Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (27 page)

Sheer black fear swept through her knowing exactly what he would say. He took a step closer and smiled. “Especially since we have shared such a close relationship. Working together, you trying so diligently to get the job in the first place. The way I tease you in class, and the way you never complain. People might already think something is going on between us. No, I could merely say you preferred it rough, that you like to be bruised. Is that how he gives it to you? Does he like it hard and rough?”

His hands twisted the tie completely around each fist till there was nothing but a cord in his hands. Her lips bit back the tears that stung her eyes. Her mind clamped down on a singular thought: escape. The door, she had to get to the door.

He lifted the tie and held it aloft, arching his back. With a dark chuckle he lowered it, placed it under his collar, and yanked hard on the ends as he drew one through the other, making a perfect knot. Like he was leaving for work. Like he hadn’t mentally tortured her. Like this was the way he was. A sadistic psychopath.

“I’m traveling to London for a seminar next week, and my flight leaves soon—I don’t wish to be late. And to prove to you that I have a heart, you go ahead and write that paper of yours. It’s an interesting story, and if nothing else, it’ll give me something to look forward to when I return,” he said with cool aloofness.

An ice-cold pulse thundered in her veins. White blotches tore at her vision. The room was freezing. Shock. She was going into shock.
Don’t faint, don’t faint, please don’t faint. He’ll hurt you. He will. He’s taunting you now like you’re his play-toy.

“Though remember when you write this
piece de resistance
,” she heard him say through the miasma, “ghosts are not based in reality, neither is love. They are both figments of the imagination to keep us from the void, from madness. And Ms. Thomas—” he nodded to the door “—don’t look so upset. The door was merely closed. You were the one who believed it was locked. You could have left at any time. You were the one who chose to stay.” With a nod, a blackish-gray lock from his slicked back hair fell on his forehead as he reached for his luggage. “Oh, and turn off the lights when you leave.”

He turned to go.

As if his words were law, the lights suddenly went out and the room plunged into darkness. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and Emily’s skin froze as she clenched the armrest. He was playing with her after all; he had no intention of leaving.

A woman’s voice whispered, “Riiing…arooound…the…rosssey…”

She could hear Vandin start abruptly near her. She recoiled blindly.

The icy voice warbled on. “Pockets…fuuuuulll…”

The door creaked open on a breath, then slammed shut on its own. The small light on his desk fizzled to life. Vandin’s labored breaths came in short white puffs through his nose like a dragon.

“…of poooossseys…”

Fright as she was meant to feel, fright that made her hardwired to being alive, filled Emily. But a small part of her brain, the part that was still functioning, knew. She could feel her; she knew this familiar fear. She was never so glad to be terrified in her life. She knew that eerie, sultry voice.

Vandin wheeled around, his eyes like slits, trying to get a bearing on where the ghostly voice was coming from.

“Asshhhhes!” A laugh erupted from nowhere, a sound to freeze the blood in your veins.

All at once, a framed picture flew from the bookcase. The voice rose in anger. “Ashhhessss…”

Then another frame shot out, crashing to the floor. And another. A barrage of books followed, forcing Emily to cringe into the chair to avoid being hit. From behind, the desk pins ejected out of the map like machine gun fire, flying across the room. They impaled Vandin’s arm. He howled, cursing in pain.

“All faaaalll…”

The small lamp toppled over, the shade demolished. Dr. Vandin’s back was to Emily as he twisted around wildly, frantic to find the source of the destruction. Suddenly his body staggered backward as though he had been punched in the face. He fell to the floor; a heavy glass ashtray lay at his side. He turned. His nose spewed blood, his shirt and tie were smeared with it, and ash covered his face. He looked like a ghoul.

The voice sang out loudly. “Down!”

“Nora!” Emily yelled out loud. “Noreen!”

Vandin glared at her, holding his nose like a stuck pig. “What are you doing? How are you doing this?
How are you doing this?”

“She isn’t!” Nora wailed, and with a bone chilling cry, the door flew open. “But I am, you pig! Boo!”

He scuttled backward like a crab. One hand tried to stem the tide of the blood that left a trail behind him, the other grappled for his luggage. He threw himself out the door. The sound of his terrified footsteps thundered down the hall.

Emily sat there, unable to move, unable to breathe. Adrenaline raced through her body; she tried to speak, but she couldn’t open her mouth.

“Emily,” Nora whispered, her voice weaker, farther away. “I can’t stay. I’ve only been here once, the bonds aren’t strong. Never much of a poltergeist, I’m afraid. At sunset, tonight, the Columbarium. Please, Emily, we don’t have much time. At sunset, the Columbarium. You need to understand. But first, Emily—you have to find her.”

“Wait,” Emily shouted. “What? Who do I have find?”

“That girl, the girl from before, find her. And Emily…” Her voice was nothing but a wisp now. “Be strong.” Then there was silence broken only by a soft exhalation, and Emily swore she whispered, “Love the jacket…my favorite.”

The full force of what had just happened to her hadn’t yet hit; she didn’t know what would happen when it did. Despite everything, she was gripped with the overwhelming desire to drop to her knees; she was so thankful, so god-awful thankful.

All at once the ghost’s words reverberated through her mind:
the girl from before, find her. Be strong
. And she understood. Emily ripped through the papers on Vandin’s desk, her hands still shaking but her mind laser sharp in its purpose. She found what she wanted. The girl’s name was written on his calendar blotter next to hers, with three stars beside it. Her stomach roiled in disgust.

Nora was right. She was always right.

“You’re dead,” Emily muttered. She tore out the page and shoved it in her pocket. Then in a fit of uncontrolled rage, she swept everything off his desk onto the floor with a loud crash.

Emily found her. Her name was Laura Schandler. She was a freshman, from Wichita, Kansas. Her father was a pastor; her mother taught Sunday school. Through the crack in the door, Emily could see her eyes were red and swollen and afraid.

“But he said I was special,” said her little girl voice. She still wore the same clothes. She said her parents would be furious. They had homeschooled her, raised her to be a good girl. “I didn’t want him to do that, but everything happened so fast.”

Be strong.

“You need to go to the Administration Office. It’s the only way.”

“But I can’t, my parents…”

“No, it’s all right. Shhhh. It’s all right. I’ll stay with you. Your parents love you. They want you safe. If you don’t report this, he’ll keep doing it to other girls. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”

And Emily did. She sat next to her at the counselors, who immediately called the police upon learning that Laura was only seventeen. She held her freezing cold hand when Laura began to panic and did not let go on the ride to the hospital, or in the examination room.

It was very late by the time they finished, after their last statements were taken by the police who promised to remain in touch. Emily dug in her purse to find her cell phone, but it was nowhere to be found. She asked Laura if she had one she could possibly borrow. Laura handed it to her with trembling hands.

Emily stared at the phone. She opened her mouth to ask Laura how to dial, as it was so unlike her own, only to look up and realize that Laura’s face was colorless. How could she explain to Margot what had happened while she sat next to this scarred girl? She opted to text, hoping she was doing it correctly.

I’m fine. Will be late. Don’t worry. E.

She prayed it was good enough for Margot.

“Thank you—for taking care of me,” Laura whispered.

“No need to thank me. Remember, you’re not alone. You’re going to need to be strong, though.”

“You too.”

“Yes.”

The phone booth on Stanyan reeked of urine. She held her breath and called home. The line rang and rang and rang. The answering machine wouldn’t pick up. Hell. Where was everyone? She struggled not to hit something, feeling more and more alone.

Her heart beat harder with the thought of calling Andrew. But how? Madly in love with the man and she didn’t even know his phone number. How could that even be? Maybe it was a good thing; she could only imagine his reaction to all this.

Promise me that you’ll let me come with you? I’ve seen how he treats you. I don’t want you near him alone.

She’d deal with the fallout later. Right now the sun was setting; she was running out of time. She swore as she rummaged in her pockets for change. Across the street a bunch of crack heads were starting to pee on her car. Hell! Wasn’t the phone booth good enough? Slamming the phone down in disgust, she raced back across the street. She’d try again, after…after whatever Nora wanted had happened.

The sun left a red slash in the sky as it dipped below the horizon; the trees stood like black sentinels against it. Just beyond, the basilica came into view. The Columbarium. She had never stepped a foot inside. She was too daunted, for one simple reason: the place teemed with the dead. She could feel them the few times she had driven past, and hated the thought of being confined so close to them.

Her roommates had dismissed her fears as crazy, but it was one of the reasons she enrolled in Vandin’s class—to banish her belief in ghosts—long before they had intruded on her life. As a teenager she had lost herself in Poe and Lovecraft. The lurid fascination with the macabre had never left her, but it didn’t make it any easier to enter the place.

When she reached the door, her heart sped up. The sign read:
Visiting hours 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. Silence requested.
She checked her watch. It was almost five; she’d made it just under the wire. The heavy bronze doors opened like those of a cathedral, and immediately the scents of incense and age assaulted her senses. As she entered, her heels clipped on the marble floor. She looked up and stopped short in wonder.

A beautiful rotunda towered above her head, and stained-glass windows ringed the upper dome. The entire interior was made up of level after level of open galleries with corridors leading off of them, much like the spokes radiating out from the center of a very expensive wheel. Ornate wrought-iron railings circled every tier, and she guessed each corridor would house the vaults that held the cremated remains.

Her attention was drawn ahead to the floor of the rotunda where a finely appointed table stood, topped by an ornate urn. Rows of chairs were lined up in front of it. A small gathering of mourners sat there, heads bowed. A sign read:

Lipswitch Internment

Reception to follow

A pianist and harpist played off to the side. A haunting melody floated from their instruments and enveloped the room. Emily could feel the weight of the day settle heavily upon her, the poignant sound making her heart draw tight. She drew back into the shadows as a man in a uniform spotted her and immediately trotted over.