The Mammoth Book of Ghost Romance (Mammoth Books) Page 7

  Nobody noticed.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “It doesn’t make sense that I can talk to you, but not them.”

  “Well, if you ask me nice-like, I might see my way clear to telling you.”

  “If I ask you nice-like? What if I don’t feel like asking nice-like?”

  “Then I don’t reckon I’ll tell you.”

  Scalawags? “Who are you supposed to be? A Civil War re-enactor? Uh!” She slapped at her own cheek. “I have to wake up.”

  The man smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He said nothing. Even his lips looked rough, like they’d been chapped and healed dozens of times, but still, his smile was, well, beautiful. She’d put him at maybe thirty, though it was sort of hard to tell, because he seemed so masculine, in a larger-than-life way.

  “I don’t have time for this.” She stormed back over to where they were loading the body into the ambulance now. “You guys!” Her mother was hysterical. And now Cassie saw why.

  The girl was her, right down to her freckled face. “Mom! I’m here! I’m right here!” She touched her mom’s back, but her hand went right through, like her mom wasn’t there.

  No way.

  She was breathing, walking. Her heart beat. The night air felt cool on her skin. She was not dead.

  The doors of the ambulance shut. Corky held Belinda’s arm and they trudged up the sand beach toward the parking lot. Dimly, she noticed dawn was breaking. How did it get to be dawn? Corky unlocked his station wagon and her parents got in with Belinda. Corky was driving them all somewhere.

  She thought back . . . she remembered a few tequilas. Daryl the jerk. Going out to turn off Old Salt’s face. She’d thrown a rock and slipped on the pier. She touched her head. A bump.

  Everyone was leaving in cars except for a few cops.

  “All manner of contraption y’all have.” The Civil War re-enactor was back.

  “You going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “That’s your version of asking nice-like?”

  “Jesus Christ, come on!”

  He crossed his arms, shirt cuffs flopping, and fixed her with a tiny grin, eyes sparkling merrily. She didn’t know this guy from Adam, but she’d seen that kind of grin, that kind of sparkle. It was the look that said, I’ve got a zinger to tell you.

  “What? You obviously have something to say.”

  “I was just thinking that my Nell would never use such language.”

  Shivers rained down over her body. “What?”

  “My Nell. You haven’t by chance seen her now, have you?”

  Cassie backed away. “This isn’t funny.” It was here she noticed the hook hand under one of his floppy shirt cuffs. Her heart dropped like a stone. “You get away from me.”

  “With pleasure, Miss Cassie. I got enough troubles without a devil-tongued girl who sees fit to call me names and pelt me with stones every night.” With that he walked off, carrying his anchor, which was connected to a chain that seemed to be tied to his boot. A bit of the chain dragged behind him.

  Cassie stared after him, chilled to the bone. It wasn’t a dream. She had died. That had been her body on the beach.

  When the clock struck eight, William was back there again, clinging to the mast with his good hand, trying to see through the blinding rain and wind to the lifeboats that carried his crew. He said his prayer, and then the rogue wave hit. The deck lurched and splintered under him, pulleys snapped and the mast toppled with a loud groan. McHenry went sliding, flailing and the anchor chain caught his ankle.

  Over he went, a stone into the icy depths.

  It was all so dreamlike – yet real. The one thing he knew was that his Nell would be waiting on shore. The thought gave him the strength to hoist the anchor and swim up toward the surface with it. She was close – he was sure of it!

  Some time later – Was it minutes? Years? – he was on the pier, calling out to Nell. She was so close! He could almost feel her. “Nelllll!” Up the pier he went, with the growing sense that he’d been here before. That something bad would happen.

  He called more loudly, “Nellllll!”

  He stopped, anchor in hand. He was waking into the reality of this realm now, as he always did. He had been here before. This was the point where he usually realized she was lost to him. But something was different.

  He looked around. Where were the strange folk that usually gathered? They hadn’t been there the day before, or before that, he now recalled. And the lights around that blasted sign were off, though he could still see the face, unfortunately. How he hated that image, the way it highlighted his hook and made a joke of his search for Nell. The whole town, it seemed, was bent on mocking him, and the worst one of all was that gangly redhead with the filthy tongue. Bad enough when she was a child, adding spots and scars and whatnot to the caricature of him, hurling stones and insults like he was the town fool. But now she’d come back to lead the groups who stood witness to his agony each and every evening. He hated how she smirked when she spoke of his love for Nell, as if it were all a joke.

  And then it came it to him – she was dead. The redhead was dead, to her family, her friends, and all of that realm, but alive to him. She’d spoken to him. The one woman he’d never cared to meet. What had she called him the day she died? Dumbfuck, yes.

  A few souls had spent time as ghosts in Clancyville over the years, but none as long as him. They usually got their fill of being ghosts and moved on, but he hadn’t gotten his fill of it yet. He wouldn’t give up on Nell that easily.

  Was it yesterday Cassie died? The day before?

  Lights were on in the tavern. People in there, but no music. A funeral?

  He turned around and trudged back down to the end of the pier, as he always did, and he stood there remembering Cassie’s lost look. He’d felt lost at first, too. Still did, at times.

  She’d be around family and friends in there – would that make it better or worse? His kith and kin had fled Clancyville, worried his ghost was after them. In the years right after the wreck, all of Clancyville avoided the dock, frightened of him and his chain. Unlike now.

  Had Miss Cassie thought to go through walls yet? Did she get called away to other realms, the way he got called to his sinking ship? He’d been confused by that at first, but it seemed rather simple now. The sound of the clock tugged so hard at his memory that it thrust him back there, and it was his reality for a spell, and he’d forget everything else, much in the way a dream felt like the only reality, but it was more than a dream – he was sure of that. He was back in that time and place during those moments.

  He could explain it all to her – or would, if she wasn’t so very unpleasant to him.

  Still, he was curious as to how she was faring. He picked up his anchor and chain and floated up the beach, across the porch and through the wall. It tickled his cheeks as most walls did.

  A great many people had gathered inside. Up front, a large likeness of Miss Cassie showed her lying in a patch of green grass and daisies, red hair splayed around her smiling face. The likeness was so very real, he knew it wasn’t a painting – it was photography. They had a lot of that in the future, both moving and still.

  “Mischievous as they come, our Cassie,” her mother said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She loved to surprise, shock, entertain. She had big dreams to be a screenwriter in LA, and she would’ve been a wonder at it, because she was clever, and had a big heart.”

  He moved to the front, careful not to drag the chain, and studied the likeness up close. This Cassie looked happy, whereas the Cassie he’d observed over the years was ornery, standing out there on the pier, hurling her insults and stones.

  “She put all her dreams on hold to help us here,” the mother went on, “missing out on starting her young life, but she never complained.” Her mother blotted her eyes, and whispered, “Never complained.”

  A voice sounded behind him. “Just what I need. A visit from
Old Salt.”

  He turned and was about to make a quip about her never complaining, but he stopped when he saw her eyes, swollen from crying. Hair a bit wild. Dreary and sweetly sad.

  “How you faring?”

  She motioned toward the photograph. “I was faring a fuck of a lot better on that day.” Her voice sounded hoarse to his ears. She’d been yelling and carrying on, trying to get people to hear her. He’d done the same thing.

  He turned back to the picture. “Reckon so.”

  She came up beside him. They stood together, listening. A young man with red hair and freckles, just like Cassie’s, took the stage and told stories about Cassie as a girl, always exploring and stirring up trouble. The brother. William remembered a boy like that from years back. The brother read something Cassie had written, a pretty little passage about the wharf.

  “You were some manner of writer then?”

  “Fuck.” She began to cry. “Yeah.” She sniffled. “Everybody said I should write a thing about you. Write a movie about Old Salt.”

  “Well, I sure am glad you didn’t go and do that.”

  She smiled through her tears. “There’s one thing we can agree on.”

  He was struck by how pretty she was when she wasn’t being ornery. “You woulda gotten everything wrong.”

  Cassie snorted. “I think I would’ve gotten plenty right.”

  “Nah. You don’t know anything.”

  “I know I’m not going to be like you, haunting around this stupid town.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Well, then tell me, what do you reckon you’re doing right now?”

  “I’m watching my funeral.”

  “And how is it that you’re able to see your own funeral?”

  She frowned.

  “Could it be you’re haunting around this stupid town just like me?”

  “This is temporary.”

  “It’s all temporary, Miss Cassie.”

  “Well . . .” She twisted up her lips, as though unsure how to respond. “Anyway, I can already move around however I want. Like, if I think hard about the laundromat, I can just appear there. Or if I think hard about the historical Hyde House – you know, the old mayor’s mansion? – suddenly I’m there. On the good side of the velvet ropes. Eventually I’ll be out of here.”

  “Tried yet?”

  She shrugged.

  Of course she’d tried. He’d tried to travel other places numerous times – Charleston, Newark, Bangor. Even tried to go to New York City. But he was trapped in Clancyville. Even when he was reliving the cyclone, that was in the vicinity of Clancyville.

  “I’ll get there,” she said. “Powers grow.”

  “Says who?”

  “All movies, comic books and video games.”

  “Phhft.”

  Cassie watched a young boy and girl come onto the stage. An older woman fussed with their chairs. “We’re not the only ghosts here, are we?” she asked. “There must be others.”

  “Nah, just us. In these parts, anyway. Been five or six others come and gone through the years, but most who die don’t stick around at all.”

  “But I did? That doesn’t make any sense. I would be the last person to stick around. I didn’t even want to be here in life.”

  William watched the stage; the boy started strumming his guitar and the little girl sang. “Well, I got a theory on that,” he said. And she wasn’t going to like it much.

  “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.”

  William bit back a smile. “In sailing, when you fix your eyes real hard on something, you will tend to go toward that thing. Even with aid of a chronometer, I’d always fix on a point on the horizon and use it in my navigation. That’s why they always say don’t fix your eyes too firmly on a thing you want to avoid. Many a sailor has focused so hard on some rocky shoal they fear to hit, fixing their gaze so fiercely, that they end up driving their ship right onto it.”

  “You think I’ve fixated on this town? Is that it?”

  He bit his lip. No, she wasn’t going to like his theory at all.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I don’t reckon it was specifically this town you fixated on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you fixated on somebody in this town, and you have all your life.”

  Her jaw hung open. “You think I’m fixated on you? That’s what you think?”

  “It sure is what I think.”

  “No way.” She watched the musical children, but William felt sure she was looking back. “Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.” Then she glared at him. “What? You think it’s funny?”

  He paused. “I wouldn’t say it’s funny exactly . . .”

  “You do think it’s funny!”

  He smiled.

  “Screw you! It’s not funny at all.” With that she floated up to the rafters.

  It was a good steady upwards float, her being so new. And it was impressive that she’d figured out that she could appear in local places by putting them topmost in her thoughts. It had taken him some time to get that.

  Too bad ghost Cassie was every bit as unpleasant as the mocking, stone-throwing girl she’d been. Pretty or not, he’d had more than enough lip from her for a lifetime. He closed his eyes and tried concentrating on the underwater wreckage of the Gertie Gail, hoping to appear there. He’d begun going there at first because it was comforting, but these days, he enjoyed the fish that lived there. One of the good things about being a ghost was that you could stay underwater as long as you pleased. The old laws didn’t apply.

  He knew before he opened his eyes that he was still in the tavern. Fine.

  He shut his eyes and tried with the tavern sign. He could appear up there and see how the seagull family was faring. People couldn’t see him or interact with him, but the animals could. They seemed to have gotten used to his quiet presence. Back when he was first a ghost, the animals made him feel less alone. He was more a part of the animals’ families than any family he’d ever had in Clancyville. He and his kin never had much use for each other, and he’d shipped out so young.

  When he opened his eyes he was still in the tavern, which meant the tavern was topmost in his thoughts. Fine. He’d take the long way – he’d float. He drifted out through the wall, out to the shore, and up to the top of the still unlit sign.

  The baby gulls were sleeping, or so he thought until he noticed a wee open eye looking right at him.

  He set his anchor on his lap. “Hey, bird.”

  The eye closed. The sky had darkened, and the night birds were coming out to hunt skeeters and other critters. He watched them for a good long spell, wondering if Cassie liked animals. He could show her some pretty interesting things.

  His thoughts kept turning back to the two of them, him and Cassie, standing quietly together, listening to the talk. Unpleasant as she was, it comforted him to know another had arrived. And the people seemed to like her. They’d described the type of person he’d have wanted to know. Had he given her a fair shake?

  He got to thinking about her and, eventually, he was thinking about her hard enough that he was back at the bar.

  Noise. The musicians that played nightly had taken the stage. He sure didn’t fancy their kind of racket.

  Cassie was still up in the rafters, looking doleful. He glanced back over at her photograph, her so happy in the field of daisies. There were lots of flowers all around the tavern, too, mostly roses and lilies, but the daisies struck him as a proper flower for her. Why hadn’t people brought her daisies? Then he spied a few little ones, tucked deep into one of the arrangements. It was a bit risky, but he snuck over and plucked a daisy and floated up over the crowd, anchor and all, floated up to where she perched. He thrust it at her.

  “For you.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “What?”

  “This here’s for you.”

  She stared at the daisy.

  “I know I haven’t been much
of a help to you.”

  She held out her hand to take the daisy. “Thanks, McHenry,” she said, just as it fell through her fingers, floated down toward the crowd. “Fuck!”

  William dived down to get it and floated it back up.

  Her pretty eyes widened. “How are you carrying that? It went right through my hand.”

  “Concentration. You’ll be able to do as much in time. This here’s a realm of thought. You’re setting on that rafter, right?”

  She stared down, dumbfounded. “Right. How come I don’t go through?”

  He sat down next to her and settled his anchor in his lap. “Just the way of the place. You can set on things. You’ll be able to hold things soon. I’ll hold it for you for now, how ’bout that?”

  “Thanks,” she whispered, staring back out. They sat in companionable silence.

  Her cheeks were pinker now that she’d been crying, and it made her freckles look burnt-butter brown – all the prettier, really.

  “My poor parents,” she said after a while.

  “People find their way,” he said.

  Down below the music bellowed on. There was no clue in her thoughtful expression as to whether she believed this or not.

  “Daisies are my favorite flower,” she said later.

  He felt a bit of a fool for how his heart swelled at that. “Well, I’m glad.” He was seized with the urge to lay his hand over her pretty freckled cheek, to slide his fingertips over the soft spatter of freckles. Or maybe to kiss her.

  “Wait a minute—” She stared at the daisy, baffled. “So, all this time, you could’ve been making stuff float through the air?”

  “I don’t want to frighten folks.”

  She laughed. “You’re a ghost. You’re supposed to frighten folks.”

  “I spent a good deal of my life frightening folks. I’d frighten my crew at times. This frightened and repelled some folks.” He held up his hook. “And sometimes I played it up, angry I didn’t have my hand. Frightening people, it doesn’t feel good in a man’s heart.” He was also thinking about the portrait they had of him everywhere, how menacing they made him look. “Some men’ll tell you different, but no man wants it truly.”

  He paused. What did he want? That sense of connection. To feel loved. He’d felt it only that one time, with Nell.