Helen Myers - Night Mist

“Please,” she said, leaning as close as she dared without risking accidental contact. “Help me to understand this?”

“N-not sure I get it myself.”

“At least tell me your name?”

This time he was the one who looked shocked. “You don’t…?” He swore. “Joe. Joe Becket. Say it, Bright Eyes. I need to hear you say it…one more time.”

He sounded so desperate, Rachel never considered refusing him. “Joe,” she whispered. But his aggrieved expression told her that he knew the name meant nothing to her.

A sound broke from his lips. It may have been an attempt at a bitter laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. “You’re not getting it at all, are you? Listen…I’ve figured out this much. You can’t go back.”

“Back where?”

“Leave. Tonight. Now. You can’t…I can’t let you meet…Damn.”

“Who? Meet who, Joe?”

“No good. It’ll only put your own life in danger. I’m not going to let that happen, understand? I’m willing…willing to lose it all, the memory of you…of us, if it means…”

“Hush now.” He wasn’t making any sense, and he was using up precious strength. “Try to lie still. Let me think.”

He rocked his head back and forth. “No. Won’t go like this. Not with you looking at me as though I was some stranger.” The pain had to be excruciating, yet he struggled to sit up. Then he reached for her. “Once more. I have to just once more….”

As soon as she understood what he meant to do, Rachel tried to back away from him. But it was too late.

She felt his touch, a ghostly caress of air against her cheek. Fleeting and eerily cold as it was, it left her feeling a burning awareness she knew she didn’t dare examine too closely.

Then he began to disappear.

“No!” Rachel lurched forward—to do what, she didn’t know since on some level she understood that any action she took would be pointless—and as expected, he vanished before her eyes.

She balanced herself by resting her palms on the cement, felt something warm and wet, and inspected her hands. They were smeared with blood. Real blood. Closing her hands into fists, she searched through the mist swirling around her. “I don’t understand this! Do you hear me? I don’t understand.”

As if in reply, Rachel found herself illuminated by a pair of fast-approaching, blinding lights. Through the din of a roaring engine a horn blasted her. Certain the wide-bodied beast was broad enough to sweep her up in its path, she spun around and pressed herself flat against the steel beams where Joe Becket had reclined only moments ago.

The eighteen-wheeler raced by. Although it didn’t come close enough to hurt her, she decided it had added enough impact to the moment to shock a decade or two off her lifespan.

With her heart thudding in her throat, chest and head, she gulped for air. Brilliant place to catch your breath, Gentry, she chastised herself. Keep it up and you’ll become a ghost yourself.

It was the first time she’d admitted to herself what she might be dealing with, and the thought had her shaking her head in instant rejection. She was a sensible, logical person, she reminded herself, an educated professional. She’d never had cause to believe in the possibility, let alone the plausibility, of such things in all her twenty-nine years. Even while she’d been gauging the chances of succeeding in this encounter, she hadn’t allowed herself to put a label on it. Him.

Then she inspected her hands. To reassure herself, since she’d never heard anything about ghosts bleeding. Only, the blood was gone. Except for a few grains of street grit stuck to her skin, her palms and the pads of each finger were clean.

“Who are you?” Rachel murmured, staring at her hands before gazing up into the night. “Who are you?”

She didn’t get a reply. At least he was going back to being consistent, she thought, grasping at whatever seed of sanity she could. But he did have a name. It was a start, she decided, pushing herself to her feet and collecting her bag.

For the rest of the crossing she found herself constantly looking over her shoulder, torn between wishing she would see him again and being relieved when he didn’t reappear. Recurring visions of some past tragedy were one thing—if that was indeed what she was dealing with, and it was the one explanation that made the most sense at this point—but being warned that she could be in danger put a flaw in that theory, didn’t it?

How had he learned her name? And what about the intimate way he’d spoken to her? Bright Eyes. She’d received enough compliments about her brown eyes to accept that people thought they were her best feature. She’d attributed that to having a fast, inquisitive mind and a clear conscience. Right now, however, she was less than enthralled with her fascination for pursuing mysteries.

As she walked, she struggled to recall if and when she might have met Joe Becket, but try as she might, it proved useless. They were complete strangers, no doubt about it. With his lean, hard face and probing eyes, he wasn’t a man a woman would be apt to forget; her own reaction to him—and she’d been known as a bookworm through school—proved that. Yet she’d done more than notice this injured, brooding being; she’d let him get inside her head…and now she didn’t know if she could get him out.

But at the same time, she couldn’t miss the irony in that. What safer way to avoid dealing with real human beings, and her sexuality, than by focusing on someone, or rather something, that vaporized the instant she got close to it? Her mother, who for years had assumed the role of relentless matchmaker, would probably find the situation completely understandable.

No, her phantom was nothing like the smooth-talking, power-hungry men who’d moved in her family’s social circle, or even the financially or intellectually aggressive ones she’d met through her own studies and work. There was a harder edge to him; she’d seen it in his deep-set, piercing eyes and in the sharp planes of his face. He seemed the sort you wouldn’t relish having as an enemy, and when muted by his sensitive, vulnerable side…well, anyone would find him intriguing.

Not that she couldn’t handle it, she thought, giving herself a mental shake. She stepped off the end of the bridge onto the rocky shoulder of the road.

“Oh!” She gasped, landing awkwardly on the uneven ground. Pain shot through her right ankle. In the next instant she was rattled by a splash as something jumped or fell into the creek, which was followed by vicious barking not far downstream.

Spooked, she rubbed at the pain, and, assuring herself that the leg would take her weight, set off again. All she wanted was to get to her room.

Still, her step was more cautious this time as she made a left down the dirt road that ran behind Beauchamp’s and parallel to the creek. The meandering path ran through some of the lowest-lying property in the area, and the farther down she went, the denser the fog grew. It increased Rachel’s awareness of her solitude and her unease with the dank, dark aura of her surroundings.

When she’d first arrived in Nooton several weeks ago, she’d thought this portion of town evoked an atmosphere perfect for the set of a horror film, the kind with a cast of no less than three dozen corpses. The idea had ceased to be amusing.

Someone obviously had committed a murder here. Joe Becket seemed to be proof of that. She couldn’t figure out what else was going on, but that part seemed devastatingly clear. The question was, when had it happened? Who had done it? And why? Her thoughts flowed one after the other like the lonely toll of a church bell.

Mrs. Levieux’s boardinghouse rose out of the fog. Three stories tall, it was a gothic-style dwelling nestled within a giant’s grasp of ancient oak trees. The fog muted the effects of the peeling paint, but at the same time turned it tombstone-white, emphasizing the starkness of the numerous windows. They seemed to stare at her like the hollowed eyes of a skull. Lifeless yet watchful eyes.