Marie and I had grown up playing atWitches Hollow. For a time, we were fascinated by the supernatural. We readtarot cards and told ghost stories, and had slumber-party séances. Her motherhad inherited an old, beautiful, intricately carved spirit board, and we spentmany a night summoning spirits, until at last we grew frightened and locked theboard in a chest in her cellar. We never stopped going to the cranberry field,but after that, we spent our time there drinking blueberry wine, readingmagazines, and gossiping.
The harbor buoy bell rang, tolling thefamiliar, specific note of our harbor. Shivering, I went back inside. Our oldfarmhouse was plain and tiny compared to the millionaires’ castles that dottedthe coastline, but it was clean and cozy. The wooden floors and furnituregleamed against the white walls, and the colorful rugs and pillows andwhimsical art gave it a bright, welcoming air.
The world around me appeared unchanged.The waves still beat against the shore, the seals kept sunning themselves onthe rocks, and the sea wind carried the haunting cries of gulls and the scentof pine and saltwater. But something wasn’t right.
I listened to the news, hoping the soundof human voices would soothe me. But the topics—forest fires, the Paris Treaty,rising tensions with Russia, UFOs, and the Doomsday Clock—were hardlyreassuring. I settled in to watch The Wizard of Oz, Lela sprawled out atmy feet.
That night, I suffered a horrible nightterror. Shadowy figures clustered around me, calling my name, dragging truthand secrets from my soul. The air around them shimmered, as though I wereunderwater. One of them wore Marie’s face and Marie’s voice, but I knew itwasn’t her. I sensed something nearby, something dark, but I couldn’t run oreven move.
I woke at midnight, sweaty andfrightened, in a tangle of sheets. Lela was pacing back and forth, restless.Unable to fall asleep again, I went to get a glass of water. Glancing up, Ilooked through the kitchen window.
The dead thing stood at the edge of therose garden, clearly visible in the moonlight filtering through the pines. Shelooked washed out, a black and white character in a color movie. An ethereal,opalescent glow emanated from her pallid skin.
Her whisper cut through the night airlike a knife. “The sea takes what is hers,” she said. “And then quietly kissesyour feet.”
My blood ran cold. Jacob had said thosevery words to me once. We’d been at the shore, near Thunder Hole. I rememberedhim throwing a shell into the waves as he spoke, and then turning to smile atme. He’d been trying to soothe me, knowing I was worried about him sailing off.I enjoyed the ocean’s beauty, but I also understood its power: I’d almostdrowned as a child, and had never forgotten the feel of the cold dark watersclosing in over my head.
The ghost faded into nothingness. Ibacked into the shadows of the house.
The next morning, I stood on my porchfor hours, staring at my dying garden.
* * *
The next few days passed withoutincident. I hoped at first that the ghost had gone back to where she’d comefrom, but as time went by I began to feel that something wasn’t right. I oftensensed that I was being watched. I would see movement out of the corner of myeye, or notice things I hadn’t touched misplaced. I went about my usual tasks,but the heaviness in the air became a constant burden.
Every day, my garden faded a bit more.
Every night, the apparition drew closer.
Then, when the moon rose full, I foundthe phantasm in the kitchen, pale and faceless. Her greyish flesh didn’t looksolid, or even real; it reminded me of television snow. Her eyes were black,pupil-less holes, watching me. I wanted to tell her to move on, that she wasnot welcome. But the words stuck in my throat.
The cellar door swung open silently.Analea turned and walked down the stairs, into the darkness below the house.
As soon as she was out of sight, I heardher voice in my ear. Her breath tickled my cheek. “They never called me by myreal name.”
I spun around. There was no one there.
Then the power went out, leaving thehouse pitch black.
* * *
In the light of day, I almost convincedmyself that I’d been dreaming, but the lack of electricity was harder todismiss. I tried calling the power company, but the phone was dead. Afterdiscovering that the car wouldn’t start, I walked into town.
Summer was over. The crisp air smelledof coffee and burning leaves, the trees had changed, and the trappings ofautumn were everywhere. This did nothing to lift my spirits. I hated fall. Theblaze of color that transformed the island was, to me, a living memory of thatterrible fire. I also dreaded what was coming, the long cold months ofdarkness, the feeling of being trapped in isolation by snow and ice.
The wind coming in off the sea was coldthat day, the waves choppy and capped with churning froth. Most of thebusinesses had already closed for winter, leaving the storefronts boarded upand lifeless. Even the harbor seemed deserted: only a few weather-beatenlobster boats dared the rough waters. I wound through half-empty streets,passing gruff, bearded lobstermen and a few leaf peepers. When I finallyreached the power company, the office was closed. I’d forgotten it was aweekend.
When I turned to make my way backthrough town, I found myself standing outside the fortune teller’s shop. MadameCara, the sign said. Clairvoyant. 2-for-1 Specials.
I had always dismissed the lady as acharlatan. Grandma insisted that her séances were nothing but parlor tricks,that she could no more talk to the dead than she could call the president. ButI had no one else to turn to.
I entered the shop. She looked up,startled to see me. This was to be expected. With winter closing in, herbusiness was slow.
“You’re troubled,” she said, by way ofgreeting.
“There’s a ghost in my house,” I said.
She looked at me thoughtfully, and
