Floating Staircase(40)

“She said you came by the library doing some research for a new book or something like that.”

“Hmmm. Something like that.” I considered his Woodward and Bernstein comment, then said, “You’re a reporter.”

Earl Parsons laughed—the sound of a stubborn old tractor trying to start up in cold weather. “Well, now, you say it like that and you’ll give me a swelled head. I’m actually a retired mill worker, but I do much of the freelance writing for The Muledeer, seeing how the town’s so small. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that my contemporaries on the paper are made up mostly of journalism students from the college.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s not often we get someone famous like yourself coming to live in Westlake.” Another rumbling chuckle. “Never, actually.”

“I think you use the word famous too generously. I’ve written a few horror novels.”

“One of which I’m reading right now,” Earl said, perhaps trying to impress me, although I didn’t think he was lying. “Creepy stuff, for sure.”

“They’re certainly creepy,” I said.

“I’d like to write up a nice human interest piece on you, if you’d let me. You moving out here’s probably the biggest news since Dolly Murphy won the pie eating contest last fall.”

I thought of Elijah Dentman drowning in the lake behind my house and how that had surely been bigger news but didn’t say anything.

“Understand I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” Earl motored on. “If you had the time—and weather permitting—I’d like to meet with you for an interview.”

I was about to say that wouldn’t be a problem when movement in the living room caught my attention. Seeing that it was the dead of winter, there were no windows open in the house . . . yet the curtain covering the front windows appeared to be billowing out as if manipulated by a breeze. I felt something solid click toward the back of my throat, and for a couple of seconds I could formulate no words.

“Of course,” Earl said, no doubt interpreting my silence as disapproval, “if it would be too much of an inconvenience . . .”

“No,” I finally managed. The word came out in a squeak, but I didn’t think Earl noticed. “No, that’s fine. I’m flattered.”

“How’s tomorrow sound?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“I work out of the house so you’d have to come—”

“Just stop by here,” I told him. My gaze was locked on the curtains. They were made of a semitransparent material that dulled the daylight on the other side to a melancholic nimbus. Through the fabric I could make out the undeniable shape of a small child, an ethereal silhouette against the front windows but behind the curtain, the curtain covering him up like a death shroud.

Him, I thought. Elijah Dentman.

“How’s noon strike you?” It was as if Earl’s voice were coming from the moon.

“Fine.”

“Hey! Terrific! I’ll see you then, Mr. Glasgow.”

“Good-bye,” I mumbled and hung up.

My palms were tacky with sweat, and that awful taste was back in my mouth. Slowly, I closed the distance between the kitchen and the living room. With each step I took, the shape of the child behind the curtains—the child I knew to be Elijah Dentman or whatever remained of him in this world—took on the shape of the holly bushes outside, pressed up against the windowpanes and shaking in the wind. Once I reached the curtains, I did not have to sweep them aside to see that I had mistaken these bushes for the ghost of a lost child. Their horned leaves scraped against the glass like grinding teeth.

I bent down and put my hand over the floor vent that was beneath the curtains, covering the expulsion of cold air that was streaming through the vent. The curtains stopped moving. I held my breath. A second later, a stiff, crinkling sound emanated from somewhere behind me. I turned my head and saw one of my notebook pages flutter and ripple. The page didn’t actually turn, but it looked like it wanted to.

I called out Elijah’s name and waited.

There was no response.

Something else turned over inside me, and I called out Kyle’s name. Louder this time. I was confused. For a moment, I thought I was a child again, thirteen or fourteen, back in my parents’ house in Eastport, lost and confused in the middle of the night. But no—I was here, an adult in his home. There were no ghosts. There were no dead boys, no dead brothers.

Five minutes later, after putting on a pair of work boots and an overcoat, I grabbed an unopened bottle of pinot noir, then trudged out into the snow. The wind was biting, and the snow was still coming down as I hiked up the hill toward the Steins’ house. Beyond the trees I could see a banner of charcoal smoke rising from the stone chimney, listing like a thin tree in the northerly winds. I climbed the porch and thumped frozen knuckles against the solid oak door. I thought I heard lilting orchestral music from inside the house.

To my left, a sweep of velvet curtains parted in the window, then fell back into place. A moment later, Ira Stein answered the door. “Mr. Glasgow,” he said, no doubt surprised to find me standing on his porch. He was dressed in a pair of pressed slacks and a zipper-fronted sweater the color of sawdust. He smiled somewhat disarmingly behind the too-thick lenses of his spectacles. “A bit nasty to be out for a walk, isn’t it?”