The Shape of Night(22)
We investigate and document paranormal activity in the state of Maine. We also serve as an informational clearinghouse and we provide emotional and logistical support to those who are dealing with paranormal phenomena.
There is a contact form, but no phone number.
I type in my name and phone number. In the space for Reason for contacting us I type: I believe my house is haunted. I don’t know what to do about it, and hit send.
It flits off into the ether and almost immediately I feel ridiculous. Did I really just contact a ghost hunter? I think of what my ever-logical sister, Lucy, would say about this. Lucy, whose medical career is rooted in science. I need her advice now more than ever, but I don’t dare call her. I’m afraid of what she’ll say to me, and even more afraid of what I’ll say to her. I won’t call my longtime friend and editor Simon either, because he’ll certainly laugh at me and tell me I’ve gone round the bend. And then remind me how late my manuscript is.
Desperate to distract myself, I scrape the remaining beef stew into a bowl and carry it to the refrigerator. I yank open the door and focus on the bottle of sauvignon blanc gleaming inside. It’s so tempting I can already taste its cold, crisp bite of alcohol. The bottle calls to me so seductively I almost miss the chime of the email landing in my in-box.
I turn to the laptop. The email is from an unfamiliar account, but I open it anyway.
FROM: MAEVE CERRIDWYN
RE: YOUR HAUNTING.
WHEN WOULD YOU LIKE TO MEET?
Nine
It’s a two-hour drive from Tucker Cove to the town of Tranquility, where the ghost hunter lives. According to the map it’s only fifty-five miles as the crow flies, but that old Maine saying You can’t get there from here has never seemed so apt as I navigate from back road to back road, slowly making my way inland from the coast. I drive past abandoned farmhouses with collapsing barns, past long-fallow fields invaded by saplings, into woodlands where trees crowd out all sunlight. My GPS directs me down roads that seem to lead nowhere, but I obey the annoying voice issuing from the speaker because I have no idea where I am. It has been miles since I’ve seen another car, and I begin to wonder if I’ve been going in circles; everywhere I look I see only trees and every bend in the road looks identical.
Then I spot the roadside mailbox with a pale blue butterfly painted on the side: #41. I’ve arrived at the right place.
I bounce up the dirt driveway, and the woods part to reveal Maeve Cerridwyn’s home. I had imagined a ghost hunter’s house to be dark and ominous, but this cottage in the woods looks like a home where you’d find seven charming dwarves. When I step out of my car, I hear tinkling wind chimes. Behind the house is a stand of birch trees, their white trunks like ghostly sentinels of the forest. In the sunny patch of front yard, an herb garden blooms with sage and catmint.
I follow the fieldstone path through the garden, where I recognize my usual culinary friends: thyme and rosemary, parsley and tarragon, sage and oregano. But there are other herbs here that I do not recognize, and in this magical woodland spot I can’t help wondering what mysterious uses they might have. For love potions, perhaps, or the warding off of demons? I bend down to examine a vine with blackberries and tiny purple flowers.
When I rise to my feet, I’m startled to see a woman watching me from her porch. How long has she been there?
“I’m glad you made it, Ava,” she says. “It’s easy to get lost along the way.”
Maeve Cerridwyn is not what I expected a ghost hunter to look like. Neither mysterious nor scary, she is a petite woman with a plain, sweet face. The sun has freckled her skin and etched deep laugh lines around her brown eyes, and her dark hair is half silver. I can’t imagine this woman facing down ghosts or battling demons; she looks like she’d bake them cookies instead.
“I’m sorry you had to come all this way to see me. Normally I drive out to the client’s house, but my car’s still in the shop.”
“That’s all right. I felt like I needed to get away for the day.” I look at her garden. “This is beautiful. I write about food, and I’m always on the hunt for new culinary herbs I haven’t tried yet.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to cook with that one,” she says, pointing to the vine I was just admiring. “That’s belladonna. Deadly nightshade. A few berries could kill you.”
“Why on earth do you grow it?”
“Every plant has its uses, even the poisonous ones. A tincture of belladonna can be used as an anesthetic and to help wounds heal.” She smiles. “Come on in. I promise I won’t put anything in your tea except honey.”
I step into the house, where I pause for a moment, looking around in wonder at the mirrors that hang on almost every wall. Some are mere chips of glass, others extend from floor to ceiling. Some are mounted in lavishly decorated frames. Everywhere I look I glimpse movement—my own, as I turn from reflection to reflection.
“As you can see, I have an obsession with mirrors,” she admits. “Some people collect porcelain frogs. I collect mirrors from around the world.” She points to each one as we move down the hall. “That’s from Guatemala. That one is from India. Malaysia. Slovenia. No matter where you go in the world, most people want to look at themselves. Even guinea fowl will sit and stare at their own reflections.”