We Are All Still Here

 

E.S. Magill

“The belief expressed by the poet in a different sense—Non omnis moriar—must infer the existence of many millions of spirits who have not been annihilated, though they have become invisible to mortals who still see, hear, and perceive only by means of the imperfect organs of humanity.”

—Sir Walter Scott

Standing at the kitchen sink, Harper looked out the window and saw her mother in the garden plucking a tomato from one of the plants overloaded with fruit. Her mother brought the tomato to her nose and inhaled deeply. Then she turned and held it up for Harper to see. Harper looked down and resumed washing the breakfast dishes, sponge moving in circles across the plate.

Harper glanced out the window once more, but her mother was no longer in the garden.

After finishing the breakfast dishes, Harper methodically vacuumed first the living room, then the hallway, finally her brothers’ room. As she passed her father’s den, she saw him in his recliner, a novel propped up on his lap. Harper turned off the vacuum cleaner, emptied its bin, and returned it to the closet.

She went to the garage for the broom. She turned on the light. Her brothers’ dirt bikes rested upside down, wheels up. On the drop cloth beneath the bikes lay wrenches and the bent frame of Jacob’s tire. His twin brother had dared him to jump the steps at their school. Their mother had been called to pick up the boys, thankful it was only the tire that had suffered. Aren’t you glad that I insist you wear your helmets, she had said to them. A door slammed somewhere in the house and Harper waited for her dad to yell at the twins to knock it off. No admonishment came.

Harper made herself a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup for a late lunch. She dipped the spoon into the soup and brought it up to her mouth. Her family was there. Mom, Dad, Jacob, and William: all sitting around the table, looking at her.

The problem was that her family was dead.

~

Harper was twenty-two and knew nothing about handling death.

Her family had been killed in a car crash while driving to the university for her graduation. Somehow she made the four-hour drive back home—none of which she remembered. She didn’t even have time to cry. If one of her parents had survived, she would have been picked up by one of them. She kept waiting for them to call her, to give her instructions. Where were their bodies, and how was she to get them? She parked her car in the driveway and shut off the engine. How did she find a mortuary, a church, a cemetery? The house seemed expectant, waiting for her to do something. She left the car and approached the front door. She didn’t want to go in. She didn’t know what to do. She unlocked the door and entered.

“Harper.”

For a second, she thought the house was speaking to her. Harper turned around. Standing in the open doorway was her mother’s best friend, Mrs. Wesch. Then others came. Her father’s friends. More women. When death comes, it seemed to Harper, others knew how to handle it. Maybe a person had to be removed from it. Maybe if a person were too close, she couldn’t figure out death.

So it was Mrs. Wesch who knew whom to call first, who made the funeral arrangements, who comforted Harper like her own daughter. Mrs. Wesch helped her with the paperwork and all the details: What were your parents’ wishes? Harper wanted to say, To not be dead.

Mrs. Wesch took Harper to their neighborhood Catholic church, a place she had gone infrequently. Harper hadn’t had a lot of experience with religion. Her family went on the big holidays, Christmas and Easter. Her mother made sure her children attended catechism classes. When she was in high school, both of her parents let her determine what to believe. Like most teens, that meant not much. Mrs. Wesch had sat Harper in a pew and went off to discuss matters with the priest. Shock slackened Harper’s muscles, pulled her mouth into a downward curve, left her arms limp at her side—Harper had nothing to do as she waited but look around the church. She noticed the predominance of death throughout the building.

Located in a well-established suburb of San Diego, the church was over a hundred years old and influenced by Spanish architecture; its designer seemed to have taken his cues from the Inquisition. Jesus hung from a twenty-foot cross behind the altar. The anguish on His face matched Harper’s own. And if one crucifixion weren’t enough, a mural covered the back wall, portraying the entire execution scene with the full cast of characters. Harper stood and walked toward the mural to get a better look. On her way down the aisle, Harper saw the summer light filtering in through bits of gem-colored glass. The stained glass windows served as the Stations of the Cross, half of them depicting Jesus’ execution step by step like a slide show.

Even though she had only been in the church maybe a couple of dozen times, she had never noticed so much death. Harper tried to remember the sermons, the sacraments, the holy days. Weren’t they about life? But there was Jesus, coping with death in almost every depiction. When she’d seen enough, she returned to the pew where Mrs. Wesch left her. The final mural—the one everyone saw on their way out of the church—was high on the wall of the choir loft: Jesus standing upon clouds. The archangels around Him like guards. The masses of humanity—coming to Him clad in nothing—dragged their bodies across the muck to Him. She noticed that not a single person had managed to breach Jesus’ security. He took central stage upon the cloud, out of reach of everyone. Just like the final Station of the Cross, only Jesus had been taken up by the Holy Spirit.

~

Eventually Mrs. Wesch returned to her own family. She checked in on Harper from time to time, but Harper needed to deal with death on her own. She took to spending long hours almost every day in the church. Even though it was filled with depictions of death, it was the only place where she didn’t see the actual manifestations of her dead parents and brothers.

Harper attended mass every Sunday morning and at least several times during the week. The ritual gave her comfort. The Eucharist with its promise of everlasting life—Take and eat. This is My Body. Take and drink. This is the cup of My Blood. Do this in memory of Me. She felt filled with something then—maybe it was the Holy Spirit. For a few hours, the emptiness of her family’s deaths was assuaged, not completely dispensed with, but at least lessened. They did not follow her to the church.

During the first weeks of her vigil in the church, Harper watched the older women visit each morning, light the candles kept in an alcove, and whisper over their rosaries. Others came and went throughout the day. Some dipped fingers in the holy water near the door, genuflected before entering a pew, and stayed to pray for a minute or an hour. Others came in, went directly to a pew to sit and glance about the building. These were not Catholics, Harper realized, or perhaps lapsed ones as she had been. The series of doors along the back wall intrigued Harper the most. People entered these little closets with guilt marking their features, only to come out looking less haggard. Harper had been to confession on only two occasions: the day she took her first confession and one follow-up visit.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

The priest slid back the wooden panel. A mesh screen still separated penitent from the priest, as if sin needed to be filtered before it reached his ears. That first time back into a confessional, Harper told him everything: the days of emptiness when she keenly felt her family’s absence and the days when her she saw her family as clear as when they were alive.

The priest who heard Harper’s confession about her family’s deaths kept the sacred trust of the confessional but introduced Harper to Sister Rita a few days later. Harper told the nun what she had to endure every night when she returned to her house. Sister Rita was the one who convinced Harper to visit a psychiatrist. Only Sister Rita’s help seemed the most effective. She took Harper with her to hospitals to visit sick children, to soup kitchens, to prayer groups. Helping others helped Harper think less of her own life for a few hours. But even with the medications, the therapy, and Sister Rita, Harper still saw her dead family every day.

~

The church was silent. Harper kneeled, hands clasped before her, denying herself the relief of leaning into the pew in front of her. Her kneecaps screamed for her to sit back.

To have one’s parents die leaves a person an orphan. When Harper’s parents and both her siblings died, she was left without a family. No surviving grandparents. No aunts and uncles. No one. Harper was scared, alone, and hurting. The emptiness felt vast. Each day since advanced like a pendulum swinging between her family’s absence being a void that could not be filled to those days when their absence was like the phantom limbs amputees claimed to feel.

Harper didn’t know which was worse: the void that would come down on her without warning. One minute slicing an apple. The next, crumpled on the kitchen floor, the knife clutched in her hand, as she gasped for breath. But seeing the ghosts of her dead family did not help Harper either. The dead lingered, when they were supposed to stay gone. Their absence was to become commonplace. Harper kept waiting for that to happen.

She crossed herself and leaned back, sliding her bottom onto the pew. The pressure on her aching knees subsided.

Harper heard the soft squeak of shoes on the marble floor. A woman slid in beside her.

“It’s been over a year, Harper. Have you made your decision?” Sister Rita asked.

“I want to stop hiding. I want answers. I want to know why my family haunts me. They’re not figments of my imagination. I can’t go back to that house. I can’t go live with the dead.”

“We agree with you, Harper.”

“Why are they still here? Why haven’t they moved on?”

Sister Rita took Harper’s hand. “Look, child. This is why the Church exists. To help us find those answers or at least to comfort us when we have no answers.”

“I want to become a nun,” Harper whispered.

~

Sister Teresa, wearing jeans, picked up Harper and three other young women at the San Francisco airport and drove them to the convent of the Sisters of Merciful Prayer located in Mill Valley—the convent chosen by Harper’s diocese, with Sister Rita’s guidance. As they drove through the town, quaint and trendy—California cottages with gingerbread trim, storefronts for yogurt and fine linens—Harper found pleasure in all of it, even after everything she had been through.

“Roll down your windows, girls,” Sister Teresa said, giving the car horn several short, cheerful beeps. A group of nuns dressed in full habit and athletic shoes waved at them as they drove by. Andrea, Sue, and Jasmine leaned out their windows, waving and hooting as if they’d just won the homecoming game. Harper waved vigorously. The four hoped to join this congregation of religious women. Sister Rita reassured Harper about the Church’s choice for her. Harper’s questions would be answered here.

The first year is a trial period, Sister Rita explained. You’ll live amongst the religious, work with them, and at the end of the year, decide if it’s what you want.

Harper sold the house, put cherished items in storage, and went in search of answers.

From the backseat, Jasmine grasped one of Harper’s shoulders and whispered, “Isn’t this exciting?”

Harper squeezed her hand in reply. They met on the plane. Jasmine told her about her life—all-girls’ Catholic schools, elementary and high school, then an all-women’s Catholic university. She’d never been on a date. She blushed when she mentioned this. The implication being she was a virgin. Harper couldn’t say the same for herself, but she was coming to the sisterhood from a different path than Jasmine.

Sister Teresa continued driving. The sunny, two-lane street gave way to a single lane lined with looming redwoods that turned the light to a murky gloom. An oncoming SUV yielded to Sister Teresa, who gave the driver a wave of thanks.

Ahead of them were two large, rectangular columns, reminiscent of entrances to Southern mansions. The driveway that snaked between the columns extended for only about fifty feet before it ended at a chain-link fence topped with three strings of barbed wire. As if that weren’t enough to keep trespassers out, a Slinky of razor wire capped it off. The rusty No Trespassing sign seemed redundant. For a second, Harper thought Sister Teresa was going to drive straight on through, passing the columned portal, plowing through the fence. Then the road hairpinned sharply to the right to head up into the hills. Harper didn’t notice this because her attention was riveted on the columns, the fence, and the driveway that went nowhere.

As Sister Teresa banked around the curve, Harper caught sight of several figures standing in the woods on the other side of that heavily fortified fence. Something in Harper’s stomach compressed into a hard, sour ball. Sister Teresa didn’t hesitate, gunning it up the grade. The columns receded in Harper’s passenger-side mirror.

When the vehicle topped the hill, the convent was far from the gothic structure of solemnness Harper had imagined. It appeared to be a former mansion, a summer get-away for a rich family. The grounds were well manicured—trees ringing the perimeter, flower beds the next layer in, followed by an expanse of lawn. The convent itself was cheerful and optimistic, awash in sunlight. Harper thought there would be no ghosts for her in this place.

Sister Teresa pulled under the porte cochère. The young women tumbled from the vehicle, collected their suitcases from the trunk, and hurried up the stairs. At the door, they were welcomed by more nuns, who hugged them like long-lost daughters and urged them into the foyer. The interior matched the exterior, inviting and serene. Harper peeked into the room on her left, a living room: high ceilings, plenty of mahogany woodwork, and a marble mantle surrounding a large fireplace. The walls were painted a sunny French yellow, lending to the cheerfulness. Tufted easy chairs and side tables filled the space. Across the room and under the large windows overlooking the garden, two couches faced each other with a coffee table between them.

“Come on, ladies,” Sister Teresa said. “We’ll show you your rooms and you can freshen up before dinner.”

Harper trailed the group going up the stairs. She noticed the painting right away. Thick with shadows, it stood out against the bright walls. It was The Raising of Lazarus by Caravaggio. Jesus seemed to be pointing Harper up the stairs.

~

Harper woke her first morning in the convent to find one of the nuns sitting in a straight-backed chair beside her bed. The room was cast in a grayish pre-dawn light. Dressed in black and white, the unexpected figure—so still and quiet—blended into the background. She startled Harper. All the thoughts about her family, their deaths, and her questions about their fate flooded back. Sister Maggie sensed her fear and comforted her with gentle words. She then led Harper to a prie-dieu, a prayer kneeler, and had her kneel, still dressed in her nightgown. Harper shivered, wishing she had slipped on her robe. The sister lowered herself to the wood floor beside her. She instructed Harper how to hold herself, how to clear her thoughts, and how to allow the Spirit to enter her. Since Harper had been praying daily for over year, she felt a little insulted.

The nun told Harper their order’s mission was to pray. Sister Maggie said they would even pray in their sleep, in their dreams. The prayers were for the sick, for peace, for faith, for modesty, for sinners. Sister Maggie said, “Above all else, our prayers are for the dying and the dead. All those whose bedsides at which we kneel, we pray for their entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven and for Jesus to meet them in death to take them to meet God. We pray the dying will take comfort in this promise: God could not forsake them.”

Harper thought of the mural back in her church. Jesus standing on a cloud, the masses at his feet. They were trying to get into Heaven. Because of this, Harper now had a purpose to pray. She wanted Jesus to take her family to that better place promised to them.

At breakfast, Sister Maggie explained how the convent worked. “Twice a year, we open up as a prayer retreat for women, June to August and then January to March. So right now, it’s just us. We’re going to the chapel to pray. We’ll be back in an hour. We don’t require you to do anything around here—”

“Except for chores.”

Sister Maggie smiled at the woman, gnarl-fingered and near toothless, across the table from her. “Yes, they’ll help out with chores.” Harper, Andrea, Sue, and Jasmine all nodded, afraid of the crone. “As I was saying, you are not expected to join in any of our endeavors until you come to do so of your own volition.”

Jasmine raised her hand. “I’m ready. I’ll start right now.”

“That’s very enthusiastic of you, dear, but why don’t you and the other young ladies spend the day getting to know one another. Explore the house, the gardens.”

“But stay away from the woods.”

This time, Sister Maggie gave the old nun a hard stare. “Yes, Sister Mary Elizabeth is right. When the gardens give way to the woods, don’t go any farther. There are quite a few dangers out there.”

With that said, the nuns all rose and trailed one another out the front door and down the path, leaving the girls behind in the dining room.

“Let’s go to the woods,” Sue immediately said.

Jasmine gasped. “We mustn’t.”

Sue laughed. “I’m just kidding. And who says mustn’t anymore? The nuns just want us to get the girls-gone-wild out of our systems before we settle down.”

“This isn’t Spring Break,” Andrea teased. “Are you sure you belong here, Sue?”

“Of course. Me and God, we’re like this.” She crossed her fingers to demonstrate.

The four collected breakfast dishes and lugged everything into the kitchen. They found the cleaning supplies laid out for them: gloves, paper towels, disinfectant spray.

“So did all of you get prayer instruction this morning?” Andrea asked as she scraped the dishes before handing them to Sue to load into the dishwasher.

“Yeah,” Sue said. “Creepy.”

Harper placed leftovers in plastic containers.

Jasmine wiped the crumbs off the counters. “At breakfast, I wanted to ask you guys if you had the same experience, but it didn’t seem the right time.”

“Sister Clementine, my prayer instructress, said they pray every morning and night. Then groups of them pray throughout the day on a rotational basis. When they’re not in the chapel, they’re out and about praying with the sick and dying,” Andrea said.

“Gosh, your nun was a lot chattier than mine,” Sue said. “I’m not sure about all this praying.”

“Well, that is their mission,” Jasmine said.

“Hey, Jasmine, we’re just making observations. God’s not coming down to smite us if we talk about stuff. Or is it smote?” Sue said.

“Well, not us, at least.” Andrea handed the last dish to Sue. “You, definitely.” They all laughed. “You don’t talk much, Harper. Everything okay?”

Harper had been thinking of the woods and that driveway she’d seen the previous day, the one with the columns and fence. The driveway that ended at the fence. No Trespassing.

Sue squeezed Harper’s arm gently. “You’re the strong, silent type, right? Harpo. I’m going to call you Harpo. Okay with you?”

“Things that are off limits.”

“What?” Sue released Harper’s arm.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that there might be things off limits to us because we’re not nuns.”

“That makes sense.”

“I was thinking more like creepy, Harpo.” Sue gave Harper’s arm a light punch. “Speaking of creepy, anyone notice the creepy pictures on the wall going up the stairs and in the dining room?”

Jasmine placed her hands on her hips. “It’s not creepy. It’s from the Bible. Does everything have to be creepy to you?”

“The Bible’s creepy and so are you.”

This time, everyone didn’t laugh.

Andrea hooked her arm in Sue’s. “You’re the class clown, right? The witty one. She’s trying to use humor, Jasmine, to make this situation easier.”

Sue was about to open her mouth, but Andrea clenched her arm a little tighter and looked the woman in the eyes. Sue got the message. “That’s right. That’s all I’m doing.”

“Know a lot about art?” Andrea asked

“I know a lot about art related to the Bible,” Harper said. “Come on. I’ll show you the others.”

“Others? You mean there’s more of that creepy art around here?”

Harper led them to the dining room. “The Sacrifice of Isaac and Saint Jerome.”

“Oh yeah, I really enjoyed their company this morning at breakfast,” Sue said.

They crossed the foyer into the salon. “The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist.”

“Is this your major, Harper?” Jasmine asked.

“No, it was business. And here is The Death of the Virgin.”

Sue picked up a pillow. “I don’t know why you’re so focused on the art, Harpo. Look at this: Above all else, pray.”

“That’s their motto,” Jasmine said.

“Well, it’s more prolific around here than a university football team logo. It’s on everything—wall hangings, blankets—”

Andrea unbuttoned her sweater to reveal her t-shirt: Above all else, pray. “Didn’t you guys check the welcome totes they left in our rooms? We all got them.”

The girls laughed.

Lastly Harper took them to the stairwell. “The Raising of Lazarus. I’ve spent a lot of time in church lately. Churches are full of creepy art depicting death.” She smiled at Sue, letting Sue know she was okay.

“I wonder what else is creepy around here?” Sue asked looking into Harper’s eyes.

“Me, too,” said Harper. It worried her that she came here to get away from death, only to be surrounded by more of it.

The front door opened then. The nuns had returned from prayer.

~

They were cleaning up from dinner and looking forward to some downtime, which had become rare for the four candidates. As Sister Maggie said, when they were ready, they would come into the life. It only took about a week for each of the new arrivals to become bored with wandering the convent. When they weren’t busy with convent chores, they went into town with the sisters and ministered to the sick and dying in their homes or hospice rooms. The girls prayed just as the nuns did. In the chapel, they prayed for the redemption of souls into the glory of Heaven. Harper prayed it specifically for her family. She realized that the faces of her family were being erased with each passing day at the convent.

But prayer wasn’t on the girls’ minds at the moment. They grabbed their coats. Most of the nuns had gone off to attend a weekend conference in the city. The four candidates were entrusted with the care of the older sisters who didn’t want to travel or sleep in strange beds.

Sister Mary Elizabeth hobbled into the foyer. “Stay out of the woods. It’s getting dark.” Then she hobbled back to her chair before the fire.

The girls held back their laughter until they were outside in the dimming autumn light.

Since the convent was at the top of the hill, the girls’ only choice of direction was down. They ambled along the one-lane road, canopied overhead by the redwoods, and night seemed more immediate.

The dark topic Harper had sidestepped for weeks came up. It seemed apropos to the surroundings. “I want to ask you about your family, Harpo,” Sue said. Silence from the other two women followed Sue’s inquiry. Maybe fear of spooking Harper off the topic kept them quiet.

Harper finally blurted: “My family died in a car crash.”

A rush of sorries followed, but she bulldozed on. “More than a year ago, year and a half…something like that…June. It was my college graduation, B.A. in business with honors, summa cum laude. My mom, dad, my twin brothers, who were fourteen—driving four hours for the event—a silly piece of paper.” Harper stopped walking. “We planned to meet before the ceremony. I talked to my mom that morning. They were in the car, on their way. They didn’t show up and the ceremony was starting. I texted, but there was no response. After—afterward, my boyfriend and I met up. My parents were going to take us to dinner. His family lived in Maine and couldn’t fly out. Two hours after the ceremony, when the phone rang, it was my dad’s number. And I felt relieved. But it wasn’t his voice.”

Harper needed to sit down. Up ahead, at the hairpin bend in the road, were a creek and several fallen trees. She stumbled over and collapsed onto the makeshift seat. The others flanked her, but didn’t smother. She was thankful for that. The creek’s babbling sounded like prayer, monks whispering vespers—the analogy apt, since it was sunset.

“I saw them, after the funeral. Every day.”

Stunned, the women remained silent.

“They weren’t malevolent. They were just there, doing the things they did in everyday life. The only place I didn’t see them was in church.”

Andrea was about to say something, but Harper interrupted. “The Church believes my visions. They tried to get me help at first, but then they came to accept what I saw. Why else would they let me come here, if they just thought I was crazy?”

“So are you some kind of saint?” Jasmine asked.

“No, of course not. I just see the dead, at least my dead.”

“I think we could use a drink,” Sue said.

Jasmine chided her for the suggestion of imbibing spirits. Sue rolled her eyes.

“How about we take hands and pray?” Andrea suggested.

“Fine, we’ll do it your way this time.” Sue stuck her hand out, waiting for Harper’s. Finally, Harper clasped her friend’s cool palm.

They all joined hands. To look at them, some would have thought of witches at dusk casting a spell, not four candidates for the sisterhood. They prayed for Harper’s family and for her—which felt a little selfish—but, after several minutes, it buoyed her energy.

Rustling from the woods disrupted the moment.

“Did you hear that?” Harper asked, dropping Andrea’s and Sue’s hands.

The rustling came again, from the other side of the fence. Harper walked toward it. Sue tried to recapture her hand, but Harper dodged her. She passed through the fluted columns but stayed a good distance from the actual fence. The old driveway butted up to its edge. On the other side, nature reclaimed the road for her own.

“Maybe it’s a bear,” Jasmine squeaked.

“There are no bears around here,” Andrea said. “Coyotes, yes.”

Harper made out human shapes amongst the branches and undergrowth. “There are people in there.”

“Come on, Harper. It’s getting cold out here. If it’s people, they’re probably the owners. So let’s go,” Jasmine said.

Harper ignored her and approached the fence. “Hi,” she yelled. “Can I ask you a question?” Several of the figures turned her way. In the dusk, they appeared shadowy and featureless. One shuffled their way.

“Harper, let’s go,” Jasmine repeated.

She turned to let her friends know she was coming, but the three had started back up the road, serious about heading back. The fence drew Harper, though. What was on the other side?

“Hey, Harpo, remember we’re not supposed to go in the woods,” Sue yelled to her.

The fence continued until it disappeared into the woods. Harper followed, ignoring Sue. The sun slipped beneath the horizon, leaving only a tinge of pink that turned into navy twilight. The stars flashed on overhead. At the base of the fence, bushes had taken root. The ground sloped upwards. Harper hooked her fingers into the fence so she wouldn’t stumble as she climbed. She just wanted to follow the fence a little ways, to see where it went.

The figures in the distance moved with her. She heard the sound of feet shuffling through leaves.

Her breathing became labored as she continued up the hill. Night settled around her, turning every shape into a black mass. She didn’t have a flashlight, but if she kept to the fence, she wouldn’t get lost. She could turn around any time she wanted, and the fence would lead her back to the road.

She tripped over a branch. Her grip on the fence kept her from going down on her knees. Harper stopped to catch her breath. She heard more noise than before. It seemed the number of people tracking her progress increased. She detected shadows moving to intersect with the fence. Maybe they considered her actions trespassing.

Harper continued. The incline tapered and she no longer labored for breath. Eventually, the ground leveled off. The feel of chain-link under her fingers changed. She’d come upon a gate. Harper tugged on it, but it was chained and padlocked. Why the gate was all the way up here bewildered her. She turned around, the fence to her back. Through the woods she caught sight of lights. It was the convent. Even in the darkness, Harper could see the path leading from the convent house to the gate.

Harper turned back to the fence. A man stood on the other side of it, his fingers reaching through the wire. She pushed away from the fence and bolted up the path, heading for the lights of the convent.

~

Harper picked up the phone in the convent’s office and dialed Sister Rita’s number. At the other end, the phone rang a dozen times until an answering machine picked up. Harper thought of hanging up, but at the last minute she spoke: “It’s Harper, Sister Rita. I think I’m seeing things again. I don’t think I can stay here.”

One of the nuns walked by the office door. Harper hung up.

Since that night in the woods, her dead family and the man she had seen at the gate kept appearing in her dreams. Harper sensed they were connected. Sister Rita didn’t return her call, which raised questions in Harper’s mind. Had the Church sent her here on purpose? She needed to confirm what she’d seen.

That day they were all on their way to town to do some shopping. Harper was going to use the trip to get some answers. The van pulled into a downtown parking lot. Harper begged off going to the drugstore with her three friends and headed instead for the town’s newspaper office. A bell tinkled as she pushed open the door. Behind the counter, an older man looked up. His name badge read Mister Simon.

He smiled. “How can I help you, Sister?”

For a second, she thought he was being familiar, but then she remembered she was wearing a convent T-shirt. “I’m not a sister—yet.” The pathetic irony wasn’t lost on her.

“Candidate or novitiate?”

“Candidate. I’m Harper. Could you help me find some information about a property?”

“Let’s go back to the morgue.” He unlatched a section of the counter and lifted it for her to pass through. “What are you looking for?”

“There’s a place at that hairpin turn in the road: columns and a pretty serious fence.”

They walked by empty cubicles. “That’s the Gerald property. Lots of stories about that place. None of them recent, though.” Mister Simon opened a door at the back and they stepped into a room with rows of racks loaded with bound copies of past issues. He took a seat at a computer and typed in some information. “Here it is, 1953.” He stood and headed into the stacks. Just as he pulled the flat down, the bell up front tinkled. “Here you go.” He placed the oversized book in Harper’s hands. “Tables are over there. Copier there. I’ve got to check the front.”

She took the volume over to a large library table and opened its cover. All she knew was that she was looking for the name Gerald. She found the first reference to the Geralds in a February issue. The story was in the society pages, amongst the announcements of engagements and the local grand dames’ charity events: “Geralds to Host Séance.” The article detailed the upcoming gathering the Geralds planned to hold. A who’s who of the psychic community, along with chosen guests, were coming together to tap into the afterlife and prove once and for all the existence of ghosts. Harper flipped the pages to March and went straight to the society pages. Nothing. She flipped back to the front page to verify that she had the right date.

The story splashed across page one: “Gerald Séance Ends in Horrific Tragedy.”

On March 15, Mister and Mrs. Steady Gerald and their twenty-five guests gathered for an unusual event. The evening ended with the deaths of all twenty-seven, as well as the Geralds’ entire staff.

Local residents described a stream of Jaguars and Mercedes rolling through town on their way to the Gerald Mansion. The attendees included a roster of famous psychics and mediums known to be highly successful in making contact with the spirit world. The Geralds’ guests arrived in black tie and ermine for an evening experiment that some said would prove the existence of ghosts.

Harper skipped to the end:

At 3:15 a.m. a fire broke out in the mansion. The guests had congregated in the ballroom, trying to connect with those in the afterlife. Fire Chief Wagner says that the origin of the fire is unknown, but may have been due to the number of candles used in the “ritual.” Everyone perished: the Geralds, their guests, and all the staff. Some of the bodies were burned beyond recognition. Many were not recovered.

Mister Simon came back into the room. “Find what you need?”

“Some of it. So what happened after the fire? Why is the place all fenced in like it is?”

Simon took a seat next to her and pulled the flat to him to read over the article. “They haven’t told you?” Harper shook her head. “The Church owns the Gerald property. I guess the nuns oversee it or something like that.”

“What do you mean?”

Mister Simon looked uncomfortable. “I’m a journalist. I deal with facts, but there are a lot of rumors around here about that place and the nuns. The convent property abuts the Gerald property. Only the woods separate the two.”

Harper leaned forward and whispered, “Do you mind telling me?”

“They say the place is haunted. People have reported seeing things out there.”

“Like ghosts?”

The bell up front rang again and Mister Simon left once again.

Harper stood and closed the flat, leaving it on the table for Mister Simon to return it to its proper place.

~

Even though it was Harper’s intention to sneak onto the Gerald property within days of visiting the newspaper office, those plans had to be put on hold. Andrea had decided to leave the convent, which sent everything into momentary chaos as the nuns dealt with the situation. Harper was more surprised that it was steadfast Andrea and not tough-talking, wine-sneaking Sue who ended up leaving. Andrea explained that the sisterhood wasn’t the life for her, even though she was grateful for the time spent there. They all gathered in the salon on that Thursday afternoon for a bon voyage celebration—nothing extravagant, just iced tea and homemade cookies, courtesy of Sister Agatha.

“Being here has solidified my belief that what I really want is a family: husband, children…a dog.” They all tittered at the attempt at humor. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t believe in God and the Church’s mission. I do, more than ever.”

The four young women hugged and cried, promising to email. Then Andrea gathered her suitcase and Sister Teresa, who had brought the girls there, drove her to the airport.

When the girls came to the convent, they had been told they could come and go as they pleased. Their actions were their own. The nuns only asked that the girls let their consciences be their guides. Sneaking out of a convent at midnight wasn’t an easy feat, but Harper was hoping that everyone was so emotionally spent from Andrea’s departure that they wouldn’t hear her. The old wooden floorboards creaked, the doors squeaked, and the nagging suspicion that these sounds were intentional hung over Harper. She expected Sister Maggie to jump out and catch her. Instead, Harper made it to the kitchen without any interference. That afternoon she’d left her jacket, tennis shoes, and a flashlight in the pantry. When she opened its door, the light came on and she nearly screamed. Inside stood Jasmine and Sue.

“Took you long enough,” Sue said. Before Harper could ask, she explained: “I knew, because I saw you hide your stuff here. Not very covert. We’re going with you.” She and Jasmine both wore jackets and shoes.

Harper hadn’t told either of them of her plans to visit the Gerald place. She hadn’t even told them about the gate. “I can’t let you. Someone might get hurt.”

“If it’s a decrepit mansion, I’ll buy that. We could fall through the floorboards,” Sue said. “If there are people over there like the Manson cult, then you’ll need reinforcements.” She produced a cell phone and a kitchen knife.

Jasmine paled at the sight of the knife. “You didn’t tell me any of that, Sue. You just said we needed to support Harper.”

Sue hugged her. “That’s okay, kid. Maybe it’s a good idea you stay here. If something does happen to us and we’re not back by morning, you can alert everyone—the nuns, the cops, the freakin’ army.”

Jasmine nodded to the change in plans. Harper wondered who was running her adventure. She and Sue headed outside and Jasmine returned to her room.

Harper stopped worrying that the nuns would come chasing after them.

They crossed the lawn and entered the woods. Sue stopped Harper. “Where are we going?”

“There’s a path through the woods from here and a gate in the fence.” Harper quickly related the story of how she found the gate and the afternoon at the newspaper morgue.

“I don’t know what freaks me out more—that you kept all this to yourself, Harpo, or that there might be ghosts on the other side of the fence.”

Their flashlight beams picked up the path. Harper led the way. They came to the gate and Harper produced a key

“You stole the key?”

Harper inserted it into the lock. “It wasn’t difficult to find. It was with all the other keys in the cabinet in the office.”

“Harpo, we’re going to Hell for this.”

“I thought you were the rebel.”

Sue shrugged. “Just for show.”

The lock snapped open. Harper opened the gate and they passed through. She put the lock back in place but in the open position. She wanted to make a quick escape if necessary. There was rustling up ahead.

A path continued from the gate. The girls followed. Traipsing through the dark was difficult, even with flashlights. Harper tripped over some deadfall and came down hard on one knee. Sue helped her up. Harper winced with her first step. Something in her knee twanged. Her walk became more of a limp.

Branches snapped behind them. The girls didn’t turn around.

Finally the woods opened up. The burnt remains of the mansion stood out in dark relief in the moonlight. Figures lurched about the clearing in front of the mansion. Harper pointed at the figures and then put the same finger to her lips. The girls hid behind a tree.

“Can you see them, Sue?”

“Yeah, they don’t look like ghosts. More like real people.”

They did seem much more substantive than her family had. These figures appeared like human shells devoid of life. In the ballroom—now just a skeleton of itself—a group milled about.

“They’re reenacting that night,” Harper whispered.

“Who are they?” Sue asked.

“Let’s get closer,” Harper said. “There, around the back. We’ll be in the dark, but still be able to see them.”

They hunched low to the ground and hurried over to a snarl of bushes overtaking the old mansion. Up close, they could see the people had suffered burns.

“I don’t get it—”

“They’re ghosts,” Harper said.

“Ghosts aren’t corporeal like this,” Sue said. “Zombies maybe.”

“No, they’re ghosts. The newspaper articles I read said that the spiritualists were charged with manifesting ghosts.”

The girls didn’t hear the group come up behind them. The ghosts threw themselves at Harper, pulling her to the ground. With her flashlight, Sue beat at them. In unison, the ghosts lifted their heads and hissed at her. Harper used the moment to roll away. One of the males threw himself onto Harper. Fists pummeled her stomach. Teeth sank into her cheek. Sue’s beam of light swept across her attackers. Harper saw blackened patches of skin, blood on their mouths.

“Sue.”

Sue was swinging at them with a branch. Harper saw one of her attackers lurch away. The other four hunched over her, hitting and biting.

Teeth sunk into her neck. She felt her skin stretch and tear. Harper screamed.

A hand wrapped around Harper’s ankle and dragged her from the fray. Harper put her hands to her neck. Blood pumped through her splayed fingers. Harper felt arms support her and lead her into the mansion.

“Come with me.” Sister Rita led them into the ballroom. “Kneel.”

A rush of emotion ran through Harper. Sister Rita had come for her. She was here. She glanced to Sue to make sure she was okay.

The other nuns were in the ballroom already, kneeling. Hands clasped before them. Praying. Harper and Sue got down on their knees behind them. The pain in Harper’s knee had subsided. A group of the figures shambled toward them. Harper’s instincts told her to run. Sister Rita held her in place.

“Pray.”

Sue joined in at “and lead us not into temptation.”

Harper could not speak.

The figures backed away.

Dizziness overtook her. The front of her jacket was wet and sticky. Harper slumped to the ground, still listening to the Pater Noster being repeated by the nuns.

Sister Maggie stopped them. “I think they’ll keep their distance now. Jasmine couldn’t keep your secret.”

Harper sat up.

“Those couldn’t have been ghosts,” Sue said.

Sister Teresa explained: “They are. At the Geralds’ party, Mister Gerald wanted to prove the existence of life after death. He wanted to see a physical manifestation of a ghost. Even then, this place had a reputation for being haunted. The psychics and mediums he brought in were very powerful. They tapped into the spiritual plane and created a distorted plane of existence here in this place. The ghosts took on corporeal form. Everything that dies here goes through consubstantiation—the body and spirit exist simultaneously.”

Sister Miriam explained, “Think of it like downloading something onto your computer. It goes from being binary and abstract to physical form.”

“They’re zombies then?”

“No,” Sister Rita said. “They are the dead, like all the other dead, awaiting entry into Heaven.”

Sister Teresa motioned for them to stand. They left the burned out mansion. They weren’t followed. The women headed into the woods. The convent lights shone off in the distance.

“Why don’t you just get rid of those things?”

“We can’t. In this place, the spiritualists created something unholy—a purgatory of spirit and flesh.”

“Can’t you kill them or release their spirits or something so they can move on?”

Sister Maggie hesitated, as if the secret she carried were too heavy for others to bear. “There is no place to move on to. Everyone, living or dead, exists here in this world. The souls of the dead are stuck here. This world is purgatory.”

“Wait. Are you saying there’s no Heaven?”

Harper saw in her mind the figure of Jesus standing on the cloud in Heaven, the masses writhing at his feet. For the first time, she recognized the look on their faces: despair.

“We have the promise of Heaven. This is why we pray. We pray for the living, so that people go to their deaths with the belief that they will enter the Kingdom of Heaven. This way, when the body dies but the spirit remains in limbo—locked in this world of the living—the dead have something to believe in. They have the promise of Heaven.

“Some of the dead go mad and become malicious. Most of the dead wait patiently. They listen to our prayers, they believe that there is a Heaven, and they wait for it to be opened to them. Both the living and dead need to believe they won’t be tied to this plane forever. But those up there at the Gerald mansion, they know the truth and are especially dangerous. They know we are all trapped on this plane of existence. “

Sue stopped. “Jesus. That’s a nightmare. There’s no Heaven.”

“No, there is. God promised,” Sister Agnes said. “Jesus was taken up.”

They reached the gate. Harper followed Sister Rita. The nun turned and gently pushed Harper back. Sisters Maggie and Teresa held her away from the gate.

Sue looked at the nuns. “What are you doing? Why are you leaving her here?”

Sister Rita said, “I’m sorry, Harper. You don’t belong with us anymore.”

The nuns closed the gate behind them and padlocked it.

Harper looked at the blood on her hands.

Sister Maggie took Sue’s elbow and guided her up the path.

Harper tried to yell for Sister Rita to stop, not to leave her there with the dead, but nothing came from her ripped-out throat. She sank to her knees, grasping the chain-link fence.

~

Harper spent her time thinking of her family—mother, father, twin brothers—and how, when they died, she sought comfort for herself. Harper now realized that her family had appeared to her for their own comfort. They had appeared to her because they were trapped in this world. There was no other to move on to.

So, now she prayed for them and herself, for the living and for the dead. She hoped the nuns were right. She hoped that one day the dead would be released from this purgatory they were trapped in. Until the promise of Heaven is fulfilled, Harper thought, we are all still here.