The Shape of Night(23)

I stop before one particularly striking example. Encircling the mirrored glass is a tin frame decorated with grotesque and frightening faces. Demons. “Interesting hobby you have,” I murmur.

“It’s more than a hobby. It’s also for protection.”

I frown at her. “Protection from what?”

“Some cultures believe that mirrors are dangerous. That they serve as portals to another world, a way for spirits to move back and forth and cause mischief. But the Chinese believe mirrors are a defense, and they hang them outside their homes to scare away evil spirits. When a demon sees its own reflection, it’s frightened away and it won’t disturb you.” She points to the mirror hanging above the doorway to the kitchen, its frame painted bright green and gold. “That’s a Ba Gua mirror. Notice how it’s concave? That’s so it absorbs negative energies, preventing them from going into my kitchen.” She sees my dubious expression. “You think this is all hokum, don’t you?”

“I’ve always been skeptical about the supernatural.”

She smiles. “Yet here you are.”

We sit in her kitchen, where crystals dangle in the window, casting little rainbows on the walls. In this room there are no mirrors; perhaps she considers the kitchen safe from invasion, protected by that obstacle course of demon-repelling mirrors in the hallway. I’m relieved that I can’t catch glimpses of myself in this room. Like those demons, I’m afraid of my own reflection, afraid to look myself in the eye.

    Maeve sets two steaming cups of chamomile tea on the table and sits across from me. “Now tell me about your ghost problem.”

I can’t help a sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry, but this feels ridiculous.”

“Of course it does. Since you don’t believe in spirits.”

“I really don’t. I never have. I’ve always thought that people who saw ghosts were either delusional or prone to fantasies, but I don’t know how else to explain what’s happening in my house.”

“You believe these events are paranormal?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, I didn’t imagine them.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But old houses come with creaky floors. The wood expands and contracts. Faucets drip.”

“None of those things can explain what I saw. Or what I felt when he touched me.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Something actually touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“My face. He touched my face.” I won’t tell her where else he touched me. Or how he pinned my body to the bed with his.

“You said on the phone you also smell things. Unusual odors.”

“It’s almost always the first thing I notice, just before he appears.”

“Odors are often described as sentinels of a supernatural presence. Is it an unpleasant odor?”

“No. It’s like—like a wind from the ocean. The smell of the sea.”

“What else do you notice? You said your cat sometimes behaves oddly.”

    “I think he’s aware. I think he sees him.”

Maeve nods and takes a sip of tea. Nothing I’ve said appears to surprise her, and her placidity about what seems like an outlandish tale somehow calms me. It makes me feel my story is not so ridiculous after all. “What do you see, Ava? Describe it.”

“I see a man. He’s my age, tall, with thick black hair.”

“A full-body apparition.”

“Yes, head to toe.” And more. “He wears a dark coat. It’s plain, unadorned. Like the coat Captain Brodie wears in his portrait.”

“Captain Brodie is the man who built your house?”

I nod. “His portrait hangs in the Tucker Cove Historical Society. They say he died at sea, which explains why I smell the ocean whenever he appears. And when he spoke to me, he said: ‘You are in my house.’ He believes it’s still his house. I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s passed on…” I am so anxious for her to believe me that when I look down, I see my hands are knotted on the table. “It’s Captain Brodie. I’m sure it is.”

“Do you feel welcome in that house?”

“I do now.”

“You didn’t earlier?”

“When I first saw it from the outside, the house seemed unfriendly, as if it didn’t want me there. Then I stepped inside and smelled the sea. And suddenly I felt welcome. I felt the house had accepted me.”

“You don’t feel even a little bit afraid, then?”

“I did at first, but not now. Not any longer. Should I?”

“It depends on what you’re actually dealing with. If it’s just a ghost.”

“What would it be, if not a ghost?”

She hesitates, and for the first time I sense her uneasiness, as if she doesn’t want to tell me what she’s thinking. “Ghosts are spirits of the deceased who haven’t managed to fully escape our world,” she explains. “They linger among us because of unfinished business. Or they’re trapped because they haven’t realized they’re dead.”

    “Like Captain Brodie.”

“Possibly. Let’s hope that’s all this is. A benign ghost.”