The Haunting of Maddy Clare (3 page)

The rain had indeed stopped, though the streets were grimy and dull as we wound our way along Berwick Street. It was near suppertime, and the faces that passed us looked drawn and hurried, bleached by the rain. Mr. Gellis had paid the bill at the coffeehouse, tossing the coins on the table without counting them. Now he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat and resumed his story.

“The ghost in Waringstoke is female,” he explained. “She was, apparently, a servant girl who worked for the family. She hanged herself in the barn at the age of nineteen.”

“How sad.”

“Yes. According to the vicar she was a strange girl, somewhat off in the head. She rarely left the house. Mrs. Clare—that is the lady of the house—told me the girl was afraid of men, and found their presence upsetting. She had not thought the girl’s ghost would take the same exception—who would be able to predict such a thing? In any case, she will not agree to another man in the barn, where the haunting is based. She is most adamant on this
point. And if I want to document this ghost before anyone else does, I have to agree.”

“This is completely strange to me,” I said. “But perhaps you deal with this kind of situation all the time.”

“Not at all. It’s downright crazy. Mrs. Clare could be lying, or as off her head as her maid supposedly was. But the haunting is on private property, and I have to see it. What can one do?”

I bit my lip. “And so I come in.”

“I suppose it’s daunting.”

“What if—” It felt strange even saying the words aloud, as if concern over a ghost were an everyday event. “What if she attacks me the way she did the vicar? What if I’m in danger?”

He frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I suppose I don’t really have an answer for that. Are you afraid she’ll throw things at you?”

“I don’t know. It sounds silly to be afraid of having a few things thrown at me. What if she truly intends to hurt me?”

“It’s unlikely you’ll be in any real danger.” He was looking down as we walked, thinking. “It sounds like what the vicar experienced was closer to a temper tantrum than a true attack. I’ve seen poltergeists behave that way. It’s more like an expulsion of energy than true malice.” He shrugged, the movement rolling in time with his easy gait, and glanced at me. “I suppose I can’t guarantee anything, though. This is the paranormal, after all. You will have to be prepared to take the risk.”

We wound our way into a small square lined with trees. I noticed he had a slight favor to his left leg as he walked. We were only four years from the end of the Great War, and Mr. Gellis was in his twenties. For all of my adult life I had lived in a world of
men with injuries; only old men and boys were unscarred in the London of those days. It seemed that being a rich, charming eccentric had not excluded Mr. Gellis from seeing battle like everyone else. I let this settle in, let it alter my opinion of him. I did not ask him, of course—one simply did not. But as the corner of his mouth turned down and his face set with creeping pain, Mr. Gellis did not seem like a gentle eccentric at all.

I stopped walking, and he followed suit. I stood where I was for a long time, my hands in the pockets of my thin raincoat, feeling waves of chills come over me, rippling from the crown of my head to the pit of my stomach. We had all gone through so much death in our lives. This was a real girl, a real suicide, and—possibly—a real ghost he was asking me to see.

“I don’t think I can do it,” I said.

He turned to face me. “Miss Piper,” he said softly. “Do not be afraid.”

“If it isn’t a hoax, if it’s true, you are asking me to—to see a dead thing.” Even to my own ears, my voice quavered.

He looked away from me and up to the sky. We were surrounded by small and undoubtedly expensive town houses, their walks behind low black iron fences. The noise of the city receded here. Overhead, the clouds refused to disperse; they hung like a low, dark ceiling, swirling in the sky. The trees rustled wetly in the breeze. Somewhere, a lone bird gave a cry and was quiet.

“I have seen many ghosts,” Mr. Gellis said finally. “It is so hard to explain. We’re frightened of them, but most of them are simply—lost.”

I stared blankly at the houses. My father and mother came unbidden into my mind. I was sick to my stomach, humiliated to
find myself near tears. It seemed I suddenly couldn’t control my emotions. “The dead should stay dead,” I said. I pushed my parents away. “Death is not a lark, or a hobby.”

“Miss Piper.” His voice was warm, resonant. “Look at me.”

I raised my gaze to his. He was standing squarely before me, his hands in his pockets, the wet wind gently ruffling his hair. The humor from the coffeehouse had long gone and his face was still grim. “Do you think I do not know what death is?”

I thought of his limp, and was ashamed.

“I will be there,” he went on. “You won’t be alone. We will work as a team. I know we have not met before today, but you are the right person for this. I know you are. You know you are.”

I could have wept. I could not remember the last time anyone had spoken to me with care, or kindness. I had walked the streets of this city, unseen and unnoticed. I had flitted in and out of jobs for a week at a time. I had no friends, no relatives, no men to notice me. I should say no; it was dangerous. And yet, now that I’d met him, the thought of going back to my flat, living my life, was intolerable. I wanted to be where he was.

I blinked back my tears and took a breath. I would have to take the risk, as he said. I could do it.

“When do I start?” I asked.

T
hree days later, we began the drive to Waringstoke. The June weather had turned clear and crisp, with a breath of warmth in the air. Sunlight glinted off the windows of London’s buildings and the chrome of the motorcars in the streets. In my tiny room, the sun penetrated only far enough to highlight the dusty streaks on the windows and the mildew darkening behind the wallpaper of my kitchen.

I packed most of my clothes in a small valise, leaving behind only my shabbiest items, whose seams could not be mended yet again and whose stains would not come out. I wore my best skirt, carefully brushed the evening before, and the newest blouse I owned. I could not help the condition of my coat, but Mr. Gellis had already seen it. It would have to do, as it was my only one.

Mr. Gellis estimated we would be gone a week; he said I did not need to bring anything but my belongings, but I felt the need to spend a few of my remaining coins on a crisp notebook and a new pen. I felt more of an assistant if I was prepared to actually
work. I put the notebook and pen in my handbag, on top of my other items, and I felt better, like a professional woman on her way to a job.

I took a last look around my flat before I closed the door behind me. There were the gummy tiles on the floor, the sagging sofa—and, beyond, the tiny bed, made neatly with its threadbare and mismatched sheets. I had spent many hours alone here, looking out the window and pretending to read a book, or simply sleeping. I was tempted to feel excitement now, as if I would come back a different person—a new person. Perhaps, my excitement whispered, I would not be back at all. But of course, it was foolishness. I would be back in a week, looking out the window at the world as I always had.

Mr. Gellis owned his own motorcar. I had thought we would take a train; I had almost never sat in a motorcar in my life, and certainly I had never seen one as fine as his. I hardly dared to touch the clean, soft leather upholstery in the passenger seat. There were no streaks on the windows here. I could see London as it disappeared before my eyes, as the road slid smoothly away from us. I dropped my gaze to the frayed cuff of my coat where my hands clenched in my lap and thought I must look pinched and shabby.

After our initial greeting, Mr. Gellis drove in silence, the sun catching highlights in his hair. He did not look at me for a long time; finally, he said, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The motorcar,” he said. “My father died in ’sixteen. I came home to quite a bit of money, as it turned out. No one expected it less than I.”

Came home from the war, of course. I didn’t know what to say, so I looked out the window.

“My books do sell a few copies, but I couldn’t make a living if
I had to.” He seemed in the mood to talk, with little input from me. “My father was in banking. I never had the urge to go into it myself, so I’ve no idea how he made so much money, I’m afraid. Still, I’m lucky. I’m not sure how well I would have done, trying to find an occupation.” He flashed me a smile. “The only thing I’ve ever been truly interested in is ghosts.”

“Why is that?” I turned back to him.

“Why ghosts, you mean?”

I shrugged. “I wonder how you came to be interested in something so morbid.”

He was looking at the road ahead. He was quiet for a long moment, and I began to think he wouldn’t answer. “Well, then,” he said at last. “It started with an experience. These obsessions often do.” He lifted one hand from the wheel, ran it through his hair, and replaced it. “I was sixteen. Away at boarding school. I was spending Christmas holidays with a friend of mine, named Frederick Wheeler.” He shook his head. “Old Freddy—I wonder what happened to him. We were good friends at the time, the way boys are. He was a good chap. Had a lick of blond hair that came straight down over one eye, no matter how he slicked it—it drove him crazy. We wanted to keep our hair long, of course, because we thought it would attract girls.”

He cut a glance at me and must have seen something in my face, because he gave me a warm, genuine smile. “Don’t worry; this story doesn’t end badly for Freddy, or me. Our unhappy ending was not having any girls notice us.”

I felt myself smiling. “A fate worse than death.”

“Truly.” He had turned back to the road now. “I had been there a few days, knocking around the big drafty old house with Freddy and his parents. There wasn’t much to do, but we managed
to entertain ourselves. Skating on the pond, climbing the roof of the old folly, eating everything in sight—those kinds of things, you know. Well, one night something woke me—I was never sure what, but I had been dreaming about footsteps, stealthy shuffling ones, and I thought, as I was lying there, maybe I had really heard them. I thought perhaps Freddy was awake. So I got up and went down the hall, to Freddy’s room.”

He glanced at me again, perhaps to see if I was still listening. As if I could do anything but hang on every word of this story.

“Freddy’s door was ajar,” he continued, turning back to the road again. “I peeked in, thinking maybe he was asleep after all. And he was. He was asleep in his bed, and there was something standing at his bedside, staring down at him.”

A small gasp escaped me. “No.”

“Oh, yes. It was a figure—a person, I thought, but indistinct. It was standing there, motionless, and the head was tilted down. It was certainly facing him, and staring down at him.”

“What did you do?”

“I stood there for a long time, frozen in my tracks. I couldn’t breathe, I tell you—I was so startled. The thing wasn’t moving; it didn’t seem like it had seen me, or perhaps it didn’t care. All it cared about was Freddy. It just stared at him, its hands at its sides. I could see its legs, so I thought it was male, unless it was a female wearing trousers.

“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to run more than anything, but what if the thing meant Freddy harm? Should I wake Freddy, tell him to run? Chase it away myself somehow? I was paralyzed with sheer cowardice. As I stood there—it must have been only seconds, though it didn’t feel like it—the thing turned away and disappeared. It never looked at me, and I never saw its
face. It just turned and was gone. I made my legs move and nearly stumbled back to my room.

“I lay awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling, sweating, jumping at every sound. It was years and years until dawn. By then I was half-convinced that the figure would come back, that I’d left Freddy to a horrible fate and we’d find him dead in his bed. But he came down to breakfast, well rested and right as rain.”

“Did you tell him of your experience?”

“I couldn’t. I was too ashamed. I was sure they’d think me delusional. No one seemed in the least perturbed. It started snowing that day, an awful wet-rain snow, and we had to stay inside. We banged around the house, and in one of the corridors I’d never seen before, I found a painting. It was a portrait of a young man, with floppy blond hair like Freddy’s and a serious look on his face. Freddy said it was his older brother, who had died when he fell from the loft in the barn at the age of seventeen, three years before.

“Something about it reminded me of the figure, though I couldn’t say what. And suddenly, I realized two things. First, I had seen Freddy’s dead brother, watching over Freddy while he slept. And second, I wanted to know more. Where the ghost had come from, where it had gone, why it was here. What it could tell me. I was still terrified, but I was fascinated, too.

“That was the start of it. Not right away, of course. I finished school, though I snuck all the books I could find about ghosts. Then I went to France.” He shrugged one eloquent shoulder as the corner of his mouth turned down. “I guess anyone would think I’d had enough of death over there. But what I do is different. It’s difficult to explain. Besides, I didn’t know what to do with myself after I came home. This is the only thing I want to do.” He glanced at me again. “Well, now you know all about me, I suppose.”