror spanned the wall above and the enormous oak and marble-topped sideboard. Eloise generally avoided her reflection, but today she used the mirror to watch Finley, who was seated beside her.

“Abigail is the worst of the three,” said Finley. “Sarah just kind of goes along with her. And Patience tries to keep them, and me, out of trouble. But she's weaker, gets lost when they're around.”

“What kind of trouble?” said Eloise.

“When they first showed up, they were sweet,” said Finley. “They helped me to understand what I was and what I was seeing. Prior to that, I thought
everyone
was seeing what I was seeing. Then I had this moment with my mother when I realized I was different. I asked her who the woman sitting on our couch was and why did she look so sad. As you can imagine, she
freaked
. So, from that point forward, I kept my mouth shut. I think I was six. They came that first night. Unlike the others, the sisters talked to me.”

Finley paused and took a sip of water. A lean young man with white blond hair drifted in from the kitchen and served salad.

“Arugula with pears, candied walnuts, and goat cheese crumbles,” he said. Then he disappeared.

“I was just glad to have someone to talk to about the things that were happening to me. They helped me to understand what people wanted, even though as a little kid I really couldn't do anything for them.”

Finley paused and heaved a heavy sigh, as if it had all been pressing down on her for years. Eloise was dumbfounded. She'd had no idea about any of this.

“You know my mom never told me about your abilities, Mimi. Not until the night you hit your head. Then she couldn't keep it a secret any longer.”

Finley looked over at Eloise, and Eloise put a steadying hand on her shoulder. Then Finley went on.

“But slowly, they started making mischief. The first bad thing they did was encourage me to set some magazines on fire in the living room. My dad had left a lighter out after using the fireplace the night before. It wasn't the fire they wanted so much. As soon as the magazines were burning, I yelled for my mom, and she put them out right away. It was the fight that would ensue between my mother and father afterwards. They loved it when people were arguing.”

Finley wrapped her arms around her middle, looked down at her plate.

“Patience was the one who told me you hit your head when I was eight.” Finley looked over at Eloise. “The other two loved it, because my mother went nuts.”

Finley paused and picked up her fork. Eloise and Finley nibbled at their salads. It was divine, the prefect union of savory and sweet. But Eloise didn't have much appetite at the moment. Agatha ate with gusto. She apparently knew all of this.

“They're Troublemakers,” said Agatha. “Some spirits like this thrive on negative energy—anger, depression, loneliness. They'll occupy any empty space they find.”

Finley widened her eyes and nodded. She went on.

“Later, things got more serious. In high school, one of my teachers had this habit of taking her wedding and engagement rings off and putting them in a little dish on her desk. They were shiny, lots of diamonds. Abigail wanted them, and I told her no. But they wound up in my pocket. I swear I have no memory of taking them, but I must have. When my mother picked up my jeans off the floor, they fell out. I had to tell her what happened. She took me to school the next day, where I had to return the rings to my teacher. Of course, no one believed that I didn't remember taking them. I was suspended from school, had to start therapy. It was bad.”