The Visitor (Graveyard Queen, #4)(21)

There had been a time when trailing an entity would have been unthinkable, but the days of ignoring the other world were long behind me. The ghost knew that I could see her. She was already haunting me. Perhaps if I did as she wished, she would go away and leave me alone. Not likely, but it was the only thing I had at the moment to cling to.

Climbing out of bed, I crossed to the door and glanced into the corridor. The overhead lights sputtered from an electrical surge caused—I was certain—by the ghost’s energy. There was an elevator by the nurse’s station and another at the opposite end of the hallway large enough to transport gurneys from floor to floor. That elevator went all the way down to the basement level. I wasn’t sure how I knew this unless I’d subconsciously taken note of the buttons when I’d been brought up to my room.

The tiles were cold beneath my bare feet as I slipped down the hallway in the wake of the ghost. The moment I rounded a corner, out of sight of those behind me, the electrical fluctuations subsided. I entered the elevator, the doors closed and, as the car descended, the hushed voices from the morgue crept back into my head.

When the elevator stopped, I stepped out into a wide hallway with branching corridors on either side. In front of me was a set of double doors with narrow glass panels through which I could see into the receiving area of the morgue. A red sign marked the outside bay where bodies were delivered and picked up, and beyond a long counter were several closed doors, which I assumed were the autopsy rooms and coolers.

The ghost voices faded as an unnatural hush fell over the hallway. Time seemed to stop as I hovered between the dead world and the living world. The floating sensation was not at all unpleasant, but it lasted for only a heartbeat before the babbling in my head started up again, rising to a sharp, painful crescendo. The walls started to spin and I slid down the cool cinderblocks, curling myself in a ball as I clutched my ears.

Even in the grip of that debilitating vertigo, I could feel invisible hands reaching through the walls for me, diaphanous bodies squeezing in on me as I huddled on the floor breathless and trembling.

For a moment, I let myself entertain the possibility that all of this was nothing more than a terrible hallucination. A nightmare from which I would soon awaken.

But I knew better. It was real. It was happening. And in a moment of enlightenment, I realized why the blind entity had led me down to the basement. The voices were stronger in the morgue because the newly departed had somehow opened a door, allowing those trapped souls to reach out to me. Individual spirit communication was one thing, but this mass beseeching was a new development. Another terrifying facet to my dark gift.





Twelve

I staggered to the elevator and somehow managed to make it back to my room without detection. I felt very alone and frightened. Something was happening to me. Something that I’d never experienced before. The ghost voices in my head were silent now, but the echo of that cacophony lingered.

Since the age of nine, I’d avoided contact with ghosts. Papa had warned me early on that their parasitic nature made them especially dangerous to people like us because what they craved above all else was to be human again. To acknowledge their presence only deepened that craving and caused them to cling even harder to those they haunted. How was I supposed to follow all these strange clues without making myself vulnerable to them? Without compromising both my physical and mental well-being?

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

And yet even as I resolved to protect myself, I was irresistibly drawn to them. The blind ghost wouldn’t go away until I solved her puzzle. The voices in my head wouldn’t let me rest until I found out what they wanted.

Climbing into bed, I cowered under the covers until the sun came up, refusing to succumb to exhaustion until the ghosts had once again drifted back through the veil. Then I dozed on and off until the cheerful clatter of the breakfast trays awakened me, and I tried to put everything else out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about that predawn trip to the morgue or to dwell on the dark direction my gift had taken me. With sunlight streaming in through the window, it all seemed like a very bad dream to me now.

And that was how I wanted to think of it. An episode brought on by the trauma of my attack and the strangeness of my surroundings. I told myself that as soon as I left the hospital and returned to my normal routine, everything would be fine.

But my life had never been normal or fine. A bump on the head hadn’t brought the sightless ghost into my life or the scratching into my walls. Something was definitely going on, but I shoved every bad thought to the furthest corner of my mind as I nibbled on a piece of toast and sipped weak tea.

Devlin had stopped by earlier while I slept. He’d left a small bag of toiletries and a fresh change of clothing, which was a very good thing since I had nothing to wear home but the pajamas I’d had on when I was admitted. I was touched by his thoughtfulness and grateful for his foresight. While I waited for the doctor to make his rounds, I showered, dressed and then perched on the side of the bed, picking at my broken nails.

By the time all the release papers had been signed and my personal belongings returned to me, I barely had enough time to call a cab and get to the Oak Grove Cemetery for the dedication service. Under the circumstances, I could have skipped the ceremony and no one would have held it against me, but Dr. Shaw had asked me to say a few words and I didn’t want to let him down.

And, as eager as I was to leave the hospital, I wasn’t so keen on returning home alone to face the scene of the crime. Focusing on work had always been my salvation and this morning, even Oak Grove provided a welcome distraction.