The Gift

I slip on my shoes and run outside, through the steady rain. My feet sink into the wet grass and mud as I scale the hill to the woods and enter the cover of trees. The crisscrossing limbs block out most of the rain, but the noise is still loud against the dried leaves, a constant wet rattle.

“Liza, over here!”

George signals me from his spot—flash flash flash.

“You came!” I yell, and run toward him, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” George says. “I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t,” I whisper. “I think I knew you were right, and that’s why I got so mad. I did what you told me to.”

He stares at me, bug-eyed.

“So what happened?”

“I didn’t change the plates, but the ghosts were still in the photographs.”

“What?” he asks. “How?”

I wish I had an answer for him.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter anymore. John and I are leaving,” I tell him. “Can we stay in your barn? Just for a while.”

He hesitates.

“I could ask my ma and pa, but—”

“No. Don’t. Adults say no to everything, and there’s no other choice. It’s too dangerous for us to be here.”

I don’t tell him why. He wouldn’t believe that I’m the cause of the tear in the thin place and the sudden storms, or the shadows stalking the valley. There’d be too much to explain, and I’m scared of the answer that’s bubbling beneath the surface of my mind. The truth is there, fighting its way out of the Hidden Place of my mind.

George thinks for a moment, then says, “I can leave the beam over the door loose and you can shake it free. Pa will find you eventually, so you can only stay for a bit. I could try to talk to them, explain what’s happened, but—”

I shake my head.

“We’ll come tomorrow and hide in the straw until the storms pass, then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

George’s parents won’t let us stay, I know that good and well, but we’ll run before word gets back to the Silver Star Society. John and I will keep to ourselves, stay on our own, stealing what we need, never stopping long enough to get caught. It’s the only way to keep him with me, safe from those shadows that want to take him.

“These storms are weird, coming and going all the time,” George says, listening to the rain. “Pa says this one has the feeling of something big, so you’ll have to move quick.”

I look down in the valley. The rain is like a dark curtain whipping across the ground, and in the yard, a shape moves against the house. Not a ghost—a real flesh-and-blood person.

“Liza,” George whispers, holding up the flashlight and pointing it at the house.

George’s thumb slides onto the button of the flashlight. I swat it away.

I can tell it’s a man, and for an instant, I think it might be Mr. Spencer, out again to hide evidence, but the shape is wrong.

The detective.

The man cups his hands around his eyes and peers into the window to my room. He doesn’t seem bothered by the rain, treats it like it’s a disguise to wrap around himself, saving him from seeing other people out in the yard. No one will be using the outhouse tonight—they’ll stick to the chamber pots, stay in the warmth of their rooms.

I want to get a good look at him, see him clearly now so I know who to avoid when we run. Before George can protest, I grab his hand and move through the trees, leaping over a roaring stream and through a bank of twisting vines, leaving the woods at a different spot and running down the valley, pushing against the rain. The grass is slippery, and I try to stay low until I reach the stone wall. I can see the shape of the detective now, staring into my room, wiping the rain from the glass with the sleeve of his shirt. Somewhere deep in the woods, a tree cracks and falls and the noise makes him jump. His head turns, and lightning rips through the sky, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses.

I feel like I’m back in that alleyway with John, watching his silhouette, waiting for him to leave before sneaking back into the house. Except this time, I won’t tell Mr. Spencer. This time I’ll let him get caught while John and I make our escape.

George stands for a moment to see, then ducks back down behind the wall.

“Who is that?” he asks, but I don’t answer. I peek over the top, watch as the man circles the back of the house. He pulls at the windows, but they’re locked tight.

“Liza,” George says urgently. His face has gone white.

There’s a howling of wind and a crowd of shadowy figures walk out from the trees and float down the valley. They circle the stone wall and surround the house. The rain curves around them, making their shapes clearer to see, their strands of white hair blowing behind them.

“You see them too?”

His face gives all the answer I need. He presses his back against the stone and holds his flashlight against his chest as if it will protect him.

The detective doesn’t seem to notice the shadows. He keeps looking for a way inside, a way to search my things, discover my secret, declare us frauds and lock us up forever. He hasn’t yet tried the door, doesn’t suspect that it might be open—the beam is still lifted from when I ran outside.

“Wait here,” I say. “Shine your light at them if they get close.”

All George can do is nod. He’s shaking, and not from the cold, even though the rain is near freezing and has plastered his hair to his forehead.

I curl my fingers over the stone wall, push off from the ground, and leap to the other side.

The detective is distracted. He’ll never see me as long as I’m careful. I have to get closer. I have to know who he is.

The shadows are drawn to the house, moving closer. The rain pours harder, spouting like fountains off the corners of the roof.

Another bolt of lightning comes, and I see the man clearly for a moment, the image baking into my eyes.

It’s that old, hunched-over man with the white hair and fogged glasses, except now the powder has washed from his hair, revealing thick black strands. His glasses are different, too, and he stands up straight, moving with the speed of a much younger man.

I gasp, and gooseflesh sprouts on my arms. I try to think back to everything that old man has seen. Have I talked to John around him? What does he know?

There’s a scream from behind me. George is surrounded by shadows, and the rain that’s near him is a distorted thing, falling around the figures’ shoulders, a crowd of transparent bodies with glowing white eyes.

The flashlight blinks on and off, on and off, and George spins in place.

One grips his arm, pulling him closer, and the flashlight beam burst into its face. Another wraps its arm around George’s chest and he squirms and tries to aim, but the metal handle is wet and slippery and falls to the ground. I run to him.

“Get off him! He’s not who you want!”

The storm rages on above us, circling, like it’s a monster waiting to strike.

“Hey! You there!” the man shouts from behind me. He’s heard our screams, and he’s running toward us, but I don’t even care anymore. I need to save my friend.

Leaping over the wall, I push through the shadows, grab the flashlight from the ground and aim it—

flash flash flash flash

—so that it cascades the figures in light. They break apart into little pieces, and the rain carries them away.

For a moment, I think the button has stuck, because a tear of light rips through the sky, revealing a field of yellow, a perfect day, just like in my memories before the sickness came. The light grows, the hole between worlds opens wider, and the smells change—honeysuckle and grass, all the sweetness of spring air.

I can see the other side. I crawl toward it, and the shadows come behind me, seem to push me closer.

My body fights against me, and my head spins. I don’t want to faint, not now, not when the detective is so close.

The light is right in front of me. I fall forward, and my fingers curl into the mud. I try to push myself up, but can’t. All I can do is reach out my hand, try to touch it, feel its warmth, and if I could only—

“I just need to talk to you,” the detective says. He steps in front of me, close to the light, his foot grazing the edge.

“Stay back,” I try to say, but I’m not sure if the words have actually formed. It’s too late. The light grows and he steps into it, falling through the tear, wrapped into the world of golden rays. The edges close around him, and in a burst, he’s gone.

The world is dark again, and the rain hammers the ground.

“George!” I call out, looking up at the sky, seeing the clouds bubbling above, watching their strange colors.

“I’m here,” he says, spinning in place, looking for more shadows. For now, they seem to have moved on.

“You need to go home,” I say.

He’s breathing hard, and his body shakes. His eyes dart around the yard, over the house, up the valley.

“Listen to me, George. It’s not safe for you here.”

I grab his face in my hands and make him focus on me.

“Go. I’ll see you again. I promise.”

I place the flashlight in his hands, and he nods.

“When you come to the barn, follow the wide stream to the big rock, then turn right,” he says, his voice shaking. “Take the narrow path. It’s the fastest way through the woods. I’ll come find you when the storm passes.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I promise.”

He holds his flashlight out to me.

“Take this. You’ll need it to find your way.”

“But how will you get home?”

“I know the way better than you do. I can make it in the dark.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s a gift.”

I hug him tightly, then pull the folded picture of John and me with the ghost of Mrs. Turner from my dress.

“And here’s my gift to you. If I don’t make it, you can remember me with it,” I say. “Now go.”

The shadows will be back, and the farther he gets from this house, the safer he’ll be.

He runs up the hill and into the woods. I’m alone again, and the storm continues, unstoppable, gathering strength.

I clutch the flashlight and circle the house, heading back to my basement window.

I hold it out like a sword, the rain plinking off the handle. I go to the tree where I took a picture of Charles. Three shadows circle it, and I aim the light at them and—

Flash.

The beam cuts through them, shining off the tree. They burst apart like pieces of ash floating from a fire and drift away. I spin. The shadows have re-formed behind me, eyes glowing white, and—

Flash.

More of them move around the stone wall, around the porch. Everywhere.

What have I brought to this place?

What will happen to the others inside the Society if we don’t get away?

I never wanted anyone to get hurt.

Shadows circle the outhouses and the little cemetery. I aim the light at them—flash flash flash—breaking them apart for brief moments.

I’m coming for you, John, I think. As soon as I see you, we’re leaving.

In the morning, Mr. Spencer and the guests will be distracted by the storm. We just need to find the right moment to run.

I sneak into the basement and hide in my room, tucking my head under the blankets.

I wait, maybe I sleep, and a few hours later I hear footsteps above, dull thunking over the rain. The smell of the cooks preparing breakfast wafts through the floorboards.

I change out of my wet clothes and slip on dark pants and a shirt that I stole from a boy at the house we stayed at a few stops ago, in a town I hardly remember.

Perfect for a runaway.

Today is the day.

I pull the suitcase from under the bed and place the flashlight inside, check that everything is packed in my Hidden Place, then lay the false bottom in place and close the lid. I move it by the door so it’s ready for me, then wait until I hear the heavy clunking of Charles’s boots on the stairs.

“Liza,” Charles says, tapping on my door and cracking it open. He raises his eyebrows at my outfit but doesn’t say a word about it. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come with me. We must be careful. I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of this yet.”

He’s right. I can feel it. There’s no time to waste. The storms won’t stop until I go, and I have to save this place from more damage.

He leads me through the basement, past the tripod standing underneath a long string of pictures nailed to the rafters, each trembling with their ghosts.