Waiting Spirits (5 page)

The flapping cupboard door slammed shut so hard it rattled all the dishes on the shelves. The candle flew across the room and smashed against the wall above the kitchen sink, spattering wax in all directions. The pencil in Brian's hand burst apart, disintegrating in a fury of splinters.

Brian's eyes flew open. He looked at Carrie and Lisa as if he were on the verge of a heart attack. In a voice that sounded like rustling cornhusks, he whispered, “What in God's name is going on here?”

The same words were shouted almost simultaneously by an older, sharper voice. Dr. Miles came rushing into the room, her robe flapping, her long white hair flying behind her. For a moment Lisa thought her grandmother looked like a ghost herself.

Brian clearly thought so too. He started back from the table, then relaxed just a hair as he realized who it was.

“We were doing automatic writing, Gramma,” said Carrie, her voice soft, scared.

Dr. Miles's eyes widened, and she was clearly furious. Turning to Brian, she said—quite politely but in a voice sharp as a knife's edge, “I think you had better pick yourself up and head for home.”

That made Lisa feel awful; Brian was so clearly shaken up that it didn't seem fair to send him out into the night all alone.

Dr. Miles seemed to sense the same thing, for she immediately relented and asked him to stay for a little while. “You can help us clean the place up,” she said tartly. “Which I would like to have done before Lisa and Carrie's parents get home.”

There wasn't that much to clean up, really. Two or three dishes had slipped out of the cupboards and shattered on the floor. There were splinters from the pencil, and wax where the candle had struck the wall. The wax was the only real problem. It had left grease spots on the wallpaper that wouldn't come out, no matter what they did.

“Leave it,” said Dr. Miles finally. “Sit down. I want to talk to you. All three of you.”

When they had gathered at the table, Dr. Miles glanced up at the wax stain and said, “It almost blends into the wallpaper anyway. One of the virtues of having a busy pattern.”

Lisa felt the tension ease a little. But if her grandmother was less angry, she was no less serious. “I'm not going to say this again,” she said sternly. “So pay attention. What you did tonight was foolish. I would be angrier, but it's my own fault this all began. I doubt I have ever done anything more mindless than teaching you girls about automatic writing yesterday. But I was desperate for something to distract you, and I didn't really think things out.”

She paused, and looked each of them in the eye. “You're young. You may not want to be reminded of that fact, but it's true—sometimes painfully so, to someone of my age. Now, automatic writing can be fun. But it can also be dangerous, especially for young people. Poltergeist activity like you saw here tonight, rare as it is, usually occurs in households where there are teenagers. Your minds are still developing. The subconscious is in chaos. Automatic writing is a way to tap that subconscious. But it's uncontrolled.”

She stared at Lisa. Lowering her voice, she said intensely, almost urgently, “The mind has powers we don't yet understand. You can do yourselves great damage. Please, use some common sense. Let's not stir anything up again. All right?”

They all nodded their assent.

Dr. Miles smiled. “Good. Now, I'd just as soon your parents didn't know about this. So if you're willing, we'll keep it to ourselves for the time being.”

Lisa blinked in surprise. It wasn't usual, at least in her experience, for grown-ups to hide things from one another. But she respected her grandmother, and was willing to do as she asked, despite how odd it seemed.

A few minutes later Brian got up to go. He still looked somewhat shaky, and Dr. Miles wouldn't let him leave until he had assured her that he felt solid enough to drive home.

Lisa wondered if she would ever see him again.

Lisa opened her eyes. The bedroom was dark. It was still the middle of the night.

What had woken her?

She lay still, listening, then shivered. It was that woman. She was crying again.

Where was her voice coming from?

Lisa glanced over at Carrie, who was sleeping peacefully next to her. No point in waking her.

Lisa lay still, listening, and thinking. She wanted to go back to sleep herself. But she couldn't, not with that woman's sorrow penetrating her the way it did.

Finally she slipped from between the sheets. Trying not to wake Carrie, she groped in the dark for her robe and slippers. She had a book of matches in her robe pocket, for the candle that rested on the table next to the bed. (One of the quaint touches her mother had added to the house.) She lit the candle and watched it sputter for a moment before settling into a clear, steady flame.

“All right,” she whispered. “Let's see if we can find out what's bothering you—whoever you are.”

She crept into the hallway. Holding her robe closed with one hand, she lifted the candle with the other, so that it cast its light in a wider circle. She looked in both directions. Nothing in the hallway.

She was frightened, of course. But it was not an overwhelming fear. And the fact that she was going to look for the voice gave her a sense of control that made her feel safer.

She tiptoed along the passage, the thick carpet almost completely muffling the sound of her movements. She stopped at the other two bedrooms, listening intently for the crying. It did not come from behind either of those doors. Not that she had expected it to. But she had figured she should make sure.

Several times she considered turning back. But the crying was so haunting, so compelling, that she couldn't. It was clear that something was desperately wrong. Lisa felt the woman's sorrow, felt a great compassion for the pain that caused her to weep so deeply. Somehow she had to help.

She had always been that way. When she was only three she had been notorious for carrying caterpillars away from busy streets and chasing cats away from bird feeders. Her father often referred to her as “the bleeding heart of the Burton family.” He said it jokingly, but she knew he took a certain amount of pride in her compassion. It was that compassion that drove her on now, in the face of fear, along the empty hallway in search of the sobbing woman.

When Lisa reached the end of the hall she stopped at the stairway that led to the first floor. Holding the candle before her she stood motionless, trying to see what was down the stairs. It was no use. Yet it seemed the the sobbing was definitely louder in that direction.

Lisa tiptoed down the stairs, trying to move as quietly as a spirit herself. The candle shook in her trembling hand.

The woman was on the couch in the living room. She had flung herself down so that her face was buried in the cushions. Her shoulders were shaking.

Lisa could see the couch right through the woman's body.

Hesitantly, she took another step forward.

The sobbing stopped, as if the woman had become aware of Lisa's presence. For a moment she remained perfectly still.

Then she turned and looked at Lisa.

It was the same woman who had walked through their bedroom door the night before. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she was terrified at seeing Lisa. Without a word, she vanished.

Lisa stood for a moment. Then, feeling oddly disconsolate, as if the woman's sorrow had transferred itself to her, she turned and trudged back up the stairs.

Chapter Five
Strange Waters

Brian's mouth was set in a firm line. “You've got to get out of there.”

Nearby three children shrieked with laughter as they chased a beach ball being propelled by a sudden breeze.

“How?” asked Lisa, for the third time. She was starting to feel exasperated by Brian's insistence.

“I don't know! I have a hard enough time getting my
own
parents to do anything. But you can't stay. It's too dangerous!”

Lisa patted his hand. He drew it back, and she gave herself a mental kick for acting as if she were trying to calm an upset child. The conversation was not going well. “Do you want to go in the water?” she asked, nodding toward the sparkling surf.

“Don't try to change the subject!”

She sighed. “Look, Brian. My father is a scientist. He doesn't believe in spooks and spirits. He wouldn't believe in one if it climbed into his lap and ruffled his hair while he was working. My grandmother's a scientist, too. I mean, she's retired from teaching, but her mind still works like a scientist's. Even if she thought this stuff really was dangerous, she'd probably rather stay and study it than run away. Besides, that house was her home every summer as a child. She just isn't going to believe anything really dangerous is going on.”

“Do you?” asked Brian.

A group of men jogged by, huffing and panting. Lisa turned to watch them, squinting her eyes against the bright sunshine. The ocean was calm, the circling gulls quiet. Her radio, set low, was playing “The Corridors of my Mind.” It seemed an odd time and place to be talking about ghosts.

“No,” she said at last. “There's
something
going on. But I don't think it's dangerous.”

“What about that message?”

A worried look crossed her face. “I don't know. I'll admit it was strange. But even stranger things are happening.” She turned and peered into his blue eyes. They looked as troubled as she felt. “Promise you won't think I'm weird?”

“I think you're weird already. I doubt you can tell me anything that will make it worse.”

Lisa frowned.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn't have said that. Tell me what you started to say.”

“I've seen the ghost.”

Brian stared at her.

“Twice,” she continued. “And I just don't think there's anything harmful about her.”

Speaking quickly, she told Brian about her two encounters with the spirit. “She's very sad,” she concluded. “Sad, but not dangerous. In fact, I think she needs help.”

Brian snorted. “What are you planning to be when you grow up? A shrink for the lingering dead?”

“No, a veterinarian. But that doesn't mean I can't try to help someone who's in trouble.”

“Right!” exclaimed Brian. “Which is exactly what
I'm
trying to do now. You're in trouble, and I'm trying to help.
Get out of that house!”

Lisa stood and brushed the sand from her legs. “This conversation is going nowhere. I'll see you later.” She grabbed her beach bag and started to stalk away.

“Lisa!”

She paused, then turned back.

“I'm sorry. We won't talk about it any more.” He patted the blanket. “Stay. Please?”

She smiled. “I'm not going to make you work to convince me.” She dropped the bag in the sand and sat back down beside him.

Shortly after supper that evening Lisa went to the room she shared with Carrie and sat at the desk. She hesitated for a moment, then took out several sheets of paper and a pencil.

She bit her lip. This was stupid. Her grandmother had told her not to do it. Brian was pleading with her to get her family out of the house altogether. And here she was, trying to make contact with the ghost again.

Somehow, being forbidden to do the automatic writing only made her want to do it more. And the more she tried not to think about it, the more her mind turned in that direction. It was like being on a diet and trying to ignore the last cookie in the cookie jar.

And her curiosity was driving her wild. Why did the spirit stare at Carrie? What did the words, “Welcome home” mean? And why was the ghost weeping in the night? Lisa felt as though she would explode if she couldn't find the answers to these questions.

She had gone to the library after leaving the beach. It closed early on Saturday, and she had just barely made it. But she had found a small book on spiritualism that had a whole chapter on automatic writing. One of the points it made was that the activity didn't require a group; one person alone could try to induce a trance.

Lisa got up and closed the bedroom door, hoping Carrie wouldn't barge in. She didn't want anyone to see what she was doing. She frowned. Really, she only wanted to help the weeping woman. But she felt vaguely… dirty. It was the deception, she decided. She had told her grandmother she wouldn't do this any more.

She drew the shade against the twilight. Somehow it seemed to make sense to darken the room.

She returned to the desk, picked up her pencil, and closed her eyes.

“What next?” she asked herself. She tried to recall the instructions in the book.

“Make your mind a blank” was one of the things it had said. She tried to put everything out of her head. It was amazingly difficult. Her brain seemed rebellious, unwilling to think about
nothing.
As soon as she thought she had her mind clear, a stray thought would come wandering through, seemingly from nowhere. If she tried to ignore it, it would practically jump up and down shouting for attention. And as soon as she did give it any attention her mind was off and wandering, so that a few minutes later she would realize with a start that she had been completely distracted from what she was trying to do.

“O spirit from the other side,” she whispered. “If you wish to communicate, now is the time. Give me your message.”

Nothing happened. She waited, trying to empty her brain, to make space for the spirit to work through her.

“Spirit from the other side,” she whispered gain. ““Give me your message.” She realized her tone had become almost demanding.

“You'll never contact the other world that way,” she muttered. “Calm down, Burton, before you scare her away.”

She found the idea somewhat amusing—that the ghost might be scared of her, instead of vice versa. She began to imagine herself face to face with the spirit, standing up to it with fearless ease.