The 'Geisters (21 page)

When she remarked on this to Michael, he’d just winked, and said, “She must have hidden talents.”

Ann had slugged him in the arm and called him nasty, but she hadn’t really been angry. It was one of the few times he’d shown anything approaching lechery, and she thought then she wouldn’t mind if he showed it more often.

If only she’d known.

Ann shook her head. Something was dulling her now; the same weird fatigue that had knocked her out in the orchard.

Focus
, she thought, and asked: “Do you know where Philip is?”

Susan Rickhardt picked up the game controller from where it nestled in her lap and tapped a button. The compass rose vanished and she was back at it.

“There’s a dragon on top of that hill,” she said. “I’ll take it down, soon as I can find the path up.”

Ann stood, wobbling a bit, crossed the room. There was no other chair in front of the TV so she knelt beside Susan.

“Skyrim?” said Ann, and Susan nodded.

“Best Elder Scroll yet,” she said.

“So I’ve heard,” said Ann. “You’ve been at this awhile, I see.”

The bar at the bottom of the screen showed she was running a character at Level 48. Susan didn’t answer; she was absorbed in
the game.

After a moment, Ann got up. She was steadier on her feet—far steadier, certainly, than she’d been in the orchard. She walked over to the curtain, peeked out the tall window behind it. There was nothing to see but dark; so she’d either slept a long time, or not long at all.

There was a door, behind the sofa where Ann had been sleeping, next to a long mahogany credenza. It was a double door, stained dark, with brass handles. Ann went to it, and turned a handle.

It wasn’t locked. Ann pulled it open a crack. There was a hallway beyond, lit by halogen pot lights. She shut the door quietly and leaned her back on it.

Back at the TV, the battle for Skyrim continued. Susan appeared to be sneaking up a cliff, approaching a camp of barbarians with arrow notched.

“Save the game,” said Ann. Susan responded by letting an arrow fly and killing a lean woman wearing a headdress. Her two companions got up and began looking around for the source.

“Save it,” said Ann again, as she crossed the room back to the TV. Susan put two more arrows into the men. One of them fell dead; the other was strong enough to take it. He drew a sword and moved to attack.

Ann stepped up to the TV stand, and pressed the eject button on the game console. The screen went dark. Ann turned around and faced Susan.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s time for talking. Play later.”

“You are a little bitch,” said Susan. She tried to look around Ann, to the screen. “Put it back in.”

“Okay,” said Ann, “I will in a minute. But first. Where is Philip?”

“Put it in.”

“Where?”

“Put it—”

There was a knock at the door.

“Tell me where my brother is, Susan. Please.”

Susan didn’t answer. She pushed back in the chair, like she was pulling away from something. Her eyes became wide. She shook her head quickly, like she was trying to dislodge something.

The knocking resumed—louder this time.

“Should I get that?” asked Ann, and Susan shook her head no.

“Why not? Is it someone you don’t want to talk to?”

“Put it back in, now,” she said.

“Is it Ian?”

“No.”

“If I put this back in,” said Ann, wagging the disk back in front of her, “will that stop?”

Things happened very quickly after that. Susan drew back, like she was experiencing g-forces in an airplane, and then launched. The chair skidded backwards on the floor, and suddenly, she had hold of Ann’s wrist.

Ann stumbled back as Susan kept pushing, and Ann fell against the TV. It toppled backwards and with a wrenching crash, fell to the hardwood floor behind it.

The pounding abruptly stopped.

Susan let go of Ann’s wrist, and Ann righted herself.

Behind her, the two door handles turned down.

“What’ve you done,” said Susan. Her voice was flat. Dead. She couldn’t even make it sound like a question.

The doors swung inward, until there was maybe a foot of space between them.

“It’s your poltergeist, isn’t it?” Ann said

And from the look on Susan’s face, she could see that she’d guessed it.

Susan had been Ann many years ago, when Ian Rickhardt married her: a young woman who’d had a poltergeist in her from her childhood. And she had sat here, cared for, playing console role-playing games, while Rickhardt carried on. She was a vessel.

She was shut down.

“Does the game ordinarily keep it at bay?” asked Ann. But Susan wasn’t answering; she’d turned around and was staring at the door. Her breath puffed visibly, giving her a smoker’s wreath of mist. She was trembling, now.

Terror circled Ann too, looking for an opening, but Ann wouldn’t give it one. She drew a breath of the newly cold air and stepped close behind the older woman.

“What do you call yours?”

“Little,” Susan said, her voice shaking. “I call it Little, though it’s not. You’re a bitch. Always were.”

Around them, the curtains started to billow—as if perhaps a figure moved behind them. Ann shivered, and Susan’s breath condensed in little clouds.

“I used to play Dungeons & Dragons,” said Ann. “I used that to keep mine quiet. A magical D & D kingdom where I made all the rules. It worked for a long time. Never thought about trying a video game.”

Susan looked around the room, her eyes narrowed into a squint.

“It’s not like that,” she said.

“Then what is it like?”

“You don’t control it,” said Susan. “You don’t keep it
quiet
. That’s not your job. The only thing you have to do, is stay out of its way.”

The curtains fell back, and were still.

“All you have to do,” said Susan, “you stupid little bitch, is stay out of its way.”

Susan moved behind the table, to survey the damage that was done to the TV. Its glass screen was cracked, and dark. She knelt down and ran her finger along the line in the glass.

“I don’t know where your brother is,” she said, not looking up. “I saw him when he showed up a day ago, but Ian said it might not be for long.”

“Did he say where he was going next?”

“Home,” said Susan. “He said he might go home.”

“So he’s left here, definitely,” said Ann.

“He’s left here definitely.”

“And you think he’s gone back to the rest home.”

“Ian said he was going home.”

“So Ian knows where he’s gone?”

“I guess,” said Susan.

“Thank you,” said Ann, and Susan looked up at that.

“Sorry I called you that word,” she said. “That’s not how it was supposed to go when you woke up.”

Ann tried to smile. “I’m sorry about the TV.”

“My fault,” said Susan. She stood up, and frowned and nodded to herself. “I’m the fuckup. I was supposed to offer you some wine. Maybe something stronger. I got caught up. Stupid game.”

Ann felt a chill up her arms again, but this time, the drapes were still. This chill was familiar in its own way. She’d felt it on the road, at the end of a long day driving, as she pulled into a campground, and thought about opening up the cooler in back.

“Is there wine here?”

“Over there,” said Susan, motioning to the credenza. “Some nice stuff. You should have a glass.”

“Not sure I feel like wine right now. Philip—”

At that, Susan finally cracked a grin. “Oh, come on now,” she said. “I already told you. Philip’s gone.”

Ann looked at the credenza, and at Susan. She shook her
head.

“I shouldn’t. Not until—”

“Until what?” Susan motioned to the credenza again. “You’re not going anywhere for at least a few hours. And really—when haven’t you felt like a nice glass of Ian’s wine? Just check it out.”

The credenza was more than it appeared.

When Ann opened the doors, she found inside a small bar refrigerator, installed next to racks of tall stemless wine glasses and a rack of six bottles of red wine. The refrigerator contained another six bottles of white. Ann selected a Gewürztraminer. Rickhardt Estates did a good job with the Gewürzt.

There was a giant corkscrew contraption on the shelf below the glasses. To the uninitiated, it was a puzzle box, but Ian had this model in his kitchen and early in their acquaintance he’d showed Ann the trick. Ann unfolded and twisted and pumped, and the pink rubber cork disappeared in the thing’s belly. She pulled out two glasses, holding them between three fingers by the rims as she set them down, and poured.

It was only after she’d joined Susan back at the wreckage of the TV that Ann noticed. The doors leading to the hallway, right beside her, were shut.

“Sure,” said Susan, taking the glass, “just one.”

“I don’t remember this part of the house,” said Ann. They were sitting on the sofa, each tucked against separate armrests. Susan Rickhardt was back in her Buddha pose, legs crossed up under her, her wine glass cradled in her lap. She was looking at her lap.

“You’re not in the house,” she said.

“We’re at the vineyard, though. I don’t remember this from the winery either.”

Susan nodded. “You never came out to this part. It’s the conference centre.”

“Didn’t know there was a conference centre.”

“It was no secret. But I can see how Ian wouldn’t give you the tour.”

“We had our wedding here. You’d think we’d have at least talked about using this—”

“You’d think you two would’ve talked about a couple things.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sure. They don’t do weddings here,” said Susan. “That’s what the new building’s for. Wasn’t that one nice enough for you?”

Ann emptied her glass and reached down for the bottle. It was mostly empty.

“Damn,” said Susan. “I’ll get you another one.”

“It’s not that,” said Ann. “But . . .” she struggled to put the thought to words. Wine didn’t usually hit her this hard. “. . . but let’s put it on the table. This isn’t a conference centre, is it now?”

Susan bent down and rummaged under the credenza. “You want to move to red, or another Gewürzt?”

“What goes on here?”

“I think more Gewürzt. You like that special, don’t you?”

“It’s nice, yes. What goes on here, Susan?”

“For you and me,” she said, pulling a fresh bottle from the fridge, “nothing much.”

“That’s not an answer,” said Ann. “There was a—manifestation, a poltergeist a minute ago. Was that, um . . .”

“Little? I dunno.”

“How can you not know?”

Susan smiled. “One of many, dear.”

Ann stared at Susan Rickhardt. She’d called her dear. A few minutes ago, Ann was “a little bitch,” who’d interrupted her video game. It was as though this were a different woman, now, talking sweet and pouring her drinks. That chilled Ann almost as much as the thing she’d just let slip.

“What do you mean, many?” Ann said. “How many?”

Susan went on. “The boys are in town,” she said, “and with them, their wives. This conference centre, it’s a little like a running party. There are, oh, a dozen couples here. The boys do their thing. And the wives . . . we wait. Keep ourselves occupied.”

“Occupied with what?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Rickhardt, “with whatever we like. Used to be a big World of Warcraft junkie. Skyrim’s my poison, these days.”

“I can see.”

“And yours—” Mrs. Rickhardt came back with the bottle, and topped up Ann’s glass. “Well.”

Ann put her glass down. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh,” said Susan, “the same thing that’s been going on all your life.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Susan nodded sagely, as though she were revealing a great truth.

“You’re vanishing. Just like the rest of us did when they shrove us off. Now drink up. It’ll be better if you drink up.”

Ann did not remember when she had her first drink. It was probably wine. It was definitely wine. But it wasn’t at home; her parents were not among those who believed that children should be weaned on wine, or that brandy was the best medicine for a sore throat.

She didn’t remember when, either—other than it was in an innocent time. She must have been very young. She didn’t know how young, but she remembered the moment. It was like stepping into a winter wind, hard enough to steal your breath; a kiss, welcome but still a surprise. The sharp, happy flavour of a good idea. It tasted like luck.

It still tasted like luck. It had always tasted like luck. That first sip of wine had always tasted as sweet, and as fine, as that first time.

Ann thought:
I could disappear into it.

“I’m not disappearing,” said Ann. She stood up. “I don’t know what ‘shrove’ means. But I don’t think I’ll stay to find out. I’ll be leaving now.”

Susan Rickhardt looked at her, and set the bottle down.

“You might want to think about that,” she said.

Ann shrugged. “I don’t see anyone here who can stop me.”

Susan smiled at that and she laughed, in a way, as Ann opened the door on the empty hallway.

“You noticed that, did you?”

Ann turned. Mrs. Rickhardt looked back at her steadily.

“They don’t need to stop you,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do anyway.”

Ann shut the door on her.

It
was
a conference centre.

Ann couldn’t believe that she’d mistaken it for Rickhardt’s home. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t been here or noticed it before; it was clearly a major facility.

The hallway should have been her first clue. It was a little wider than you’d expect in someone’s home, and there were semi-circular seats between the doors. Little brass sign-holders were beside each door, where you might put your itinerary for that particular room. The rooms had names, too—named for grapes: Merlot, and Chardonnay, and Pinot Grigio—inscribed in script over the lintels. Lighting came from silvered sconces on the wall, casting their beams to the ceiling, and to the burgundy carpets.

Ann stood there a moment. The air here was warm, conditioned—she flexed her hands, waiting for the chill, or the flare of heat, that indicated a presence here. There were women here—possibly in each room—and they might all be like her, carrying their own Insects, and Littles and Mister Sleepys.