A woman screamed. And then another and another until the whole room was a chorus of fear. People began to wiggle and tumble, and chairs groaned with the movement.
“My love!” Mama screeched. “Henry, oh Henry!” She moved forward, but Clarence bowed over the table and seized her by the arm.
“No!” He held her back, half his body sprawled across the table.
I felt a tingle in my ears, through my temples, and down my neck. A shivering, powerful pulse. Was the spirit doing this to me? I grabbed at my ear with my free hand, but the feeling only intensified.
“You must leave!” I shoved the candle forward. The spirit paused.
The shrieks of terror drowned me out, but I shouted again—“Go back!”—and stepped toward the spirit. My strength grew with each inch I gained.
I reached the end of the table. The terrible mass was only feet away, a shadow of death hanging motionless. For a moment I thought I was victorious. But my relief drained right back out as the spirit rushed at me in a furious streak of black, and the cold consumed me. It was the harshest chill I’d ever felt, a deeper ache than I thought possible. My mind, my bones, my soul were devoured by this cold.
Then, faster than my mind could process, it was gone.
By the time the room was illuminated again, the panic was out of control. Crying, hysterics, mumbling, and shock had taken the guests. My own hands trembled, and I couldn’t keep still. I used my anxious energy to soothe the situation.
“It was all a show!” I yelled. “Just theatrics!”
Some of the guests actually accepted my claims with surprising ease—despite the fact that Mama was collapsed in a dead faint.
She sat limp in her seat, draped across the table with her eyes closed. Though the spirit had scared her, I thought the realization that she wouldn’t see Father was what had snapped her nerves.
I was just grateful Clarence had kept her from injury when she toppled down.
For the next few minutes Mary, Jeremy, and I strained to get everyone else out as quickly as possible. Fortunately, they needed no urging.
Once the house was empty and I had gotten my mother’s unconscious form in bed, I collapsed in my own and cried.
I cried until my abdomen hurt and my nose was clogged. Until I had cried enough to realize tears weren’t making me feel better.
Where was Elijah? Why were the Dead rising in Philadelphia? Why was this happening to me? I just wanted my brother home. I wanted things to be exactly as they were three years ago, when Elijah would teach me his lessons from school or read Shakespeare aloud while we sat in our cherry tree. We’d dreamed of seeing exotic places—such as Venice, Verona, or Illyria—and when we dutifully visited our father’s grave, we would wander the nearby woods and pretend we were in the Forest of Arden.
I shuffled to my wardrobe and found the walking dress I’d worn that morning. From its pocket, I pulled out the wrinkled Philadelphia Bulletin article.
JOSEPH BOYER OF THE SPIRIT-HUNTERS STATED IN AN INTERVIEW: “The Laurel Hill corpses are under the necromancer’s control and do his bidding, but as of yet, we do not know the necromancer’s identity or aim.”
The Spirit-Hunters arrived a week ago to protect the thousands of Centennial Exhibition visitors from the Dead. They have installed alarms throughout the Exhibition buildings in case more corpses appear on the grounds....
The Spirit-Hunters. Hired to protect. That was my answer!
I scanned ahead. They were a three-man team led by Joseph Boyer, and their office was in Machinery Hall at the International Centennial Exhibition.
“Spirit-Hunters,” I whispered. Chills trickled down my back. These people would help me find Elijah. It was their job to help me, and I felt instantly better armed with this knowledge.
I rubbed at my salty cheeks, and my sense of helplessness subsided. I wasn’t lost; I wasn’t alone; there were people I could turn to. People who could help me with my brother and with the spirit my mother had invited into this world.
I lugged myself to bed and slid the paper beneath my pillow. I couldn’t leave the house tonight, but tomorrow... tomorrow, I would see just how good these Spirit-Hunters really were.
CHAPTER FOUR
Saturday morning arrived, and when the sun hit my eyes, yesterday’s horrors flooded my brain. The train station, the letter, the séance—they all crashed in over me.
I hadn’t forgotten my decision to see the Spirit-Hunters, but I also hadn’t worked out a way to do it. It was one thing to run household errands alone, but to go to the crowded Exhibition by myself would raise questions.
As Mary helped me dress, I considered whether sneaking away was worth Mama’s inevitable suspicion.
Mary gripped my corset laces. “Inhale.”