Gwyn said nothing.
“I am your sister, after all.”
“No.”
A tern flew overhead, screeching, and disappeared into the ragged face of the cliff.
“Besides,” the other said, in a tone of mild reproof, “I've come such a long, long way to see you.”
“From where?”
“From the other side.”
Gwyn shook her head violently: No. No, no, no! She could not allow herself to go on like this. She could not stand here and listen to — and even converse with — a ghost. That was insanity. If she let this go on much longer, she would slip right past the edge, into madness. And once that had happened, not even Dr. Record could do anything to give her a normal life again. She would be, until the ends of her days, completely out of touch with all that was real…
“I've missed you,” the other said.
Gwyn bit her lips, felt pain, knew she was not dreaming, but wished ardently that she were.
“Talk to me, Gwyn.”
Gwyn said, “If you are who you profess to be — then, you should look like a twelve-year-old girl and not like a grown woman.”
“Because I died when I was twelve?”
“Yes.”
“I could have chosen to approach you, from the start, as a child, as the Ginny that you remember. However, I felt that you would be more likely to accept me if I came to you like this. You could see, then, that I was not just a hoaxer, but your twin.”
“If changing your form is so easy as you indicate,” Gwyn said, measuring each word carefully, trying to conceal the worst of her fear, “then become a child for me now, right here.”
The other shook her head woefully, smiled sadly and said, “You've got the wrong idea about the powers of a ghost. We aren't shape-changers of such ability as you think; we can't perform tricks like that quite so easily.”
“You're no ghost.”
“What am I, then?”
Indeed, what? Gwyn had no ready answer, but she said, “You're much too substantial to be a ghost.”
“Oh, I'm quite substantial,” the other agreed. “But ghosts always are. You think of them as being transparent, or at least translucent, made of smoke and such stuff; that's what your superstitions tell you to believe. In reality, when we step into the world of the living, we take on flesh as apparently real as yours — though it is not real and can be abandoned at will, without trace.”
Gwyn shivered uncontrollably.
This was insanity, no doubt, no hope to overcome it.
She said, “Why — if you're who you pretend to be — did you wait so long to come back?”
The other sighed and said, “Conditions on the other side wouldn't permit me to make the voyage until quite recently, no matter how much I had yearned for it.”
“Conditions?”
The other said, “Oh, it's a strange place on the other side, Gwyn. It is not remotely like any living person has ever imagined it… I get so incredibly lonely over there — so desperate for companionship. The other side is still, dark and as cold as a winter night, though there are no seasons; it is always cold, you see. I've wanted to escape it, to come here and see you, speak with you, watch you — but only a few days ago was the time right.”
“I want you to go away.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“You're being selfish, Gwyn.”
“I'm afraid,” she admitted.
“I told you not to be.”
“I still am.”
“But I won't harm you.”
“That's not what I fear.”
“What, then?” the other asked.
“I'm going mad.”
“You aren't. I exist.”
They stood in silence for a while.
“Come take my hand,” the apparition said.
“No.”
Overhead, another tern cried out, like a voice from beyond the veil of death, sharp and mournful.
“Take my hand and walk with me,” the specter insisted, holding out one slim, long-fingered, pale hand.
“No.”
“Gwyn, you must accept me sooner or later, for we need each other. I'm your twin, your only sister… Do you remember, years ago, before the accident, how very close we were?”
“I remember.”
“We can be that close again.”
“Never.”
“Take my hand.”
Gwyn said nothing.
She did not move.
But the specter stepped closer.
“Please, Gwyn.”
“Go away.”
“Sooner or later…” the specter said.
Gwyn wondered if she could dodge to the side and run past the dead girl, back toward the steps and the safety of Barnaby Manor. Thus far, the ghost — or the hallucination — had not appeared to her when she was with other people. If she could get back to the manor, then, and remain in company, she would be fine…
“Gwyn..”
The dead girl stepped closer.
“Don't touch me.”
“I'm your sister.”
“You aren't.”
“Take my hand—”
Squealing as the dead girl reached to touch her, Gwyn threw herself backward, fell upon the warm damp sand at the water's edge. She scrabbled about, searching frantically for some weapon, though she realized it would probably do her no good at all. If this were a ghost, it would not be hurt by stones or other weapons; and if it were an hallucination, the product of a mind perilously close to complete disintegration, it would likewise be impervious to force.
“Gwyn…”
She closed her hands on the damp sand, scooping up balls of it and, rising to her feet, threw them wildly, like a child in a snowball battle.
The sand broke into several smaller lumps, falling all around the specter, striking her white garment.
“Stop it, Gwyn!”
Gwyn bent, scooped up more sand, tossed it, bent again, formed two more balls of sand, threw them, sucking wildly for breath, sobbing, her heart thudding like a piston.
In a moment, weak, her stomach tied in knots, almost unable to get her breath, Gwyn saw that the specter was moving away, running back up the beach toward Barnaby Manor. The dead girl moved quite gracefully, each step etherally light and quick — as if she were not really running, but were gliding only a fraction of an inch above the sand. Her full, white dress flowed out behind her, flapped at her bare legs, and her hair was a golden banner in her wake.
