What the Dead Want (8 page)

G
RETCHEN WAS EXHAUSTED, TERRIFIED, HER
VINTAGE
slip dress wet from the tall, dewy grass. Her makeup was running, and she had scratches all over her legs. She didn't know why she had worn that ridiculous rhinestone necklace, but it kept snagging in her tangled hair. Her topknot had come undone somewhere back in the high brambly field. The whole time she was running she could hear voices and shouts and barking dogs coming from just beyond the woods, and twice somebody ran past her panting.

By the time she reached the little white house her heart felt like it might burst. She ran up the steps and pounded on the door, calling out for help.

A face appeared in the lighted window and then the light shut out. Her heart sank.

She stomped on the porch in her Doc Martens and banged loudly on the door again.

“Please!” she yelled. “Help me!”

From behind the door she could hear people talking.

Then the door opened and two people, a boy and a girl about her age, stood staring at her, not moving.

“It's just another ghost,” the boy said.

“No it's not!” the girl said. “
I
can see her too.”

“My aunt is
dead
!” Gretchen said, barely catching her breath as her words came rushing out. “In her darkroom! I just came here from New York
today
. Just let me inside and I'll explain everything!”

They stepped back to let her in, their faces turning to shock and sadness. Gretchen tumbled into their front hall and collapsed, and they knelt to help her.

The boy was a little older than her, almost a man really. He had razor stubble and a small patch of acne on his cheek. He was barefoot, wearing pajama pants but no shirt. He had dark, serious wide-set eyes and brown skin. He took her hand, pulling her up. Then they guided Gretchen to the couch.

The girl ran and got her a glass of water and brought it into the living room.

Gretchen tried to breathe easily but she was hyperventilating. She was grateful and relieved to be inside and away from the horrible old mansion, but she was still trembling. She took a deep shaky breath and put her hand over her eyes, willing it to have been a nightmare.

“She's in shock,” the girl said. Gretchen struggled to remember the names Esther had told her. Hawk. One of them was named Hawk. The girl took Gretchen's hand and sat close beside her, then pulled a blanket off the top of the couch and tucked it around her. She looked like her brother but was thinner and lankier. She had a kind smile, and her hair was done in many tiny braids that hung down to just below her chin. “What happened?” the girl asked her gently. Gretchen couldn't speak. “You're okay,” the girl said quietly. “You're safe.”

Gretchen lay there, looking around the place. The whole thing was too surreal; she had come from some kind of gothic hallucination into a normal living room, well kept, with simple modern-looking furniture. A piano; a guitar leaning in the corner by a large comfortable chair; a cello; family pictures that looked like they'd been taken in the last decade; bookcases full of bright paperbacks, not giant leather-bound tomes or cracked disintegrating journals; a television in the corner; and—thank God—an iPod dock with speakers, some tiny
island of civilization in this backwater hell.

“I'm Hawk,” the boy said. “Sorry we didn't let you in right away.”

Then it all came flooding over her again. Esther sprawled on the darkroom floor. The two little girls with their dirty hands and sharp teeth. Gretchen took a deep breath. “Esther . . . ,” she said. “My aunt . . . she . . .” But then again she couldn't speak.

She drank the water and sat up. How could any of this really be happening?

“Let me start over,” the girl said, smiling at her. She was wearing boxer shorts and a tank top, her eyes looked sleepy, and Gretchen realized that it was probably now three in the morning. “I'm Hope. What's your name?”

“Gretchen.”

“Hi, Gretchen. Can you tell us what happened?”

She looked at Hope and Hawk, their faces grave. Hope's eyes were full of understanding. Her brother looked more worried, and though he was older, he somehow seemed frail compared to Hope; something about her seemed grounded, strong. She studied Hawk's face: high cheekbones and a wide jaw, thick eyebrows and full lips. His hair was cut shorter on the sides and long in the middle. He had a perfectly symmetrical face, the kind anyone would want to photograph.

Gretchen took a breath and said, “We have to call 911.”

“Start from the beginning,” Hope said.

“I came here to help Esther with the house. . . . I . . . she wanted me to come up to the darkroom,” Gretchen stammered. “I only turned around for a minute . . . she drank . . . she drank poison.”

Hawk and Hope exchanged a look, and Gretchen had the feeling that what had happened was no surprise. Hawk's shoulders slumped and Hope's eyes immediately filled with tears.

“They're all out there now, aren't they?” Hawk asked.

Hope shushed him. “Stop with that,” she said, quickly wiping an eye. She took a deep breath and more tears fell down her cheeks. “Nobody's really out there and you know it. You're gonna scare Gretchen.”

“It's a little late for that,” Gretchen said. She thought again of Esther up in the attic, dead, with those animals lurking around her, and she shivered.

Hawk looked out the window. “I can see them, Hope,” he said. “I can see them and they're way past the barn now.”

Gretchen stood and looked out the window too. There was indeed a group of people congregating in the field beneath a tall maple.

Hope looked at her brother, concerned and skeptical.
“There's nobody out there. It's not the anniversary yet. The only thing we got to worry ourselves with is making sure no accidents happen.”

Hawk and Gretchen watched what looked like an ethereal picnic beneath the stars. People sat in rows as if they were watching a play. And finally they scattered, screaming.

“You can see it,” Hawk said.

“This can't be real,” Gretchen said, scared but utterly transfixed. “I've never seen anything like this before.”

He rested his forehead on the windowpane. “Neither have I,” he said.

Hope looked up, her eyes dark with terror. And Hawk nodded at her. “Not like this.”

Hope picked up her phone from the coffee table and dialed 911.

“I'd like to report a death at the Axton mansion,” she said quickly. “Yes, Axton Road just past where it intersects with County Road 89. Yes. Past the old grange.”

Dear James,

I am thrilled about your graduation and homecoming. Pastor Axton has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? According to your mother they have already hired some Amish to start construction on a church next to the estate. I imagine that was your idea as the church can so easily be used as a safe haven. The house and offices of Axton Cotton and the trade route from Georgia to New York have been very convenient. I only hope you are right in your convictions about a new congregation. I know of no other integrated church—though admittedly my education is lacking.

You are inspiring, James, realizing your own convictions and dreams even as you help those around you. You are in my thoughts constantly, your smile, your wit. And your courage. I long to be beside you. And hope that it will be soon.

Because I have news: I have been accepted at Troy Female Seminary! This is still a secret as I am working up the courage to show my father the acceptance letter. You are the only one I have told! You were right about all of it. And I cannot thank you enough. I will be sad to be away at school while you are home in Mayville. But Troy is close to Canada, and close to other stops on the route. We should be able to get even more done. Help even more people, as we will both be living on strategic points.

Know that we are together always. And that when I come home with my education it will be as we have always dreamed.

Your friend eternally,

Fidelia

A
ROUND FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING
THE MEDICAL
examiner arrived at the Greens' house. He'd been to the scene and determined Esther's death to be suicide. Gretchen noted that he looked tired and a little unsettled, but not like he'd walked through a gauntlet of ghosts or strange creatures with hooves. He said that her body would be taken to the Palmer Funeral Home downtown. The next of kin would have to go make arrangements.

Gretchen couldn't believe he'd just gone into the house by himself. Maybe she really had been hallucinating. Too open to Esther's crazy suggestions about ghosts? Too hungry or drunk, too willing to see the kinds of things her
mother believed in? But Hawk was seeing these things too. There had to be more to the story.

“Suicide's not as rare in the elderly as you might think,” the medical examiner said somberly. “Someone like your aunt, tough old lady, lived on her own for so long. The idea of not being able to care for herself . . . well, people like that often make their own decisions about when it's time to go.”

It was only when his car pulled out of the drive and the taillights faded into the night that Gretchen realized there were no other adults around. Esther had mentioned something about the Greens having a famous mother, but besides this visit from a haggard man in a dark suit, they seemed to be on their own.

“Where are your parents?” she asked Hope.

The siblings looked at one another.

“Gone,” they said in unison.

The word resonated, cold and familiar in Gretchen's head.

“They passed just before I turned seventeen,” Hawk said. “Car accident.”

“I'm so sorry,” Gretchen said, thinking about Esther's admonishments to be careful, saying accidents were the number-one cause of death around there.

“We are too,” said Hope, nodding her head. “They
swerved off the road to avoid hitting a little boy.”

“What was the little boy doing out in the road all by himself?” Gretchen asked.

“Playing with a rope,” Hope said. “That's what the only witnesses said.”

“They didn't find him at the scene,” Hawk said. “He must have run off.”

Gretchen thought of the photograph Esther had shown her just an hour ago, of her mother, with Piper running through. She wanted to say something about it but thought she would sound crazy.

“You've been living here by yourself?” Gretchen asked.

“Not really,” Hawk said. “Esther spent a lot of time over here, looking out for us once they passed. She'd been good friends with our mom.”

Gretchen felt the lonely resignation in their words. The kind of missing that would not go away. It felt like one more layer of sorrow for all of them.

“Was your mom a photographer too?” she asked.

“She was a historian,” Hope said. “Used to be a professor when we were small, before we moved back here—to where she was from. She wrote books about American history.”

“Did you ever read
Uncommon Ground
?” Hawk asked.

“Your mother is
Sarah Green
?”

“Was,” Hope said, but she looked proud, not sad, when she said it.

“I read that book in tenth-grade history.”

“Everyone did,” said Hope.

“Whoa,” Gretchen said. “I can't believe your mother is Sarah Green. That book is amazing.”

Hawk smiled, clearly thinking about his mother, then suddenly, as if he could actually feel Gretchen's hunger, he said, “You must be starving. Let's see what we have in the fridge.”

While Hope and Hawk were in the kitchen, Gretchen tried futilely to call her father and then Janine on Hope's cell phone—she hung up after six rings trying to reach her father. Janine's phone went right to voice mail, but Gretchen couldn't think what kind of message she should leave, so she just hung up.

Hope warmed up some leftovers and they sat at the kitchen table eating rice and kale and chickpeas and tofu. It was surprisingly delicious, and Gretchen, famished from a day with no food, ate heartily.

“Are you allowed to just live here by yourselves?” Gretchen asked.

“Well, I'm eighteen,” Hawk said. “So yeah. But Esther was our legal guardian, after our parents died. We were
able to stay in our house and at school here in Mayville because of her.”

Gretchen's stomach felt hollow, thinking about all the loss Hawk and Hope had been through. She didn't know what happened to her mother, but she had her father—even if it was every couple of months—and she had Janine. She wondered how anyone could let Esther Axton become a legal guardian to children of any age.

As if he could read her mind Hawk said, “Esther didn't always drink so much.” At that his face fell and his eyes filled with tears.

“I keep thinking maybe there were more signs,” Hope said. “When I was over there, she had so many books she wanted to give me. Like she was just giving stuff away—wanted to get it out of the house—and I should have realized . . .”

Hawk rubbed his eyes. He had clearly been closer to Esther than any of them. “She struggled, you know. Lost a lot of friends in the war. And saw a lot of shit. And then the house . . . Esther was so strong and funny and cool, y'know? You'd forget she had problems, forget she wasn't some kinda superhero.”

“I guess she didn't want to live through another anniversary,” Hope said.

“When I was up there tuning the piano she was talking
about it,” Hawk said. “I said she could come and stay with us, but she said no, no, she had to shoot it. She'd been shooting it for forty years trying to figure out a way to make it stop. Trying to account for everyone, make sure she had all of their pictures.”

Gretchen felt a chill go up her spine, but she wanted to find a rational reason for everything that had happened earlier that night. “Listen,” she said. “I don't know what anniversary you're talking about. The anniversary of the fire? We can't just take it for granted that the place is haunted. My aunt let the house fall apart and animals got in, and she was a big drinker. There's anthills and wasp nests and like—who knows what—little deer or squirrels or moose walking around in there or something, all those pictures and tricks of the light can mess with your head if you're tired or old or drunk or haven't eaten—but that doesn't mean there are ghosts. And what does the anniversary of a horrible crime have to do with all of this?” Even as she was talking Gretchen felt the sense of her own panic, as if she were trying to talk herself out of something she already knew was true.

“What about the crowds in the field?” Hawk asked. “The one Hope couldn't see?”

“Yeah,” Hope said. “There a reason you came running here in a screaming terror a few hours ago, if you don't believe in ghosts?”

“But you can't even see them,” Gretchen said. “How can
you
believe in them?”

“Plenty of things you can't see that are real,” Hope said. “You can't see viruses but you can still get sick.”

“But there could be other reasons I saw those things too,” Gretchen said. “I'm trying to consider all the facts. My aunt drank
photo chemicals
in front of me after showing me pictures of Auschwitz and Vietnam.
And
I hadn't eaten or drunk anything in twelve hours except a gin fizz and I was starting to hallucinate from hunger and stress.”

“You mean to tell us you didn't see Celia and Rebecca?” Hope asked.

Gretchen's body went cold with fear. “Who?” she said, but she knew exactly what Hope was talking about.

“Our relatives,” Hawk said, circling his finger around the whole table to indicate all of them. “Yours and ours. They're inseparable.”

“And pretty mean,” Hope said.

Gretchen felt her skin crawl, the hair rising on her arms and neck

“You
didn't
see them? A little white girl and a little black girl?” Hawk asked. “Wearing dirty summer dresses?”

“They like to trip people with a rope,” his sister said, and again Gretchen was speechless. “Rebecca was our distant cousin; Celia would have been another
great-great-somebody of yours, I guess.”

“They're pretty pissed,” Hawk said. “The others just wander around screaming or in some kind of stupor, not knowing they're dead or why they got stuck on the land. They can only really do damage on the anniversary. But Celia and Rebecca, they are
not
having it. They're out for blood.”

Gretchen remembered the bite. She touched her side.

“Tell her,” Hope said.

“I saw one of them pulling the wings off a bird,” Hawk said, and shuddered. “They're really strong.”

“Esther was trying to find a way to release all of them,” Hawk said. “She really did want to leave you the house with nobody trapped in it. Sometimes there are whole crowds wandering through the house and the field. Folks who didn't make it out of the church in time . . .”

“I can't see them like Hawk,” Hope said. “But everyone in Mayville lives in fear of their damage on the anniversary. Tree branches falling and braining people on a windless day, falls in the tub, suicides, children drowning in the lake. The accidents increase every year.”

“It's like they're trying to empty the whole town, a handful of people at a time.”

“Did your parents believe in these ghosts, or see them?”

“Our mom,” Hope said. “Was doing research on the
Underground Railroad and on the influence the Klan had over small towns in the north. She didn't exactly believe in ghosts, but—”

“She didn't believe in ghosts
at all
,” Hawk said, interrupting his sister. “Even when they were standing right in front of her.”

“My mother did,” Gretchen said. “Even when there were no ghosts to be found. She was here trying to help Esther with her crazy ideas about the house.”

“Esther's ideas weren't crazy,” Hawk said.

“Wait, your mother . . . ,” Hope said. “She have long curly hair and brown eyes?”

Gretchen nodded.

“I remember her!” Hope said. “She came over to see Mom's archive.”

“She was
here
?”

“Yeah, she and Esther. She runs a gallery, right?”

“Ran a gallery,” Gretchen said.

Hope and Hawk fell silent.

When Gretchen felt she could talk again she said, “You must know if you spent time with Esther. She must have told you.”

Hawk shook his head. “My mother's gone too,” Gretchen said, her voice breaking.

Hope took her hand and squeezed it gently.

“Did you ever . . .” Gretchen didn't know how to ask, didn't want to ask, but she couldn't help herself. “Did your parents ever . . . ?”

“Come visit after they were dead?” Hawk asked, his tone both playful and full of sorrow. “No, they didn't. But I feel them. They didn't stop being my parents just because they stopped living in the same form as us.”

After some time the three went into the living room and slumped into the couch together. Hawk picked up his guitar and strummed it lightly. The sounds of the peepers and crickets from outside had died down and it seemed dawn was making its way toward them. Hope had begun to fall asleep.

“I always thought I'd see my mother again,” Gretchen said. And it felt incredible to say that out loud to people who could understand.

When Hawk looked up, his face seemed familiar. “Maybe you will,” he said.

Dear James,

I am writing you with the heaviest heart to say you mustn't write me at my house anymore. On Sunday at dinner I showed my parents the acceptance letter from Troy Female Seminary. My father tore it to shreds. He raged against the idea of my leaving. Told me no man would want a woman educated by spinsters. I was so disconsolate and shocked by their narrow cruelty. As I have no money of my own I cannot simply run away. But must find a way to work here—somehow behind their backs—and save enough to leave and go to school. I asked my mother how she could want for me the restricted life she'd had and she slapped my face. Asked me what do I know about a life of restriction.

She had been even more on edge since the fires—and the community picnic notices that have turned up around town. Two Negro families have left Mayville; only the Green family and the Masons remain. She's told me never to go over and visit with them. Never to talk to the Greens. She's constantly worried about the way I dress—the way I wear my hair. Always buying me powder for my face.

I'm sorry to say their raging and rules and racism have not stopped there. They ransacked my room and found your letters and accused me of all manner of deceit and ungodly behavior. They are furious with you for the things you wrote me, especially the letter about my lips. And for sending the
N
ORTH
S
TAR
, for involving me in “conspiracies.” Which my mother said was her worst nightmare.

Do not write me here. But maybe it's possible to write to George and he can get letters to me. I hope sincerely that you will do this as I feel now it is my only lifeline. I am determined to find a way for myself in this world—one different than the lives of my mother and her mother. And so long as there is slavery I will never stop helping people escape.

They cannot keep me down. They cannot force me to live a life so controlled. I will go mad if I must sit here and sew and clean and watch children, rendered useless and silent, powerless to do anything to help those who are suffering. I cannot do it. I cannot live a life of enforced superficiality and irresponsibility to my fellow beings or I will go mad.

Yours in eternal friendship,

Fidelia