Aftersight (7 page)

"How old was he?"

I hummed, trying to think. "I don't know. Couldn't have been more than six or seven at the time.

"We were livin' there maybe a week before Jake starts havin' these bad dreams. Says he's hearin' a voice callin' to him. Says his stuff is bein' shuffled around. Tellin' us he's seein' shadows movin' near his closet.

"Now, my momma at that time was workin' two jobs to pay all the bills and put food on the table, so lots a times it's just me and Jake at the house alone at night. And when she was home, she didn't have the time nor the patience for any of Jake's nonsense. She tells him to quit his bellyachin' and go to sleep.

"This musta been goin' on two, three, four months. I was maybe five when I learned that Santa Claus wasn't nothin' but a crock a crap, and I didn't believe in ghosts or the boogeyman or anythin' like that. I figure little Jake's just needin' some attention. He was pretty young when Daddy left and then we had to up and move and leave all our friends. I was a little older. Had some scabs on me by then. But not little Jake.

"It musta been four months after we moved there when Jake he starts gettin' this stutter. See, Jake — now, if he knew I was tellin' you this, he'd bust me in the jaw, so this is between you and me, you understand? — Jake has this teddy bear he's sleepin' with. He's seven years old or so and still sleepin' with a teddy bear, but no one says nothin' about it, 'cause things was rough and we was all doin' what we needed to do to get by. Then one mornin', Jake wakes up and on the floor of his bedroom is settin' his teddy bear with the head ripped clean off it and the stuffin' comin' out of its body. I don't know if he did it in his sleep or what, but after that he starts developin' this speech impediment. Now ghosts, real or no, is one thing. But when my brother can't talk straight, that's when big brother steps in. Kickin' butt and takin' names, you know what I mean, partner?"

"I hear you, Ty."

"So, I start sleepin' in his room. There's two twin beds in there and I take the other one, all night keepin' one eye skinned. And you know what I see? Nothin'. Not a one thing. And I start to think that that little brat is just tryin' to get attention. But, you know, I say the little guy's been through enough, so I keep sleepin' in there and after a few days the boy starts talkin' right again, you feel me?

"Then one night, maybe a week later, I wake up in the middle of the night and I see somethin'. There's this figure next to Jake, leanin' over his bed.

"At first I thought it was Mamma, come home late from work to tuck him in. But then I notice the shadow I'm seein' isn't exactly solid. The middle part is, but around the edges, where the shoulder meets with the head, it's kind of transparent-like. I mean, I can see through it to the wall on the other side.

"And then it turns to me and whatever it was, it didn't have a face, just this dark mass where its eyes shoulda been. And the whole time I'm scared. I mean, I've never been so scared in all my life. Before then I couldn't even imagine bein' so terrified as this. I mean, I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe.

"Then this thing moves closer to me, until it's right there, up next to my bed, and it bends over my pillow. And now I think I do see a face or eyes or somethin'. I can see this old lady lookin' down at me with these crazy eyes, the kind of face that even if you saw it in the brightest of noontime days it would scare the crap outta you, but in the dark like that, it melts all my insides.

"She bends over me and I can feel her breath and smell it, like the stink from the swill at the bottom of a garbage can. I can feel the puff of cold air on my face. And she says one word, like the hiss of air comin' outta a busted tire. And she says, 'Tys-s-s-son. Tys-s-s-son.' Just like that. 'Tys-s-s-son.'"

I stubbed out my cigarillo on the floor boards and put the remnants in my shirt pocket. I studied Rex's opened-mouthed gaze. "And that, my friend, is how I got into 'ghost huntin'."

The drone of crickets filled the silence and for a full minute Rex sat mute beside me. He'd started to reply when a report crackled over my headset.

"Ty, this is Jake. Are you moving around up there?"

"Negative. What you got?"

"Footsteps. Sounds like boots. On the second floor, in the main hallway."

"We're on the upper gallery. Do you want I should check it out?"

"Stand by, Ty. Give us a minute."

I'd left the French doors open leading to the hallway. Despite Jake's request that we stay put, Rex and me crawled carefully to the threshold of the doorway and peered inside. It was completely dark by now and we could only see the barest of abstract shapes, a vague outline of the hallway, doors on either side, the faint form of the balustrade leading to the staircase.

We waited in the silence and murk, every sense keyed for movement or sound. It started as an indefinable shifting of wood, the creak of floor joints pulling at one another. Then we heard it, the faint but steady cadence of heavy heels on oak planking.
Thump
.
Thump
. A pause.
Thump
.

Gradually it advanced, closer and closer, until whatever it was seemed to come to a halt just a foot or two in front of us. There was perhaps fifteen seconds when neither us moved or even breathed. My heart was motoring in my chest, repeating in my head. I didn't trust psychics or eyewitness testimony. I liked to rely on firsthand evidence and what I could record on my arsenal of instruments, but right then I
did
feel the presence of something standing there before us, watching.

Then I caught it, a feeble yet distinct outtake of breath, what amounted to a sigh. The intonation was human, clearly feminine. There was emotion behind that sigh. Sadness. Loneliness. Desperation. Despair. You couldn't hear it without feeling wholehearted compassion for whoever or whatever had made it.

For several minutes we waited in silence. For what, I don't know. Finally, I looked at Rex and smiled, making my eyebrows dance at the edge of my forehead.

"Okay then," I said. "Time to go to work."

Sara

London, England

October 10

Our horses might once have looked perfectly at home here in Kensington, moving from Bathurst Mews, around Sussex Square to Brook Street, and so on to Hyde Park's Victoria Gate, were it not for the heavy traffic speeding down Bayswater Road. My cousin Charlotte and I were dressed identically on this brisk autumn morning: black velvet-covered riding helmets, red coats, snug khaki breeches, and tall black riding boots. As we passed through Victoria Gate, the broad expanse of Hyde Park opened up before us that, together with Kensington Gardens, covered over six hundred and twenty-five acres of woods, fields, and paths.

"You think you're so clever, just because he's texted you a few times," I observed. "It doesn't mean anything."

"You're just angry because he fancies me," Charlotte replied haughtily.

"Psht,"
was the only sound I could manage as we trotted onto the north riding path. Normally hard-packed earth, today the trail was the consistency of stiff chocolate mousse, the consequence of recent autumn rains.

"Admit it," Charlotte persisted. "You thought he liked you. This proves you wrong."

"It proves nothing." I bit my lips together to prevent saying something I might later regret, kicking at my horse's haunches. The animal, a young chestnut gelding named Black Friar, increased the tempo of his gait.

The previous evening's party returned to me in all its formal elegance — the ride in the grey limousine with my parents and sisters, the walk up the long, red carpet, the reception with its black-coated servers circulating with gleaming trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. I'd felt so marvelous in my black satin dress, black tights, and matching silk hair ribbon and patent leather flats. For the first time in my life Mummy had lent me her pearl necklace and matching earrings and I'd loved the way they highlighted my glossy, flaxen hair. I'd felt so pretty and refined and grown up.

Some two hundred people had filled the grand house, family and old friends whom I had known all my life; aunts, uncles, cousins in first, second, and third degrees. I leaned against the threshold of the old ballroom with Charlotte and our cousin, Henry, holding my fluted glass of champagne and scanning the crowd that drifted between constantly shifting clusters over the ornate parquet floor. I recognized almost everyone; noble families from the British aristocracy. No surprises here.

That's when I'd spotted him. Tall and handsome in a sleek, navy blue suit and crisp white dress shirt open at the throat. He was slightly older than I, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old. He'd stood with his hands in his pockets, slouching comfortably, smiling at the old married couple with whom he'd been conversing. Something about his tidy haircut and the ease with which he leaned there, alternately nodding and laughing, made my breath catch in my chest so that I'd felt momentarily light-headed. All the sound in the room had grown hollow and echoey and for just a second I seemed to be sinking.

Deep in conversation, he glanced up at me, looked away, then quickly back again. Our eyes met, locked on each other, and then it happened. He flashed the most brilliant, happy smile that prompted my heart to expand, making breathing suddenly impossible. There was a silver electric zing that shot up the back of my legs and a shiver that reached down into the small of my back.

"Who is
he
?"

This from Charlotte, whispered in my ear, and all at once I wondered if the smile had been aimed at me or at her or, indeed, at either of us. Perhaps he'd simply been reacting to something that had been said, for he was laughing now, apparently oblivious to anyone but the old couple standing before him.

For the next hour and more, I'd circumnavigated the room, catching up with old friends, nibbling on canapés and other savories conveyed on polished sterling trays, making every effort to meet this unfamiliar boy's eye. By then I'd been convinced that I was the object of his attention. His gaze tracked me around the room and at every invitation to acknowledge me, he'd smiled back. Charlotte had been nowhere in the vicinity.

Finally, when he was at one end of the room's wide opening and I at the other, he looked at me with a significant tilt of his head, indicating that we move off together into the next room. It was a small library that I knew well from many other visits to the house, a quiet little nook where we might meet in private. I was anxious to finally learn his name.

He moved away and down the hall. After a discreet pause, I followed but was foiled by a horde of partygoers who'd been admiring recent revisions made to the upstairs bedrooms and who had all at once descended from the upper landing and into the main foyer. Quickly backtracking, I retreated across the ballroom, looking to take the long way round. Progress had been tedious, however, mired as I was for several maddening minutes by tight swaths of guests eager to engage in small talk.

At last I reached the corridor outside the library. The room itself had been dark, illuminated only by light thrown in from the hallway and the remnants of a fire glowing in the enormous hearth at the room's far side. The idea of meeting the handsome new boy in a shadowy niche simultaneously frightened and thrilled me. My heart thumping wildly, I slipped inside, wondering if I looked as good as I felt, hoping my jitters wouldn't show.

I moved toward the fireplace until the glowing orange light touched the edge of my face, wondering if the boy might be studying me from the shadows. There were two leather wingback chairs angled toward the fire here, a small table and brandy decanter poised between them. I was startled at first to see movement on the lap of the nearest armchair until I recognized Sebastian, Uncle Alex's orange tabby, bathing fastidiously in the hearth's warm glow.

"Kitty!" I gasped, the boy momentarily forgotten.

Sebastian knew me but, spooked by the crowd invading his space, hesitated. I fell on him before he had a chance to affect escape, however, sinking my fingers into his velvety fur and massaging his neck. He was an elderly cat, yellowing at the edges of his formerly white paws. He emitted a musty smell, like dusty old books.

He mewed in protest when I hugged him and kissed his head, but settled comfortably back into the seat in response to my continued caresses. I sensed the presence of someone else in the room now and took a deep breath to settle my nerves.

"Sara, what are you doing in here?" an old man's voice echoed from the shadows. "I should think it's too early to be tired of the party."

A yellow light flickered near the mantle, a bright match-strike that illuminated the old man's face as the flame brushed the bowl of his pipe and glowed orange. Spicy-sweet tobacco smoke filled the darkness.

"Uncle Alex!" I exclaimed, a little startled not to see the boy from the party. "Where did you come from?"

"Fleeing my own party, I fear," he replied, moving into the firelight. "Seeking sanctuary with the old man here." He gestured toward the cat.

Uncle Alex's broad smile parted his silvery grey goatee. The hearth's orange flames reflected in his thick, black-rimmed glasses. Technically my great uncle, Uncle Alex was the patriarch of the family and head of Waltham Manor, the old family estate in northwest England. This was his residence in London. Once the family's only surviving male heir, he'd inherited the bulk of Alistair Waltham's extensive holdings. Now he ran some sort of school on the old family property. I thought him quite ancient. To everyone else he was Sir Alexander Bray. To me he was simply Uncle Alex.

"Not tired of the party," I insisted. "Not at all. I was just... I'd just thought... I was just looking..."

Uncle Alex grinned, as if in on some private joke. "You look absolutely radiant tonight, my dear. I daresay you've caught the eye of every young man at the party."

"Well, I'm not sure about... I don't feel..." I could feel myself blushing. "Thank you, Uncle Alex."

"Are you enjoying the festivities?"