Charlotte
“I’m going for a run,” George said the next morning and bent to kiss my temple as I lay on the bed, wrapped in the sheet. “When I get back we can get brunch before we head to the Hell House.”
“That sounds good,” I murmured lazily.
He nodded, inhaling deeply, as if relieved. “Try to sleep some more, babe.”
Curious of his mood, but too content to ask about it at the moment, I grabbed his head and pulled his mouth to mine again, flicking my tongue playfully between his lips. “I love you,” I mumbled against his mouth. “Have a good run.”
His mouth turned up on one side, a knowing smirk playing across his lips. He’d fully satisfied his woman, and that made him feel good. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
After he left, taking with him the distraction his mouth and body offered me, the anxiety I felt about Click slowly returned as my eyes traced a crack along the ceiling.
Furrrrrleese.
My head ached as the word rolled over in my mind. It was the only thing she ever said, and I could not, for the life of me, figure out what it meant. Mom lit up across the screen as my cell rang, and I debated whether to answer or not. Since we’d reunited in Warm Springs, my relationship with my parents had been strained, to say the least. Mostly with my father, but things weren’t stellar with my mom, either.
In the end, I decided whatever she had to say would be a welcome distraction from the torturous word and answered the phone just before it went to voicemail. “Hey, Mom,” I chirped, my voice higher than usual in an attempt to sound happy to hear from her. “How are ya?”
“I’m good,” she answered. “It’s good to hear your voice, sweetie.” She always managed to sound like nothing had ever happened, that she hadn’t let my father send me away, and I instantly regretted answering the call. Despite my efforts to forgive and forget, all too often I was reminded of their cruelty and abandonment.
“Yeah, you too,” I said, mimicking her easy tone. Thankfully, she hadn’t caught on to video calls. At least I didn’t have to try to make my expression match my voice.
“So how are you?”
I closed my eyes, trying not to sigh. A part of me wanted to tell her the truth, but no good would ever come from it. My life was centered around my ability to see and speak to the dead, and since that was the very thing that led my father to send me away, it wasn’t exactly the most popular topic of conversation, which left me only one option. “I’m great,” I lied.
There was a long pause followed by a sigh of her own. “Charlotte, I know we haven’t been close in a long time, and yes, that is largely my fault, but could you at least give me a chance? Please? Would you let me back in a little?”
Guilt washed over me, only to be consumed by anger. Why should I feel guilty? Maybe it was the headache gripping me, or the hurt I still felt from her betrayal, but I lashed out, “Fine, Mom. You want in?”
“Yes.”
“You really want to know what my life is like right now?”
“More than anything, Charlotte,” she confirmed, the desperation evident in her voice.
I let it all spill out. “I found the souls of three young girls in a house in New York. I’ve only managed to help two cross over. The third child is trapped in a dark bedroom, and I can’t get her to communicate with me. Nothing I do is working. Helping her is all I think about. I can’t sleep because all I hear is her voice saying the same word, over and over. My poor sweet husband is torturing himself trying to help me, which is damn near impossible because the one thing causing all my problems is dead, and he can’t see the dead. But I can, only in this case, my gift has been worse than useless because I can’t figure out how to help Click.”
Mom was quiet for so long, I was about to make sure the call was still connected when she finally spoke, “Click?”
I groaned, not wanting to explain because it meant having to go into more detail about my ability, and I couldn’t deal with her disbelieving judgement right then. “You wouldn’t understand,” I grumbled.
“Try me,” she pushed, her tone firm.
I snorted, recognizing that tone from my teenage years, when she would try to relate to my world-ending teenage problems. The thing about those years, though, was she was actually pretty good about putting things in perspective, but I’d let myself forget because of how much she and my father had hurt me. I sighed and explained, “Click is the little girl. She died over twenty years ago and is trapped in an abandoned house in a dark room, and no matter what I try, I can’t get her to respond to me. And if I can’t get her to respond, I can’t help her cross over.”
My heart sank with every second the line remained quiet. Telling her was obviously a mistake; I knew she wasn’t ready for the truth. She still thought I was crazy, just like my father did.
“How did she die?” she finally asked.
“You don’t want to know, Mom,” I said exasperated.
“Yes, I do, Charlotte.”
How could she? It made me sick to think about any of it—Agnus, her husband, what they did to those poor helpless girls. How could anyone want to know about such atrocities? I was about to refuse to tell her, but stopped. I couldn’t ignore the fact she’d even asked. That was the last thing I’d expected from her. Sitting up, I shifted the pillow behind my back and leaned against the headboard. “There was a man that apparently liked little girls…” I paused, my voice softening reflexively, “His wife helped abduct them, but Click was given to him. Her father couldn’t deal with her, so he cast her away. I guess some people find it easier to just get rid of your kid when they don’t act the way they want them to.”
She didn’t acknowledge the insinuation I’d made about what they’d did to me. “You mean the wife knew he would—”
“Yes,” I interrupted her.
I let the silence stretch, knowing there was nothing else I could say.
“Bless those sweet little girls’ hearts,” she eventually murmured, pain filling her voice.
My guard dropped another degree at hearing her genuine sympathy. “The things they endured, Mom…I just…that terrible man and his wife…what they did to them.”
“Well it’s not Christian to damn people to hell, but I think the Lord might throw me a gimme on this one.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Only my mother could say she hoped someone rotted in hell in a way that seemed almost polite.
“They killed them? In the house?” she went on.
“Yeah. Well, he did. Then he killed his wife before ending his own life.”
“Oh, Charlotte,” she sighed. “I’m so sorry you have to see so much ugliness, sweetie.”
Her words shredded my defenses. I believed her words, but more than that, I believed she finally believed me—believed I wasn’t crazy and could actually see the dead. For the first time in more years than I cared to count, I wanted nothing more than for her to pull me into her arms and let her soothe me with her warmth the way she did when I was a little girl; when the world seemed so big and scary, yet somehow, just by simply sitting in her lap with my head nestled in the crook of her neck, inhaling her perfume as she hummed a soothing tune, I knew everything would be okay.
“The girl, Click. Can she not hear you?” she asked, jerking me back from the memory. “If she were deaf in her life, would she be deaf as a spirit?”
I pulled the phone from my ear and stared at it in utter disbelief. Was she brainstorming with me?
“Uh, no. Not deaf. She can hear,” I fumbled, completely at a loss at the turn of events. What if she was brainstorming with me? It’s not like I was getting anywhere on my own, and I had to help Click. “Mom, I don’t know what to do.” My voice caught as the tears welled up. “I’m scared I won’t be able to help her. I don’t understand why I was given this ability if I can’t help all lost souls.”
She was quiet for a long moment, perhaps shocked by my honesty. There’d been a locked door between us for years; one she’d been banging on, begging to be let in. Suddenly, I’d cracked the door open, and she didn’t know whether to charge inside, or wait for me to open it a little more.
“What else can you tell me about her?” she asked, her tone gentle but determined.
I blinked a few times as I refocused my thoughts. “It’s like she’s lost, or something. She repeats the same word, over and over again, and taps her fingers against the wall. Sometimes she taps her fingers together and makes clicking sounds with her tongue.” I mimicked the sound for her, then added softly, “That’s why I call her Click.”
“What word is she repeating?”
I tilted my head back, letting it thump against the headboard. I winced, the movement adding to my headache. This whole conversation was so surreal. Why believe me now? Why not years ago, when I was drowning in depression from losing my brother and simultaneously feeling like I was losing my mind because I woke up seeing dead people.
“It’s garbled, but sounds like furrrrrleese.” I imitated the word exactly as Click said it and with her same tone. Mom was silent, and my hopes for a breakthrough disintegrated into frustration. Defeated, I sighed, “I appreciate you trying to hel—”
“Could she be saying Für Elise?” she interrupted. “The Beethoven composition?”
My voice froze as her question weaved its way through my mind.
“I’ve played that for you before,” she continued. “You never had much interest in learning it, though.” My school teacher mother also gave piano lessons and was the one who’d taught me how to play. “Maybe the finger tapping is her playing the keys to the song?”
I felt like an idiot. How could I not have seen it? But my mother’s idea hit spot on. Click could have played piano when she was alive and favored that particular piece. “Holy shit, Mom,” I blurted as a jolt of excitement shot through me. “I think you just figured her out.”
“She sounds like she might be autistic, Charlotte. The lack of eye contact, word and sound repetition…that could be a fixation… Would her condition stay with her as a spirit?” Before I could respond to her question she continued, “Children on the spectrum often become fixated on things. Sometimes it’s a toy, a particular subject, or even a song. She must have been exposed to the piano at some point in her life, or at the very least someone played music for her. Now that I think about it, the clicking could be a metronome; its rhythmic ticking could be soothing for her.” She took a breath then continued, fully in teacher mode now, “Charlotte, you need to step into her world to get her attention. If she is autistic, it’s the only way to draw her out. Maybe if you play Beethoven on your phone, you could get her to pay attention to you.”
I was especially glad she couldn’t see me at that moment because I’m sure I had the most stupefied expression on my face. My mother was a special needs teacher and knew the signs of autism well. Though I wasn’t well versed in the disability, I couldn’t believe it had never occurred to me. I should have known. I’d heard her talk about her students my entire childhood. Flipping the covers back, I jumped out of bed. My mother had just given me hope that I might be able to reach Click.
“Mom…thank you.” There’s no way she could have missed the relief in my voice. “I have to go, but I’ll call you later. Love you.” I hung up without waiting for her response, not wanting to waste any more time getting to Click.