David Nickle - The 'Geisters

But then she thought—that wasn’t quite right.

The Insect wasn’t some alien species, come in a shipping crate from far-off lands to denude Ann’s being like the bark off a tree. It was a part of her—at its most removed, a vestigial twin. Or perhaps, a purer part of herself—a part unsullied by the daily exposure to the world that ground at Ann, the rest of her, as she made her way through it. And had she rejoined the Insect now, newly innocent herself, having passed through her flesh as though it were a filter?

Was the act of that moment—a matter of purification?

“ None of us are pure .”

“ What do you mean? ”

“ Oh Ann. Remember. ”

The Lake House living room. Again. But empty. The curtains were half-drawn, and the remains of afternoon sunlight streamed in.

She could see the lake—and the boat, the Bounty II , hauled up onto the shore, mast cracked, gouged hull covered in a shrink-wrap tarpaulin. A TV was on in the basement. Something with a laugh track.

She was not drawn to it.

There were other sounds. The Lake House was young, and its bones were still hardening, setting into themselves. Softly, in the corners, it moaned.

Upstairs a faucet turned, and the pipes hummed behind the walls.

She thought about taking hold of those pipes—of bending the copper, snapping it, stopping the water. She could do it if she wanted to.

She didn’t want to.

She moved from the living room, past the kitchen, and into the stairwell of the Lake House.

Ann’s father sat on the stairs. He was wearing a pair of dark wool dress pants and a white shirt, top button undone. Tufts of hair poked out. His elbows were propped on his knees, his hands hung limp in front of him, and he stared ahead, into the empty front vestibule. He seemed very young. His hair was dark, and too shaggy; he had put off his haircut for a few weeks too long. His eyes were blinking rapidly. His mouth hung.

She was curious about that. But they didn’t linger to satisfy it.

Ann had no say. She may have once. But this was nothing but memory. A conversation, with herself, reminding her of where she had already been.

Up they went. Ann’s father shook his head as they passed, and pushed himself up, his knees cracking as he hung onto the bannister and climbed down off the staircase.

The second floor hall now. Five doors: one, to the home office; another, to a spare bedroom; Ann’s room; Philip’s room. The bathroom. One floor up, and the master bedroom. Another bath. Big windows and its own deck, overlooking the lake.

No need to go there.

There was a long red and green rug on the floor of the hallway. They slid it along—so that it accordioned against the home office door. Perfunctory terror for the next person who saw it.

The bathroom door was closed. Behind it, the shower ran hard enough that steam crept out from underneath the door.

There.

Followed the steam.

Into a room of it.

The bath in here had a sliding door of frosted glass. Behind it: Philip LeSage. Lathering up his hair.

They slid over top of the door. There was Philip. Tall and strong. Eyes shut against the water. They circled him. Ran fingers like rope over his throat.

His hands dropped from his head. Eyes opened.

“It’s you,” he said.

They turned off the water.

“It is,” he said.

They reached, and flickered the lights—on and off, on and off. Then off.

“You were in my room last night.”

They moved through his hair, drew it back from his face. He held his head back so the soapy water flowed down his back.

“You’ve been there before. I know that.”

They withdrew. Philip did too. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”

He was lying about that. He was trembling, soaking wet and naked, against the tile. His voice was high.

“You have everyone else scared. Not me.”

His backside squealed against the tile as he slid around. He turned the water on again, set the temperature, then started up the shower. He got under the stream of hot water, and the trembling stopped.

“You turned the lamp shade around. You opened the closet door. You left me a sparrow. You kept touching me.”

They thought about stopping the water, or making it cold, or too hot.

They didn’t want to do any of those things.

“It’s okay. You can touch me if you want.”

He finished rinsing off, and shut off the water. In the dark, he found the handle on the shower door and slid it open. He stepped out into the dark, groped around on the wall until he found the light switch.

“If you’re there, I’m going to turn on the light.”

He flipped the switch and the bathroom lit up. Philip looked around, almost disappointed to find himself alone. Even the fog on the bathroom mirror was smooth, unblemished by even punctuation marks.

“I think you’ve been doing this a long time,” he said. “I think you’ve been around this family since when I was a baby.”

He took a towel, wrapped it around his middle.

“Maybe you’ve been around before me.” He cracked the door open, peered out into the hall. Satisfied they were still alone, he shut the door. “Maybe from Nan’s family. Mom says she rhymes with ‘witch.’ Maybe that’s where you came from. Maybe you came in with Ann on her birthday. I don’t care. I wanted you to know…”

He leaned on the door, as though holding it shut against something.

“I like it when you come to my room. You can always come see me there.”

Could they? They moved in on Philip—wrapping him in tendrils of steam, holding him close in adoration. He began to tremble again, and he did not pull away, and after a moment of that, the trembling turned to a shudder, and he was still.

“You can always come see me,” he said again. “Always, always.”

They believed him.

The bathroom door, open.

Philip, crossing the hallway, heading to his room, noticed the rug, all bunched up. Clutching his towel tighter around his waist, he walked down the hall and took hold of the end of the runner rug, pulling it back straight. As he finished, the door to Ann’s bedroom opened.

Ann. Seven years old. Unrecognizable to herself, with a pageboy haircut and green corduroy overalls.

“What are you doing?”

Philip shrugged. “The rug was all bunched out. You might have tripped.”

“You should put clothes on. I can see your wee.”

“Fuck off.”

“You fuck off.”

“You can’t see anything. And cut out the swearing.”

“Fine.” She leaned against the door. “I didn’t make the rug bunch up.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“I think the ghost did.”

Philip, shrugging. “Maybe. Whatever. Shouldn’t be left like that.”

“Someone might trip.”

“You know it.”

“I hate the ghost.”

Philip stood up straight. “Don’t,” he said, and tightened the towel again. “I’m going to put on pants.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Ann as Philip stepped into his bedroom. “Stupid ghost did it.”

Philip closed the door and Ann was alone in the hall. She looked straight at them.

“I hate you!” she shouted. When she went back into her room, she slammed the door.

See? None of us are pure.

The circle of men had fallen to their knees, in an approximation of prostration. With the exception of Philip, who sat lolling in his chair, looking at Ann, still asleep on the couch. She was turned away now, so her face pressed into the backrest cushions.

“Belaim,” said Charlie Sunderland, his head downcast to the floor. “Redawn,” he continued, working his way through the words he’d taught Ann to chant, as a way to rope the Insect in when the chairs started shifting, the windowpanes vibrating. Sheepmorne… Overwind…