I smiled shakily back. “What would I do, Miss Bloom, if I needed to protect the camp from something worse than bad? There’s a very bad spirit, and it calls itself—”
She made a sharp shushing noise to cut me off. No, don’t say it. That’s not his name.
Her delicate form went loose. I could hardly make her out in the cloud I breathed over my bed. My room was so cold, my arms and legs were covered in goose bumps, mostly from the chill. But partly because Agatha was frankly a tad scary. I’m not sure I can explain why.
Oh, darling dear. He’s already inside. Good salt might bind him, but only for a minute. Not even lye would hold him out now.
“I don’t understand.”
Talk to George.
“Warn him about . . . the spirit? The hammer?”
She made a face, and it wasn’t happy. I shouldn’t have called him that, but she didn’t shush me a second time. All she said was, Everyone has to go. Everyone has to get out.
“Everyone?”
All of you, yes. For Jesus’s sake, get out before you burn. Before everything does.
18
TOMÁS CORDERO
Cassadaga, Florida
I WENT BACK to my room last night, disappointed and disheartened, with Felipe under my arm to keep me company. I do not know how I lived so long without a dog. Left to my own devices, I might have chosen a larger dog, or a different breed under different circumstances, in a different life—but this strange and shattered little thing is perfect, and I already love him beyond reason.
No wonder Mrs. Vasquez adored him so.
I split the last of the meat and cheese between us, and I sat on the bed with some of the pamphlets I’d received from the woman at the bookshop. I read through them all and forgot every word as soon as I put them down. I contemplated the book of matches in my pocket, and I wondered if the pamphlets would say anything should I burn them. But they were not important to me, or to Evelyn, either. I doubted they would produce results of any kind.
Then again, I also had a little book—a treatise on faith healing that had sounded like a good idea very suddenly, as I’d stood in the shop across from the hotel. I’d bought it on a whim, and I could burn it on a whim just as easily.
Felipe fixed at me with a disapproving glare, as if he knew exactly what I had in mind.
“It’s safe here,” I told him as I gathered up the book and my matches and retreated to the washroom. “It’s safe, but they don’t believe me when I tell them it’s Evelyn trying to speak. You didn’t know Evelyn,” I said over my shoulder. The tub was iron, like the one I had at home. It was dry, because I hadn’t used it that day. I threw everything inside it.
Behind me, I heard the soft patter of tiny feet. Felipe had followed, but he would not enter the washroom proper. He sat down right before the doorway and watched.
“I wish you could’ve met her before she died.” I held up the matchbox and one phosphorous-tipped stick. “She would have loved you. You would have loved her, too.”
I struck the match, dropped it, and let the paper curl, and blacken, and spark.
While it burned, I walked around the bathtub and opened the small window beside it to let the smoke out. I did not want the smell to fill the hall and alarm anyone. I did not want Alice Dartle to catch a hint of it and break down the door.
• • •
ALICE means well. I know she means well.
I believe that if I can make her understand, she will be able to help us. Evelyn needs help communicating with me, and she must have something deeply important to say—for she has gone to all this trouble. She needs a medium. Alice is just such a medium. I don’t know why she is so afraid. All I am asking is for her to perform her job, a job she advertised in a magazine. In a roundabout fashion. She should not be afraid.
I am not afraid. Not anymore.
Or . . . I am not afraid of the same things as I was before. Now I am afraid that no one will believe me when I try to explain that it is only my wife and not some holy terror. Any oversized sense of darkness, fire, or a masculine presence these sensitive folks in Cassadaga may sense around me . . . it’s only the war. It’s only the charred, melted baggage that I brought back with me. At worst, they sense perhaps a faint and lonely soldier or two, rendered ghostly by the great Livens machine. Maybe that.
Nothing darker, or worse. Nothing I can’t live with. Nothing I didn’t create myself.
• • •
SO why did I long for reassurance?
I know my wife’s face, her hands, and her script. I watched the paper burn in the bathtub and I asked aloud, very softly, so no one in the next room (or outside) might hear me: “Have I done the right thing? Have I come to the right place, my love?”
The first edge of the flame ran out of fuel and fizzled out. The rest was shortly behind it, though the book smoldered a minute longer.
I got down on my knees, leaned over, and blew gently on the ashes to scatter them—and see what might be left behind. Of course, she did not disappoint me. She never did. She never could. There in the ashes I saw two little letters, in that familiar handwriting.
Sí.
Sí, I replied, a promise and a prayer. Sí, of course. Sí.
19
ALICE DARTLE
Cassadaga, Florida
SOMETHING IS TERRIBLY wrong in Cassadaga, and growing wronger by the day.
By the hour, even. I am at a loss. I am grieving.
I am confused and afraid. By everything. Of everything.
• • •
AS hard as I tried to obey Agatha Bloom and visit Mr. Colby, he was resting under Dr. Holligoss’s care and I was denied entrance. I considered making a fuss, but I settled instead for passing along the message that I’d spoken to Agatha and that she wanted me to speak to him. The doctor promised to share it when the old man awakened.
“I really think it’s quite urgent,” I tried one last time.
He lowered his voice and replied, “So is Mr. Colby’s condition, Miss Dartle. He’s had a spell, and now he’s resting. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you came by, and intrigued by the thought that you’ve spoken to Agatha. She doesn’t talk to just anyone.”
“But she did. She spoke to me. She said it was critical—that we’re all in danger, and we should pack up and go. She says that the awful spirit can’t be kept out!”
“Forgive me, Miss Dartle, but we know this much already. Dr. Floyd and Mr. Colby spoke earlier, and she told him she had an idea—but she needed some time to research. Between us, Mr. Colby left that meeting looking quite pale and weak, and when he became light-headed I was frankly afraid. He is upset and he’s been put to bed. While he sleeps, the rest of us are rousing the rest of the . . . of the council members, or elders, or whatever you’d like to call us.”
“And then what?”
“Then . . .” His expression was set and determined, if not altogether confident. “I strongly suspect that we will choose not to run. We will figure out a way to fight instead. So unless Agatha gave you any hints or suggestions, there’s little of her message that cannot wait. Go back to the hotel, Alice.” He sounded so weary when he called me by my first name. He made me feel weary in return. “Take some food, have a nip of whatever you’ve brought, and try to get some rest.”
I did my best to obey. I didn’t feel like eating, but boy, did I feel like nipping. I finished the rest of my bottle and fell into bed.
I dreamed of fire.
• • •
SHORTLY before dawn I woke up smelling smoke, and as if I was already prepared for this eventuality, I threw myself out of bed. I wasn’t at all alert; I didn’t even feel the sting of my burned arm ripping free of the sheets. Not then. I had my feet on the floor before I had any real chance to take stock of my surroundings.
My heart pounded. Shaking, I crammed my feet
into my slippers.
The lights were off, but the window was open to let the cooler night air inside, and on the far side of the nearest hill, dawn was brightening the sky to a shade of lavender touched with pink.
“Where is it?” I asked, not that there was anyone present to answer me. “What’s going on?” I continued, in case Agatha Bloom or anybody else was hanging around and felt like being helpful. Nobody was. Nobody did.
I pressed the switch to turn on the light, then turned in a circle—looking at every corner and sniffing with my nose in the air like Felipe does upon catching wind of a sausage. The smoke was not close. Not in my room. It was somewhere outside, I was sure, blowing in with the rising warmth of the morning sun.
I checked the washroom to be safe, and it was safe enough to make me feel silly. No smoldering ruins in the sink. No awful ashes in the tub. The fire was nowhere near me, and I was secure.
Not everyone was so lucky.
I went to the window and hung my head out, looking over the little town and still trying to pinpoint that smell. Yes, it was riding on the breeze. Yes, it was coming from outside. Yes, something out there was on fire.
• • •
“FIRE!” shouted someone below. “Fire! Help, there’s a fire!”
• • •
IT wasn’t just me. I couldn’t decide if I was relieved to be vindicated or appalled to be correct. I didn’t know where the danger might be, but I hollered out the window, “Call the firemen! Somebody call the firemen!”
The cry was taken up in short order, and Cassadaga rallied to answer it. People came bursting from the hotel, from Harmony Hall, and from the Brigham house—where I knew that several people were boarding besides the Brighams themselves. People poured out of every door, trailing onto the sidewalks and into the street without knowing where to look.
I hollered down, “Where is it?” in case anyone could answer me.
Was it the hotel itself? How was I to tell? If I could not see the fire, it could be anywhere. It could be right under my feet.
A fire bell began to ring, and between that clanging noise and the men running to and fro with buckets, everybody understood right away that there was great peril and that everyone needed to move. Never mind the hour. Never mind the uncertainty.
Never mind that my eyes were still full of dream grit. Never mind how useless I would be in case of an emergency—I could not stand there in the relative safety of my room (still assuming that this blaze was not in some distant wing of the hotel itself) and let the town go down in ashes without making some kind of effort in its favor.
I grabbed my housecoat, my small travel purse (it had my money in it), and my carpetbag (it had some clothes in it). Then I flung myself into the hotel hallway armed with these necessities (in case I was wrong, and it was the hotel ablaze).
I didn’t see or smell any smoke in the corridor, but maybe it hadn’t reached the second floor yet. People were running past me, heading outside through the stairs at one end, which led to the lobby, and the stairs at the other end, leading to the porch. I started to run, too—then I thought of Tomás and Felipe, and I doubled back to their room, temporarily abandoning the nearest route of escape.
I pounded on the door and it opened on my third round of knocking.
Tomás stood there on the far side of the door, wild-eyed, his hair askew and his pants rumpled. I’d caught him in the process of hastily dressing. Felipe barked when he saw me and ran to my ankles, darting in a figure eight around and between our feet. “There’s a fire!” Tomás said, with the sudden alertness of someone who’s been yanked from sleep. Lord help me, I knew the feeling.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you!”
“Is it here? In the hotel?”
“I don’t know!” I replied, but someone dashing past us answered more precisely.
It was a man, and he said over his shoulder as he ran, “No—it’s on the next street over! A house is on fire!” Whoever he was, he was gone in a moment, his footsteps thundering down the steps and out into the night.
“Whose house?” I asked, as if Tomás would have the faintest idea. I was supposed to be the clairvoyant one. If anybody ought to randomly know whose house was on fire, it ought to be me. But I didn’t. So I asked my customary stupid question instead.
“I . . . I . . .”
“Stay here,” I commanded. I’m not sure why. Because I wanted him out of harm’s way? Because I didn’t want Felipe underfoot? Because I feared the pair of them might exacerbate the problem? Tomás might make things worse, or the darkly shadowed thing that kept him company might do it for him. I was already half afraid that his monstrous companion had something to do with the newest fire, but I couldn’t say that out loud. I couldn’t accuse him. There was no reason to accuse him. None of this was his fault.
(I looked for the smoldering man, but I did not see it standing behind him. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. It may have let him alone at last. It may have gone wandering, starting fires outside his immediate vicinity. Its absence might be a boon, or it might not mean anything at all.)
“I will absolutely not stay here.” He was already wearing shoes—real shoes, not slippers—though one was only half tied. He used his foot to nudge Felipe inside the room, and then he shut the door to keep him there. “I’m coming with you.”
I wasn’t accustomed to running around in a nightdress and a housecoat, much less to running in slippers that kept sliding loosely on my toes, but I tripped down the main staircase anyway—into the lobby, out to the porch, and down the steps, with Tomás staying close in my wake.
Out on the sidewalk, people ran past us, and toward us, and in front of us. They were shouting and crying; someone new was screaming to call the firemen—and I had the hysterical thought that the department in DeLand ought to just leave a truck parked by the front gates to save time in the future. We might as well keep one at the ready.
I looked up and down the road but still didn’t see the blaze. Oh, but I could smell it. It was the scent of war and death, and summer in hell. The ashy soot overpowered the tropical flowers. It dimmed the gaslamps along the streets and left everything looking foggy.
I squinted, stared, and found it.
It was farther down on Stevens Street, not the next street over, but at least it was not the hotel. At least little Felipe was safe, shut up in Tomás’s room. There were so many false rumors, and there was so much uncertainty—but I was certain that I could see the fire now, flames licking high past a roof, and pearl gray smoke wafting out the topmost windows.
“Oh God,” I said, once again having completely forgotten to mention Spirit.
I broke into a run, my slippers flopping, sliding, and almost going flying with every step.
One by one the streetlights popped off, in almost perfect time as I passed them—or as Tomás passed them, for he was hot on my heels. One of us had some terrible timing, or perfect timing. I don’t know which.
The sun was coming up, and Dr. Floyd’s house was coming down. It was only a block or two away, and it was all downhill, but my lungs were screaming from trying to run in the sand and keep my slippers on at the same time and still make it to the good pastor’s front yard.
A bucket brigade was doing its damnedest, since Spirit Lake was only a few dozen yards away. One by one the buckets were passed from person to person, to the last man up front—who threw the little splash of water into the flames, through one of the front windows. They would’ve made about the same headway if they were using coffee cups.
“Where’s Dr. Floyd?” I asked anyone, everyone. “Has anyone seen her?”
Behind me, someone sobbed, “She’s still inside! Somebody help her!”
But how? Who would go willingly? No one in their right mind. Where were the firemen? Not here yet, for the drive from DeLand took a few minutes more.
When I turned around, I had another question—one that shook me almost as much as all the others: Where was Tomás? He’d been right behind me, following in my footsteps as the streetlights had popped off, one-two-three. He’d been almost beside me by the time we reached Stevens Street, and now he was nowhere to be seen. I scanned the bucket line, wondering if he’d joined while I wasn’t looking. I looked around the crowd, from face to face. I saw the helpless, the horrified, and the lost.
He wasn’t there with them, either.
Oh God.
20
TOMÁS CORDERO
Cassadaga, Florida
A FIRE BELL began to ring. It was the one at Harmony Hall, I think.
I am not afraid of fire anymore. I have commanded it and been commanded by it. I have killed with it and nearly died from it. It holds no more horror for me.
It held no more terror when I stared at that house in flames. I thought of the battlefield, yes. I thought of the flame projector, of course. I remembered the screams and the headaches and the incessant percussion of artillery.
But this excess of memory—this compression of my own time and history, taking up too much space in my brain—it could not control me, not now. Not anymore.
It certainly could not stop me, not when I saw the two-story house on Stevens Street.
• • •
BY the time Alice and I arrived, the house was a funeral pyre with windows broken and curtains flaming. Someone was inside—a doctor, they said. A woman, I heard. The minister, I gathered. Could anyone still be alive in there? Everyone wondered, except for me. I knew it was possible, just as I knew it was not very likely. But yes, anything was possible. Fire is strange, and it moves in strange ways—carving out pockets of hot air between the walls of flame and the clouds of smoke.