The Prophet. Amanda Stevens
neighborhood lay in deep shadow.
Thankfully, I saw no ghosts as I hurried along the sidewalk. It was just after ten, still early enough for the living. Up ahead, bicycle reflectors flashed around the corner and a young couple out for a pre-bedtime stroll murmured a greeting as we passed. It all seemed so normal.
But nothing about this night was normal. Certainly not my impulsive behavior. I could only imagine what my mother would say if she could see me slipping through the darkness. No woman with a decent upbringing would ever arrive unannounced at a man’s house in the middle of the night. I taught you better than that.
She had. But here I was, anyway.
Of course, my mother had more important things to worry about these days. Her battle with cancer had taken a toll, and, though her doctors had assured us that she’d made it through the worst of the treatment, she still had a long road ahead of her.
On nights like this, when I felt lonely and confused and out of my depth, I wanted more than anything to go to her and rest my cheek on her knee while I poured out my heart to her. I wanted to tell her about Devlin and have her smooth my hair while she murmured reassurances that everything would work out in the end.
Such comfort had been rare enough even before her diagnosis, even when I was a child. I loved my beautiful mother dearly, but she’d always kept me at arm’s length. The circumstances of my adoption had created a chasm, one that she’d been too frightened to breach. And then there were the ghosts. My mother couldn’t see them. That dark gift belonged only to Papa and me. It was our cross to bear, and the burden of our secret had also kept Mama at arm’s length.
But I wouldn’t dwell on my mother tonight when my own plate was already so full. Ghosts had invaded my world, phantom songbirds had serenaded me and the pieces of Robert Fremont’s puzzle still swirled in my head. Where once my world had been narrow and ordered, everything now lay in chaos.
As I hurried along the shadowy street, something very strange happened to me. The night grew darker and colder, but I somehow knew it wasn’t real. None of it was real. Not the nightingale, not the ghosts, not even my ill-advised trip to Devlin’s house. I was home safe and sound in my bed, dreaming. How else to explain the sudden lethargy that gripped me? The shortness of breath and heaviness of limb that afflicted me in nightmares? How else to explain why the street before me now seemed endless, a frigid tunnel that cut through nothing but blackness?
Fear exploded in my chest, and my footsteps slowed, dragged. I could feel eyes all around me, staring and staring as arms reached out to grab me.
The sensation lasted for only a heartbeat. Then the arms morphed back into tree branches and the eyes vanished. I let out a slow breath. What had happened? I wondered. Had I just been warned?
Shivering, I continued down the street. There was a bite in the air that I hadn’t noticed before, but the chill had nothing to do with the temperature. The first two weeks of October had been unseasonably warm, almost balmy in the afternoons, and the nights were mild. The icy draft came from beyond. The spirit world was suddenly very close. As close as I’d ever sensed it.
I cast a wary glance from side to side. I saw nothing in the darkness now, but I knew entities were all around me, floating down the murky walkways and alleys. Hovering within the walled gardens and historic homes. They sensed my energy just as I felt their coldness.
A gust of wind rattled the dry leaves in the gutter, and I could see the distant flicker of lightning over the treetops. Devlin’s house was just ahead, a lovely old Queen Anne that he’d bought for Mariama. My steps faltered, and once again I felt spellbound. It was in that house that I’d finally succumbed to my feelings for Devlin. It was in that house that the door to the Others had been opened.
I told myself to turn back before it was too late, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I was already flashing back to my night with Devlin, to the way he had held me so tightly, kissed me so deeply, and to the way that I’d kissed him. As if I could never get enough of him. I remembered so vividly the primitive rhythm of the African music playing in his bedroom, the heat of his skin as I placed my hand over his heart…sliding my lips downward, downward…and then a glance over my shoulder into a mirror where I’d seen Mariama’s eyes staring back at me.
I forced the disturbing image from my head as I crossed the street. Thunder rumbled out in the harbor, and I could feel moisture in the air, the bristle of static electricity along my scalp. Clearly, a storm was headed this way. The signs couldn’t have been more portentous.
But still I didn’t turn back.
Whether I would have had the nerve to climb the veranda steps and ring the bell, I would never know. As I hovered on the walkway, hair rippling in that eerie draft, the door opened and I heard voices in the foyer.
I reacted purely on instinct, and, for the second time in as many nights, I ducked for cover in the bushes.
Chapter Nine
“Storm’s coming,” I heard Devlin say as I huddled in the bushes like the stalker I’d become.
“Seems fitting,” another man replied. “Bad weather, bad juju.”
“If you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Of course. How could I forget? Nothing exists beyond the five senses, right, John?”
“I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Does that count?”
As always, the sound of Devlin’s voice had a profound effect on me. My response was to shrink even deeper into the shadows beside the porch. But I couldn’t resist peeking through the turning leaves to catch a glimpse of him.
Until last evening, I hadn’t laid eyes on him since our final parting in Chedathy Cemetery months ago. I’d avoided his phone calls and email because I’d known the only way to get over him was to cut him completely from my life. During my short stay in Asher Falls, I’d almost managed to convince myself that I was ready to move on. I’d met a man whom I liked, a man whom I was attracted to, a man whom I might once have been happy with.
Now I knew better. Devlin was the only one for me, but so long as that door remained open, so long as he remained haunted, there was no hope.
So why couldn’t I just accept my fate and let him go? I’d managed to keep my distance for months, so why was it getting harder to stay away?
Because I’d seen him with another woman. Because I was afraid he’d already let me go.
Maybe that was it. Or maybe Mariama had lured me here yet again for her own purposes. It was far easier to blame a ghost than to accept responsibility for my own questionable behavior.
Whatever the reason, I was stuck now until Devlin’s guest left and he went back inside the house. I would be mortified if he caught sight of me cowering in the bushes.
As quietly as I could, I shifted my position so that I could get a better view. He stood on the veranda backlit by the chandelier in the foyer. I couldn’t see his face, but I really didn’t need to. His every feature—those dark eyes, that sensuous mouth—was permanently ingrained in my memory. I could even trace in my mind the line of the indented scar below his lower lip. That one tiny imperfection had always fascinated me.
The second man’s voice sounded familiar, but he stood with his back to me, and I didn’t recognize him until he turned to scour the shadows where I crouched. Light from the foyer fell across his face, and I drew a quick breath.
It was Ethan Shaw, a forensic anthropologist I’d worked with a few months ago. I’d first become acquainted with Ethan through his father, Dr. Rupert Shaw, the director of the Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies. Dr. Shaw and I had been friends since I’d first moved to the city. He’d been intrigued by a “ghost” video I’d posted on my blog and had emailed to arrange a meeting. He’d even been instrumental in helping to secure my current residence from a former assistant of his who had moved to Europe suddenly.
I