him, hating him, fearing him. Man, ghost—he couldn’t tell what Ara was anymore. My ruin.
“I need to know what those bad things are,” Pete said, “or I can’t stop them from happening.”
“You can’t stop them.” Ara was drifting back, shaking his head, his gaze fixed on Mike. “I was a fool to hope. I was a fool to let you in, either of you. You can’t help me. No one can.” Ghostly tears slid down his transparent face, rivulets of energy that glittered in the lamplight. “You’re right, Mikey. I’m not real. I’m not Ara, and I’m not Peter. I’m not anything. But I can’t go back, can’t leave, can’t go anywhere, because there’s nowhere to go, nowhere for someone as awful as me.”
He was drifting back, farther and farther until he was all the way to the head of the bed.
“Wait!” Peter called, but then the ghost backed up into the wall, and then he was gone.
The walls, heaving heavily now like an animal pushed too far, expanded out. A deep, angry gash appeared above the bed, and as Mike watched, the wound began to bleed. And then the gash rent in two and peeled away into a crude, clumsy door, which opened on its own. A set of stairs appeared, leading out of the house, down into the woods, to freedom.
Feeling disoriented and heavy, caught between the sense of foolishness from the past and the confusion of the present, Mike surrendered. He’s right, I can’t save him, he thought, and rushed forward to his escape.
Pete caught Mike by the collar and drew him up short. Mike struggled, but Pete held fast.
“You got a death wish, buddy?” he demanded.
“He’s letting me out,” Mike cried. “Let me go before he changes his mind.”
Pete looked at the hole in the wall, at the great gap where the wall had been but was now just empty space with jagged pieces of lath sticking out of it. He could still hear some of the plaster and siding hitting the ground below. “Yeah. I’m starting to get an idea of how the bad things happened before.” Had Ara done this? Was that what this meant? Had the ghost set all this up? Or was this some other force inside the house? How was he supposed to be able to tell? Pete suddenly felt very tired. “I am so fucking out of my element it isn’t even funny.”
Mike was swaying on his feet. “I keep having visions of the past. One second I’m here, and the next I’m back in 1856.” Tears were running down his cheeks. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, I had no idea I was the tutor. Good God, how could I not see it? How could I be so stupid?”
Pete looked around at the walls. They had calmed a little, but they were still breathing, and there was an apprehension about them now. “We need to figure out what’s going on. And you’re the psycho-whatever. This is your gig.”
“Paranormal psychologist.” Mike’s reply was shaky but, as usual, calling on his professionalism seemed to center him.
“Right,” Pete agreed. “So tell me, starting at the beginning, why you brought me here. And pretend, for the sake of argument, that absolutely nothing you say makes sense to me, so be extra clear.”
Mike swallowed and nodded. “I started researching this place about a year ago. You’re right—I was drawn here for reasons I can’t explain. I ran some tests, and then I met the ghost. It was the strongest apparition I’ve ever seen. And it’s hands-down the most determined not to be released of any I’ve encountered or heard documented.”
“So you do this a lot, do you?” Pete prodded.
“Yes. Ghosts are just energy trapped. Like an air bubble in a gas line. With care and focus, they can be worked through and released.”
“And that’s why you brought me here?” Pete asked. “To help release him?”
“It,” Mike corrected. He opened his eyes again, looking more centered, at least until he took in the heaving walls once again. “That isn’t Peter
“I need to know what those bad things are,” Pete said, “or I can’t stop them from happening.”
“You can’t stop them.” Ara was drifting back, shaking his head, his gaze fixed on Mike. “I was a fool to hope. I was a fool to let you in, either of you. You can’t help me. No one can.” Ghostly tears slid down his transparent face, rivulets of energy that glittered in the lamplight. “You’re right, Mikey. I’m not real. I’m not Ara, and I’m not Peter. I’m not anything. But I can’t go back, can’t leave, can’t go anywhere, because there’s nowhere to go, nowhere for someone as awful as me.”
He was drifting back, farther and farther until he was all the way to the head of the bed.
“Wait!” Peter called, but then the ghost backed up into the wall, and then he was gone.
The walls, heaving heavily now like an animal pushed too far, expanded out. A deep, angry gash appeared above the bed, and as Mike watched, the wound began to bleed. And then the gash rent in two and peeled away into a crude, clumsy door, which opened on its own. A set of stairs appeared, leading out of the house, down into the woods, to freedom.
Feeling disoriented and heavy, caught between the sense of foolishness from the past and the confusion of the present, Mike surrendered. He’s right, I can’t save him, he thought, and rushed forward to his escape.
Pete caught Mike by the collar and drew him up short. Mike struggled, but Pete held fast.
“You got a death wish, buddy?” he demanded.
“He’s letting me out,” Mike cried. “Let me go before he changes his mind.”
Pete looked at the hole in the wall, at the great gap where the wall had been but was now just empty space with jagged pieces of lath sticking out of it. He could still hear some of the plaster and siding hitting the ground below. “Yeah. I’m starting to get an idea of how the bad things happened before.” Had Ara done this? Was that what this meant? Had the ghost set all this up? Or was this some other force inside the house? How was he supposed to be able to tell? Pete suddenly felt very tired. “I am so fucking out of my element it isn’t even funny.”
Mike was swaying on his feet. “I keep having visions of the past. One second I’m here, and the next I’m back in 1856.” Tears were running down his cheeks. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, I had no idea I was the tutor. Good God, how could I not see it? How could I be so stupid?”
Pete looked around at the walls. They had calmed a little, but they were still breathing, and there was an apprehension about them now. “We need to figure out what’s going on. And you’re the psycho-whatever. This is your gig.”
“Paranormal psychologist.” Mike’s reply was shaky but, as usual, calling on his professionalism seemed to center him.
“Right,” Pete agreed. “So tell me, starting at the beginning, why you brought me here. And pretend, for the sake of argument, that absolutely nothing you say makes sense to me, so be extra clear.”
Mike swallowed and nodded. “I started researching this place about a year ago. You’re right—I was drawn here for reasons I can’t explain. I ran some tests, and then I met the ghost. It was the strongest apparition I’ve ever seen. And it’s hands-down the most determined not to be released of any I’ve encountered or heard documented.”
“So you do this a lot, do you?” Pete prodded.
“Yes. Ghosts are just energy trapped. Like an air bubble in a gas line. With care and focus, they can be worked through and released.”
“And that’s why you brought me here?” Pete asked. “To help release him?”
“It,” Mike corrected. He opened his eyes again, looking more centered, at least until he took in the heaving walls once again. “That isn’t Peter
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