anecdote, one that suits my persona—more “stumbling over my powers” than having the finger of God show me the way. It’s mostly true, even. Embellished, of course, particularly the “stumbling” part. I come from a family where most inherit the power. My father killed himself when I was little, but I was close to my paternal grandmother, who’d prepared me for the day when I might start seeing people who weren’t there.
That doesn’t mean it was a breeze. There’s nothing that can truly prepare you for a lifetime of pleading and demanding ghosts. Most of my tales were nowhere near as funny as the one I told. But the horror stories are mine; the world gets the slapstick version.
Once I’d told my backstory to Gregor, it left an obvious opening for me to ask his, which wasn’t nearly so cheery.
“My wife and I lost a child,” he said. “Our oldest daughter. She was three. She became very ill and did not recover.”
Jeremy and I offered sincere regrets for his loss, which he accepted with a nod, before continuing.
“After Liliya passed it was…not a good time for me. I was with her when she became ill. I worked from our apartment, as a tutor. My wife taught at a school. So I was with Liliya and I was the one who did not think her illness was serious. I told my wife it was just a childhood ailment. When it became more…” He fingered the side of his glass. “The doctors said it would not have made a difference if she was brought to them sooner, but I did not believe that. I blamed myself. That is when I started to see ghosts.”
“Her ghost,” I murmured.
“No, that is what was odd. I did not see her. I saw others. Glimpses, mostly. Never her. I spoke of it to no one. I knew what they would say. ‘Gregor is mad with grief.’ I tried to make the ghosts go away. When they would not, I went to doctors. It did not help. They said I was punishing myself. I was imagining other ghosts to tell myself I was not worthy of seeing my Liliya.”
He drained his drink, then shook his head. “That is the start of a very long story. It was five years ago that my daughter died. It is only a year ago that I began to offer my help to others who are grieving. In the middle, I told my wife and she was the one who said I was not going mad, not imagining it. She asked me to stop seeing the doctors and instead speak to others like me, like you. To help understand. So I did and now…” He spread his hands. “I am here..
Nine
By the time we returned from drinks, I had emails from Elena with links and attachments, along with a note to call her to discuss it. The kids hadn’t gone to bed easily, so she and Clay were still up.
I checked a few of the links, then called before they headed off to bed. Elena ran me through the cases. In the background, I could hear the faint pop of the fire and the occasional clink of a glass or murmur of Clay’s voice as he commented on something. I could picture them, on the sofa in the study, Clay sitting at one end, reading journals or research books, Elena stretched out, her back against him, fingers tapping on her laptop. It was a scene I’d witnessed many times on my visits to Stonehaven.
Elena hadn’t found much more to the cases than I’d heard. Three young women had vanished from Amityville over the years. They’d been going someplace and they never arrived and no one ever saw them again. No notes. No witnesses. Nothing.
She did find photos. Were they the girls I’d seen? That should be an easy answer. But the pictures were old newspaper shots, whatever the family could grab at the time, rendered into black and white. They certainly looked like the same girls.
All three were over eighteen, with seemingly good family relationships and solid jobs. So they didn’t appear to be teen runaways. There were no angry ex-boyfriends or wannabe boyfriends. The second girl, Polly Watson, had been seen leaving her dance with a guy, but he was later found and exonerated. As for
That doesn’t mean it was a breeze. There’s nothing that can truly prepare you for a lifetime of pleading and demanding ghosts. Most of my tales were nowhere near as funny as the one I told. But the horror stories are mine; the world gets the slapstick version.
Once I’d told my backstory to Gregor, it left an obvious opening for me to ask his, which wasn’t nearly so cheery.
“My wife and I lost a child,” he said. “Our oldest daughter. She was three. She became very ill and did not recover.”
Jeremy and I offered sincere regrets for his loss, which he accepted with a nod, before continuing.
“After Liliya passed it was…not a good time for me. I was with her when she became ill. I worked from our apartment, as a tutor. My wife taught at a school. So I was with Liliya and I was the one who did not think her illness was serious. I told my wife it was just a childhood ailment. When it became more…” He fingered the side of his glass. “The doctors said it would not have made a difference if she was brought to them sooner, but I did not believe that. I blamed myself. That is when I started to see ghosts.”
“Her ghost,” I murmured.
“No, that is what was odd. I did not see her. I saw others. Glimpses, mostly. Never her. I spoke of it to no one. I knew what they would say. ‘Gregor is mad with grief.’ I tried to make the ghosts go away. When they would not, I went to doctors. It did not help. They said I was punishing myself. I was imagining other ghosts to tell myself I was not worthy of seeing my Liliya.”
He drained his drink, then shook his head. “That is the start of a very long story. It was five years ago that my daughter died. It is only a year ago that I began to offer my help to others who are grieving. In the middle, I told my wife and she was the one who said I was not going mad, not imagining it. She asked me to stop seeing the doctors and instead speak to others like me, like you. To help understand. So I did and now…” He spread his hands. “I am here..
Nine
By the time we returned from drinks, I had emails from Elena with links and attachments, along with a note to call her to discuss it. The kids hadn’t gone to bed easily, so she and Clay were still up.
I checked a few of the links, then called before they headed off to bed. Elena ran me through the cases. In the background, I could hear the faint pop of the fire and the occasional clink of a glass or murmur of Clay’s voice as he commented on something. I could picture them, on the sofa in the study, Clay sitting at one end, reading journals or research books, Elena stretched out, her back against him, fingers tapping on her laptop. It was a scene I’d witnessed many times on my visits to Stonehaven.
Elena hadn’t found much more to the cases than I’d heard. Three young women had vanished from Amityville over the years. They’d been going someplace and they never arrived and no one ever saw them again. No notes. No witnesses. Nothing.
She did find photos. Were they the girls I’d seen? That should be an easy answer. But the pictures were old newspaper shots, whatever the family could grab at the time, rendered into black and white. They certainly looked like the same girls.
All three were over eighteen, with seemingly good family relationships and solid jobs. So they didn’t appear to be teen runaways. There were no angry ex-boyfriends or wannabe boyfriends. The second girl, Polly Watson, had been seen leaving her dance with a guy, but he was later found and exonerated. As for
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