I shrugged, equally perplexed. “I don’t know. My pet ghost, you know, the dog, it’s been dragging my clothes around, even chewing on them,” I said feeling frustrated all over again just thinking about it. “And today, just now, I tripped over it.”
“You tripped over a ghost?”
“Yeah, I know, it’s crazy, but that’s not even the half of it. The sulky ghost, the one that haunts my motel, he can pick me up, and punch. He punches things.”
She gasped, totally appalled. “He’s violent?”
“I guess so, but in a good way. He’s helped me out of a pinch a time or two.” My response did nothing to appease her. I tried again. “Really, he’s never hurt me. He’s very protective,” I assured.
There was a concerned pause before she asked, “Have you noticed this phenomenon among all the ghosts?”
“There aren’t a lot of ghosts on St. Simons, but Jekyll Island is lousy with them.” I thought back to the ghosts I’d seen. “For the most part, they appeared normal, or whatever’s normal for a ghost. But there was one... she was different.”
“How so?”
“She suspected I could see her, so she began to taunt me, hoping I’d react. She pinched one of my friends and whispered in another’s ear, she could also make the trees move. But none of it seemed to tire her. She didn’t blink out or fade away. It was like she had a store of energy. But what do I know? Maybe it’s like with bugs—she’s the strongest because she’s their queen.”
Suspicious and worried, Nancy asked, “This ghost, what did she look like?”
“Middle-aged, probably died in the seventies.” I forwent mentioning the hefty bit because of my audience.
“Oh dear,” Nancy muttered.
“I was joking about the queen thing.”
“Yes, I know, it’s not that.”
“What?” I asked, not liking the direction of her emotions.
“Her name is Mable,” Nancy said, shifting in her chair uneasily. “She was... well, I suppose you could say she was Percy’s pet ghost.”
“What!”
“He came across her,” she paused to think, “on his first visit to the island,” Nancy explained. “We were living in northern Georgia at the time and he was traveling on business for a day or two. He mentioned her when he came back, just briefly. But his ghost sightings were never news, so I forgot about it.
“But then we moved here and she sort of... attached herself to him.” Nancy’s fingers smoothed the tablecloth rhythmically, a gentle fidget. “He said she was helpful.”
“But you didn’t like her,” I guessed from the rising resentment.
Chagrined, she said, “It’s ridiculous, I know, to begrudge a ghost.” With a self-depreciating smile, she said, “But in my defense, living with her was really quite burdensome.
“Obviously I couldn’t sense her, and yet, I always knew when she was there. Percy gave it away. I’d wake in the morning next to him and he’d act cool towards me, unaffectionate, and I’d know she was in the room watching.” Nancy looked at me, saying, “You can feel how I grew to resent her, and I think she felt the same.
“Eventually I talked to Percy, admitting I didn’t want her in the house. He didn’t take me seriously, said she was harmless. So I let my complaints rest, but I don’t think that Mable did. After that it was as you said, a pinch, an odd chill at the back of my neck, and even once a nudge while I was going down the stairs.”
“What a bitch!”
Nancy was too nice to agree, but I felt her affirmation. “It’s a good thing she didn’t follow you from Jekyll. If Mable knew you could see her, she’d latch on to you just like she did with Percy.”
We both lapsed into silence.
I was thinking how shitty my life could get with Mable hanging around. I felt she had a mischievous nature and could easily imagine her dramatically popping out like the fourth member of Charlie’s Angels, interrupting me while I was peeing or something.
“It’s very strange,” Nancy began. I got a sense of discovery—her thoughts had obviously been more productive than mine. “Percy never helped Mable cross the veil, though he tried often enough. He was sure she had some unfinished business, something holding her here.” Nancy didn’t realize she was plucking threads from the tablecloth, too engrossed in her thoughts to notice. “But I’m not so sure. I think what Mable really wanted was to be seen.” Nancy’s fingers stilled and she looked at me then. I could tell by the flurry of fleeting impressions that she’d pieced something together, some idea I couldn’t follow.
“What?” I demanded, bothered that she would have to spell it out for me.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the ghosts you’ve noticed changing have each been in contact with someone gifted to see them.” I could feel her growing more certain of her theory as she continued. “What is a ghost anyway? No,” she interrupted before I could say a word, “more importantly, what is a soul?”
I shrugged, clueless as to where this was going.
“A soul is the combination of spirit and body,” she said intently. “And ghost is just another word for spirit. So you have these incomplete beings drifting around without their bodies, unable to make a mark in our world.”
I scoffed, “And what? You think I’m giving them back a piece of their soul?”
She sat back in her chair, totally satisfied, and simply said, “Yes.”
“That’s a bit far-fetched,” I chided.
“Our bodies are the instruments through which we influence the world. Spirits lack bodies, but if you see them then they don’t lack influence. Through you they can change things. And yes,” she said firmly, “maybe that control gives them back a piece of their soul.”
“Then why aren’t all the ghosts Percy saw, you know, soulier?”
“Mable was the only ghost he saw frequently, she was around for years. The others he’d try to help, and if he couldn’t, he moved on. It makes perfect sense,” she said, growing more excited. “Percy could only see the ghosts, but you can see and feel them. With you they can communicate, truly express themselves. It would explain why your ghosts have grown strong so quickly, they’ve probably surpassed Mable a hundred times over.”
I ignored the satisfaction she gleaned from her own remark. Instead I said, “How come Percy never figured this out?”
“He could only see Mable, so their communication process was stinted and difficult. Gathering the pieces of her soul must have happened slowly over the course of years. He probably didn’t notice the change because it was so subtle and slow in coming.”
“You know what that means?” I asked, growing equally excited. “There are other people out there who can see ghosts!”
Nancy was confused, so I tried to explain. “Ghosts haunt things. They appear in cemeteries and rattle the pipes in creepy houses. I’m sure, like psychics, most ghost stories are full of shit, but a few must be real. And if a ghost can do those things then it means it got that strength from somewhere.”
Nancy nodded. “You’re right. I’ll go through Percy’s papers and hopefully I can find someone who shares the gift.”
“No one with this ability ever came to the occult gathering you host?”
She shook her head. “Most who attend are from the states. If Percy knew of someone with a similar talent, they may well live halfway around the world,” she admitted.
“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed.
And again we lapsed into silence.
I wondered what my part in the master plan was. It seemed odd that a soul should lose its body in death but continue on, incomplete and unsatisfied. And why then did they cross through the veil at all? Was I meant to be a ghost therapist, offering my counsel to the lost souls? It was certainly ironic that my mere recognition gave them substance, or was it? I never could pinpoint irony.
I did know I needed to be more careful. My interaction gave the ghosts strength. I co
uld now see how the séance had bolstered Smith’s abilities. Afterwards he was more than happy to punch Beagban, something he hadn’t been able to do before. I’d have to be choosy the next time I saw a spirit. I didn’t want a Mable-like hanger-on. And I had to be sure that those I helped truly deserved it. I thought of my pet ghost. I was going to have to ignore him before he started to shed all over the sofa.
Smith though, I really owed him. On a whim I asked, “Can you do a reading for a ghost?”
She thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know, but I can try. Just let me find my cards,” she said softly to herself while rummaging through a kitchen drawer. “Ah ha!” she said triumphantly, holding up a weathered pack of tarot cards.
“Aren’t those supposed to be wrapped in a fancy cloth and kept snug under your pillow?” After meeting Nancy I had Googled the art of tarot during a lull at work. One website had given specific details about bonding with the deck, how the cards were sensitive to energies and such.
“Oh, pish-tosh,” Nancy said, waving her hand at my nonsense. “I have a slew of cards, not all of them tarot either, and they’re all well used. It hardly matters.”
I watched her shuffle like a seasoned croupier, mesmerized by the flashing cards and her quick hands. “If you don’t do tarot in the traditional sense, then how do you do it?”
She shrugged, laying a handful of cards facedown. “It’s hard to say really. You ask any seer, no matter the method, and you’ll always get a cryptic answer. It’s not a matter of doing anything. I simply look at the cards and a pattern presents itself, something only I can see.” Again she shrugged, as if knowing her answer was less than satisfactory.
She flipped the cards one at a time, and apart from the whisking sound they made the room remained silent. It was really quite dramatic. I’d been hoping for a show, imagining she’d murmur the significance of each card while prophesying my eventual greatness. But this was reality—I wasn’t paying, and the reading wasn’t mine. But even still, it was dramatic. I caught myself unconsciously holding my breath in anticipation.
Nancy stared at the cards, and after what seemed an eternity she began to rearrange them, as if putting together a story. I could feel when she was done, and she leaned back to prove it. Flicking the death card, she said, “In a traditional reading I would assure you that this card is not literal, that it doesn’t herald your death.”
“But?” I asked, feeling one coming.
She smiled. “But in this case it’s more than literal. The death card represents the ghost, and I see that you will give him a new beginning.”
“You’re not really wowing me with your psychic skills,” I said severely. “We figured that much out with logic.” I leaned over the cards, squinting hard. “Does it mention anything about his life? Maybe some bit of information that can lead me to a paper trail. A death certificate would be a nice start. Maybe it would hint me in the right direction, help me discover what his unfinished business is.”
“You won’t find one,” she said, staring into the cards. “You won’t find a death certificate.”
“Um... why not? I promise he’s really dead.”
“Not according to the state.”
“How can that be?” I wondered.
“They never found a body,” Nancy explained.
“Did the cards tell you that?”
“No, it was logic,” Nancy said, and I thought she might be smirking.
I sat back, tartly asking, “Anything else?”
“Yes. The weeping woman can help you.”
“And who is she?” I questioned, though I knew it was a waste of breath.
Nancy shrugged, proving me right.
Chapter 35
Lucas,
I’m not really seeing that guy. He just pays me to be his date.
- Adelaide
I scratched over the note, thinking he might mistake my meaning. Only my first attempt and I was already frustrated. I took a deep breath and tried again.
Dear Lucas,
What you saw wasn’t what it looked like, but I can’t explain because the truth is much less believable. But trust me, I’d never date a man who smiles that often.
- Sincerely yours, Adelaide
I scribbled over that note too, but thought I might be making progress.
I was interrupted by a shifty looking man—I guessed sex offender. Predictably, he stared at my chest while I rushed him through the check-in process. His arousal was repulsive and I couldn’t wait to throw his room key over the counter. After he left I wrote a note to warn Missy, she should have her mace close at hand tonight.
I paused a moment after the door closed, waiting until I felt like myself again. Tapping my notepad absently, I tried to focus on what I really wanted to express. Inspiration struck and I took up my pen.
I want to share your soap, that’s how much I like you.
Though it expressed my attraction to a T, I worried Lucas might be confused at finding this simple statement taped to his door. Hopelessly I crossed it out as well.
I wanted to say ‘it’s not what it looks like,’ or ‘I can explain.’ But since those were the lines most often used by cheating spouses, I forwent the cliché. Eventually, and with much reluctance, I wrote:
Avoiding me is cowardly. I’ll explain when you’re done brooding.
It didn’t hint at a mere misunderstanding, and it didn’t make me sound innocent, but hopefully it would shame him into seeing me. I left the note on his door as soon as I got home that night. Then I spent the rest of the evening resisting the temptation to hop the fence and see if he got it.
* * *
Smith was suffering from the mopes again, so I felt him coming. And sure enough, moments later, he swept into the kitchen. I briefly paused mid-bite, letting the bagel hover near my mouth while I eyed him. Having sifted through the back door he was obviously not solid, but he certainly looked it. I scrutinized him while finishing my breakfast. Was his shirt brighter? His face less pale? It seemed so. And again I couldn’t help but think how much more comfortable I was with his misty form. There was nothing threatening about a drifting cloud of fluff.
He’d taken to following me, that I knew, but even so he hardly came to the house, preferring to haunt Sterling’s. So I asked, “Is everything alright?”
Smith shrugged, his attention settling on the little dog I’d diligently been ignoring all morning.
I stood up to rinse my plate. My unwelcome pet followed, begging on its hind legs, hoping to receive a crumb.
Smith casually settled himself on the chair I’d just vacated, his mannerisms so natural I nearly forgot he was dead. I half expected him to open his mouth and start talking. He didn’t of course. Mutely he watched the dog, amused by its antics.
“Stop that,” I said, annoyed with the both of them. Addressing Smith specifically, I said, “Don’t even look at it, it’s being punished.”
I wasn’t speaking to the dog, but I was speaking about it. I didn’t know if that counted. To play it safe I assumed that the mere reference of it was considered an impact on my side of the veil, and it was therefore still winning back the pieces of its soul. So I changed the subject, unwilling to charge its batteries and further its bad behavior. “I went to this psychic I know, and she did a reading for you.”
He was confused.
“Psychic,” I repeated like I knew exactly what it meant. I waved my hand around. “You know... occult, clairvoyant, card reader...” I quit throwing out random words, letting my voice trail off when he seemed to grasp my meaning. “Anyway, she said I wouldn’t find your death certificate, that it doesn’t exist, even hinted that your body had never been found.”
I had his complete attention, I could feel it. His earlier despondence was forgotten as was any distraction, the dog included. I was the center of his universe. And if he were living, I’d say he waited with bated breath to hear what I would say
next.
“I’ll take your sudden interest as a confirmation of her assertion.”
He nodded and I could feel the yes with his emotions.
“So you died but no one knows it?” I repeated to be sure.
His affirmation was clear.
Absently I tugged at my hair, taking in this new information. “Maybe finding the body, I mean your body, is your unfinished business,” I suggested.
His emotions roiled. They were a disorganized mess. I thought he felt unsure, doubtful even.
“Alright,” I sighed. “It’s evident you still don’t know your own unfinished business,” I stressed heavily with frustration. Continuing, “The psychic said someone else could help. Do you know who the weeping woman is?”
His figure exploded out, raining down white. It dissolved so quickly I missed his expression entirely. His emotions were a different matter though, and for a moment they remained in his wake. None of them were pleasant. He’d been quite disturbed by my question, a sure sign he knew exactly who the weeping woman was. Unfortunately he appeared less than willing to communicate with his medium about it.
If Smith thought to discourage my curiosity about the weeping woman with his little tantrum, then he’d made a mistake. In fact, he’d only made the mystery more interesting, spurred me on as it were.
I considered the whole situation while getting ready, used some deductive reasoning, and decided what to do next.
Judging from his outfit, I figured Smith probably died at some point in the last thirty years. Okay, so flannel and denim were common. Lumberjacks had probably been wearing them since the dawn of time. But the cut and style of his clothing didn’t seem too outdated. And his hair had that messy look which I imagined couldn’t exist until after the fifties. They were so neat and tidy back then, with their sweater sets and slicked back hair. Alright, so maybe my theory had a few holes, but I was confident nonetheless.
Under the assumption that Smith died in the last thirty years, and knowing he’d lived on the island at the time, I figured a little local gossip might be useful. This was when I’d typically seek out Francesca, only Francesca and I weren’t speaking. But I could speak with the next best source—her mother.