The Haunting of Maddy Clare (17 page)

We were quiet for a long time. Again I traced my finger over the cover of the book.
Ghostly Manifestations in the North of England.
Matthew’s words hung between us, the war a chasm that could not be traveled. I could not go there; he could not come back.

“So you are trying to understand what happened,” I said finally.

His eyebrow twitched in surprise, and he smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but it was an improvement over the moment before, as I could see that at least he was back in the room with me. “When you say it aloud like that, we sound impossibly naive. I don’t think I hope to understand it. I don’t think it’s possible. And yet, maybe a part of me still tries.” He slowly rubbed his hand over his forehead, and up through his hair, a gesture I was starting to recognize. “What else is there to do, Sarah? I could go home and measure men’s suits and continue to have screaming nightmares every night in my old bedroom. Alistair could go home and drink by himself and wish he’d ever had a pleasant word from his father—because Alistair has his demons, believe me, and don’t let him fool you into thinking otherwise. He puts on a better show than me, that’s all.”

“The war and the ghosts,” I said softly. “They are connected.”

“I think the war annihilates ghosts,” said Matthew. “If we have mechanized death—and we have; I’ve seen it—then where do the ghosts go? I find that most frightening of all. That the ghosts disappear with our humanity.”

I thought about this, but I was already shaking my head. “It isn’t so hopeless. I refuse to believe it.”

He crossed his arms. “You still believe in humanity?”

I looked at him. He was so alive the room vibrated with it: a vital, fascinating, intelligent man, damaged perhaps in ways I did not understand, but also strong in ways I was only beginning to see.
You. I believe in you,
I thought, but could not say.

He caught my eye, and suddenly something else happened. The feeling was indescribable—a slow burn down my body, a melting of my bones. It was like the feeling in my room the night before, when he had challenged me to take my shirt off, but even stronger. The ache low in my belly came back. He kept looking at me, bold and unafraid, his eyes traveling me slowly, and my breath came short. It was time to admit to myself, if only quietly in my mind, that I desired to go to bed with Matthew Ryder.

I had a little experience. My mother would have been shocked, but she forfeited her authority when she left me in June of 1919. After she died, I had drifted back to London, signed with the temporary agency, and begun to earn my living. In every office I worked, there were girls; and where there were girls, there were parties, dates, every excuse to see men. Especially soldiers.

I had been dragged to more than a few occasions, under the guise of some coworker or other wishing to “set me up with a nice fellow.” I usually did badly at such things, but sometimes there were men who were interested—I never knew why, whether their desperation or simple voraciousness made them turn their attention to me. For a shy girl unused to men, it is easier to hurl the moon from the sky than it is to turn away from a man who truly wishes to pursue her. And so I ended up on awkward dates, and engaged in awkward kisses. And sometimes I ended up, aimless, in their beds.

It had never been an enjoyable experience for me. It was wanted, expected, by the men, and at least it put me on somewhat the same footing as the young women I knew. I may not have had any pleasure, but by doing it at least I felt a little less strange, a little less alien to my own species. I supposed it was worth it for that.

But the thought of going to bed with Matthew made the blood rush in my veins. It suffused me with a kind of terror that was also sweet and had a keen edge of pleasure to it. It was immense, something I might not be able to handle. And yet I surprised myself by wishing to try.

I knew my face burned as we looked at each other, as that long moment spun out and out. I knew he was considering the same thing I was; his expression was not its usual cynical defensiveness, but a quiet speculation. He still sat back in his chair, arms crossed, the flex of his biceps visible beneath the fabric of his shirt in that pose. His tangy smell was in my nostrils, even from his side of the table. He broke the gaze and looked away. I was ten kinds of fool, of course, for even thinking he would consider going to bed with me. He had not even wanted me to see his skin.

We were interrupted by a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Clare came into the room. She was wrapped in a thin gray cardigan, her hair unkempt, her eyes a little wild. She looked between Matthew and me.

“Where is Mr. Gellis?” she asked.

“In his room,” Matthew replied. He still sat as before, unmoved except to turn his head to look at her. “Is there something we can do for you?”

Mrs. Clare ran a palm over her temple. “I don’t know. I’m not even certain why I came. I just thought Mr. Gellis might be able to do something. He said he would try.”

Matthew frowned. “Do something about what? Is it Maddy?”

She shook her head. “Well—I don’t know,” she amended. “It must have something to do with her, but I don’t know what. I can’t remember when I slept last, and I’ve finally had enough. This is just the final straw. It’s the crows, you see.”

Matthew and I exchanged a quick, surprised glance. “Crows?” he asked.

“Crows,” she said again, as if we had disbelieved her. “It was only a few at first. But now there are so many. They make such a noise all night long. Mrs. Macready hears them, too. I can’t stand it any longer. Tonight I went outside and counted them.” She ran her palm over her temple again. “I had to stop at three hundred and seventeen.”

I stared at her. “You have three hundred and seventeen crows outside your window?”

Matthew stood. “I’ll get Alistair,” he said.

Half an hour later we stood on a rise, looking at the Clare barn several hundred feet away. What we could see of the Clare barn. It was dark, but the moon was full, and with our eyes adjusted there was just enough light to see.

The barn was covered with crows.

Alistair raised his field glasses and whistled in low amazement. “Well, she wasn’t bamming. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I didn’t need field glasses to feel uneasy, looking at the writhing mass of black as it moved and twitched. Even from here I could picture the glistening black of the crows’ wings, hear the dry rasp of their feet on the aged wooden roof. And the noise—the accumulated random squawking chatter of hundreds of birds. The trees surrounding the house and the barn were laden with
black, as if someone had doused them in tar. Occasionally some internal argument would send ten or twenty birds erupting into the air, like the ominous breaths of a volcano.

Alistair passed the field glasses to Matthew. “Remember the McCarty house in Yorkshire? The ghost manifested itself in mice.” He bent to pull the camera from its case, adjusted the lens.

“Mm.” Matthew looked through the glasses. “Damn, I can hardly see a thing. I think the McCartys just had a mouse manifestation.”

“Nonsense.” Alistair lifted the camera. I thought I was completely forgotten until he handed me the elaborate cap for the lens. “Sarah—hold this.”

“I snuck a glimpse at their pantry,” Matthew was saying. “Really, Alistair. I wasn’t surprised by the mice at all.”

“This is a much stronger manifestation. I’ll grant you that.” Alistair had set the camera on a tripod and was busy tweaking the dials. “Roger Edmunds documented a ghost in Scotland that sounded like hundreds of rats scurrying in the walls. Or so he said—he couldn’t record it, and no one could really say whether there simply were really rats in the walls. But this—this puts Roger Edmunds to shame.”

Matthew lowered the field glasses and gave me a wry look. “Alistair hates Roger Edmunds,” he explained.

Alistair depressed the camera trigger and the night exploded in a flash of light. I winced.

Matthew looked through the field glasses again. “Is the flash necessary?”

“Of course it is. It’s dark out, Matthew. I’ve got no natural light here.” He depressed the button again and the flash popped.

The sounds of the birds grew higher, the squawking and the
rustling of oily wings. “Perhaps we should come see them in the morning,” I said softly, hating myself for a coward. But fear was trembling through me.

“They could be gone in the morning.” Alistair smiled at me as he readied the camera. “It’s an adventure, Sarah.” He popped the flash again, stabbing the dark with its bright white light.

Matthew had not lowered the glasses. “An adventure,” he repeated. “They’re moving.”

Alistair straightened. “What?”

Matthew handed him the glasses. “See for yourself.”

Alistair took the glasses. “I’ll look—you take a picture.” He grinned as Matthew paused. “Afraid of a few birds?”

Matthew said a foul word and readied the camera. Alistair looked through the glasses, and Matthew pressed the button.

I gasped.

“My God,” said Alistair.

I could see it in the flash of light: a plume of black birds, rising to the sky. The noise was incredible. The air filled with throaty, angry
caws
.

“They’re moving because they see us,” said Matthew.

“Do it again,” said Alistair.

Matthew did, and this time I made no sound, as the fear had frozen my throat. The birds were flying toward us. In seconds I heard their wings, heard the rustle in the trees overhead as they landed heavily in the branches. They flapped and shouted at us.

“Can we go now?” I said.

Alistair was quiet. He had lowered the glasses and looked about overhead, tracking the dark shadows in the trees. Something exploded in the bush next to him—some four or five birds, bending the branches as they landed, steadying themselves with
their outstretched wings. They were perched mere inches from Alistair. One of them walked gingerly to the end of its branch, its waxy toes curling, and regarded him with bright black eyes.

There was a long pause as Alistair and the bird regarded each other. “Perhaps we’ve seen all we can here,” said Alistair softly at last.

Matthew picked up the camera and tripod. I picked up the case. We made no sound, as if in mutual agreement.

Alistair looked at the bird on the branch next to him again. He bent toward it a little, gazing into its face. I wanted to scream.

“Hello,” he said softly.

The bird stretched out both its wings, raised them above its dark black head. It opened its beak as far as it could and emitted a long, low, growling rasp, a sound I heard down the back of my spine and in the pit of my stomach.

Then Matthew’s hand came down on Alistair’s shoulder. “Time to go. Now.”

We walked back to the inn. The birds did not follow us. But they watched us go, dark and silent in the trees.

I
went back to my room and put on my ridiculous white nightgown and lay on the bed. Sleep eluded me as I stared at the ceiling. My mind swept in circles, flying from thought to thought, never settling. I was restless.

I rolled to my side and drew my knees up. The bed was cold, but still I lay on top of the coverlet, with no blanket on top of me. My pulse raced warm under my skin and hot in my temples. I wanted to run and shout. I closed my eyes, felt the delicate beat of my eyelids. This long day was over, and yet it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t, and I waited for it.

How different I was, I thought, from the girl who had left London. I had been terrified, of course. I was terrified still. But the girl in London had been asleep. She had been sleeping for years. Now I was awake, for better or for worse, and I would never sleep again. I did not want to sleep again.

Eventually, I dozed. And dreamed about crows.

I’m not sure what awakened me, whether it was a sound—the
soft click of the door, I imagine—or whether I sensed a change in the air of my bedroom. I pulled slowly out of my doze, languorous, my limbs heavy. There was a quiet step on the floor next to the bed. I opened my eyes slowly. I was lying on my back now, my body warm. I smelled a familiar scent. A lazy thrill went through my body, and it never occurred to me to be afraid.