Aftersight (22 page)

"Have you noticed any other kind of funny business goin' on around here?" Nicole asked. "Anything else that might clue us in that our ghostly friend might be back?"

Sara pursed her lips and skewed them to one side. "No, not that I can think of." She began pulling off her boots. "No, wait. There is one thing that's a little bit odd. I haven't mentioned it because it sounds very strange, and I've no proof that it's anything unnatural, but on several occasions I've seen a little grey bunny wandering around Waltham. He looks very real and solid and I haven't any reason to think he's anything other than an escaped pet or something. But I've never been able to catch up with him. He always seems to disappear before I corner him. It started the night you girls arrived at Waltham and I've seen him perhaps a half-dozen times around the house. Do you think it has anything to do with what's happening in here?"

"I dunno," Nicole answered, "but next time you see it, let me or one of the other girls know. It wouldn't hurt to keep our ears to the ground, you know, just in case."

Cali

Waltham Manor

April 13

"Cali? Cali? Wake up, sugar."

I opened my eyes in the dark, momentarily disoriented and confused. I'd been dreaming that I'd been lying awake in my bedroom back in Sacramento and that something had been standing in the shadows near my closet, watching me. I hadn't seen anybody, but I'd felt its presence as surely as if moonlight had outlined its silhouette in ink. I remembered lying there, too scared to move, wanting but unable to cry for help. Of course, I hoped it was my brother, Chris, come back for a visit in spirit form, but some part of me knew different. Something was out there. Something dark.

Nicole pushed her lips into my ear. "Stay very, very quiet."

She pulled down my covers, took my hand, and urged me into a seated position. Normally it was too dark to see this late, but tonight enough moonlight seeped past the curtains to make black shapes of the furniture.

"Follow me. And whatever you do, don't make a sound."

I slid out of bed and stood unsteadily, putting a hand on Nicole's shoulder for balance. Together, we moved across the floor, around the bed, and into our shared bathroom. By the time we were standing in front of the sink, I could make out the barest outline of her wild spirally hair, ruffled from a half-night's sleep. My heart was hammering, in part from my recent dream, in part from Nicole. Her hands were trembling and her breath came out in ragged gasps.

"Listen," she whispered.

I waited, trying to still my own irregular breathing. "I don't hear any—"

"Wait. Just wait. It'll start up in—"

Now I heard it, the muffled sound of the piano from beyond the wall that separated our private suite from the parlor next door. Someone was getting in a little late-night piano practice. But who would be playing at this time of night? We had the north part of Waltham pretty much all to ourselves.

"That song," Nicole said in a barely a whisper. "That's Claude Debussy's
'Clair de Lune.'
It was a favorite of Momma's, something she used to play at night just after she put me to bed."

The music was quiet, subdued, sad. There was a longing about whoever was playing it. Steadily, it grew louder, then faster.

Nicole sniffed. I put my hand against her face and felt wet, hot tears.

"What's wrong?"

"I think... it seems like... I think that's my momma's playin'. That's the way she plays it. The pauses are in all the same places, just like Momma."

"No way."

"You don't think... this is the third time it's played. You don't think that the racket upstairs. The bric-a-brac that's been movin' around in here. You don't think that maybe it's Momma tryin' to get in touch with me, tryin' to get my attention?"

"I don't know."

She took a deep breath and let it out with a shaky exhale, the way little kids sound when they're just getting over a cry.

"I gotta go out there and check. I gotta make sure." She took my hand and nearly crushed it. "I'm so scared. Please. Please come with me."

I nodded in the dark. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." I squeezed back.

We fumbled out into our bedroom. I had a robe somewhere but when I stopped to look for it, Nicole said, "No. There's no time. The song's maybe five minutes long. We have to get out there before it ends."

She opened the door to our darkened sitting room and disappeared into the shadows. I followed behind her before I lost my nerve. Adrenaline was pumping through my body so fast that my legs went numb and when I crossed the darkened space, I seemed to be floating.

The music had faded to the barest echo but it rose in volume again when Nicole unlatched the door to the outer hallway. I half-expected the sound to cut off when we slipped into the corridor, but as we moved ahead through the gloom, it continued, clearer than ever. I had to force myself to keep up with her. As we neared the wide parlor door, I felt like a kid on Christmas night, hearing Santa Claus out in the family room yet too scared to have a look.

We paused at the door that opened to the parlor. There could be no mistake that it was the piano playing and not a recording. The music trembled the air the way that only live music could.

The second she looked around the corner the music cut off. But it
had
been there. I could still faintly hear the soft echo of piano strings humming in the dark. She took my hand and only then did I realize how bad I was shaking. The room was empty.

"Momma?" she croaked.

Then I smelled it, a puff of perfume. It was a fragrance that reminded me of Nicole, though I'd never smelled her wearing this particular scent.

"Southern Nights," Nicole explained shakily. "It was an old fragrance Momma used to wear. It was Daddy's favorite."

That's when we saw it cross the room, a dark shape that detached itself from the wall and glided across the bank of windows to temporarily block out the moonlight. It moved as if in slow motion, bleeding darkness behind it like ashy smoke. I knew immediately that this thing wasn't Nicole's mother. This was something that was trying to deceive her, something trying to draw out the raw emotions she still felt from her lost parents.

The thing, whatever it was, had used Nicole's heartache to lure us here, had used our fear to grow stronger. Whatever had made the noises in the attic, whatever had moved around the objects in our rooms and caused us to turn on each other, had revealed itself at last.

Becky

Waltham Manor

April 16

I rummaged through my bureau, found my sketch book, and packed it away in the picnic basket. This had been our first day in England that might be considered reasonably warm and the girls and I were eager to get out and enjoy it. There were no afternoon classes on Saturdays and it seemed that everyone at Waltham Academy was planning some sort of outing. For us it was a hamper full of food and drinks on the southwest lawn.

Sara invited Nigel to come with us, as well as Sam, one of Sir Alex's favorite foxhounds. I considered asking Jean Paul to go with us, too, but Malina had been shadowing him like a bodyguard, so I was happy enough to wave to him from across the garden. It was just as well, because I was anxious to try sketching again and I didn't think I'd be able to make the old magic happen if Jean Paul was there making me feel self-conscious.

I hadn't attempted to create any new artwork since I'd arrived at Waltham. At Orientation, Mrs. Apple had shared her story about the beginning of her mediumistic abilities, when she described a phenomenon she referred to as "automatic writing," where the pen in her hand started to write as if of its own accord. The first time this happened, Mrs. Apple's aunt came through with a message. That sounded so much like what happened when I sketched and painted, I'd gotten nervous that spirits were taking over my body and wanted nothing more to do with it.

Then last week I finally approached Mrs. Apple privately about it. With an arched eyebrow, she'd asked me to demonstrate the ability and the next night found me in Mrs. Apple's study, sketching what I'd hoped would be a likeness of her fruit bowl. Since I didn't have conscious control over the process, I was never sure
what
the finished product might be.

Thankfully, it was a bowl of fruit that stared back at me once I came out of that dreamy, artistic fog. Mrs. Apple examined it for a long time, then studied me, her bright red lips pursed contemplatively. Finally, she said, "Noo, this is no' somethin' foreign comin' into ya. Noo, indeed. This'd be a talent that ya've had before."

"Before what?"

Mrs. Apple narrowed her eyes, as if pondering how much to say. "Ya've lived before, Becky Reynalds. Ya've had other lifetimes on the Earth. You might no' remember 'em, but that doesn't mean they didn't happen. Talent's ya've had before stay with ya, even though ya might no' be usin' 'em. Whatever happened during that auto accident o'yours, ya've tapped into your Higher Self. You're operatin' on a level far higher than ya can consciously access when ya're fully awake. That's why ya don't seem to be fully in control when ya're paintin'. Some higher aspect of your consciousness is takin' over."

"So I'm not psycho or possessed or anything?"

"Noo, noo. Ya're just in touch with an advanced knowledge that every one of us has within us." She smiled. "This is a good thin'. No' to worry, now."

I tried to imagine what my past life as an artist might have been like. It seemed silly that I might have lived an entire lifetime and forgotten it completely. But then I remembered my near-death experience and how quickly I'd lost touch with my life as Becky. Maybe it
was
possible. Yet there was something crazy and alien thinking that some other person — even if it was just some other form of me — was coming into my body and taking over.

I did want to draw again. It had always been so soothing to release myself totally to that creative energy. But I didn't think it was a good idea to practice in the bedroom or our sitting room, where so much weirdness had taken place these past few months. Sketching in the warm sunlight with a pleasant meal under my belt, surrounded by friends, seemed like an ideal place for a fresh start.

We spread our picnic blanket beneath the branches of a huge, moss-covered oak that looked old enough to be medieval, with crooked branches reaching into the sky and thick roots that bore into the ground like tentacles. A small creek flowed past us a few yards away, filling the afternoon air with the soothing trickle of moving water. As we ate, Sam, Sir Alex's foxhound, dozed in the sunlight, his paws in the air, completely at ease.

We'd finished lunch and were all lounging around when I unpacked my sketchbook with the idea of drawing Sam, who was by now snoring quietly. The last thing I remembered was picking up my grease pencil and pantomiming circles over the page, trusting to whatever unknown power that usually took over during these moments to carry me through the exercise.

When I came to I was lying on my back, looking up at the sky. I was shivering with cold and my clothes were plastered to my body like a second skin. Sara, Nicole, Cali, and even the dog were crouched around, staring down at me. We were all drenched.

"What happened?"

"Shhh. Quiet, June Bug." Nicole brushed wet hair out of my eyes. "Just lie still."

"Nigel's gone for help," Cali explained.

"Are you all right?" asked Sara.

"I feel funny. Why is everyone all wet?"