Spellbinder (5 page)

“I knew it!”

Steve held up a fragile, yellowing newspaper,
breaking Belladonna’s self-pitying reverie. She scuttled around to the other side of the chest and looked over his shoulder. It was a copy of the local paper from 1912. The headline read: “Local Girl in Terrible Tragedy!” And there was a picture of the victim, looking just the same as the girl outside Miss Parker’s office, only a little more stiff. Her name was Elsie Blaine.

“It doesn’t really do me justice, does it? I had a really nice one taken just the month before in a new lawn dress. Made me look quite ethereal, according to Mamma.”

Steve dropped the paper. “What was that? Did you hear something?”

Belladonna looked at him suspiciously. “Like what?”

“Like . . . like . . .” He looked around nervously. “Like talking. Whispering.”

“Saying what?”

Could he really have heard it? Could there be someone else?

“I don’t know, I couldn’t hear it properly. Something about a lawn and ether.”

Belladonna smiled and nodded slowly. “It was her.”

“Who?”

Belladonna hesitated . . . Steve looked like spiders were running up and down his back.

“Elsie,” she nodded toward the paper. “It was Elsie. She said she didn’t like the picture and that she’d had a better one taken right before she died. In a white lawn dress.”

“I didn’t say it was white, I said it was lawn.”

“Did you hear that too?” Belladonna hardly dared hope. “Can you see her?”

“No. Wait.
See
her?” Steve backed away, stumbled over a pile of cardboard boxes, and fell down.

Belladonna reached out a hand to help him up. He took it, but as he scrambled to his feet, his face froze.

“Oh, my god! There’s someone there! Right behind you!”

“W
ELL, OF COURSE!
” said Mr. Johnson. “Why do you suppose they hold hands at séances?”

Mrs. Johnson looked up from her béarnaise sauce long enough to remark, “Yes, but those things are nearly all a crock, dear.”

“I know, but the point is that the tradition—the holding of hands—started somewhere. There had to be a reason for it in the first place, didn’t there?”

Belladonna had to agree that it all sounded plausible. She tried to think back to remember if she’d ever touched anyone else when she’d seen a ghost.

“I always thought the reason was safety,” said Mrs. Johnson as the silky sauce poured itself into a small bowl. “If everyone’s holding hands, then you know no one’s leaving the table in the dark to play the part of the wandering spirit.”

“Or steal the silver,” remarked Mr. Johnson, grinning.

After dinner, the family sat down in front of the television, but Belladonna’s attention really wasn’t on the convoluted lives of the families in the small fishing town of
Staunchly Springs
, where everyone was either in love with someone who didn’t like them, engaged in nefarious business practices, or burying their nearest and dearest under the new patio at the bottom of the garden. She looked at her hands.

“Why should someone be able to see what I see just by touching my hands?”

“It’s not just your hands,” said her father, “it’s anything. He probably heard just a little of . . . what did you say her name was? Oh, Elsie, that’s right. He probably heard Elsie because your shoulders or arms were touching while you leaned over the chest. But with layers of shirts and jumpers between you, the signal didn’t come in very clear.”

“So I’m like a radio?”

“More like a hot pan,” he gestured toward the television. “He’s not laying that concrete very well. They’ll be finding the body before it’s dry.”

“A hot pan?”

Mrs. Johnson was beginning to get irritated—
Staunchly Springs
was her favorite show and she didn’t like people nattering through it.

“You’re a conductor, dear. Now be quiet while I watch my program.”

Belladonna watched for a while, then got up and went into the kitchen to do her homework. She hauled
the books out of her bag, spread them out, and stared at them. She did the same thing every evening, and every evening she asked herself the same question: Should she start with the Math and get it over with or go with the easier option (which tonight was History)? She opened the Math book and looked at what she had to do.

She slammed it shut. Definitely History.

Belladonna had always liked History, even before she could see ghosts. Of course, now that she could, it was much more interesting. If she ever met the shades of Charles I or Anne Boleyn, she’d be ready with some conversation. She wondered if Anne knew that her daughter had become England’s greatest queen, and if Charles had ever had the least inkling that the Parliamentarians were prepared to cut his head off. She had to believe that if he had, he wouldn’t have been so spectacularly dim-witted in his scheming. Although, from her observations watching the evening news, it had struck her that very few people ever lost money betting on the stupidity of politicians.

She thought about Elsie with her long skirts and that big bow in her hair. There was nothing of the Victorian fading violet about her, but when she had lived, women hadn’t even been allowed to vote. Belladonna reckoned she should ask Elsie about that the next time she saw her.

She turned the pages of the book over to see how
much she had to read. Fifteen pages. Right. Better get started, then.

She leaned her elbows on the table, covered her ears to block out the sound of
Staunchly Springs
from the living room, and began to read. She’d only managed about two sentences, however, when her thoughts drifted back to the look on Steve’s face when he’d seen Elsie. She wondered what he was thinking about now. Was he excited to have seen a ghost, or would he be spending the next few nights with the light on, jumping at every sound and peering into the shadows?

Belladonna pushed her black hair out of her eyes and looked up at the kitchen clock. It had been two years since she’d started seeing them. Her parents had been alive then and her mother had told her that it was just a family trait, like red hair or big ears. At the time, Belladonna had thought that, on the whole, she’d have preferred the red hair. She didn’t want to be different, and she was terrified of being caught talking to something that no one else could see. School was bad enough already, what with being so skinny and having hair that hung down the sides of her face like the “before” picture in an advert for hair stuff. All she needed to cement her role as the class outcast was for someone to find out that she saw ghosts. Or thought she did. Because, of course, no one would believe that she really was conversing with the dead. The result was that she turned in on herself more than ever, which had the
same effect as if her classmates
had
known about the ghost thing.

Then her parents had died, and she was suddenly grateful for the family trait. But it was still a secret. So far as the school authorities were concerned, Belladonna lived with her grandmother. Now, though, someone else had seen. It wasn’t just her.

She smiled and turned back to the History book.

After half an hour, the battles of the Civil War were oozing together into a great morass of Cavaliers, Roundheads, and brave ladies defending castles. Somewhere in there, Belladonna was almost sure, were some facts that might actually show up in an exam. She counted the pages again. Six to go. She sighed, got up, and poured herself a glass of water. She sat down again, read a page, then realized she couldn’t remember what she’d read. Was this important? Was there going to be a test? Because if there wasn’t, maybe she could get away with just skimming over it.

She never got that far. The muffled sound of the closing theme song to
Staunchly Springs
(tinklingly cheerful, but with just enough minor chords to remind you about the body under the patio) was suddenly drowned out by an almighty crash.

And then silence.

Belladonna raced into the sitting room. Her father was standing in front of the fireplace with his mouth hanging open, but there was no sign of her mother.

“What happened?”

He didn’t say anything. The chair that her mother had been sitting in (well, pretending to sit in) was on its side, the television was still wittering away, and her father was staring at a spot somewhere in the middle of the room. Belladonna detected a faint smell, as if someone had struck a match and then immediately blown it out.

“Dad,” she was trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “What is it?”

He looked at her, as if he didn’t know who she was. Then he was himself again.

“Something’s wrong,” he said.

“That’s what Elsie said, but—”

“No, listen, I don’t know how long I’ve got,” he was speaking rapidly, urgently, not the way he usually spoke to his daughter.

Belladonna’s eyes widened. There was a knot in her stomach.

“You’re going to have to call your Aunt Deirdre. She’ll know what to do. Tell her what’s happened. Tell her the doors are closing.”

“But what
has
happened? What doors?”

“The doors to the Other Side. Tell her there’s only one left. She’ll know which one. And don’t go out. Whatever you do, don’t go out until she gets here.”

“But—”

She never got any further. The words froze in her throat as she saw her father seem to compress inward and squeeze upward until he became a thin line from
floor to ceiling before both ends of the line shot together and he vanished, leaving a small bright spot, which faded to nothing.

Belladonna stared at the space where he had been, half expecting him to flash back into existence again and reveal that it had all been a huge joke. But he didn’t. The room was empty and silent except for the endless cheery blather of the television. She glanced at the woman reading the news, her too-white smile cutting into the room. Belladonna turned on her heels and ran into the hallway. She pulled her mother’s address book out of a drawer in the hall stand and frantically leafed through it. Her hands were shaking and tears were burning in her eyes when she picked up the phone, and it took her two tries to get the number right.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was brisk and no-nonsense. Belladonna felt better already. She took a deep breath.

“Aunt Deirdre,” she said, trying not to sound as scared as she felt, “it’s Belladonna.”

There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone.

“What’s happened?”

Belladonna related the evening’s events. Aunt Deirdre asked a few questions, but mostly just listened. When Belladonna finished, there was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Hello?”

“I’m here,” said Aunt Deirdre in a voice that was still matter-of-fact and calm. “Right. I’m on my way. Lock the doors. Are the curtains drawn?”

“I’m not sure. Some, I suppose. . . .”

“Draw them. Don’t go outside.”

“But what about—”

“Don’t speak. Listen. What did I just say?”

“Don’t go outside. Lock the doors. Draw the curtains.”

“Good. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

There was a click as Aunt Deirdre hung up. Belladonna put the phone down slowly. She was glad that Aunt Deirdre was coming, but knew it would take her a while. She lived in London, where she had something to do with banks or finances. Even if she started out now, Belladonna knew it was a three-hour drive. Maybe she should call her grandmother.

She had her hand on the phone before she thought better of it. If it wasn’t safe for her to be out, then it probably wasn’t safe for Grandma Johnson either, and Belladonna knew that the old lady wouldn’t listen to reason and stay at home; she’d be marching through the darkened streets in her sensible shoes to try and save the day.

No, the best thing to do was just wait for Aunt Deirdre.

Belladonna checked the locks on the front and back
doors and drew all the curtains. She sat in front of the television for a few minutes, but couldn’t concentrate on it. She got up and decided that she’d better make sure that all the windows were closed and locked. By the time she reached the front bedroom, it was pitch-dark outside. She checked the latches, rattled the windows, and was about to turn away and check the other bedrooms when she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. There was something in the garden.

She looked down. There was a large black shape in the middle of the lawn, right next to the water feature. It seemed to be some kind of dog, though it was nothing like any dog that Belladonna had ever seen. Its head was huge, and its body was massive and muscular. As she looked at it, it seemed to notice her and the great black head tilted up. Two cold yellow eyes met her gaze. They weren’t the eyes of a dog; there was intelligence in them . . . and recognition.

They stared at each other for a moment, then the dog turned and loped out of the garden and away down the street, always keeping to the shadows until it became a part of them and was gone.

Belladonna stood at the window, frozen. Was that the dog that she had seen in the shadows the night before? It seemed bigger now, but perhaps that was just because of her state of mind. She remembered once, when she was little, she had kicked up an enormous fuss over a “gigantic” spider in her room, but
when her Dad had come up and caught it in a glass, it had turned out to be quite small. Perhaps it was just an ordinary stray dog after all.