That night, the couple sat in their kitchen, wearing long white nightgowns. Ida, however, draped a long brownish-gray fur coat over her shoulders. George paced up and down the room, scattering small white specks on the floor.
"George, darling," Ida asked, "Why are you sprinkling salt on the floor? Are we having wood for dessert, hmm?"
George leapt up and pressed his arms behind his back, one sweaty fist clutching the salt-shaker.
"Oh, uh...'twas an accident, Ida."
"You're afraid of ghosts, aren't you?"
George blinked.
"Well, perhaps...after all this talk."
Ida nodded, but chuckled playfully into her hand.
"The dead fear us more than we fear them. In fact, they feed off of our fear. If you keep calm, so will they."
"Pastor Kneller didn't tell me that!"
"Pastor Kneller is a man. You must soften your heart to the spiritual realm."
She swayed over to the ashtray and lit a cigarette.
"Ida," George warned, "Don't smoke. It's vulgar."
"But you smoke sometimes, luvvy."
"Now, that's different! You'll destroy my primroses, and I'll have no column, and no money!"
George grabbed the glass vase of dark-pink primroses and set them aside. Ida exhaled a soft gray ring of smoke, then stubbed it out. He yawned.
"Darling, it's almost midnight. Aren't you wearing out?"
"No. I want to see Grandmother Spinner. My Ouija's upstairs, but I don't think I'll use it yet. One must never doubt the power of the next world." She lit a silver-plated wax candle and began to carry it upstairs. "Especially not the power of female spirits. Good night, George. I'll tell you if I find something interesting."
"Good night, Ida...wait!"
She whirled around, her face in the white-gold candlelight.
"Yes?"
"What about Mrs. Fincher? I haven't seen her in a while."
"She must be asleep."
"Indeed. Happy birthday, my love."
"Thank you."
But as he watched his wife sway upstairs, his heart pulsed into his throat.
XXX
Ida stood at a safe distance from the scarlet curtain, watching the night wind flutter into the room, and the small spirit shift behind the fabric. It was strange to think this, but in the cold darkness of the February night, the upstairs parlor felt like the bottom of the sea. Tonight it was nothing but a nightmare-- a cold darkness glistening with a thousand jagged rows of teeth. It was sand and faded bone, crumbling along broken temples of stone. It was her greatest fear-- her breath fading in an unknown depth....
Oh, keep up, old girl!
She frowned at the curtain and set down the candle. I should have brought some salt, she thought, shivering. The bulge under it wasn't large, but much bigger than that of the child-sized scepter. It was long and slim. At any moment, it looked like it would stretch and elongate into a monstrous being of darkness. Ida shook her head. But it's Grandmother's birthday...and it's just been mine. Certainly she wouldn't harm me after such festivities....
Ida crept closer and blew another puff of smoke.
"I don't know who you are," she said, "But you're not my grandmother. That much I know. Whoever you are, please give me a signal. If you are the spirit of Martha Stonefield Spinner, blow out this candle!"
Silence. The pale flame glowed gently, almost gentler than before. Ida walked toward the coffee table. Mrs Fincher's heart pounded.
"This basket is quite large, spirit. Open it if you are good."
Fiddlesticks! Finchy thought, I thought it blended in with all her other...! The wicker basket remained closed. That is, until Ida slid her fingers under the lid and opened it.
A yellowed skull greeted her. She shuddered at the long, jagged crack from the top of it, at the endless, blue-black tunnels where eyes once glowed....
"Good evening, Mrs. Pumphrey," murmured a dull, clipped voice, "Is the room to your liking?"
Ida whirled around. Mrs. Fincher slid out from behind the scarlet curtain, gripping a large kitchen knife. The sharp silvery point glistened like a claw in the moonlight.
"No," Ida gasped, "You can't be...!"
Mrs. Fincher smirked and wrapped her long strong arms around the big woman, dragging her toward the balcony.
"You really thought it was a ghost stealing everything, you fat stupid broad?! You're like an overgrown child-- always needing some little shadow above you!"
She shoved the knife toward Ida, who dodged it, and threw her own massive figure around the maid. They struggled for a bit, until Ida wrestled the knife from Finchy's broad hand and threw it over the balcony.
"Really, Finchy?! How dare you hold such contempt for the woman who trusted you!"
"Wait, wait...Ida!"
Ida grabbed Mrs. Fincher by the shoulders and raised her above her head.
"I've wasted all this time searching this house for ghosts, and you're the real image of death."
"I...I...only want...!"
"What you can't have. Well, I'm sorry, Finchy, but did you really have to kill five women for it?"
Mrs. Fincher's jaw dropped.
"How did you...?"
"Instinct, and the skull in your basket. Now, if you don't mind wind rushing through your hair...."
Ida let go, and Finchy fell from the second-story balcony. She landed flat on her back. Ida cringed. The brown-red cobblestones must have prickled the bones. Her heart suddenly pounded. If she's dead, she thought, So am I! Everyone will know...!
With great effort, Mrs. Fincher trembled to all fours, crawling up the street. Ida recoiled. My Heavens, I can't let a murderer go...! She turned back to the shelf, to the book holding her family's records. Oh, great Spirits, come upon me...!
Nothing. Silence. Ida froze. For once, there was no time to escape. There was only the night and the killer in it. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, but the only presence she felt was her own.
"Heeeey, Finchy!" she shouted, carrying the basket, "You forgot something!"
Mrs. Fincher slowly looked up, only to feel a sharp conk! of pain to the forehead. Her head dropped down, with the old skull and wicker basket lying atop the sea of brown hair.
Ida bit her lip, unsure of what to do. Mrs. Fincher wasn't dead-- most likely unconscious. The skull would look suspicious (What skull wouldn't?), but then again...Ida shook her head and rushed downstairs, then outside. She dragged Finchy to the middle of the street, so she wasn't lying directly outside of the Pumphrey mansion. As she ran back inside, she shuddered.
What to do, what to do, she thought, heart pounding, But it's all I could do...I certainly didn't expect....
She froze, and another chill shot up her spine. Something churned within her; something soft and warm, something that whispered, "Thanks for that, girl."
Grandmother Spinner?! Tears stung her eyes. She saw that same swirl of gold-white mist coiling around her long black shadow, only to drift into pale glints of dust.
Ghosts are not my escape, she thought, The door opens to the next world, but also into this one.
XXX
Ida was slow getting up the next day. She awoke around nine, but didn't panic. Yes, George was already awake and puttering around the downstairs kitchen, but this had nothing to do with her. She dressed surprisingly fast without a maid, then joined her husband for breakfast.
"Darling," he said, flipping through the newspaper, "How do you feel about an Irish maid-- a real Irish maid."
"Imogene Gorman, an immigrant from Castlebar. She's a bit older, but sounds promising. You think you'd like her?"
"I-I suppose. But now isn't the...."
"Perfect! I'll ring her up this afternoon!"
"George Pumphrey, you look at me this instant! Just because you couldn't find Finchy this morning isn't a good reason to go...maid-hunting."
George went white.
"Well, I didn't find her, but Louise Ampersand did. Flat in the middle of the street! Finchy's dead.
"Oh my! I must speak to Mr. Ampersand right away!"
"Ida!"
Ida rushed outside and straight to Ampersand's Flowers. George frequented the middle-aged florist so often, they'd been invited to many a birthday party. Mr. Ampersand-- tall, fat, and bespectacled --smiled at her. He trimmed the stalks from a few violets and handed them to her. She giggled and batted her lashes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pumphrey. Did you hear all that ruckus the other night?"
Ida frowned. It was too tempting to tell the truth.
"Ruckus? No!"
"Well, I didn't hear anything really, but early this morning Louise found your Mrs. Fincher laying in the middle of the road...dead! With a skull in her basket! And hear this-- the police said she fell, it wasn't the fall that killed her, but the skull...dropped from two stories!"
"Well, I'll be!" Ida gasped in mock shock.
"The skull was of one of her old victims-- a Mrs. Emily Ashworth. They found a confession note and everything-- right under the skull. Apparently she killed five of her old mistresses in New York City. Almost like she knew we'd find out."
"Disgusting. Just when you think you know a person...."
"They put her in a pauper's grave up the road. You can visit it if you want...Louise said Finchy was a gentle soul."
How would she know?! Ida thought, wrinkling her nose.
"And you're into ghosts, right?" he asked, "A fun little escape, they are."
"Not really. Ghosts are meant to enhance the realm of the living, not blur it."
"Still, Finchy was from New York City. A real lady of the world, doncha think?"
"I wouldn't be so sure. You know, there were rumors that Mabel Fincher killed her old mistresses. I mean, it issss strange that all five were stabbed by an 'intruder'. One with a big kitchen knife...."
"The knife!" cried Mr. Ampersand, "There was a knife over there! Do you mean to tell me, Mrs. Pumphrey, that last night, the night of your birthday...she tried to...but you said nothing happened?"
Ida froze, and the old woman's voice rippled through her mind again, "That's right...nothing!"
"Not anything worth a morning conversation," she spat, fighting against the spirit, "Good day, Mr. Ampersand."
"G-Good day, Mrs. Pumphrey."
As Ida walked toward the long green hill, she looked up at the clouds. They were faint and frothy, drifting by each blink of the eye. They didn't gather, but fluttered into the blueness-- like doves after a storm.