A moment later, her eyes snapped open.“Analea,” she said. “A victim of the fire.”
That explained why I always smelledsmoke when she was near. “What does she want?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes the deadlinger. Sometimes they are bound here. Sometimes they need help moving on. Andsome are trapped, bound to a certain place or object.”
“Why?”
Madame Cara laughed, a chuckle thatturned into a cough. “There’s as many answers to that as there are ghoststories.”
I wanted to roll my eyes at the drama inher voice, the theatrics Grandma had warned me about. But I couldn’t dismisswhat she’d said. “There’s something else. Dark figures come into my room atnight. They stand around my bed, and force me to answer questions.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Mirrors and spiritboards,” she said, “are nothing to toy with.”
“I haven’t fooled with any of that inyears,” I said. “But I live in a thin place.”
She frowned, disapproval clear on herface, and then lit some incense. The air filled with sweet, thick smoke. Ibegan to feel lightheaded. “What do I do?”
Madame Cara made some signs over me. Ifelt nothing, save a vague annoyance and a mild headache.
After a few moments, she shook her head.“I cannot help you.”
I stared at her. “What? Why?”
“The dead don’t move on until they areready,” she told me. “And besides, you think I’m a fraud.” She waved me out,her hand flapping like a bejeweled fish. “Go home. Get some rest.”
Angry, I turned and walked out, settingthe bells on her door jangling as I left.
A group of girls passed me on thestreet, laughing and chattering, their conversation hanging the salty air likea cloud. One of them looked back as they went by. Something about her remindedme of Marie, and a lump rose in my throat.
I paused once more on the way back, thistime at the edge of the cranberry field. The crimson berries stood out againsta colorless, drab bog.
Some said the fire had started there.Marie and I had been there that day, eating berries and drinking hot applecider from the orchard down the road. Her fiancé was out of town, so she wasspending the night.
She’d just bought a bright red lipstick.We both tried it on. “It looks better on you,” I told her. “It makes me looklike I’ve eaten too many of these berries.”
“That’s the point.” Marie laughed andput her cigarette down, rubbing her heel against it. “When does Jacob comehome?”
“Not for several months. I’ll have tofinish the redecorating myself, before he returns. There’s just so much to do.”I looked at her, smiling. “I may need your help, if I’m going to finish itbefore the baby comes.”
Her face lit up, and she hugged me.“Elizabeth, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!”
We stayed a few minutes longer, laughingand talking, and then ran home. It was very windy that day. Gusts caught at ourdresses and whipped our hair around, and sent fallen leaves fluttering down theroad. Looking up, I saw a crow fighting the wind. It gave up, and perched on afencepost.
I’d always wondered, afterwards, if thatcigarette was really out.
Looking at the cranberry bog, I couldalmost hear our laughter. A fog was rolling in from offshore, cloaking the landin cold mist. I huddled into my coat, and hurried home.
When I reached the house, I found everysingle light on, even the cellar light. The radio was blaring at full blast,and Lela was barking frantically. I had to take several deep breaths before Ifound the resolve to go inside.
The radio and lights turned off as soonas I stepped through the door.
Horror rose through me as I lookedaround. The paint, which had been fresh and white just hours before, was dirtyand chipped. Several floorboards had rotted out, and the sink was covered inrust stains. The windows were grimy and cracked. One of the kitchen floor tileswas displaced, and an ugly yellow water stain marred the ceiling. My windowsillherbs were dried and shriveled, though they had looked green and healthy whenI’d left that morning. Only the pictures on the wall seemed unchanged. But whenI reached out to touch my favorite—Jacob at the dock, standing before hisfather’s lobster boat—it crumbled to dust.
That night, the dark figures againgathered around my bed, calling my name.
The next day, desperate, I returned tothe fortune teller. But the business was boarded up, closed for the winter.Like the birds and tourists, she had gone south to warmer lands to escapewinter’s frozen bite.
The haunting continued, as did thedrought.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, the house beganto show more signs of wear. The lawn and garden shriveled, leaving my prizedroses nothing but dried, withered husks. I often felt weak and dizzy, as thoughI, too, were fading. Lela ran away, disappearing into the mists one moonlessnight. I spent days wandering the woods looking for her, but to no avail.
One day, not long after that, I had togo down into the cellar to bring up some winter things. I made quick work ofsorting through the trunks and boxes for my warmer clothes.
I wasn’t fast enough.
When I started up the stairs, Analea wasstanding at the door, looking down at me. Startled, I stumbled backwards,losing my balance. My stomach gave sickening lurch as I fell through the air. Itumbled down the steps, and fell through a cloud of spiderwebs before hittingthe dirt floor.
The blow stunned me. I closed my eyesand wiped the spiderwebs away, telling myself it wasn’t real, that she would begone soon.
She wasn’t.
When I looked up, she was coming downthe steps towards me. Her feet never touched the stairs. I could not make outher face, but I again smelled the acrid tang of smoke.
My heart thudded in my chest. “Go away,”I shouted. “This is my house!”
The ghost regarded me for a moment. Sheopened her mouth, which hinged back to an impossible angle, like the jaws of asnake, and screamed my rage back at me. As she did so, her flesh—or thesemblance of her flesh—turned dark. The light fled her, as though she had banishedit. Instead of emanating a pale glow, the
