Magic Dirt: The Best of Sean Williams (33 page)

But Reluctant Misty remained, resisting her mother’s spiritual ways. Upon finishing school, she opted for a practical business career over peddling herbs or Tarot card readings in grotty tent-stalls.

When her mother had died, Reluctant Misty had faded as well. Five years later, Beth had very nearly forgotten her. She had never told anyone about her childhood nick-name, not even Shirelle. And yet—

He called me Misty.

The house on Burden Street was a door, she knew, not unlike the ones that had appeared in her dreams. A promise of mystery, excitement, adventure. What she felt when she thought about it was not fear, exactly, although it was closely related. Morbid curiosity, perhaps, or the fascination felt by a moth for a naked flame.

The adult Beth, locked for so long in a world of insurance claims, was hooked. Reluctant Misty had been absent so long that her influence was weak.

Hours of browsing through the microfilms finally brought her to the Fourth of May, 1917. On page six of
The News,
tucked into the upper right corner, the headline read:

“House Gutted By Freak Blaze: Owner Missing, Feared Dead.”

There was a grainy photograph of a house, as it had looked before the fire. It could have been the same one she had visited the previous night.

Heart pounding, she read on:

“An explosion last night in the upper floor of a house on Burden Street, North Adelaide, sent neighbours running for shelter, fearing that a bomb had exploded. Firefighters battled furiously to save the house, but were able only to contain the fire. As a direct result of their valiant efforts, neighbouring buildings were untouched by the blaze, which burnt the house to the ground.

“The cause of the explosion remains a mystery. Examination of the ruins have thus far produced no bodily remains, although police anticipate further evidence to be uncovered in the coming days. The owner of the house, Mr Gerard Maddock, a prominent North Adelaide Spiritualist whose whereabouts are presently unknown, is wanted for questioning regarding the incident.”

Flicking through subsequent issues, she found a second article three days later, in which the detective in charge of the Burden St investigation expressed a belief that Gerard Maddock had been a modern-day alchemist or magician, and that the explosion had been caused by an irresponsible chemical experiment. He further asserted that Maddock had died in the blaze, and that his remains had been utterly consumed by the fire.

There were no other articles regarding the fire, nor any announcement of the subdivision of the block. The case had been closed, and public interest had waned.

It burned to the ground
, she thought to herself, reading the first article again to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake.
But I was there
!

The words she had said to her friend over lunch returned to her, with even greater certainty. Her mother would never forgive her, wherever she was, if she just walked away from this.

When she glanced at her watch, she realised that four hours had passed; the library was due to close soon. She hurriedly returned the microfilms and switched off the reader. On her way from the library, she gently rebuffed the young librarian again by explaining that she had an appointment elsewhere.

Which, she realised only as she said the words, wasn’t entirely untrue.

The house was still there. The brass plate by the gate still announced it to be Number 72, Burden St. Now that she was looking, she could see how its neighbours seemed to crowd away from it, as though space had folded back to accommodate an area that had long been overtaken.

A ghost-house,
she thought.
Haunting a forgotten street.

Crossing the lawn, she noticed something else she had missed the previous night: the garden was as dead as the frangipani by the door. Brittle grass crunched beneath her feet, leaving footprints as well-defined as those of the lunar astronauts; every tree was desiccated and grey; even the vine on the sunless sun-dial was lifeless. An ash-garden, preserved in part from the ravages of the fire. Only the house seemed substantial and whole, not likely to crumble to dust at the slightest touch. And the call of the verandah was as strong as ever, tugging her forward into its waiting maw.

The door to the house was open, this time. She stared at it for a moment, clutching the torch she had brought with her, mind churning with conflicting impulses.

Then the shadow stepped into the doorway.

“You left it open,” it said, with a voice like that of the library, soft and accustomed to silence, but harsher. “Either close it or come inside. Your choice.”

The shadow retreated, blended into the blackness until it was gone.

Don’t do it,
part of her warned—the part that had once been Reluctant Misty.
You don’t want to know.

Nonsense,
she replied.
My mother lived for this sort of thing, and it never hurt her. I can’t turn hack now.

Touching the kitchen-knife she had hidden in her jacket for reassurance—just in case—she stepped forward and through the door. The only concession she made to her fear was to turn on the torch.

The hallway was much the same as it had appeared the previous night, although the beam of light allowed her to see more details: picture rails, wallpaper, plush burgundy carpet and an umbrella stand made of polished pine. The shadow was nowhere to be seen. Gathering courage about her like a cloak, she tiptoed to the nearest door and swung it open.

The room beyond was a study, filled with bookcases. A mahogany writing desk crouched in one corner; two stuffed chairs faced an empty fireplace, unoccupied. Four portraits of people she did not recognise hung on two of the walls. Thick curtains draped the windows, keeping even the barest glimmer of light at bay.

The darkness deepened in the centre of the room, and the shadow reappeared. She swung the torch towards it, half-expecting the beam to pass through unreflected. It didn’t, but the light did little to illuminate the figure before her.

The shadow was a man in his mid-thirties, swarthy, unshaven and dressed in rumbled jeans and a polo-necked sweater. His hair was unkempt, and he needed a bath, but otherwise he appeared completely normal. The only odd thing was the way he seemed to absorb the light of the torch: as though he was made of darkness, all the colours of night woven into the shape of a man; as though the light had been leeched out of him. Eyes like the hint of a winter’s dawn regarded her implacably.

She sensed sorrow in the presence of the shadow, and a nameless hint of danger.

It waited for her to speak, a look of near-desperation in the set of its brow, but her throat refused to work properly.

“I—I thought ...”

“What?”

“I thought ghosts, you know, glowed in the dark.”

The shadow smiled, perhaps; it was hard to tell. Its face was just a suggestion in the gloom. “They do,” it said. “The human soul burns brightly when cut free of the flesh.”

“But you—”

“I’m not a ghost,” it said, turning away.

“Then what are you?”

“I am an empty vessel, almost. My flame is fading fast. Soon it will die forever.”

“Why?”

It ignored the question. “Why are you here?”

“I was curious. The house—”

“Ah, yes. Always the house. Not many people can see it, and of those only a handful ever enter. Seven in as many decades.” The shadow walked to the fireplace and stroked the mantelpiece. “Someone tried to destroy it once, you know.”

“The fire?”

“Yes.” It turned back to her, the torchlight glinting weakly in its eyes. “You’ve researched the old papers, then. Just like I did.”

“I don’t understand.” The papers were printed after the destruction of the house and Maddock’s disappearance. “I thought
you
were the owner.”

“Maddock? No.” The shadow shook its head. “I’m not his spirit. He had many other safe-houses, over the years, and no doubt his enemies tried to destroy them as well. Why should he return to this one? It wouldn’t be for pity’s sake, if he did. He might even still be alive, for all I know. Men like him don’t die easily.”

Beth floundered. Her fear had faded, but she felt far from in control of the conversation. If anything, she was becoming more confused than she had been before. None of this was making sense.

“How did you know about Misty?” she asked, trying to come to grips with why she was here.

“The house told me. It can feel you ... I guess. I don’t know how. It told me someone was coming soon, someone special, different from the rest. I didn’t know what to think after waiting so long. I never guessed you’d be so beautiful, so
alive
...” The shadow turned to face her, its face a mask of despair. “You should leave.”

“No.” Startled, she swung the torch into its eyes; they stared back, unblinking. “I want to know who you are, why you’re here ... why you’re haunting this house.”

“I’m not haunting anything. I’m just here.”

“But why?”

“I can’t explain,” he said, his voice expressing growing urgency. “You must go now. It’s not too late.”

“Too late for what?”

The shadow didn’t answer. It came closer to her, swirling through the beam of the torch like rocks around a lighthouse. Its eyes glittered like tiny chips of diamond. “Leave, Misty, and don’t come back. The temptation is already too strong.”

She backed away nervously, startled by the sudden shift in conversation, one hand guiding her through the doorway to the study, back into the corridor, the other holding the torch on the shadow, as though the light would keep it at bay. The sensation of danger increased sharply as the shadow followed.

“But—but I want to
know,”
she stammered, fighting the fear.

“You don’t. You just want to see.”

A stygian hand pushed her roughly on the shoulder, and she stumbled through the hallway to the front door. There, she gripped the frame desperately and stood her ground.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me who you are.”

The shadow began to blur, fading into the darkness that surrounded it, as though her defiance had weakened it. She clutched for its arm, but too late; her fingers groped empty air. As it vanished, she thought she heard it whisper—

“June Fourth, 1982.”

—then it was gone.

When she arrived at work the following morning, Shirelle took one look at her and dragged her into the toilets.

“You went back, didn’t you?”

Beth looked in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes heavy-lidded. She hadn’t slept well. The Doors had returned to her dreams, except that this time the little girl afraid of them hadn’t been her, but someone else entirely. Someone she had never met. The meaning of the dream eluded her, and nagged at her waking mind.

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” Shirelle shook her head. “And?”

The words caught in her throat
—I talked to a ghost and it told me I was beautiful. Then it asked me to leave.

“Beth?” Shirelle leaned closer, peering with concern into her eyes.

“I saw it,” she said, and the words blurted out before she could stop them. “The house, I mean. It’s not really there, but I can see it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a ghost, too—”

“How can a house be a ghost?” Shirelle stared in disbelief. “Houses aren’t alive. They don’t die.”

Beth shrugged. “This one did. It burned down in 1917.”

“So? Plenty of houses burn down—”

“But maybe this one was special. Maybe it’s owner—” She faltered, a fragment from the old newspaper article springing from memory:

“ …
Mr Gerard Maddock, a prominent North Adelaide Spiritualist … modern-day alchemist and magician
...”

“The owner made it live,” she concluded, the truth of the words blinding her to her friend. “He gave it a spirit, a soul—for protection or company, or just for the hell of it—and it died while he was away somewhere. And now it’s haunting the street, waiting for him to return.”

“A haunt
ing
house?” Shirelle shook her head. “Now I’ve heard it all.”

“But it’s true.” She clutched at her friend’s arm. “It has to be. How else do you explain what happened?”

“I don’t even
know
what happened, Beth. Maybe you dreamt it.”

“No. It was
real.
I
saw
it.”

“What about the guy who lives there, Beth? Does he know the place isn’t there? Someone should tell him—or his bank manager.”

Beth turned away. “You think I’m crazy.”

“No, just a little weird.” Shirelle put an arm around her shoulders. “And you know what they say about blondes like us.”

Anger flared. “I’m not gullible, dammit, and I’m not stupid.”

“No, but ... Look, just let it go, okay? Take a deep breath and get on with life. If it
is
a ghost-house, or whatever, then it’s none of your business. You’ve got work to do, remember? A life to live?”

She nodded slowly, although her job was the last thing on her mind at that moment.

Shirelle turned to the mirror, brushed a strand of long, blonde hair back into place. “Reality beckons, Beth. Do you feel up to it?”