The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James Page A

frighten you—play tricks. She likes to do that.
My God, my God. How was such a thing even possible?
    Giving up on my hat, I hobbled for the door. The heat wasgone now, as was the smell;
she
was somehow gone, though I could not know where. From the corner of my eye I saw a familiar piece of fabric and I limped over to it, picked it up. It was the remains of my hat, torn utterly to ribbons.
    I looked at it for a long moment, as the last waves of terror washed over me. Then I turned and ran for the door.

Chapter Six

    I have very little memory of my return to the inn. I have a brief picture of myself stumbling through the tattered mist, unaware of my direction, my dress soaked with perspiration turned icy cold. I was shivering convulsively, despite my thin coat, though from fear or chill I cared little.
    Mr. Gellis found me, I believe. I have a memory of his voice, his hand on my elbow. He relieved me of the suitcase with the recorder in it and I felt weightless without it, as if it had been anchoring me to the earth and I could now float away on my terror like a helium balloon. The world seemed far, far away.
    My next memory is of sitting on a chair at the inn, my forehead in my hands as Mr. Gellis spoke softly to me. “You’ll be all right,” he was saying. “There, now. That’s a girl.”
    I lifted my head and looked around. We were in a small room furnished with a table and four stiff-backed chairs. The window, behind a heavy velvet curtain tied back, showed the day still grayand dismal. “Is this a private room?” I asked through the cotton in my mouth.
    “Yes. I’ve hired it for the week,” said Mr. Gellis. He was setting the suitcase on the table and opening it gingerly. “I thought it was best, though it wasn’t easy getting Mr. Ahearn to agree.”
    I sat straighter. I was still light-headed, but the world was beginning to look a little more real around me. I had never been so happy to see the streaks on the thick windows, or the dried rings of water left on the table from drinks past. It was prosaic, blessed sanity.
    “I’m gathering you saw something,” said Mr. Gellis. He had stopped fiddling with the recorder and was standing over me, looking at me intently. “You appear rather shaken.”
    I nodded, unable to speak.
    His gaze glittered. “You must tell me everything. Every detail. I need my notebook—yes—here it is. My pen. I need to get every impression while it’s fresh in your mind. It’s the best way. I’ve ordered some tea. Would you like some?”
    “Yes, I think so.”
    Mr. Gellis pulled up a chair and sat, with notebook and pen. He bent and started writing, perhaps some sort of preliminary notes of his own. Before we could begin, a barmaid came in with a pot of tea and several cups on a tray. She set everything down on the table and left.
    Mr. Gellis did not look up. He kept writing. The pen was loud in the stillness of the room. I looked at his bent head, waiting.
    In a moment he gestured quickly to the tea tray. “If you’d be so kind,” he said, and bent back to his writing.
    I sat stupidly for a long moment. Then I stood, on shaky legs that would hardly bear me, and made my way to the tea tray. Myhip throbbed, and my shoulder ached where I had somehow wrenched it in my terrified escape. But, I told myself, Mr. Gellis knew none of this. Of course he would expect me to serve tea. I was his assistant, and I was here on his charity, so the least I could do was—
    The door smashed open with a bang. A man stormed into the room—he looked like a thief: quick, dangerous, dark-jawed, and rough-dressed. A charcoal-colored cap was pulled low over his eyes. He didn’t see me, but made straight for Mr. Gellis.
    “Alistair,” he said. His voice was low gravel. “Did I miss it? For God’s sake. Was there something? There was, wasn’t there? Goddamn it to all fucking hell.”
    Mr. Gellis had looked up from his notebook; there was no fear on his face, only faint amusement. He tilted his