Unearthly

Chapter One

May I help you, sir? Avery Woodruff greeted the middle-aged businessman standing in front of the cash register.

This book isn't worth two dollars. The man slapped an oversized paperback onto the counter. See here, one corner of the cover is bent.

I see that, sir. We examine all our books very carefully before we set them out, and—

The glue in the binding is dried up. These pages could fall out any second. Listen! The man opened the book and bent it backward until the spine cracked. Avery winced.

We sort them according to their publication dates and the condition they are in when we receive them –

This book has been revised twice since this edition came out.

And we make every effort to price our merchandise fairly –

Some idiot has cut the photos out with a razorblade.

That's why this volume is only two dollars. We feel this is a fair price, considering—

I demand to speak to your supervisor.

Avery's polite smile grew strained. I'm the owner of Starlight Booksellers, New and Used Books. Customer satisfaction is very important to us.

Two quarters clanged onto the counter. That's what I call customer satisfaction. The man stalked out of the store, the sides of his beige trench coat flapping like bat wings, the damaged book clutched in his hand as though it were made of gold.

Why didn't you tell that jerk to stick it? Daniel exclaimed, after the door banged shut.

Avery weighed the quarters in his hand. The man's vibrations felt prickly and cold, like frozen cactus pads. He was just trying to be a big shot.

But he scored off you!

He dumped on me a little, that's all. I'll live. Avery opened the register, and the quarters clanked into the change receptacle.

He took advantage of you, Mr. Woodruff, and you let him. The lanky teenager's voice sounded pained. Surly bastard.

Surly bastards help pay the bills, too. Why don't you break down those empty book boxes and put them out by the garbage bin? Good afternoon, Mrs. Jensen. How can I help you today?

A young woman with a pink-jacketed small child in tow slid a pile of used books from the crook of her free arm onto the counter. I'd like these, please. Don't you have anything else by Greta Greene?

She has a new romance coming out in June. I'll give you a call when it comes in.

Where's the box cutter, Mr. Woodruff?

On top of the file cabinet in back, Daniel. Are you signed up for our mailing list, Mrs. Jensen? I'll get you a form.

Maaamaaaaa…. The little girl tugged on the woman's arm, leaning back with all her three-year-old weight. Maaamaaaa….

Avery reached under the counter, pulled out a picture book, leaned over the counter and held the book out to the little girl. The picture on the cover showed a fuzzy black and white kitten with large blue eyes leaping over the arch of a crayon-drawn rainbow.

"The Lost Kitten Who Found A New Home, he told Mrs. Jensen. It's a classic."

The little girl had fallen silent and was turning the pages, wonder filling her eyes. The woman dug around in her bag. What do I owe you for that?"

Let's call it a birthday present.

Her birthday isn't until…why, thank you, Mr. Woodruff!

Avery rang up the woman's purchases. As he put the cash in the register he noted that the bills felt warm and cozy, like colored knitting yarn. Mrs. Jensen was a good mother, even if she liked her evening glass of wine a little too much.

Transaction completed, he turned back to the stack of used books he had been sorting.

Bam.

Heads turned. Avery leaned over and picked up the hardback copy of Gulliver's Travels he had dropped. Holding the book between his thumb and forefinger, he carried it over to the wastebasket behind the counter and dropped it in.

Hey, Mr. Woodruff! We could get at least a dollar for it, Daniel told him, but he shook his head.

Oh, dirty drawings? Underlining and highlighting and stuff?

And stuff. Avery brushed his fingers across his pants, but the sensation of something dark and nasty remained. Did you unpack those boxes of remaindered books from Pegasus?

I unpacked the boxes, checked the inventory, and put the list in your In basket. Want me to sort out the nonfiction?

No, Daniel, I'll do it later. His fingers felt more normal now; the ugly vibrations were wearing off. Sometimes it helped to rub his fingers in pure sea salt, but the store was too busy right now.

Avery didn't know why he was so sensitive today. It could be because he’d skipped lunch, or that he happened to be wearing natural cotton fabric, or the fact that the moon last night had been full. His heightened sensitivity was a good thing, or so he always told himself, but there was such a thing as too much information. If he couldn't get his reactions under control he would have to ask Daniel to check out the remaining customers. He began to hum softly under his breath, an obnoxious folk tune by the Crispy Coyote Trio called Scrambled-Egg Heart. The song never failed to shut off his psychic sense and bring him down to earth, because he hated it.

It worked. Three more customers, and not a single unwelcome psychic flash from any of them. Relief like fresh oxygen flooded through him as he turned the sign to Closed. Normally he liked his job, but some days 5:30 was an eternity away and it felt good to finally shoot the deadbolt home. Lately there had been too many days when closing the store was a relief. Maybe it was time to think about retiring.

Are you going to study tonight, Daniel?

Um, sure. Math, I guess.

You guess? You know how important your GED is.

I know, I know. Daniel dismissed his words with a careless wave of his hand, and Avery turned away so the boy wouldn't see his dismay.

Well, good night, then, Daniel.

Good night, Mr. Woodruff.

Daniel watched Avery climb the stairs to his flat. After his boss reached the door Daniel snapped off the store lights except for one fluorescent fixture near the back, plunging the store into the gloom of early spring twilight. Then he went into the back room, pulled out an Army surplus canvas cot, forced open the reluctant hinges, and set it between two of the ceiling-high bookshelves under the light. Lying on the cot, surrounded by towering walls of dimly-lit books, he fumbled behind the books on the lowest shelf and fished out his latest read.

Gateway to the Powers of Your Mind, read the title in puffy, cloudlike letters of white trimmed with gold. With his finger he traced the contours of the picture on the dust jacket: a blonde, blue-clad angel balancing upon the top of a golden gate smiling confidently at the grimacing scarlet devil below her. He liked to think that the angel reminded him of his mother but he wasn't sure if it should, since all he could remember of his childhood was a string of foster homes, each worse than the last. He didn't know if it was luck or fate that Avery rescued him from the filthy alley where he'd been living, but his gratitude didn't extend to studying for some stupid test to earn a piece of useless paper. Besides, there were things he had to find out, things that had been happening to him lately, things he couldn't ask his boss without sounding, well, crazy.

As the evening deepened, Daniel heard faint singing coming from upstairs. That hokey song had to be at least forty years old but his boss seemed to love it; he sure sang it often enough. If he ever accepted that standing offer to sleep in the guest room upstairs he'd have to hear it all the time, but as he kept assuring Avery, he preferred his independence—and the quiet.

There was another burst of song from upstairs. Daniel hunched his head into the pillow to cover his ears, and began to read.

~ ~ ~

My scrambled-egg heart is fried because of yoooou.

Avery gave the screw of the book press a final turn. In forty-eight hours the glue in the binding would be completely dry and this book could be shelved downstairs with the others. Then he went into the kitchen, shook a bit of sea salt onto his hands, and rubbed it over his skin to dampen the multitude of sensations he’d received. A history book with a history, he reflected, amused. Having to put his hands upon books without knowing what vibrations he would pick up was an occupational hazard, but there were compensations. Owning a bookstore was the most efficient way of supporting his book-buying addiction, and he got first pick of everything.

The leftover beef stew was heated through in the microwave in seconds. Avery carried the steaming bowl into the living room and turned on the TV. The sound was turned all the way down because sometimes it was more interesting for him to guess what was happening. Tonight there was some kind of nature show on Channel Eleven. There was a desert, and some little darting animals that looked like lizards.

Karen wouldn't have liked this show. Lizards, Daddy, eww! Lisa would have taken Karen on her lap and told her a story about a friendly lizard, and after Karen was tucked safely into bed he and Lisa would have stayed late into the night, lying on the sofa in each other's arms, talking about anything and nothing, and eventually communicating with each other in another, deeper way. If Lisa and Karen had still been alive, that is. Daniel was the closest thing to a family he had now.

At this moment the boy was probably studying not math but God knows what else. Avery had given him permission to read any book in the store as long as he didn't dog-ear the pages, and had watched in astonishment as Daniel ripped through volume after volume, making up for the years he'd been starved for learning. Daniel's latest fascination was with the occult but since Avery made a point of stocking the most accurate sources he wasn't overly worried, except that this latest craze was taking time away from Daniel's real-world studies. It was a shame there wasn't a GED exam for arcane knowledge; he had no doubt Daniel could have passed that subject easily.

The desert scene had given way to a waterfall and leaping fish which looked like salmon. Avery set down the bowl of congealing stew and watched the fish jump across the screen until he felt drowsy. He closed his eyes, imagining Lisa's soothing hand on his forehead, and the sound of her gentle breathing lulled him into sleep.

Chapter Two

They said it was heart failure, but she never told me she had heart trouble.

Maybe she didn't know. Sometimes there aren't any symptoms.

Or maybe she could have known. The woman made a careful, wedge-shaped cut in her hamburger steak with the side of her fork. Blaise hated doctors. If she thought something was wrong with her health she would have tried to fix it herself. The only time she ever went to a doctor was to get pain pills for the arthritis in her knee.

Avery searched his mind for a statement of sympathy that didn't sound canned, and gave up. Your aunt is in a better place now.

A different place, anyway. She hated the clergy too.

Your aunt really was an individualist.

She wasn't a bad person, she just liked things her way.

Any dessert, Mr. Woodruff? said the young waitress at his elbow.

Briefly Avery thought of ordering a lemon poppy seed muffin, for that was how Muriel's name tasted on his tongue, but decided against it. No, thanks, Katie, not today.

The other diners were busy with their noon meals. Silverware clinked brightly against thick white china, punctuating murmured conversations. In the dusty front window the neon sign was flickering again. The Pe-er P-t, read the quivering pink letters. Avery liked to come here because no matter how busy the Pepper Pot got, it had a friendly, homey atmosphere. It also helped that they served the best meatloaf in Massachusetts.

Muriel took a delicate sip of her coffee. Did you ever meet my aunt, Mr. Woodruff?

No, I never had the pleasure. She must have bought her books by mail, or perhaps she went into Yarwich or Boston.

It would have been by mail, I guess, since she didn't like driving long distances. If you don't mind my asking, how long have you lived in Granite River?

I moved here from Boston fifteen years ago.

You’ve been here a while, then. I was wondering whether you've heard any rumors about my aunt’s house.

Behind them a loud, laughing party of five was dividing their check, and Avery wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. Rumors? he repeated, slightly louder.

I mean, has there ever been any kind of talk?

I’m sorry, I don't think I understand.

She speared a piece of hamburger with her fork. Sometimes rumors get started. Not that there's anything to them, but people get bored and like to create excitement. What's more exciting than gossiping about some old house that's supposed to be haunted?

Without looking, he'd run the butter knife across his forefinger instead of the roll. Embarrassed, he picked up a napkin. Are you saying your aunt's house is haunted?

Of course not. The piece of hamburger ploughed a white pathway through the thick brown gravy. I was just curious whether you'd heard anything.

No, nothing at all. The party of five had gone, and his reply rang out through the quiet room. He lowered his voice. If you have family here, surely they would know if there were rumors.

I didn't grow up here. I lived in Graceburgh, and I used to visit my aunt here during the summer. I don't remember much about Granite River except that the drug store on Washington Street was a great place to spend my allowance.

If you mean Jefferson Drugs, they tore the building down five years after I moved here. There’s an apartment complex there now.

The drug store was all I remembered about this town. Muriel disengaged her fork from the piece of meat. So, do you think my aunt's books might be worth something?

With a large collection such as you described, anything’s possible. I’d be happy to come out and take a look at them whenever you’re ready.

Avery handed her his card, and found himself staring at her hands. When Muriel had stopped by his store this morning he’d happened to notice that she held her car keys in her left hand. She had eaten her lunch with the fork in her right hand, but she had just used her left hand to take his business card. On impulse he held out his left hand to her. Automatically Muriel started to extend her right hand, caught herself and switched to her left.

As he returned her handshake something dark passed across his sight. The sounds and sights of the Pepper Pot receded into the background. Was there somebody standing behind Muriel, just over her left shoulder? When he looked directly at the figure it wasn't there, but when he turned his eyes away the figure appeared plainly in his peripheral vision, a tall, shaggy presence looming over her. He blinked his eyes hard, glanced toward the front windows where the cheerful noonday sun poured through the yellow café curtains, and when he looked back at her the shadow had disappeared. The waitresses were behind the counter or in the back room, the busboy had finished clearing the table closest to them, and the customers at the neighboring tables had left. Nobody was standing behind Muriel, and nobody could have been.

He paid the bill, left Katie a large tip, and escorted Muriel to her car. He crossed the street against the light, and when he looked back Muriel was already pulling away from the curb. The impression of a tall, dark figure in the back seat of her car intruded upon his consciousness and he blinked once, twice, and it was gone. Sunlight bouncing off the reflective surface of a passing car must have created the illusion; it couldn't have been anything else. It was also true that many people were able to use their right and left hands equally well. In fact, his best friend in grade school had been ambidextrous.

Avery was glad Muriel Shepherd had called on him. He hoped she would allow him to examine her aunt's book collection. Perhaps they could even go out for lunch again some time soon, but this budding friendship wasn't going to get far if his overactive mind insisted upon picking apart every little detail. He needed to stop creating problems where none existed. He needed simply to relax and enjoy the company of this bright, articulate young woman. Sunlight on chrome, he told himself as he entered his store. Just sunlight on chrome.

Chapter Three

The guest bedroom where Muriel was sleeping was located at the head of the stairs. Since Blaise never had other houseguests the room had been left exactly the way she had decorated it for Muriel's summer visits. The bed with the overhead canopy and the white bedspread trimmed with pink rosebuds had made the young girl feel like a princess. A wave of sadness and nostalgia washed over Muriel. She walked quickly over to the window she'd opened to the mild spring air that morning, shut it, and flicked the rosebud bedspread over the rumpled sheets.

Down the hall was the master bedroom where her aunt had slept. Yesterday Muriel had avoided the room because she hadn't felt up to dealing with the emotional impact, but today she needed to close the open window because this evening's forecast said rain. Before entering she paused for a moment in the doorway. Always knock, dear, her aunt used to admonish her, but now there was no more need to knock. Nevertheless, Muriel put up a hand and knocked softly at the half-open door – it felt silly, but like the right thing to do – then crossed into the room. The late afternoon sun draped squares of light across the blue striped box spring and had crept up the opposite wall, making the cut glass knob of the closet door glow like a diamond. An annoying, repetitive metallic noise intruded into her ears; the clunky, old fashioned Big Ben alarm clock, its chocolate brown face pocked with glowing green dots, ticked away on the nightstand. To the left of the clock lay an opened romance novel, face-down. On the side closest to the bed stood a half-empty glass of water furred with oxygen bubbles. Next to the glass was the end of a roll of antacid tablets, the inside foil curling out like a tail. The room was a still-life painting frozen in time. It looked as though her aunt had just left, and would return at any moment.

Blaise had died alone in the house. Only after her mail began to pile up had anybody thought to check on her, and by that time five days had passed. No odor lingered, because after disinfecting what needed to be disinfected one of the EMTs had thoughtfully left the window cracked open. Thank goodness they disposed of the bedding and mattress, Muriel thought, and cut short the resulting twinge of guilt as she realized her down-to-earth aunt would not have been offended at the practicality. Soon she would have to sort through the room's contents, but all she wanted to do right now was make sure the rain didn't come in. The window frame was hard to budge because the wood had swelled with humidity. She had to bear down hard to shut it, and the frame banged onto the sill with a ringing sound. For a second she thought that the Big Ben's alarm had rung, as it sometimes did, just for the hell of it. For that reason she'd always hated that thing, and she made a mental note that when Blaise's clothing was donated to charity the clock would go too.

Everything looked untidy but normal. Why were the little hairs on the back of her neck standing erect? Muriel stood motionless in the middle of the bedroom, holding her breath, all her senses on hyper-alert. Everything in the room remained motionless but she didn't, couldn't, relax her guard, because something was going to happen.

By her feet something stirred. A tiny speck of dust rose up from the puddle of sunlight on the floor. Propelled by the sun-warmed air, it spiraled toward her face. Startled, she jerked back, and the speck eddied away from her on its invisible current of air. A gout of sweet, heavy scent struck her nostrils. She recognized the smell as peonies. Something or someone was hovering close behind her, almost at her shoulder, not quite touching her…somebody quite tall…If she turned around to look, they would collide…

In the silence of the room came a quiet laugh.

Muriel whipped around so fast her neck muscles cramped. There was no one in the room with her.

Casually, not wanting to seem like she was in a hurry, she backed out of Blaise's bedroom. She shut the door firmly, testing the knob to make sure it was closed, then made her way down the stairs, not too rapidly but not lingering either. As she descended the stairs the compulsion to look behind her grew overpowering, but she ignored it. There was absolutely no reason to succumb to such an illogical impulse. Her jumpy feelings were merely the result of her grief and the stress of settling her aunt's estate. She had felt silly asking him, but Mr. Woodruff had assured her he hadn't heard any rumors about the house, so even if she believed in ghosts, which she wasn't sure she did, phantom spirits were out of the question. Indeed, in her eyes any supernatural explanation was bogus. The thousand tiny, almost inaudible rustles and creaks she'd heard ever since setting foot in this house, sounds that ordinarily would have meant someone else's presence, were caused by random air currents as the air pressure inside the house changed with the weather outside. All houses breathed like that to some extent, and of course there would be noises. She didn't, shouldn't, feel threatened by them, because she knew she was alone in the house. Or so she thought.

In the kitchen a stray cloud moved across the face of the sun and the kitchen darkened, then lit up again. As she sat watching the play of light and shadow a shuffling sound came from the direction of the living room. Her muscles tensed for a leap out of her chair, but she caught herself in time. The stack of old newspapers Blaise kept piled near the front door had probably fallen over. It would have been easy to go into the living room and look, but right now Muriel wasn't in the mood. What she did feel, however, was a strong urge to double-check the back yard for any signs of peonies. No sooner did the thought occurred to her than she pulled her jacket off the peg by the back door and escaped from the house into the safety of the yard.

The weather forecast was proving to be correct, and it already looked like rain. Thick, angry ripples of cobalt-blue clouds marched from the distant horizon toward the middle of the sky; they would overwhelm the sun in a minute. A cold gust of air insinuated itself down the neck of her jacket, and Muriel turned up her collar. Taking her time, she moved around the yard slowly, the thin emerald fuzz of newly greening grass cushioning her steps, scanning the ground for any dark red asparagus-like fingers of emerging peony bushes. As she completed her circuit she saw an unsteady line of yellow crocuses that had sprung up near the unpruned lilac tree, and noted against one wall of the garage the dried corpses of thistles that had gone to seed last fall. There were no peonies anywhere