Madeleine hesitated. As Clara watched the great energy that seemed to surround the woman appeared to dim, to diminish. It was as though she sagged for just an instant.
‘It’s upside down too,’ said Madeleine.
Hazel’s hands darned the worn socks but her mind was elsewhere. She glanced at the clock. Ten thirty. Still early, she told herself.
She wondered what was happening at the bistro over in Three Pines. Madeleine had suggested they go together, but Hazel had declined.
‘Don’t tell me you’re scared,’ Madeleine had teased.
‘Of course not. It’s just nonsense, a waste of time.’
‘Not afraid of ghosts? So, would you move into a house next to a cemetery?’
Hazel thought about it. ‘Probably not, but only because of resale.’
‘Ever practical,’ Madeleine laughed.
‘Do you believe this woman can contact the dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Mad. ‘I honestly haven’t thought about it. It just seems like fun.’
‘Lots of people believe in ghosts, in haunted houses,’ said Hazel. ‘I was reading about one just the other day. It was in Philadelphia. A monk keeps appearing, and visitors see human shadows on the stairs and there was something else, what was it? Gave me the willies. Oh, yes. A cold spot. Right by a big wing chair and apparently everyone who sits in it dies but not before seeing the ghost of an old woman.’
‘I thought you said you don’t believe in ghosts.’
‘I don’t, but lots of people do.’
‘Lots of cultures talk about spirits,’ admitted Madeleine.
‘But we’re not talking about those, are we? I think there’s a difference. A ghost is somehow malevolent, wicked. There’s something vengeful and angry about a ghost. I’m not sure it’s such a good idea to play around with that. And the building the bistro’s in has been there for hundreds of years. Heaven knows how many people died there. No. I’ll stay at home, watch a bit of TV, take a dinner next door to poor Madame Bellows. And avoid ghosts.’
Now Hazel sat in the puddle of dim light thrown from a single lamp in the living room. Remembering the conversation had left her chilled, as though a ghost had perched by her seat, creating a cold spot. She rose and turned on all the lights. But the room remained dull. Without Madeleine it seemed to wither.
The disadvantage of putting on all the lights was that she could no longer see out the window. All she saw was her own reflection. At least, she hoped it was her own reflection. There was a middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa wearing a sensible tweed skirt and an olive twinset. Around her neck was a modest set of pearls. It could have been her mother. And maybe it was.
Peter Morrow stood at the threshold of Clara’s studio, peering into the darkness. He’d cleaned up the dishes, read in front of the living room fire and then, bored, had decided to go into his own studio to put in an hour or so on his latest painting. He’d walked through their kitchen to the other side of their small home, with every intention of opening his studio door and going inside.
So why was he now standing at the open door to Clara’s studio?
It was dark and very quiet in there. He could feel his heart in his chest. His hands were cold and he realized he was holding his breath.
The act was so simple, mundane even.
He reached out and flicked on the overhead lights. Then he stepped in.
They sat in a circle on wooden chairs. Jeanne counted and seemed disconcerted.
‘Eight is a bad number. We shouldn’t be doing this.’
‘What do you mean, a “bad” number?’ Madeleine could feel her heart start to pound.
‘It comes right after seven,’ said Jeanne, as though that explained it. ‘Eight forms the infinity sign.’ She gestured in the air, her finger making the invisible sign. ‘The energy goes round and round. No outlet. It gets angry and frustrated, and very powerful.’ She’d sighed. ‘This doesn’t feel good at all.’
The lights were out and the only illumination came from the fireplace as it crackled and threw uncertain light upon them. Some were in darkness, their backs to the fire; the rest looked like a series of disembodied worried faces.
‘I want you all to clear your minds.’ Jeanne’s voice was deep and resonant. They couldn’t see her face. She had her back to the fire. Clara had the impression she’d done it on purpose, but perhaps not.
‘You must breathe deeply and let the anxiety and worry flow out of you. A spirit can sense energy. Any negative energy will only draw the ill-intentioned spirits. We want to fill the bistro with positive, loving kindness to attract the good spirits.’
‘Fuck,’ whispered Gabri. ‘This was a bad idea.’
‘Shut up,’ hissed Myrna beside him. ‘Good thoughts, asshole, and be quick about it.’
‘I’m scared,’ he whispered.
‘Well, stop it. Go to your happy place, Gabri, your happy place,’ Myrna rasped.
‘This is my happy place,’ snapped Gabri. ‘Please, take her first, please, she’s big and juicy. Please, don’t take me.’
‘You are a birch,’ said Myrna.
‘Quiet please,’ said Jeanne with more authority than Clara would have guessed possible. ‘If there’s a sudden loud noise I want you to grab each other’s hands, is that understood?’
‘Why?’ Gabri whispered to Odile on his other side. ‘Is she expecting something bad?’
‘Shhh,’ said Jeanne quietly and all whispering stopped. All breathing stopped. ‘They’re coming.’
All hearts stopped.
Peter stepped into Clara’s studio. He’d been in it hundreds of times and knew she kept the door open for a reason. She had nothing to hide. And yet for some reason he felt guilty.
Looking around rapidly he strode directly to the large easel in the center of the room. The studio smelled of oils and varnishes and wood, with a slight undertone of strong coffee. Years and years of creation and coffee had imbued this room with comforting sensations. So why was Peter terrified?
At the easel he stopped. Clara had draped a sheet over the canvas. He stood contemplating it, telling himself to leave, begging himself not to do this thing. Hardly believing what he was doing he saw his right hand reach out. Like a man who’d left his body he knew there was no controlling what was about to happen. It seemed pre-ordained.
His hand clutched the stained old sheet and yanked.
The room was silent. Clara desperately wanted to reach out and take Myrna’s hand, but she dared not move. In case. In case whatever was coming would focus its attention on her.
Then she heard it. They all heard it.
Footsteps.
The turning of a doorknob.
Someone whimpered, like a frightened puppy.
Then suddenly a horrible pounding split the silence. A man yelled, Clara felt hands clutching at hers from both sides. She found them and held on for dear life, repeating over and over, ‘Bless O Lord this food to our use, and ourselves to Thy service. Let us be ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.’
‘Let me in,’ a voice outside their world wailed.
‘Oh, God, it’s an angry spirit,’ said Myrna. ‘It’s your fault,’ she said to Gabri, who was wide-eyed and terrified.
‘Fuck,’ wailed the disembodied voice. ‘Fuuuuck.’
A window pane rattled and a horrible face appeared at the glass. The circle gasped and recoiled.
‘For Christ’s sake, Dorothy, I know you’re in there,’ screamed the voice. It wasn’t what Clara had imagined would be the last words she’d hear on earth. She’d always thought they’d be, ‘What were you thinking?’
Gabri rose, trembling, to his feet.
‘Dear God,’ he cried, making the sign of the cross with his fingers. ‘It’s the pre-dead.’
At the mullioned window Ruth Zardo’s eyes narrowed and she gave him half a sign of the cross.
Peter stared at the work on the easel. His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened. It was worse than he’d expected, worse than he’d feared, and Peter feared big. Before him stood Clara’s latest work, the one she’d soon show Denis Fortin, the influential gallery owner in Montreal. So far Clara had struggled in obscurity creating her nearly unintelligible works of art. At least, they were unintelligible to Peter.