Ghosts and Other Lovers by Lisa Tuttle Page A

wrong with you at all. Not physically. He says it's all in your head. You know what I say? I say it's evil. Not sickness -- evil. Not in your head, but your heart. Evil in your heart. And that is your fault. You'd better admit it, missy. And pray to God to take it away. There's your dinner."
    "Please!"
    But Mildred was already out of the room without a backward look. And then came the sound of the key turning in the lock.
    Eustacia ate her dinner. What else was there to do? After she had eaten she could think more clearly, but the thoughts were not pleasant ones. It was obvious Lydia would be of no help; she had been too badly frightened. If only she had been more cautious . . . if only she had led Lydia on a bit more carefully. . . . She thought of Mr. Elphinstone's pompous speech; the way he had elicited responses from his audience; the extinguishing of the lamps. By firelight, my baby would have looked more real, she thought. But it was too late to think of that now. Lydia would not help her. The doctor had, literally, washed his hands of her, declaring her either a fake or mad. And Mildred was of no use, either, having decided she was bad. Worse than that, Mildred was her jailor, and represented her whole family.
    Who was there who could help her?
    She remembered the cold, damp touch of Mr. Elphinstone's hands, and the way his eyes had pierced into hers. He had marked her then, that evening; he had made her his, although she had tried to deny it. To give in now, to go to him despite her revulsion . . . she would be trading one sort of imprisonment for another. But at least it would be different. Not the life she would have chosen freely, but still a life. And she would learn to use her talent: it would be a talent then, and not a loathsome illness.
    But how could she go to him when she couldn't leave this room? She might write a letter, but anything she sent out would have to go through Mildred. She imagined Mildred reading it and throwing it on the fire. And even if she managed to by-pass Mildred she realized with despair that she had no address for Mr. Elphinstone.
    Hopeless.
    There was a tingling in her fingertips.
    No, not hopeless.
    She remembered how the form of Mr. Elphinstone had first emerged from her body -- the struggle, and how terrified she had been. He was still there, still waiting to come out. She no longer feared him, at least not in the same way. There were other, greater fears. She was ready now to welcome him and his plans for her.
    She put out her hands and let the solid smoky stuff stream out; watched as it formed into fingers touching her own at the tips. A man's fingers, a man's large hands, bony wrists lengthening into skinny arms, naked shoulders and naked chest. She was trembling now and starting to feel faint, but she held her hands as steady as she could and let it go on happening, thinking all the while of Mr. Elphinstone, remembering him as he had been, and as he was. Now the neck and head. The shifting clouds of his face roiled and finally solidified into bearded chin and mouth, long thin nose, high brow, and the eyes -- the eyes were closed.
    She stared and waited for them to open; waited to have those blazing orbs fixed on her, and see the lips move, and hear him speak. He was finished now, at least, as much of him as she could make. She could do no more. It was up to him to take over. But Mr. Elphinstone looked dead, like the baby, hanging motionless in the air.
    Lydia had said that at most seances when ghosts appeared they spoke, answering questions and making cryptic remarks. Her baby of course had been too young.
    "Talk to me," said Eustacia. "Tell me what to do."
    Her breath disturbed the figure, making it bob slightly. A bit of one arm disintegrated, leaving a hole the size of a baby's fist just above the right elbow. She cried out again, and her fingers closed on cold, dead matter. When she pulled away, sickened, she saw she had destroyed parts of both lower arms, and the