The Visitor(43)

“My dear, are you all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“It seems I’ve upset you once again, and I’m sorry for that, but I felt I had to warn you. If you’re to visit that cemetery, you must be forearmed. Perhaps under the circumstances, it would be better to postpone your trip.”

“No, I can’t do that. I have to go. The sooner, the better. I have to find out what they want. I can’t hide or run away from this, Dr. Shaw. That would only make things worse. Following the clues may be the only protection I have left. For whatever reason, I’m being summoned to that cemetery. I think there’s a message to be found on those headstones. Maybe you were right the other day when you asked who better than I to solve the riddle. I’d like to think that nothing more will be required of me than my professional expertise.”

“I hope so, too,” he said, the foreboding in his voice an echo of my own trepidation. “But promise me you’ll take care when you get to that cemetery. I’ve no special intuition or extrasensory perception, but I do have a hunch that you’re approaching a crossroads. A physical and spiritual turning point in your life. I would once again advise that you proceed with the utmost caution.”

We talked for a moment or two longer before hanging up, and then I returned to my research. I heard nothing else in the walls and maybe it was my imagination, but the quality of the silence had shifted. Despite Dr. Shaw’s warning, I no longer felt frightened or threatened. It was as if my decision to visit Kroll Cemetery had temporarily placated the interloper.

Even when I rose a little while later to get ready for bed, I didn’t feel the need to glance over my shoulder as I walked down the hallway. I wouldn’t say that I felt as safe and secure as I once had in my sanctuary, but my mood had certainly lifted. I showered, dried my hair and then crawled into bed, rolling to my back so that I could watch the changing patterns of moonlight on the ceiling until I grew drowsy.

Sliding down between the crisp sheets, I cocooned myself in the covers as the ceiling fan stirred the night air. I was just drifting off when I heard a tap at the window.

My eyes flew open as I lay there, listening to the darkness. The sound came again. Tap, tap, tap. Trying to relax my muscles so that I could move more fluidly, I shifted my position until I had a view of the window.

Something dark covered the glass. I thought at first the curtains were drawn, but I didn’t remember closing them before I turned in. And once my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could see the glisten of moonlight in the upper pane. As I focused on that pale stream, I saw an insect fly to the window and cling to the screen. Then another came and still another until I realized the darkness covering the lower panel was neither curtain nor shade, but a cloud of black moths.

Maybe I wasn’t fully awake or maybe I’d become inured to the unusual, but in that first instant of awareness, I was more curious than frightened. I even entertained the notion that the beacon inside me—the unnatural light that attracted the ghosts—might also have summoned the moths.

The quiver of their iridescent wings was hypnotic and my focus became almost trancelike until a dank cold penetrated my fixation. A draft so icy I could see the frost of my breath in the remaining moonlight. And with the plunging temperature came a scent that reminded me of damp earth and old death.

Tap, tap, tap.

My attention darted back to the window. The moths kept coming, kept clinging until all but a sliver of moonlight was extinguished. Now I could make out little more than the vague shape of furniture, but instinct told me not to reach for the lamp. It was best not to see what had entered my room.

Clutching the covers to my chin, I lay motionless as I peered through the frigid darkness. I saw no humpback silhouettes or sightless apparitions, but I knew something was there just the same. I wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. I hadn’t conjured the moths or the cold. Or that smell. Whatever had invaded my bedroom was real. Not human, not any longer, but there was no denying a presence.

Mott?

I almost whispered the name into the darkened room but I held my silence as I cowered under the covers.

The chill deepened and the smell intensified as the tiny interloper moved about the space. I sensed her standing over me and I wanted nothing so much as to leap from bed and run screaming into the night. But I clung to my courage as tightly as I clutched the blanket, and I remembered Dr. Shaw’s warning that negative energy stirred unrest. I took a breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Just when I thought I had my fear under control, I felt the frosted caress of dead fingers against my cheek, the brush of frigid lips in my hair. Cloves tingled on my tongue, but I took no solace in the spice. I had come to loathe the taste.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I willed away the trespasser. Please go. Leave me alone. Leave me in peace.

I heard the low rasp of a breath, a guttural mutter that sounded like “Mine,” and then the click of long fingernails against the top of the nightstand as she rummaged through my things. A drawer opened, then another and another.

What are you looking for? What do you want from me?

After a moment, the shuffling stopped, the cold faded and I knew that I was once again alone in my bedroom. I huddled under the quilt as I listened for signs of a retreat. I heard only silence. No scratching in the walls or footsteps out in the hallway. But I knew Mott was gone and with her the moths.

Moonlight flooded the room, but still I reached for the lamp. Blinking in the sudden brilliance, I glanced around, my gaze coming to rest on the nightstand.