The Haunting of Maddy Clare (9 page)

I clattered forward into the room. “I’m terribly sorry I—”

Neither of them saw me; neither of them heard me at all. They were both hunched over the recording machine, Mr. Ryder with some sort of small speaker pressed to his ear. Mr. Gellis was staring in utter concentration.

I hear something
had not referred to me at all. I reddened.

Send her home.

I looked at Mr. Ryder. He was in profile to me, listening to his earpiece with utter focus, his lips slightly parted. I noticed, in the dim light of the room, with the leisure to look at him without his terrifying gaze on me, that his lashes were thick and black.

Mr. Gellis turned, saw me, and silently motioned me over. I took my gaze from Mr. Ryder and moved in.

Mr. Ryder sagged, gave a small gasp, and took the speaker from his ear. He turned the dials on the recorder, rewinding the wire, and gave the earpiece to Mr. Gellis without a word.

It was Mr. Gellis’ turn to listen as Mr. Ryder played the sound. He, too, dropped the earpiece and moved away, as if upset.

Mr. Ryder picked up the earpiece and handed it to me. He turned the dials again. I felt strange, as if I was both disregarded and treated as an equal; for the moment, it was as if I were a man
like one of them. I pressed the speaker to my ear, and Mr. Ryder played the recording.

It was muffled; there was a long space of hissing sound, and then a voice I recognized—my own—saying, “Hello? Hello?” I remembered saying that as I moved toward the horse stalls, clicking the camera. My hands began to shake.

A long silence again; then some sounds, as if from far off; and then, incredibly, a shuffling sound, crisp and clear, directly next to the machine’s microphone. I knew, at this point, that I was somewhere near the stables, beginning to feel warm, perhaps trying not to look at Maddy, or perhaps already not looking at her. And this sound, at the same time, was next to the recording machine.

A shuffle again, arrhythmic and uneven; a pop, a bang that hurt my ear; and a blast of sound, white prickly static, on and on—and then, silence.

I put the earpiece down. Tears pricked my eyelids. I was suddenly tired, and weary, and so very, terribly sorry.

The ghost had found our machine, and somehow, she had broken it.

T
here is little to say about the rest of that day, or so I sometimes think to myself. That is to say, we did not have any further supernatural visitations, and no more strangers appeared at the window. And yet there is one incident from that day that I have left to tell. It seemed like nothing—should have been nothing—and yet I find it nearly the hardest to tell.

Mr. Ryder worked furiously, and with a great many obscene oaths, to fix the machine’s recording apparatus. He didn’t succeed. Mr. Gellis retreated to his room to type his notes. We ate. At some point, I went to my bed and slept.

I did not dream of ghosts; instead I dreamed, strangely, about Mrs. Barry, the fashionable woman I had seen walking her dog that morning. In my dream she stood at the edge of the woods where the strange man had been, holding a cigarette, but I knew the cigarette was somehow terribly dangerous, and she should not touch it. As she raised it to her lips, I tried to scream.

I woke groggy and confused. The light in the room was failing
around me, and as I wiped the sweat from my face, I realized it was nearly night. My body felt heavy and my head ached. Reluctantly, I got out of bed.

I stepped out into the hallway, heading for the washroom. The inn was very small, and we were the only guests; though the place was usually quiet, it was especially so now. It was the end of the dinner hour, and from the soft murmur of voices from the downstairs common room I could tell that everyone in the building except myself could likely be found there. The guest hallway was utterly deserted.

I padded down the hall under the dim light, touching the dark oak walls with my fingertips to guide my way. The quiet settled about me, the comfortable peace of a house inhabited by people in a far-off room, and I felt very private, as if I were invisible.

The washroom door stood ajar, with no light within. I approached silently and pulled it open. Then I stood, rooted to the spot, taking in what I saw there with a shock that reverberated through all of my body.

There are large moments in life; but sometimes it is the small moments—the casual moments—that change everything. The second’s absent wandering of attention before an accident. The choice to take one road, instead of another. I could not pinpoint exactly how everything changed the second I opened that washroom door; I knew only, and instantly, it seemed, that nothing in my life would ever be the same.

Mr. Ryder stood in the washroom. He was standing before the mirror, a flannel in his hand. He had the flannel pinched between his forefinger and thumb, and pressed tightly between his eyes, to the bridge of his nose. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, as if he was in the extremes of pain.

He wore only trousers; his feet and chest were bare. He was turned partly away from me, and did not see me in that first instant. I glimpsed his discarded white shirt, tossed carelessly over the old radiator. But, mostly, I saw him.

Spread across his sleekly muscled back and down his right arm, which pulsed with lean, raw strength, was an enormous, dark pink burn scar. It ravaged the skin of his shoulder blades, up to the close-cropped hair on the back of his neck; it twisted its way down, through the dip of his lower back, to the waistband of his trousers. The flesh even on his rib cage and under his arm was tortured with fire, and the arm itself was scored and angry, the skin tight and painful, down and down unto the wrist and the back of his hand, the edge of which I realized I had glimpsed as he handed me my cup of tea.

It was hideous, horrible, the most terrible scar I had ever seen, marring his body so utterly that it looked as if he were even now consumed with flame. The image of him shocked me—nearly naked, utterly still, his body a testament to unimaginable torture. I stepped back, and my back hit the wall. I may have made some sort of sound. Mr. Ryder opened his eyes, and lowered the flannel, slowly, I thought—he seemed to force himself to come back from wherever he had been, to come away from whatever private and lonely hell of pain he had inhabited and return to the here and now. He turned and looked at me, registering me, pressed back against the wall, my lips parted, a look of horror undoubtedly on my face. A swift expression came into his eyes—anger, and, underneath it, a terrible despair. Our eyes held for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

He reached out and closed the door.

I could not breathe. I should knock—speak to him—tell
him—what? I had seen something so intensely private to him, he would likely never forgive me. In that one moment I had opened the door, it seemed probable Mr. Ryder would hate me forever.

I made my way back to my bedroom, quickly undressed, and lay on my bed in my slip, hugging my knees to my chest. Yes, he would hate me now. Despite our brief acquaintance, and our mutual antipathy, I still felt the loss of it. Even more, I felt the loss to him, of whatever horrible thing he had gone through, to receive such scars on his body. I felt the loss to a strong young man, to his life and vitality, to be injured so.

But more, even more than those things, I felt a keen loss at our misunderstanding. Because he had turned and seen me at exactly the moment of my first surprise, and my expression must have been one of, he would think, revulsion. Though he did not like me, it had cut him to the quick to have a woman look at him in horror. It would cut any man. Even I knew that.

And as I lay there, I knew he had misunderstood. When I closed my eyes, I could see the image of him burned behind my eyelids. When I opened them again, I could see nothing but him, standing before me. There was a knot deep in my stomach, bruised and painful, a deep tug of longing that would not go away. Again I saw him turn to look at me, and I knew the longing would never be gone. I was doomed to it. For there was no way to convince him that, with all his scars, the terrible truth was that he was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

T
he next day, as planned, we interviewed Mrs. Clare and Mrs. Macready. We used the inn’s private room again; it was here that my secretarial skills came into use, as Mr. Gellis conducted the interviews, and I sat nearby, transcribing everything in my tidy shorthand. Mr. Ryder sat in the corner of the room, again out of both my sight and the interviewees’, and listened. If he had any opinion of my taking on the task he would normally do, he did not voice it.

I could not look at Mr. Ryder, and he did not look at me, but I was painfully aware of his presence. He wore a white shirt this morning, under a corduroy jacket of deep brown that looked well-fitted and well-worn. He wore no tie, of course—he had not worn one the previous day either, and I had the impression it was not his usual practice. He had not shaved, and his jaw was dark. This was all I allowed myself to see before I turned away.

Mr. Gellis, in contrast, was trim and shaven, his shirt crisp and pressed, his hair neatly combed. He sat calm in his chair, the
picture of utter focus as the lengthy interviews went on. I was starting to see how clever he was—with his clean good looks, he could hide a skillful interview behind the blandness of polite conversation. In essence, he could efface himself when needed. One could know this only if one had seen him at other times, when his passionate obsession was roused, or when he was somehow painfully conflicted, as he had seemed when smoking a cigarette with Mrs. Barry. He had a great deal of charm and charisma, too, when he wished—charisma he could just as easily tamp down and put away.

Mrs. Clare came to be interviewed first. She gave Mr. Gellis a look of curiosity that was tinged unmistakably with approval. “You didn’t mention in your letter that you are acquainted with the Barrys.”

Mr. Gellis, who had been settling down with his notebook in avid anticipation, paused in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“The Barrys,” Mrs. Clare replied. “You had a conversation with Evangeline Barry yesterday morning. It seems you have known her some time?” She smoothed her skirt absently, not seeming to need an answer. “I myself know them only slightly. They’ve never made much effort, I have to say, though of course they could have, as my husband was the magistrate. They’re known to be rather standoffish. I’ve heard that he’s no better than he should be, for all that they have money.” She looked up at Mr. Gellis again. “It goes to show that money, especially new money, simply does not equal class.”

We were all quiet after this extraordinary speech. I could not read Mr. Gellis’ expression to see what he made of it. Who had seen the conversation yesterday morning, and gossiped around town about it? The innkeeper, or his family, perhaps? I turned to
look at Mr. Ryder in his corner. His eyebrows were slightly elevated and he tilted his head. He was evidently seeing something in Mr. Gellis’ face that I was not able to see.

I turned back. Mrs. Clare looked only at Mr. Gellis, as if she had decided there was no one else in the room. She had recognized Mr. Gellis as of her own class of gentry, based on his acquaintance with the richest couple in town, and the concept seemed almost a relief to her; though, of course, she had had to make certain he understood that her own status was based on quality, and not on something as vulgar as money. Mr. Ryder and I, possessing neither, were not worthy of notice.

“Ah, well,” said Mr. Gellis. “My acquaintance with Mrs. Barry is from years ago, I’m afraid, and I know her husband not at all.”

“They’re not seen much, as I said. The house was empty for years until he inherited it, and they only lived there a few years after they married. They went to London and came back after the Armistice. The women here have tried to feel some sympathy for her, not having any children, but she hasn’t been very receptive. As for him, money is about all the good anyone can say for him. No one even knows what his father did.”

Mr. Gellis rubbed his temple, bemused and perhaps a little embarrassed. “Well,” he said.