A Moment Saved Forever

Light streams through my window and wakes me. It’s morning. The storm has passed us, and through the little window in my room I see that the sky has turned pink and gold, and birds fly in circles over the Silver Star Society.

Guests walk in the yard, looking at the damage to the building. Branches and leaves cover the stone wall, and the ground is peppered with bricks and shingles, shards of broken glass and wood. The tear in the thin place has left a trail of destruction behind it. Ripped trees show where I entered the woods and led it away from the house.

“You’re awake,” a voice says, and I turn to see Ms. Eldridge in the doorway, watching me.

“It’s all over,” she says, coming inside and sitting on the side of the bed. “We’ve survived the storm, and I believe we’ll live to survive another.”

Together, we stare at the sky, warmed in the light, and the silence between us is a comfortable thing.

Finally, I ask, “When did you know about John?” and his name catches in my throat.

“When Charles carried you in, I felt there was a presence attached to you. I must say, I never expected it to be so strong.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, but she reaches up and grabs my shoulder, her strong hand pulling me tight.

“It isn’t your fault, Liza. There is nothing in this world more powerful than love, and I knew the risks involved.”

I nod, and tears stream down my cheeks.

“Everything I’ve done since you arrived was meant to draw John out and deliver him to where he should be. Of course, to do that, we had to keep Mr. Spencer around and see where it led. Your work was very good. You have nimble fingers and a curious mind, despite the fraudulent nature of your act. I explained it all to Charles and the guests last night. They understood. Most of them, anyway. As for Mr. Spencer . . .”

“Is he still here?” I ask.

She pauses, considers what to say.

“Men have been in the woods all morning looking. We haven’t been able to locate him yet, though that might be for the best. Those that have been tricked are perhaps a little too eager to find him. For his sake, I hope he’s gone for good.”

So much has happened since last night that I nearly forgot about the guests closing around us, chanting fraud when the contents of my Hidden Place were dumped on the floor.

“What happened to the detective?” I ask.

Ms. Eldridge smiles.

“He’s gone, content in the fact that spirit photography is a lie and that Mr. Spencer’s reputation is ruined. Some people will never believe, even things they’ve seen with their own eyes. It’s not our job to convince them.”

“I was on the other side,” I whisper. “I saw it all.”

“Someday you’ll tell me all about it,” Ms. Eldridge says. “For now, I’d like you to rest. Join us downstairs when you’re ready.”

I close my eyes, sink into the blankets, let the warmth and light wash over me.

Search parties look for Mr. Spencer all morning and into the early afternoon. When they return, I hear their voices drift up through the house. He wasn’t under the fallen tree. They took axes up to that spot in the woods and cleared it away, then rehung the metal stars on branches around Anabelle’s stone marker. There was no sign of him in the woods—no ripped fabric from his clothes, no trail of blood or footprints. They told me the rain had washed it all away, but it makes me wonder. Did he ever make it out of the woods? Is he traveling the country with a different name, moving on to stop number twenty? Maybe the truth is simpler. Maybe they’re lying to me the same way I lied to them.

John? Can you hear me? I think. If he lived in my mind, I hope a part of him is still there.

I don’t want to leave this bed. It’s almost as if my new life will start the moment my feet hit the floor, and I don’t know how to exist in this strange new world without him.

Please say something, I call out.

“Liza!”

I hear the voice, so clear and real that I sit up in bed.

John!

“Liza! Are you there?”

I run to the window, see a small figure running in the yard, pushing his way through groups of guests, calling my name.

George.

He goes from guest to guest, asking about me, showing the folded picture that I gave him, and a woman points up to the house. He goes to the front porch and climbs over the broken stairs.

Someone has bandaged my leg while I slept and each step is painful, but I ignore it and limp along the hall, clutching the bannister on the way down the staircase and to the front door.

“George!” I yell, and when he sees me, he runs and hugs me.

“That was some storm, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I say, holding him close.

“Half our barn got blown away and I was afraid that you were—”

He lets go and examines my leg.

“What happened?”

“I went out in it. I tried to make it to your barn but then . . . well . . . I’m not sure you’d believe it.”

I take the picture from his hand and study it, see that it is just me, wrapped in the cotton swirls of the first ghost I ever made.

“That’s all right. Tell me anyway. I like your stories.”

Fox appears from the side of the house and runs to me. I rub the space between her eyes and her small body quivers with excitement.

“He’s not here anymore,” I whisper, but that doesn’t seem to matter. She follows me as I lead George around the yard, showing him the Society.

We step over pieces of broken glass and chunks of shingles that were ripped off in the storm. Guests stop and stare, watching me like I am some mythical creature, something different and strange, and I suppose I am. I don’t have to pretend anymore.

The back door to the basement is open, and Charles is mopping out the water, a deep brown sludge that muddies the grass.

Through the door, I see photographs hanging from a string along the rafters, proof of the lies I once told. Spots of water drip down the papers, and in the sunlight, the ghosts I made look silly and small. I know now how wrong it is to give people memories of their loved ones that never happened. I will tell the truth from now on. To myself, especially.

I promise, John.

George and I sit together on the porch. The sun starts to lower in the sky, sending beautiful red light across the valley. The trees sparkle like they’re made of gold, almost like a glimpse of the other side here on earth.

I tell George some of what happened, and I think he believes me.

Charles steps out of the house holding his camera and tripod. He tilts his head, eyeing our position in the light.

“A little over,” he says.

I move close to George and smile. Together, we look toward the black lens of the camera, and when the shutter clicks, our image is burned forever onto a glass plate, a moment saved forever.

George stays a bit longer, even though I know his mother and father wouldn’t approve of his being here.

“I said I was out looking for firewood. Lots of trees are down and winter will be here soon. I should go home before they come searching.”

Home.

There’s a tightness in my chest as I remember that I have nowhere to go.

Ms. Eldridge claps her hands behind us, and the guests look to her. Dinner will be ready soon, she says, though it’s a simpler meal because the kitchen windows broke and the pantry flooded, ruining much of the supplies.

Guests file into the house, and when Ms. Eldridge passes me, she looks down and says, “You will stay here, Liza. The Society is your home now.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer.

“I’ll come back and visit!” George says with excitement, then heads up the road and to the woods.

A carriage pulls up from in front of the house and the family that was caught in the storm climbs inside. The boy, William, waves at me and pushes his face against the glass window. He breathes, creating a wisp of fog, then draws a heart with his finger and leans into his sister. In that moment, I’m filled with hope. Hope that things will get better. Hope that I’ll make it in this new world.

That night, I work with Charles in the darkroom, developing the final pictures that Mr. Spencer took and the one of me and George.

“We have a lot of supplies left,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “What should we use them on?”

In a tray of liquid, I watch as the form of my face takes shape, developing from shadows to light.

“Good memories,” I say. “Real ones.”

Charles nods, and when the enlargements are made and the papers are ready, he carries them down to the basement and clips them to the string amongst the others. I settle into my room. The floor is still wet, so my suitcase is propped on a chair, opened wide. Everything inside is stacked on a surface or hung to dry. I have no Hidden Place anymore, no more stories to tell, no paper ghosts to make.

I lie in bed and look out the door at the image on the string, the one of me and George on the porch smiling. A little truth amongst the lies.