A Phantom Enchantment (9 page)

“I think you need to set your sights a little higher,” I said.

“Come on,” Flynn pleaded. “It's a small wish. Besides, it's on our ugly tourist destination list.”

“But it's Saturday,” Owen said. “It's going to be so crowded.”

“Yeah,” Flynn said. “I hear people are dying to get in there.”

Owen shook his head at me. “He did not just say that.”

The cemetery wasn't a far walk from Belleville, and it was rather crowded, with several tour groups assembled at the entrance. But once we got inside the main gate, the place was so vast and sprawling it didn't feel that congested. We walked down an alleyway of trees that cast eerie shadows onto the pale headstones. Brittle fall leaves huddled along the path, and everything looked a bit ghoulish in the late afternoon light.

As we strolled, we stopped by the graves of some of the more famous people buried there: Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Molière, Victor Hugo. Hugo's tomb boasted an enormous statue, but the other graves were more modest. Surprisingly it was the graves of people I'd never heard of that were the most macabre.

The creepiest had to be the stone crypt with a statue of a dead man lying on his back holding his own head in his hands. Another sarcophagus was festooned with stone roses and skulls and frightening winged creatures. One depicted a dead man trying to break out of his own grave.

Many of the tombs were accompanied by hooded or robed figures lingering graveside. A particularly eerie one showed a woman weeping outside the gates of a mausoleum, where her loved one surely rested. If there was one dominant motif, it seemed to be resistance against death, despite how inevitable we all knew death to be. The natural world seemed to know just what kind of place this was, sending its gnarled roots and thorny tendrils onto the grave sites, the bodies inside becoming one with nature.

The strangest thing was that people were camped out alongside the graves, smoking cigarettes and drinking wine and eating Brie, as if all of this were a perfectly lovely setting for a picnic.

When we finally got to Jim Morrison's grave, it was a simple stone block with a small area beneath it, recessed for flowers or other gifts.

“Here we are,” Flynn said.

“Kind of anticlimactic,” Owen said. “I was expecting a giant statue with girls fawning all over it.”

“There are lots of flowers here,” I said. “And apparently, a pair of pink panties.”

“No way!” Flynn said, moving to get a closer look. “Musicians have the best job in the world.”

“Until they choke on their own vomit,” I said. “So how are you going to . . . achieve your lifelong dream with all these people around? Did you see that cop earlier?”

“From what I've heard, the cops don't care so much about pot,” Flynn said. “And anyway, I'm going to roll the hashish in papers, so it'll look like a regular cigarette.”

He took his bag behind one of the larger mausoleums to roll his joints, and Owen and I sat down on a little stone bench nearby. The wind howled softly through the treetops, almost like Jim Morrison himself were whistling from the other side.

“So I wrote a few more songs for the rock opera,” I said, “and I wanted to get your opinion.”

I took the handwritten sheets from my bag, ironed out the creases, and passed them to Owen, feeling that stab of vulnerability I always got when I shared my writing with anyone.

Owen began reading, and about halfway through, he began nodding his head and making little humming noises.

“Are those grunts of disapproval?” I said.

“No, I'm getting a melody in my head. These are really good. You got a pen?”

He quickly sketched some bar lines and jotted musical notes along them, his fingers working so fast he looked like a mad scientist. Then he got out the harmonica and played me a few measures.

“What do you think?” he said. “Of course, you've got to imagine it with sweeping guitar chords and a piano building to a crescendo.”

In fact, I was already imagining it like that, and the result was haunting and melancholy and absolutely perfect—part Andrew Lloyd Webber, part Rachmaninoff, part The Cure. “How did you do that in five minutes?” I said. “That's exactly what I was hoping for. You're a genius!”

“See? It happened again,” Flynn said, sitting down to join us with a grin on his lips. “Only this time, it's not a romantic comedy. More an epic love story.”

“Please,” Owen said, blushing. I might have been blushing, too. “I'm setting Emma's poems to music. Are you still in?”

“Me?” he said. “In like Flynn.” He passed a joint to Owen, who took a puff and nodded approvingly. Then Owen handed Flynn my lyrics, and I watched Flynn's canny blue eyes scan the page.

“Aren't they good?” Owen asked.

“Yeah, Emma, they are. Really good.”

“And she wrote them all in, like, two weeks,” Owen said. “How did you do that with everything else that's been going on?”

“I was inspired, I guess,” I said, feeling myself deflate as I recalled my dream reunion with Gray on the beach and the fact that I hadn't been able to duplicate it since. “Can I tell you guys something?”

“Sure,” Owen said, and Flynn nodded.

Reverently, as if Gray might be listening, I told them about my trip through the mirror and what I thought it meant. “What if Gray is still alive and that's why I was able to talk to him in my dream?” I asked.

Owen gave me a pitying look. “Emma,” he said, “I know that's a tempting fantasy, but it's just that.”

“How do you know?” I said. “It's happened to us before, this connection even when we're far apart. Besides, wouldn't I know in my heart if he were dead? Wouldn't I have gotten some premonition that night at the opera? Instead, all I feel is hope. He's so close, I can feel it.”

I was standing now. And kind of yelling.

Owen looked concerned. “Emma, it's great that you're writing lyrics and starting to feel hopeful again. I just don't want you setting yourself up for disappointment.”

“Why is everyone so certain he's dead?” I said. “Isn't it possible that I'm right?”

Owen and Flynn fell silent. They didn't know what to say to their heartbroken friend who had clearly lost her marbles. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to get out of that cemetery. All that death and longing—it hit too close to home. I wanted to get back to my room, back to my mirror to see if I was right or, maybe, if I was crazy like everyone thought.

“Okay, this is awkward,” I said after a too-long silence. “I'm out of here.” I picked up my bag and turned to leave.

Owen stood and grabbed my arm. “Don't go, Emma.”

“Yeah,” Flynn said, coming over to me and holding out the joint. “Sit down with us and have a smoke. It'll help you relax.”

“I don't need to relax and I don't want your stupid joint,” I yelled. “You guys escape your way, and I'll escape mine.”

And then I fled, running through the maze of paths, surrounded by the ghosts of scores of dead people.

The thing was, I didn't really want to be alone. But I also didn't want to be told I was insane for believing Gray was alive.

Two years ago when I got struck by lightning and fell into a coma, I had slipped into a fantasy world where I was given the chance to communicate with my mother, who had been dead for eight years.

Maybe that was what had happened the other night. Maybe Gray was dead after all, and I had only been communicating with his ghost.

No matter how much it would hurt to know the truth, I had to find out.

C
HAPTER
10

A
s soon as I got back to my room, I shut the curtains, making the space as dark as possible. I lit candles and sat at the mirror as I'd done before, trying to re-create the conditions that had allowed me to travel into that dark world, a world in which Gray still lived and breathed.

I listened intently for my whispered name to echo from the glass and peered into the mirror searching for that flickering candlelight, trying to put myself into that trancelike state again. But the mirror wouldn't let me in.

What is missing?
I thought.

And then I remembered. It wasn't just Gray I was searching for in the mirror. It was that other girl—the one who looked like me but had no fear. Last time I'd stared at my reflection until my face had grown distorted, softened, and melded into hers. It was that mirror image that had allowed me to travel into the dreamscape while my body remained here.

I stared into the mirror again, letting my eyes blur slightly until the image in the mirror no longer looked like my own reflection but like a separate being who happened to resemble me. But when I frowned, my mirror image seemed to smile.

And then I felt myself splitting into two, my spirit flinging itself into the mirror and attaching itself to that other body, who was slowly making her way down the corridor. This time, I didn't need Gray to call me. I could go to him on my own.

When I arrived at the black door, it was half open, like it was waiting for me. I knew exactly what to do. I ran through the portal and onto the beach, jetting straight to the water and diving in with a certainty and fearlessness I hadn't felt in a long time.

Once more, the water cooled and condensed, like it was stuck in some limbo state between liquid and solid. Almost ice.

Despite the numbness setting into my arms and legs, I plowed through the water until I made my way to the black sand beach. My body dried instantly although the chill in my bones remained. I walked up to the rock formation to look for Gray and was surprised to see him huddled against one of the stones, building a sand castle.

“Gray,” I said.

When he looked up, the manic intensity in his eyes terrified me. “Emma!” he said, struggling to stand. He had to grasp on to one of the stones to steady himself, and that's when I noticed he'd grown even thinner and more skeletal-looking. He began limping toward me.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

He gripped my shoulders to balance himself or to hug me, I'm not sure which, and nearly toppled me with his embrace. I held him up and studied his face, brown as a walnut and nearly as wrinkled, like he was shriveling up, or as he had feared, wasting away.

“I'm so weak, but seeing you makes me stronger,” he said. “Don't leave me again.”

“You asked me to leave,” I said. “And then you never called. I was waiting every night. I didn't know how to get back to you.”

“But you found a way,” he said. “You came back.”

“I promised I would.” He leaned away from me, collapsing against the stone and crumpling to the ground. I joined him down on the sand. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making a sand castle,” he said, his voice sounding a little unhinged. It was the most pathetic sand castle I'd ever seen, mounds of sand piled in a haphazard way around a flimsy foundation. In the flat middle section he had carved our initials. “I know it must look awful,” he said. “I can't see very well.”

“Why? What's wrong?” I said, reaching out to touch his face.

He clasped my hand to his cheek and held it there, looking so pitiful I didn't know whether to hold him or pull away. “I don't know. It's like the whole world's gone fuzzy,” he said. “But I can see you. You're so beautiful, Emma.”

His hand was pressing against mine so forcefully that I felt claustrophobic and a little afraid. “You look so tired, Gray.”

“I am,” he said. “I've been drifting in and out of sleep, and when I woke and called for you, my voice wasn't strong enough. It felt like you were so very far away.”

“I wasn't. I've been sitting by the mirror every night.”

“But now that you're finally here, you feel more distant than ever.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. But I knew what he meant. I felt uneasy looking at him, like he really was dead, and this phantom before me was the last figment of whatever essence remained.

He reached out for me, and I bristled as his clammy hand came around my neck. “What are you doing?” I asked, feeling his fingers tighten around my throat.

“I'm looking for your dog tag,” he said. “I want to make sure you're still wearing it.”

“Of course I am.”

“But there's something else,” he said, his voice growing hard as flint. His finger dropped from my neck to the grasshopper pin Owen had bought for me. “What's that?”

“Just a good-luck charm,” I said without thinking.

“This has always been my good-luck charm,” he said, pulling out the Virgo angel he wore around his neck. “It's all I need because it reminds me of you. But you need something more than me, I think.”

“I don't need more than you, Gray,” I said.

“Who is it from?” he said.

I couldn't lie to him. “Owen.” He jerked away and stood, his jaw clenching in anger. I rose and grabbed his arm. “Gray, don't be like that.”

“Like what?” he said, flinching violently away. “Jealous that another man claims your heart when you swore it to me? What did you expect?”

“It's not like that, Gray.”

“I know exactly what it's like. Why do you think it was so hard for you to hear my voice? Because you were listening to someone else. Someone who sings your own words back to you.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, feeling an unwelcome terror snake through me.

“Emma, you can't hide things from me. We can't hide from each other. You see me in my world, and I see you in yours. You wanted to know what I've become. Well, this is what I am now. Jealous and bitter and half-dead.” As he spoke, the ocean began churning behind us, so violently that it flung black spray onto our bodies. “Separation has brought out the worst in me, and only you can make it stop. But you're disgusted by me now.”

“No, I'm not!” I said, but my voice faltered.

“Yes, you are. And how can I blame you? Look at me. I'm disgusting. I warned you that I was changing. You just didn't know how much. You didn't know what a monster I'd become.”

“You're not a monster,” I said. “You're my Gray. And I still love you.”

“Do you?” It was the first time he hadn't answered,
I know
. “You write songs about us and sing them with him.”

“Gray—”

“You'll be my guardian angel if I'll be your tragic muse,” he said, mocking my words. “You lied, Emma. You took our story and gave it to him.”

“I only lent him the words so he could set them to music,” I said. I felt desperate to appease him. “So that everyone could know how much I love you.”

The ocean began hurling itself farther up the beach, the tide coming in all at once so Gray's sand castle was in danger of being obliterated. “You're still lying,” he said. “Your love used to be pure and true. Unbroken. But now you've split your heart in two.” He reached for the grasshopper pin, plucked it off, and threw it to the ground. I gasped and reached down to retrieve it before the tide could take it out to sea. “I knew it!” he said, smashing his foot down on the sand castle over and over.

“Stop it, Gray. You're scaring me!”

My voice made him stop his frenzied destruction, but he lost his balance and fell to the ground on the ruined sand castle, sobbing piteously. Slowly, the oceans calmed and retreated. The sky lightened like it had the last time, and I knew I would have to leave soon. I knelt down beside him.

“Gray, I'm sorry for what you've been through. I do love you. Why are you pushing me away?”

“I'm pushing you away before you leave on your own,” he said. “I don't want to imprison you here. But I can't bear to lose you again.”

“You won't lose me, Gray,” I said. “Not if you stay strong. But if you start giving in to the anger and the bitterness, I'll be left with no choice but to leave and never come back. If you can be patient with me, I promise I'll return.”

“I know,” he said, reaching for my hand. I held his firmly and felt his bony fingers, so fragile and weak. “You won't give up on me?”

“I won't give up on you, Gray. I promise.”

“And you'll never take my necklace off?”

“Never.”

“And you won't wear Owen's pin?”

“Gray, I—” But I saw the ire flaming in his eyes. “No. I won't wear it.”

With palpable relief, he drew me to him and buried his head in my shoulder. Once again, I felt his hot breath on my neck, only this time it felt oppressive and sickly. I couldn't wait to leave. With what little strength he had, he squeezed my shoulders—not so much in a hug as a restraining hold. Considering how weak he'd become, his grip was surprisingly tight.

“Gray, I can't breathe,” I said. But he continued to crush me against the stone until I was thrashing about, trying to break free from his clutches.

“Don't struggle so much. You're like a caged bird,” he said. And that's exactly how I felt.

In a burst of fear, I threw his arms off me and ran down the beach toward the shore, diving into the icy water and swimming through that ocean of black tar, using every ounce of my strength to keep moving until the sea changed, until my strokes met no resistance, until I was able to stand and walk freely out of the water and onto dry land.

But when I reached the door on the dunes, it was locked. I banged on it as if anyone on the other side might be able to hear me. Had I waited too long? Had I breached some curfew that would keep me trapped here forever?

My double had found her way back before, and the reunion had felt natural and inevitable, like coming home. But maybe Gray was right. Maybe I had split my heart in two, and the part of me that wanted to stay with Gray was trapping me here. I felt torn, scared by what I had seen with Gray but guilty about leaving him. His biggest fear was that I would run away, and that's exactly what I had done.

I tried prying the door open, but it wouldn't budge. It was only then that I saw the keyhole in the door. When I peered into it, I saw the long corridor that led back to my room. All I had to do was unlock it.

I scoured my pockets for something to pick the lock, finding Owen's grasshopper pin. Bending down, I stuck the pin inside, struggling to find the right motion to release the latch. Sweat poured off my forehead from the heat coming behind the door, that intense backdraft that would propel me back to my body if I ever got past the threshold. Above the tumult, I heard a voice faintly calling my name from the other side. I jostled the pin back and forth until I heard a pop, and then the door swung open, and a whoosh of heat carried me through the corridor like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

The next thing I remember was falling off my chair and opening my eyes to see Elise's face peering down at me.