Messages from the Dead
(A Gravekeeper Short Story)
Dawn was still hours away. Hazy clouds, dragged by a strong wind, cut across the moon and left long stretches of shadows over the dim backroads.
Keira moved quickly. She didn’t want to risk being seen by any insomniacs who might live in the rural properties she passed. She knew what she must look like: furtive, her head hunched and her feet light as she clung to the shadows. What she had planned for that night wasn’t illegal, but it would be hard to convince anyone else of that.
Though… it counts as breaking and entering, doesn’t it? Okay. Yeah. That might be illegal after all.
She bit her tongue and quickened her pace.
The old mill at the edge of town had been abandoned for decades. It was supposedly a favourite spot for local kids to sneak into on a dare. The dim, cold brick building was still private property, though. Technically.
But she had business there. And she didn’t want to risk being seen near the building during the day.
Gusts of condensation broke away from her mouth with every breath. The night was freezing cold. Keira felt the chill invade her even with two layers of sweaters.
A stretch of overgrown grass appeared ahead, bordered in the distance by the forest that clung around Blighty’s outskirts. A dark, hulking shape sat in the field’s centre. The Old Crispin Mill.
Keira glanced behind herself a final time. It was hard to shake the fear that she might have been spotted. The road was empty, though, and the distant houses were dark and quiet. Keira hunched her shoulders and speared into the field as she approached the mill.
The building was a significant part of the town’s history. Generations of residents had worked there. Died there. And, although the mill had been empty for longer than Keira had been alive, its memories lingered.
She could feel those memories clinging to her skin like cobwebs and causing her breath to hitch. That was one of her talents. She could tell when an area had been tainted by death.
If she was being completely truthful, she probably would have preferred almost any other kind of talent. Juggling might have been fun. But this was what she’d been given, and so she was going to use it.
She’d been at the mill only a few days before. It had changed since she’d last seen it, though. Bright yellow police tape was strung around the exterior. It had been an apathetic job and was already coming free in places, ribbons of it fluttering in the cold breeze.
Keira slipped around the mill’s side. Its doors were locked with heavy chains and the narrow, high windows were mostly too small to squeeze through. Except for one.
A stack of old crates and barrels had been positioned against the wall. Above them, a window had come out of its frame entirely, leaving a gap just large enough for a person to squirm through. Keira was grateful that the officers who had left the police tape either hadn’t noticed the secret entrance, or hadn’t bothered to block it.
She climbed the stack quickly, then reached her arms through the window and pinched her shoulder blades together to make herself fit. Her arm ached from the pressure, fresh stitches straining against raw skin, but then she was through and tumbling onto the heap of rotting wool positioned as cushioning below the window.
Keira sat for a moment, breathing deeply through her mouth as she waited for the dizziness to subside. Inside the mill was dark enough to leave her almost blind. The windows were unforgivingly narrow. Sparse glances of moonlight teased at the edges of large, dangerous machines. The old wool mill’s equipment had been left where it stood when it was abandoned, and the constructs were now slowly rusting in place. To Keira, crouched in the darkness, they seemed like behemoths.
Her fingers shook as she eased her torch out of her pocket. It clicked as she turned it on. A narrow beam of light cut through the heavy shadows and revealed slivers of the space as it jittered across foreign surfaces.
She could make out the old work tables, crumbling and bending form age. Chairs. Metal pipes ran across the ceiling, some connecting with the rusting machinery. Offices took up the back wall, most of them with large windows so that foremen could watch the employees below.
Keira took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Traces of mist were already coalescing around her. She knew that sign too well to doubt what it meant. The dead are here.
Just behind her eyes was a muscle. It was sore from over-use, and ached when she felt for it. She pulled on the muscle, though, and felt as though a veil was being lifted from her eyes.
Figures flickered into view. Faint and transparent, all of them were a ghastly shade of white, as though constructed out of the same mist that had begun to pool around the mill’s floor.
The closest figures turned towards her. Their eyes were pits of darkness. Every movement was slowed and dulled, as though they hung suspended in water: hair floated about their heads and loose clothing drifted in invisible currents. They were voiceless, but focussed on her.
“Hello,” Keira said, and fought for a strained smile. “I promised I’d come back.”
The spirits bridged generations. Their clothing showed the progression of time: from construction workers perished during the mill’s creation, to some of the final workers before the building was closed for good.
They had all died inside the mill.
Keira recognised a foreman. His face seemed to glisten with sweat and his shirt was unbuttoned: death by a heart attack. Slightly behind him was a woman missing both arms. The vicious machines had claimed her. Even further back was a man with colourless spots of what Keira knew to be blood running down his chest. A dispute turned deadly. Near him was a man with part of his face burnt off and a knife wound sliced across his throat, still glistening.
As Keira turned her eyes across the silently gathered figures, she felt her heart ache. They had been waiting, trapped, for so long.
No one else knew they were here. Only Keira, gifted with the ability to sense, see, and occasionally help the dead.
That last part was harder than she’d like it. Most spirits she’d encountered were tethered by some kind of unfinished business.
There were at least thirty souls trapped in the mill. When Keira had woken, a shade after three in the morning, they’d filled her thoughts. The mill’s spirits had helped her very recently. And she’d promised to come back for them, to give them closure if she could.
“I can’t stay for long,” Keira said. There was no one else around to hear her, but she still felt compelled to keep her voice quiet. Something about the atmosphere called for reverence. “I’ll need to be gone before dawn. But… is there anyone needs help? Anyone with unfinished business?”
The spirits heisted for a second, then, slowly, they turned and stepped back. They were facing one form in particular. A young woman, covered in a layer of grime from her time working there, her face pinched and narrow, stood near the rear of the group. Her hands were clasped ahead of her chest, the knuckles straining against the skin as she squeezed her fingers together.
They’re nominating her, Keira realised. The most important unfinished business. The one they want to see concluded first.
Keira reached out her hands, inviting. The spirit stepped forward, at first hesitantly, but then her paces became faster as longing took over her expression.
“Hey,” Keira said as the ghost came to a sudden halt ahead of her. The spirit radiated cold: Keira could feel it rolling off of her in waves. She hunched, bunching her sweaters up around her chin as she smiled apologetically. “So, uh, here’s the thing. I’m still really new to this. I’m going to do my best to help you, but I’m still not sure how to even start.”
The spirit looked young. She was her twenties, maybe. Her clothes placed her in the first half of the twentieth century. Although her face was small and pinched, it seemed to have lit up with new hope.
Keira cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m not sure the best way to communicate. I won’t be able to hear you, will I?”
The woman shook her head. Her hair was long—down past her shoulder blades—and it drifted in slow ripples around her.
Keira’s hands were still held slightly forward. The woman reached for one. Ghosts were immaterial; there was no kind of pressure or substance, but Keira could still feel where the spectre’s flesh passed through her own. It was biting cold, bleeding into her veins and muscles. Her skin turned pale where they touched.
The woman gestured for Keira to raise her hand. She did so. The woman leaned over it, deep concentration on her features. She extended her index finger and touched it down on Keira’s palm, then used it to trace lines across the skin. Tiny threads of frost bloomed on contact, before quickly melting again.
“What…” Keira shuddered as the chill bled into her, and struggles to repress the impulse to pull back. The woman moved her hand in a small swoop, and the motions clicked inside Keira’s head. “Oh! You’re writing!”
They’d have better luck if they used a surface less prone to frostbite than Keira’s own hand. She turned and cast her flashlight across the dark, dusty space. She needed something that would show when it was cold. The wooden tables wouldn’t work. None of the pipes would be easy to reach. But maybe…
Something near the back wall glittered under Keira’s light. A window had been broken. Her flashlight caught across shards of glass scattered on the floor below it.
She jogged to reach them. The largest was nearly the size of Keira’s head. Moving gingerly to avoid the sharp edges, she picked the glass off the ground and used her sleeve to wipe decades of dust from it.
“Here.” Keira brought the glass back to the waiting spectre. She knelt on the wooden floor and placed it between them. “Write on this. Tell me what you need.”
The woman swooped on the glass. Her long, delicate finger ran over the surface in quick passes. Keira tilted her head, her flashlight held up near her shoulder, as she read out the message forming in condensation. W… R… I… T… E… L… E… T… T… E… R…
“A letter.” Keira couldn’t suppress a broad grin. She’d never been able to speak with a ghost so directly before. “You want me to send a letter for you. Yes! I can do that!”
She was vaguely aware of shapes moving near them. The other spirits had formed a circle around where she and the ghost knelt on the floor. They watched, eager, their vague, smudged figures bleeding in and out of the shadows.
“Who do you want to send the letter to?” Keira asked.
Again, the woman’s finger raced across the glass. DAUGHTER
Keira couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the woman. She wasn’t an expert at fashions through history, but she suspected the ghost had been dead for at least seventy years. Maybe closer to eighty. Any child would be old… if they were even still alive.
“I’ll do my best,” was all she could promise.
She lifted her light and shone it through the gathered onlookers. A row of offices stood at the rear of the building. “Wait here a moment,” Keira said.
The spirits parted for her as she stepped between them. Several trailed after her, including the foreman with the open shirt. Keira looked into the first office, but it was empty save for a chair laying on its side.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you have some spare paper laying around,” Keira said as she backed out of the office. It had been intended as a joke, but the foreman beckoned to her. Keira followed him to the last office in the row.
The office wasn’t large, but it was cluttered. The desk was so coated with cobwebs and dust that it looked hazy in Keira’s narrow light. Behind it, an old, rusted filing cabinet stood open against the back wall. The foreman led her towards it, then gestured to the lowest drawer.
“Thanks,” Keira said, bending to see inside. She tried not to shiver as the spectre’s chill grazed over her back.
The filing cabinet’s drawer held a small pile of papers. Keira sorted through them and came up with two sheets that were blank.
She turned back to the desk. A cup held at least a dozen variedpens. Their ink would have dried up long ago, but Keira spotted the telltale wooden sheen of a pencil buried inside the cluster. She pulled it out, shaking it free from thin spiderwebs before examining its edge.
The pencil was dull, but serviceable. Keira scribbled a few circles on one of the pieces of paper to make sure it would work. It did.
Keira moved back into the mill’s main floor. Her spirit, the small, pinched woman, stayed kneeling on the floor beside the glass, waiting. The ring of ghosts surrounding her had split, turning into a semi-circle as they watched Keira go through the offices. They shuffled back a fraction as she moved between them, then tightened back into their circle as Keira knelt beside the glass.
“Okay.” Keira placed the two sheets of paper beside herself and gripped the pencil. “Let’s start with your name.”
Pale streaks bloomed across the glass as the ghost wrote. ADELA ENACHE
“That’s pretty,” Keira said, writing it down. “And your daughter’s name?”
FILIMON MARIA ENACHE
“Good.” Keira wrote the daughter’s name beneath the mother’s then turned the paper around to face her. “Check this to make sure I have it right. I’ll need her exact name if I’m going to find her.”
The spirit bent close, her brows tight as her eyes scanned the words, then gave a firm, resolute nod.
“Okay.” Keira put that paper aside, then pulled the spare, empty sheet closer. “Now, what would you like me to write?”
The ghost’s finger darted across the glass. MY DEAREST CHILD…
Adela wrote without hesitation. Keira could only imagine she’d had nothing but time to think about the things she wanted to say to her daughter, if she was ever given the chance. She must have rehearsed the message in her mind, again and again, until she knew it by heart. It flowed from her in a torrent then, and Keira frequently had to ask her to back up as the pale smudges faded from the glass before she could copy them.
The letter was short, but it still took a long time to transcribe. Keira tried to replicate Adela’s writing as much as possible: the swooping shape of the letter A, the angle of the E. Early morning sunlight came through the high windows by the time they finished.
Keira sat back and examined the final product. No matter how much care she took, she knew her copy was going to be a pale imitation of the woman’s own writing. It was important to at least try to make them similar, though. If she was going to pass the note on to Adela’s descendant, she’d need to pretend it was authentic—written by the woman herself—and discovered by Keira while exploring the abandoned mill. The old, discoloured paper would help sell that narrative, at least.
Adela had slumped back. She’d been clear and bright when Keira first arrived at the mill. Now, she was turning hazy around her edges. Her features were no longer as clear and the tables behind them were easier to see through her form.
Ghosts were made of energy, and, Keira suspected, Adela had spent a lot of hers relaying her message. She’d regain it, but it would take time.
“I’ll come back once I’ve delivered this,” Keira said, and carefully folded the note so that it would fit into her back pocket. “I hope that will give you the closure you need.”
Adela, still kneeling on the floor, watched mutely as Keira moved the glass back under the window.
The ghosts looked different in daylight. More vaporous, as though Keira could swipe her hand through them and send their particles spiralling away. She gazed across the work room and its inhabitants for a final time before climbing back out of the window she’d come in through.
It was still early and the mill was far enough out of town that the street was mercifully empty. Still, Keira broke into a jog as she crossed the weedy field. Being discovered too close to the abandoned mill while there was still police tape strung around its border would raise more questions than she felt qualified to answer.
I have a name. I have a letter. Now, I just need an address.
Keira folded her arms around her chest as she moved back towards town. Her best bet would probably be the library’s database. In a best-case scenario Filimon would still be alive and residing in Blighty, and Keira could deliver the letter herself. More likely, Filimon would have moved, and Keira would have to figure out the logistics of mailing the letter and hoping that would be enough to fulfil her ghost’s unfinished business.
She didn’t want to think about what she’d do if her search brought up a memorial notice. Adela had been waiting so long for her closure. It would feel cruel to tell her she was too late.
The library—a converted store with books artfully arranged in the display windows—was closed. Keira checked the opening times displayed by the door and grimaced. She had a couple of hours to burn.
Though… as she turned back towards Blighty’s main crossroads, she caught sight of a familiar figure with short black hair and colourful, trend-defying clothes unlocking the door to the town’s grocery store. Maybe I won’t need to wait after all.
“Zoe!” She crossed the street, carefully ducking around the few early bird denizens who were braving the morning chill.
Zoe turned and her face lit up into a broad, wolfish smile. “I didn’t expect to see you around today. Aren’t you mean to be, like, dying or something?”
“Resting,” Keira corrected. “And I’ve already done plenty of that. Want some company?”
“I’ll never say no to you.” Zoe used her shoulder to shove the store’s door open, and the bell poised above it jingled happily. “Get in here and get warm. The store’s technically supposed to be opening in—” she checked her watch “—five minutes, but I can leave the door locked and pretend I forgot.”
The store was cluttered, with narrow shelves filled to the ceiling, but it had a nice atmosphere. Keira sidestepped a stack of baskets as she admired the space. “I don’t want to get you fired.”
“Pfft.” Zoe poked her tongue out between her teeth for a second before leading the way through the narrow shelves to reach the staff room at the store’s back. “Who are they going to replace me with? Jason? He thinks there are five quarters in a dollar. I’m the best option they have, the poor sods. Want a drink?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
They moved into the rear staff room. It was small and crowded, with a desk covered in paperwork and an old box computer already humming on it. Zoe pulled two cups out of a cupboard and switched on a thermos nestled in the room’s corner. “Grab a seat wherever you can find one. Shove stuff out of the way if you need to. None of it’s important.”
“Mm.” Keira glanced at paperwork on the nearest chair. It looked like tax returns. “It kinda seems like it might be a little important.”
“Trust me, it’s not.” Zoe swiped the tax forms onto the floor, which already held more than a few loose leaf papers, then gestured to the now empty seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Keira hesitated. The note felt like it was burning her through her back pocket. “Actually, I’ve got to be honest. This visit isn’t completely social.”
“Oh, that’s even better.” Zoe’s dark eyes glittered. “You’re here with a purpose. And, knowing you, it’s going to be exciting in one form or another.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this one’s on the menial side.” Keira pulled the spare piece of paper out of her pocket. “I need to find this woman. Filimon Maria Enache, daughter of Adela Enache. And the library’s not open yet.”
“Ooh, pass it here.” Zoe took the sheet and glanced over the names. “Why bother with the library when you have your own local expert right here? I’m not called Zoe the Scholar for nothing.”
“Do people call you that?”
“Not yet, but if I repeat it often enough it’s eventually got to stick.”
Zoe left the paper beside the keyboard, then jiggled the computer’s mouse to wake it up. A faint, pained whirr rose from the bulky box underneath the desk.
“Give it a moment,” Zoe said as she returned to pour boiling water into their mugs. “It needs to warm up.”
“It’s…” Keira tilted her head as she tried to find a tactful way to phrase herself. She failed. “Old.”
“Oh, yeah.” Zoe carried two steaming mugs over to them and placed the desk. Hot chocolate, by the smell and the shade of the liquid. Keira hadn’t ever thought of hot chocolate as a breakfast drink before. “I think it might be older than me.” Zoe patted the monitor’s surface lovingly. “This baby has eight years’ worth of updates waiting to install. It keeps asking me to restart it but we’re keeping it on life support.”
The box monitor finally came to life with a thin hiss. The colours were garishly out-of-tune and the curser left a trail of sparkles when it moved.
“Amazing,” Keira said, propping her chin on her hands as she admired the display’s blocky layout. “That’s got to be a security nightmare.”
“Oh, it definitely is. But my boss has this thing exactly the way she likes it, and we’re not going to let some quality-of-life update change that. Now, let’s see.”
It took nearly a full minute for the internet browser to open. Keira felt herself waver between admiration and horror as she counted no fewer than sixteen toolbars. But then Zoe pulled the keyboard closer and began typing, and it was clear she knew how to handle the machine. Her fingers were almost a blur as she entered web addresses.
“I’m guessing this person lived in Blighty at one point?” Zoe asked.
“Yeah. When she was a child, at least.”
“That helps.” The screen’s fluorescent glow reflected off Zoe’s keen eyes. “Local historians keep track of everyone who lived here. They have a few gaps scattered through the timeline, but it’s pretty watertight compared to a lot of genealogy sites.”
Keira sipped her drink while Zoe worked. The hot chocolate scalded the tip of her tongue and was excessively sweet—Keira had a sense that Zoe might have added extra sugar—but it was beautifully warm after spending a night in the mill.
Zoe hadn’t asked Keira’s purpose. She was grateful for that. One of Zoe’s best—and most concerning—traits was that she rarely asked someone’s motive. She’d gleefully helped Keira break into a recluse’s property with very few questions about why.
It wasn’t that she was a trouble maker, either. It was more like… Zoe always had good intentions for what she did, whether those intentions made sense to an outside eye or not, and she put a similar amount of faith in her friends.
“Hm.” Zoe’s eyes stayed wide even as her eyebrows narrowed over them. She hunched forward, her jaw braced on her palm as her right hand darted the mouse across the screen, occasionally dipping into the keyboard to jab at its keys. More websites opened, then were pushed aside for yet more web pages.
Keira waited patiently, sipping at her drink and letting the wave of brightly coloured websites fade into a blur.
It took Zoe several minutes to finally push her chair back from the computer and face Keira. “Okay, so, here’s the deal. As far as the internet’s concerned, nobody by the name of Filimon Maria Enache ever existed.”
Keira felt her heart drop. “Oh no.”
“It’s not a complete dead end. I found her mother.” Zoe turned the piece of paper around to face Keira and jabbed a finger at the top name. “At least, I’m assuming it’s the same woman. Adela Enache was a Romani immigrant. She arrived in Blighty in nineteen thirty-eight, age twenty-one. She came with several other families from her home village and shared a house with them. That was pretty common back then—the mill’s owners weren’t exactly magnanimous about their wages or their conditions, so working families would often share to save costs.”
Keira nodded. “That’s around the timeframe I was guessing.”
“Right. So… there are no records about Adela ever having a child. Blighty’s history site lists her as an unmarried woman, no known family. And she didn’t live in Blighty for long, either. She was one of the victims of a fire that broke out in Crispin Mill in thirty-nine, just a year after she moved here, and not long before the mill shut down for good. Her cause of death is listed as smoke inhalation.”
Keira’s mind flashed back to the woman. Her clothes and skin had appeared dirty. That hadn’t come from grime accumulated through labour, Keira now realised: it had been soot. She was immensely grateful that the woman had passed before the flames reached her.
“There has to be a daughter,” Keira said, speaking as much to herself as to Zoe. “Maybe she never came to Blighty at all. Maybe she was left back at Adela’s home village with a relative.”
“I thought of that.” Zoe nodded towards the computer’s screen. “If she was, she didn’t leave much trace. No results in any kinds of births, deaths, or marriages records. No social media profiles. Are you sure you have the right name?”
Keira recalled how Adela’s eyes had darted over the sheet of paper, hungrily reading the names to confirm them. She’d been dead for well over half a century; was there any chance she might have misremembered her own daughter’s name?
No. The answer came with a surprising amount of certainty. There had been too much love and too much longing in Adela’s features. Time could erode everything else from her, but she’d stayed on earth for one reason: to pass this letter to her child. She wouldn’t forget a single thing about her. “It’s correct.”
“Okay.” Zoe blew a puff of air out of the side of her mouth as she frowned at the computer screen. “And it’s important you find her, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“The internet has failed us, but there’s one final avenue we can try. It’s a long shot but, honestly, might be the best hope we have left. Come with me.”
The store had a back exit, Keira discovered, as Zoe ushered her through it. As they passed the alleyway between shops Keira spotted a small gaggle of restless customers outside the general store’s front. She shot an apologetic grimace towards Zoe, who gave a mild shrug in return.
“They’re all familiar faces. I call them the curators. They come in, they browse for, like, an hour, and then they leave without buying anything. They treat my grocery store like some kind of budget museum. I don’t mind letting them wait.”
“Huh.”
Zoe kept a quick pace and led Keira through the back streets, apparently intent on avoiding anyone who might recognise her.
“Where are we going?” Keira asked.
“The only place lost souls can go at a time like this.” Zoe sent her an eager glance. “Tell me, my dearest friend; have you heard of Meckel before?”
“No. What’s a Meckel?”
“The Meckel,” Zoe corrected. “Specifically, Miss Meckel. This town’s most rigorous and unashamed gossip. And, considering that gossip runs rife though this place on a daily basis, that’s saying something.”
“Oh.” Keira ducked to avoid a branch that grew low over the narrow dirt path they were following. “You think she might recognise the name?”
“If anyone can, it’s her. She’s old as dirt and remembers absolutely everything. And I mean everything. It’s kind of a problem, actually.”
“Yeah?”
Zoe grimaced. “She keeps reminding people about that time I nearly choked to death on a rock.”
“Well, that’s not something you should be embarrassed about, is it? Aren’t rocks a major choking hazard for babies?”
“I was twelve.”
Keira blinked. “Okay. I feel like there’s a story there.”
“Yeah, there is, and the story is that I got bored and wanted to see how many rocks I could fit in my mouth and then I nearly died.”
“Oh.” Keira nearly—nearly—managed to stifle her laughter. “I’m… so sorry.”
“No you’re not. And I don’t blame you.” Zoe flicked a hand. “My point is, Miss Meckel knows the kind of things that don’t make it onto genealogy sites or Blighty’s official history records. The rumours, the secrets. She can tell you about children born from affairs, about the deaths that were listed as accidents but weren’t, about what caused rifts between the town’s oldest families.”
“About children that seemingly vanished without a trace,” Keira added.
“Exactly. I have to warn you, though.” Zoe pulled them up short at the edge of a tidy, cobbled street. “She demands a high price for her services.”
Keira frowned, thinking of the slim wages she earned. “What happens if I can’t afford it?”
“Don’t fret, it’s not money she wants.” Zoe’s face, which had been bright and eager before, darkened. “No, she demands something far more insidious. Secrets.”
Keira matched her friend’s whispered tone. “What kind of secrets?”
“Anything she doesn’t already know. That’s how she’s gotten so powerful. She’ll give you the answers you need, but only if you can trade her something equally valuable in return.” Zoe looped an arm around Keira’s shoulder and pulled her close, lowering her voice yet again. “Be careful, though. Anything you give her can and will be weaponised against you at a later date. As I learned with the rock incident. Whatever you decide to give, trade carefully.”
Secrets weren’t exactly in short supply in Keira’s world. I’m not actually Adage’s niece, despite what we’re telling people. I was chased into town by a shady organisation. I can see ghosts.
However, secrets that she could give away without repercussions weren’t quite as easy to find. She ran her tongue across her teeth. “I’m sure I can figure something out.”
“Good. ‘Cause we’re here.” Zoe turned into an overgrown suburban garden, pushing through a rusty gate to access the path leading up to the front door.
Keira gazed up at the house. It was an old brick building with small, dark windows. If the garden had been less vibrant, it might have looked dingy and sad. Instead, the proliferation of scrambling vines and flowering shrubs creeping over the brickwork lent it a healthy, lively atmosphere. The front door’s bell played a sing-song tune when Zoe pressed it.
The door swung open so suddenly that Keira could only imagine the house’s occupant had seen them coming up the pathway and had been waiting for them. Inside the home was dark. Keira’s eyes had adjusted to the bright morning sun and struggled to parse the shadowy hallway ahead. She had the impression of a rounded figure and the glint of two eyes, but every other detail was swallowed by the gloom.
“He-e-e-y, Miss Meckel,” Zoe crooned. “How are you? It’s me—”
“Zoe.” The voice was old and cracked around the edges, but held a sliver of steel. The glinting eyes blinked once, sharply. “How many rocks have you eaten since I last saw you?”
Zoe’s smile turned brittle around the edges. “You still haven’t forgotten, huh?”
“I never forget.” The figure moved back into the hallway, receding into the gloom. “Come in. Both of you. I have cake.”
Zoe took a deep breath and leaned towards Keira. “Ready to do this?”
“Yep.” She swallowed. “I think.”
Stepping over the welcome mat and into the hall felt like entering a different, dangerous realm. Keira had the uncanny impression that she was some naïve creature being lured into a cave with promises of sweet treats and conversation, only to discover she’d fallen for a trap once it was too late to escape.
Get a hold of yourself. Keira tried not to flinch as the door groaned closed behind them. It’s not like she’s some kind of fae creature and eating her cake will trap us here forever.
Right?
Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the house’s dim interior. It wasn’t as dark as she’d first thought. Dozens of lamps were positioned about haphazardly, resting on side tables and stands. They were all dull, their old bulbs covered by shades, but working together they lent the space a soft golden glow, not unlike a dozen candles.
The rounded shape Keira had seen in the doorway moved past the edge of her vision and into another room. Plates clattered as they were pulled from some unseen cupboard. “Sitting room to your left,” the voice called. “Take any seat you like except the armchair. That one’s mine.”
Zoe, apparently familiar with the routine, had already turned to move through an open arch in the hallway. Keira followed.
The sitting room was more comfortable than she’d expected. The same proliferation of lamps were clustered around the space, some clumped together, some relegated to their own corners. Plush couches had been arranged around a fireplace. They were overstuffed, bulging at the seams, and covered in both an English rose fabric and squishy cushions. At least half a dozen rugs had been spread across the floor, overlapping in places, and throw blankets draped over the chairs’ backs. Crochet cloths were stacked on coffee tables and cabinets, and even occasionally draped over the lamps. Layers was the first thought Keira had about the space. It was smothered in layers upon layers of comfort.
A fireplace was set into the wall. Instead of a fire, though, the grate held a foot heater that wafted warm air across the space: a concession to an easier, soot-free life.
Zoe took one side of the double couch, and Keira sat next to her, grateful to be close to the heater. Opposite was the armchair Miss Meckel had claimed. Out of all the surfaces in the room, that was the most layered, with multiple throw blankets and cushions creating something like a nest in the centre.
“The cake’s fresh this morning,” Miss Meckel said, appearing in the room’s archway with a tray balanced ahead of her, and Keira was finally able to see her clearly.
Layers was a good way to describe their host, too. A dress was covered with multiple cardigans, which in turn were covered with several shawls. Her upper body formed a smooth slope, only interrupted by a head. Frothy white hair was pinned back from her face, again covered with multiple scarves.
Keira felt some of her trepidation fade. After Zoe’s ominous warnings, the actual Miss Meckel seemed soft and sweet. Grandmotherly, almost. Rosy cheeks pinched as she smiled and crepe-like winkles bloomed across her face and around her eyes. There was only one fault in the perfect visage: her eyes. They were uncannily sharp and bright. Keira felt them tracing over her, absorbing every last detail of her clothing, her features, and lingering on the bandages that were almost completely hidden under her sweater.
Miss Meckel placed the tray on the table. It held glasses of fruit juice and plates of what looked like iced fruit cake. She then adjusted her many shawls as she sunk back into her nest of cushions opposite Keira and Zoe.
“So very good of you to visit,” she said, and her smile could have melted the arctic circle. “I get lonely here some times, and I do love having company.”
“No disrespect, but you have the busiest house in this street, if not the entire town,” Zoe said, reaching for one of the plates. “I’m surprised visits aren’t by appointment-only.”
Miss Meckel chuckled, but didn’t disagree.
“My friend needs your help,” Zoe said, cutting out any preamble. “Miss Meckel, this is—”
“Keira,” Miss Meckel said, adjusting one of the shawls over her shoulders. Her expression was still friendly, but her sharp eyes didn’t leave Keira’s face. “I’m told you’re the niece to John Adage.”
“That’s me.” Keira’s own smile felt like it was frozen. “Nice to meet you—”
“I’ve known Adage his whole life and he’s never mentioned a niece before.” Her eyes were growing brighter. She hadn’t blinked in a while. “Which is strange, for a man who cares so much about his family. He’s never sent you any birthday presents or Christmas cards, nor you to him. How remarkable that you should come to visit without any warning. Tell me, now. Where did you live before, and how exactly are you related to Adage?”
Keira’s mouth had turned dry. She was saved by Zoe, who leaned forward, one hand extended between them as though she was preparing to break up a fight. “I’m sure she appreciates your interest, but Keira didn’t come here to be grilled on her family tree.”
“Hmm.” A warm smile bloomed over Miss Meckel’s face. “You’ll have to excuse my curiosity. I love meeting new people. It wasn’t my intention to interrogate you!”
“It absolutely was,” Zoe whispered, just quietly enough that Miss Meckel wouldn’t hear.
“You had a question, did you?” Miss Meckel, seeing Keira’s hands were still empty, pushed one of the plates into them. “I’ve lived in Blighty my whole life. If it’s a local mystery, chances are I can help.”
“That’s what Zoe said.” Keira found her heart was beating uncomfortably fast, despite herself. She put the plate of fruit cake back onto the coffee table and pulled the paper out of her pocket, unfolding it and offering it to the woman opposite. “I was hoping to find this person, Filimon. Or… at least, find out what happened to her. She probably lived in Blighty when she was very young, but that was decades ago. And Blighty’s history sites don’t have any record of her.”
Miss Meckel tilted her head a fraction as she read the name. A slight frown creased the space between her eyebrows. “The name above—is she related, by any chance?”
“Yes.” Keira knit her hands ahead of herself as she tried not to show how much the answers mattered to her. “Adela was her mother.”
“Ahh,” Miss Meckel said, stringing the sound out as she closed her eyes. She looked pleased with herself. “Yes, I believe I can help you with this. But, you know, I don’t like to give out my secrets to just anyone.”
This is what Zoe warned me about. The payment.
Miss Meckel leaned forward, her smile all sugar, her wrinkled hands gently resting on the paper she’d laid out on her lap. “Why don’t you share a secret in return? You could, for instance, tell me who you really are and why Adage is letting you stay with him.”
She’s quick to guess concealments. I suppose that’s what happens when you spend your life uncovering them. Keira dabbed her tongue across her lips. She absolutely couldn’t share her real identity. Partially because Keira herself didn’t know who she really was or where she’d come from… but, mostly, because it carried too many risks. A whisper to the wrong person could see her dead, or worse.
Zoe saw the hesitation in Keira’s face. She set her jaw and clenched her hands. “I can give you a secret. And it’s a big one. Okay?”
Miss Meckel’s bright eyes switched to Zoe. She gave a short nod.
“Okay.” Zoe took a deep breath, bracing herself. “Every day at work I eat a sandwich for lunch. When people ask, I tell them it’s peanut butter. But it’s not. It’s mustard. Just mustard. I eat mustard sandwiches and I love them.”
Miss Meckel’s expression belied faint horror. “That’s… awful. But, I’m afraid, it’s not on the same level as the knowledge you’re seeking. The trade must be fair, you understand?”
Zoe nearly choked on her words. “Not fair? If this gets out, my reputation will be ruined.”
“No one wants to hear about your mustard sandwiches, dearest. I need something I can actually use.”
Keira cleared her throat before Zoe’s indignation could ratchet up to unbridled rage. “I think I have something. But… I don’t have any way to prove it’s true.”
Miss Meckel narrowed her eyes, one long finger stroking under her chin. “Tell me anyway.”
“Okay.” Keira’s hands ached from how tightly she was clenching them. “A lot of people died at the old Crispin Mill. And not all of them by accident. One of the worst disasters there was the fire that broke out a few years before the mill closed. The one that claimed Adela’s life.”
Miss Meckel’s expression belied nothing, but she nodded slowly for Keira to continue.
“But I suspect—I believe—the fire wasn’t accidental. It was lit to cover up another crime.”
At Keira’s side, Zoe watched her, wide eyes bright with curiosity. “There have always been rumours that the fire was arson.”
“Yes,” Miss Meckel agreed. “But arson for arson’s sake and arson to hide something are two different things. What other crime do you believe was committed?”
“Murder.” Keira thought back to her time in the mill. Gazing over the sea of faces, one had stood out to her. A man with half of his face burnt off and a fresh gash cut across his throat, bubbling blood still seeping out.
Many of the spirits in the mill had visible injuries: a wound from a fight, an injury in one of the machines. But that ghost was the only one she’d seen with two injuries that could have led to death. The cut throat, and the blisters from an uncontrollable fire.
“Someone in the mill was killed,” Keira said. She had to be careful about how she phrased herself; she had no proof to share, only the memory of the spectres she’d seen. “Gasoline would have been poured over them and then the fire started. Maybe the killer didn’t expect the fire to spread so fast. Maybe they didn’t intend it to kill others. But it did.”
“Two of the workers were seen arguing the night before the fire,” Miss Meckel said. She frowned slightly, staring at the tray of cakes and drinks between them. “Perhaps… perhaps there is some merit to your theory…” She glanced at Keira. “Can you name the killer?”
“No.” Keira suspected she would be able to, eventually. The ghost with burns across his face had lingered for a reason. And she didn’t doubt it was because he wanted the truth known.
It would almost certainly be too late for any kind of justice. The only reason Keira had hope of finding Filimon was because she had been a child at the time of the fire. Anyone who had been an adult would have almost certainly passed away.
Still… she might have the chance to right the history books. Or, at least, offer the spirit some kind of resolution. That would have to come another day, though. The spectres in the mill had chosen Adela as the first unfinished business, and that was the task Keira had to focus on.
“How did you come about this theory?” Miss Meckel asked.
“I can’t tell you that.” Keira’s throat was tight. She swallowed thickly. “I can’t offer any kind of proof. But I’m certain it’s correct.”
Miss Meckel sat back in her chair. Her eyes became distant and misty as she stared at the room’s corner above them. Keira waited, her jaw clenched so tightly that it had begun to ache. She didn’t know what else she could give the secret-hoarder if she didn’t accept this. It had to be enough.
“There’s no deception in your words,” Miss Meckel said at last. “You can’t offer proof, and that devalues it considerably, but at the very least you believe what you’re telling me.”
“I do,” Keira said, with conviction.
“Very well. I’ve taken many secrets without proof before, and so I’ll accept this as well. It’s an old secret, but, then, the knowledge you want is old as well. It’s a fair trade.”
Keira let out a breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding. Miss Meckel reached under her layers of shawls and cardigans and brought out a small pen. She leaned forward and wrote something on the sheet of paper Keira had given her, underneath Filimon’s name.
“You’ll find your answers here,” Miss Meckel said, capping her pen and pushing the paper back towards Keira. “My information is never wrong.”
“Thank you.” Keira clutched the paper tightly.
“Cool.” Zoe still looked faintly disgruntled. “I guess you get my mustard sandwich secret as a freebie.”
“It’s not a secret I ever wanted, but you’re right, I suppose.” Miss Meckel’s mouth twisted as she thought. “It’s only fair to give you something in return. Your secret is useless, so the secret you get in exchange will be equally so.”
Zoe still looked sceptical, but a hint of curiosity had lit up her eyes. “Yeah?”
“Mrs Porter, from your street, tells her neighbours that her cat is named Ginger. But its real name—the name lodged at the vet’s clinic and under its microchip information and what she calls it in private—is Doombringer.”
“Oh,” Zoe said, and she looked like she’d just won the lottery. “That’s actually amazing. I will treasure this knowledge for the rest of my life.”
“I’m glad you’re satisfied.” Miss Meckel rose out of her armchair, shedding the many layers of blankets and pillows like she was breaking out of a cocoon. “Let me see you to the door.”
They returned to the hallway and its rows of dim lamps. Keira had to raise her hand to stop the sunlight from blinding her as they stepped outside.
“Come back any time,” Miss Meckel said. She’d stayed inside the hallway where the daylight couldn’t touch her. Her eyes existed as two points of reflected light amongst her shadowed, hunched figure, and they seemed to gleam unnaturally. “I always like hearing new stories. And I’m especially eager to know yours, Keira.”
Keira managed a thin chuckle as she backed into the dense garden. “Sure. Thanks again.”
The door creaked closed.
Zoe exhaled, then threaded one arm around Keira’s as they followed the path back to the street. “She’s always so dramatic. Did you get your answers, at least?”
Keira unfolded the piece of paper. Under Filimon’s name, written in impeccable script, was an address. “Maybe. I hope.”
Zoe craned to read the note, too. “That’s in Blighty. Only a couple of minutes away. I can take you—” she broke off as her phone pinged. She pulled it out of her pocket and frowned at the screen. “Okay, scratch that. Someone called my boss and she wants to know why I’m not at the store. I can point you to the street you need, though.”
“Thanks. And sorry for getting you in trouble at work.”
“Pshaw.” Zoe tucked her phone back into her pocket. “That Doombringer cat alone was worth it. C’mon. This way.”
They parted at the main intersection, with Zoe throwing Kiera a wave over her shoulder as she jogged towards the general store, where an increasingly irate crowd had gathered. Keira watched her unlock and open the doors, then turned to follow the road Zoe had directed her down.
She glanced at the note again. House 16. Miss Meckel hadn’t written the occupant’s name, so Keira had to assume the house belonged to Filimon. Or, at least, someone who had known Filimon.
But if that’s the case… why didn’t she show up on any of the history sites? Not even Miss Meckel seemed to recognise her at first. Did she change her name?
Keira chewed on the inside of her cheek as she paced along the street, counting the numbers on letterboxes. Number Sixteen wasn’t hard to find. It was white with blue trim and a small, tidy garden. Its gate creaked as Keira pushed through it.
She wished she had Zoe with her. Zoe, born into Blighty, knew everyone and could cut through the awkward introductions. Keira was still a stranger to the locals. She hadn’t been there long enough to build up any kind of trust, let alone recognition.
Still, she’d made a promise to Adela. She could survive a few minutes of awkwardness if it could free a woman who had been trapped for decades.
Keira knocked on the door. Sounds came from inside—children’s voices in the distance, followed by clattering footsteps—then the door was pulled open.
A girl, no older than eight, stared up at Keira. Her hair had been tied in dual braids that hung over her shoulders. Her sharp eyes narrowed as she failed to return Keira’s smile. “You’re not James.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’m not,” Keira said.
“Just a moment—” an older voice called. The door opened wider, and a woman appeared in the gap. “Go and play with your brother, Amy.”
The child skipped past them and vanished around the side of the house. Keira couldn’t stop staring at the woman ahead of her. She looked to be at least eighty. Steely grey hair had been braided and tied behind her head, and round glasses were perched on her nose. Her smile was warm but reserved as she glanced over Keira. “Sorry about that. We were waiting for my son. Can I help you?”
She’s the right age. Keira tried not to let the hope show on her face as she pushed the paper back into her pocket. “Are you Filimon?”
“Pardon?” The woman’s expression took on a hint of uncertainty. “I’m Mary. Mary Pearson. Were you looking for someone?”
“Ah. Sorry. Were you…” Keira cleared her throat, trying to stop the doubt from crowding into her head. “Was your maiden name Enache, by any chance? Or do you know anyone by that name?”
“I’m afraid not. I was Mary Dalca before I married my husband.”
Was Miss Meckel wrong? Did she make a mistake?
Mary leaned through the doorway, faint concern showing on her features. “Do you need help with something?”
Keira fought to stay smiling. “Sorry—yeah—I’m looking for someone. Filimon Enache, daughter of Adela Enache. I… I was told someone here might be able to help…”
A strange expression crossed Mary’s face. She leaned back, blinking. “Adela.”
“Do you…know her?”
“Of course. It’s been so long; I didn’t recognise the names.” Mary chuckled, slowly shaking her head. “I’d almost forgotten… well. Why were you looking for Filimon?”
Keira’s heart was hammering as she drew the second sheet of paper—the carefully folded letter—out of her back pocket. “I was exploring the old mill and I found a note written by a woman called Adela.” It was a half-truth, but the closest Keira could manage considering the circumstances. “It was addressed to her daughter. I wanted to see if I could find her, to pass it on.”
“Oh.” Mary reached for the paper, then caught herself. Her eyes were faintly cloudy behind her glasses—cataracts, Keira thought—but they were thoughtful as she scanned Keira’s face. “Will you come in for a moment?”
Keira followed the older woman into her home. Sounds came from the rear garden: the noise of children playing and sparrows fighting over a birdfeeder. Mary led her into an airy, comfortably cluttered kitchen, and sank into a chair at the table, indicating for Keira to take the one next to her.
“It’s been decades since I last thought of that name, but when I was very little I was called Filimon,” Mary said.
Relief exploded through Keira’s chest. She tried not to let it show on her face. As far as Mary knew, she was only trying to return a letter to its rightful owner, not save a ghost that had become trapped.
Mary leaned one arm on the table as her eyes scanned from Keira to the letter in her hand. “The world was different back then. It wasn’t always kind to immigrants, or to unwed mothers, or to orphaned children. I was less than two years old when my mother passed in the great fire in the mill.”
Keira nodded, but didn’t try to interrupt as Mary spoke.
“The family my mother was sharing a home with—the Dalcas—took me in. They feared, and with good reason, that I would be taken to an orphanage or institution if anyone learned I was without parents. And so, they registered me as their own natural born daughter, using my middle name Maria as a base for my new identity.”
“Oh,” Keira whispered. Filimon Maria Enache.
“They were a good family,” Mary said. Her eyes were distant, but her smile was warm. “They treated me just like their own. And, even though I couldn’t carry my real mother’s name, they made sure I knew it. I’ve never had anything of my mother’s before, though. That letter… is it really from her?”
Please, let this be enough. Keira passed the note over. The paper, old and discoloured around the edges, crinkled as Mary unfolded it. She held it close to her face, reading it through her glasses, and even though Keira couldn’t see the words she could remember them clearly.
My dearest child,
One day in the future, people might try to tell you that you were a burden. They’ll say you made my life harder, or that I regretted having you. I want you to know that nothing has ever been so untrue.
You have been my reason for existence. My definition of love. Every morning I went to work, I did it for you. Every night when I held you in my arms and sang you to sleep, I thanked this world for placing us together.
I don’t know what this life will hold for you, but I hope it is something good.
My dear, perfect Filimon.
Mary removed her glasses and began polishing them on the edge of her cardigan. Her eyes were wet, Keira saw.
“I knew she loved me.” Mary’s voice was raw and strained. She replaced her glasses, blinking quickly. “My parents, the Dalcas, told me she did. But… it’s different…”
It’s different to hear those words directly from her.
“Thank you for bringing this to me. I have no memories of my mother. No possessions that belonged to her. But this… this is precious.”
Keira’s throat was tight. She could only nod.
“Let me show you something.” Mary reached for a purse laying on the table and rummaged through it. She pulled out an old photograph, creased around the edges. It looked like it had been taken at a family reunion. Mary was near the centre, surrounded by multiple generations, with children at the front.
“This is my family,” Mary said, then pointed to a middle-aged woman who was sitting next to her. “And this is my oldest daughter. Adele. Named after my birth mother.”
“Oh,” Keira murmured. It was a rich photo: so many faces, all of them smiling towards the camera. Arms wrapped around bodies, heads resting on shoulders. Joy radiated from the picture.
Keira was startled by a man’s voice calling from outside the front door, accompanied by a brisk knock. “Mum! Sorry we’re late.”
“That’s James. I’d talk with you longer, but I don’t want to hold him up,” Mary said, beginning to rise. “We’re having a birthday lunch in the next town.”
“Of course.” Keira stood as well. The photo still rested on the kitchen counter. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. “If it’s not too much to ask, could I make a copy of that?”
Mary smiled, then pushed the photo towards Keira. “You can keep it, if you like. I have copies already.”
“Really? Thank you.” Keira gently tucked the photo into her pocket as the girl with braids raced into the room to take her grandmother’s hand.
Keira slipped out of the house while Mary was greeting her son. She walked quickly as she retraced the road to the town centre, then turned towards the old mill.
She felt as though she’d been moving all day, but the sun’s angle told her it was still only early morning. Two mothers were pushing prams down the road closest to the mill, and Keira had to pretend to be deeply interested in an old oak tree until they’d turned around the corner. As soon as they were out of sight she jogged across the field separating her and the dark brick building and its fluttering police tape.
Getting through the narrow window was just as difficult as the first time, and she winced as she landed on the wool cushioning below. Although light came through the windows, it was so badly washed out by the decades of grease and dust that she was compelled to pull her flashlight out. Its beam lit up the space ahead of her, and Keira pulled on the muscle that opened her second sight.
Small plumes of dust spread around her from the old rotting sacks and piles of wool she’d landed on. They danced across the beam from her flashlight, obscuring the dimly glinting machinery and low, hulking work tables.
Faint, ethereal shaped flickered into view. They clustered near the work room’s opposite wall, watching Keira cautiously. Empty eyes tracked her movements as she rose and approached.
“Adela?” It took a moment of searching to locate the slight woman. Her hair flowed behind her as though caught in a wind Keira couldn’t feel. She clenched her hands ahead of her chest, the fingers twisting painfully around one another. Keira stretched a hand towards her, inviting her closer. “It’s done. I delivered your letter.”
The spirit moved faster than Keira had ever imagined she could. In a heartbeat the space between them had halved, and Keira barely had time to take a step back before the full force of the spectre hit her chest.
Keira gasped, her heart skipping beats, as Adela’s hands clawed at her chest. There was no sense of pressure, but the vicious chill was overwhelming. It was like trying to inhale pure ice. Two desperate, empty eyes bored into Keira’s, so close that she couldn’t see anything besides their infinite depths.
“Wait—” Keira tried, but her words froze in her throat. She staggered, then her feet gave out, sending her tumbling to the wooden floor. She hit it hard, her teeth jarring, and the flashlight skittered out of her hand. It came to a halt a few feet away, its beam illuminating the back wall of the mill.
Adela knelt ahead of her, her lips peeled back from her teeth in something that might have been a painful apology or a plea.
“It’s okay,” Keira managed. She was shaking. Adela’s agitation had dropped the room’s temperature alarmingly, and plumes of chill rose from Keira’s mouth with each word. “It’s okay. She got your letter. I met her; she still lives in Blighty.”
Adela gave a short, sharp nod, urging her on.
Keira shuffled onto her knees opposite the ghost and pulled the photo from her pocket. She placed it on the floor between them, facing Adela, as she haltingly recounted the things Mary had told her. That Adela’s old friends, the Dalcas, had taken her in and given her their surname. That they’d treated her like she was their own child. That they had made sure she’d known her mother’s name.
“This is her,” Keira said, her finger resting on the steel-haired woman in the photo’s centre. “And this is her first daughter, Adele, named for you. And this is her family.”
Adela hunched low over the photo as she examined the details. Her hair floated around her face, creating a screen that Keira struggled to see through. Keira, not sure if she was saying the things Adela needed to hear, licked her lips. “She was grateful to get your letter. She said it was precious to her.”
Finally, Adela lifted her head. Even though her form was as ethereal as mist, Keira could see that her delicate, pinched face was wet with tears. Her mouth was open wide, exposing her teeth, as she howled voicelessly. Keira didn’t know what to do. She reached forward, but instead of touching the woman’s shoulder, she only felt icy air. Adela keened forward again then rocked back, her whole body quivering as she sobbed.
Something clicked in Keira’s mind. She blinked, feeling foolish for not recognising the obvious sooner. “The… the letter wasn’t your unfinished business.”
There was no response. Adela rocked, her wails silent.
Keira’s tongue dabbed over her lips and picked up flecks of melted frost that had formed on them. She gazed down at the photo laying on the floor between her and the dead woman. “I mean, I guess it was a way to achieve your unfinished business, but the note itself wasn’t the important part, was it?”
Adela’s hands found the photo, tracing over the figure in its centre. Mary’s form was wrapped in tiny spools of ice.
“What you really wanted,” Keira continued, “was to know that she’d made it. That your own untimely death hadn’t cut your daughter’s life short. You wanted to know she’d lived. And not just survived, either, but lived well.”
The last line in the letter returned to her. I don’t know what this life will hold for you, but I hope it is something good.
Keira sat back and drew her knees up to her chest. “You knew how unforgiving the world could be. And she was so young when you died. But you were too frightened to outright ask what had happened to your daughter. Too afraid that the answer would be a bad one. So, you asked me to write a letter instead, hoping that might indirectly lead to your answers.”
Adela’s face lifted. It was wet, the tears pooling over her chin and vanishing as soon as they dripped off. The anguish was fading, though. In its place was a new emotion: relief.
“She’s lived a full life,” Keira said, answering the questions Adela had truly wanted to ask. “She stays in a large, beautiful home. She spends time with her grandchildren. While I was there, her son came to take her to a birthday lunch. She looked happy. Fulfilled. I can’t promise her life never hard difficult parts, but, if I asked her, I think she would say it had been a good one.”
A thin, trembling smile grew across Adela’s face. Her form was fading. Keira, thinking she might have overtaxed her second sight, pulled on the hidden muscle harder. It didn’t help: Adela continued to dissipate before her eyes. Scraps of her form tore away and faded, like mist on a brisk wind. Adela closed her eyes and tilted her head back, and in another heartbeat she was gone.
“Goodbye,” Keira whispered to the empty space where the spirit had knelt. She pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks and found moisture there. “I’m glad you can be at peace now.”
She hugged her knees to her chest and exhaled deeply. The room was still cold, and would likely take some time to warm up again, Keira thought.
The rows of dead waited, just beyond where Adela had been. Some were so clear and crisp that Keira could see the creases around their mouths. Others were smudged, like paintings that had been rubbed with a cloth before they had fully dried. Still others were so faint that she could barely discern more than a patch of faint mist.
She saw the foreman, his shirt unbuttoned. The man with the burns across his face and the cut over his throat. The construction workers, the employees, the managers. All waiting.
“I’ll be back,” Keira promised, gazing from face to face. “I won’t forget you.”
This story is a companion to the Gravekeeper series
Learn more about Book #1 and Book #2 or pre-order Book #3.
