I carry the stack of books to a table at the very back of the room, and the librarian stares at me suspiciously from her desk.
I learn more than I would ever like to learn about ghosts and spirits and demons. Enough to know that I’ll certainly have nightmares tonight, and maybe even nightmares for the rest of my life. I learn that the Caribbean is a place where spirits and ghosts exist more than anywhere else in the world—that the air is so full of spirits that I’m breathing them in, right now as I read.
I also learn that there are some who feel ghosts and spirits and demons do not exist but are made up completely in one’s own mind, and especially in the minds of those who are delusional and have been through emotional traumas to help them cope, which makes me fear that the woman in black isn’t real at all, and is only something I’ve made up in my own head—perhaps something to desperately explain the disappearance of my mother.
The woman in black—not real. It was something I’d only wondered before, but now the possibility of this truth sears through me. Her existence reminds me of when I think of something so outlandish and silly, such as the desire to hold Kalinda’s hand, and I think of saying this outlandish thing out loud, I realize how ridiculous the thought is. Yes—it’s entirely possible that the woman in black isn’t real, and the things that no one else can see aren’t real, and I’ve simply lied to myself to feel special, and to explain why my mother would have left me, when it’s clear that she left because she simply doesn’t love me.
I slam the book shut so loud that I hear the librarian clear her throat behind me. This is one possibility that I can’t ignore. But what if I’m wrong? What if the woman in black does exist and she knows something about the reason my mother is gone?
I continue reading, keep skimming, until I look at the clock and see that I have mere seconds to learn about the woman in black before the bell rings and I have to return to class, until finally in the very last book, in the very last chapter, I do learn one useful thing: a way to communicate with a ghost.
It’s a story about a man whose daughter had unexpectedly died sleeping in her bed one night, and so the man decided to call upon her to say good-bye. It’s just about the saddest story I’ve ever read, and I have to wipe my eyes quickly so the librarian doesn’t ask me why I’m crying. The book tells me about how this man managed to speak to his child again, and I know that this is what I’ll have to try if I want to speak to the woman in black. Unfortunately, the text also specifically says not to use this trick on a demon, for the demon will surely overpower and possess or even kill you. Which is a horrifying thing to read, for while I don’t know if the woman in black really exists, I’m also not really sure whether the woman in black would be a spirit or a ghost or a demon if it turns out that she’s as real as I am.
This is something I’ll have to figure out—and there’s really only one way to do that.
The bell rings. I tuck this one book into my schoolbag, as I’ve done with many other books before, and hurry out of the library before the librarian’s suspicious stare burns a hole right through the back of my head.
When I’m finally home, I close and lock my door and take my book and flip it open so it’s like a bird resting in my hand. The instructions from the man’s story are clear: I have to light a candle and speak the woman in black’s name. I don’t know her name, so I will call her “woman in black.” I then have to pray to her until she finally appears. This book says that some people have a stronger ability to call spirits and demons forward than others, but I figure I must have a strong ability, else she wouldn’t appear to me in the first place. (Unless, of course, the only reason she appears to me is because I’ve made her up in my head.) Once she comes, she won’t be able to leave, because I’ll have poured a ring of salt that she will find impenetrable, and she’ll have no choice but to stay and speak with me.
I tell myself I’m not afraid, because I’m prepared: The candle is lit, the lights off, the salt poured—but of course my heart is hammering in my chest so hard that it’s a painful beat.
I call for her. “Woman in black,” I say, but I’m not really sure what to say after that. “Woman in black,” I say again, my voice not quite as shaky as it was the first time.
I sit there for what feels like at least ten minutes, legs crossed and cramping, but when I look at the clock again, only one minute has passed. So I sit there for ten minutes, which truly feels like an hour, periodically calling for her again and again—but I have a feeling she’s not coming. And I can’t ignore the obvious explanation for why she won’t be coming to visit me. It looks like little Caroline Murphy really is as crazy as she is evil.
What should I
