Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story (14 page)

“Like I look at her?”

“No. Like Emily looks at you.”

“Parapsychology, parapsychology, parapsychology. A word that conjures up a great deal of images, does it not? Now parapsychologists, people who study parapsychology, study a number of alleged paranormal phenomena. Is there anyone here with a brain in their head who can name one?”

Emily had chosen this moment to enter the crowded lecture hall. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her with a huge echo, causing all eyes to lock on hers. She began her silent descent into the huge dungeon pit of a room, passing row upon row of ancient desks and chairs: torturous one-piece rack-like devices that made sitting for any length of time sheer agony. The absence of windows and the dank smell of mildew completed the veritable prison.

Contemporary Psychology was a huge haul from the bus stop clear across campus. Out of breath from the run and with her nerves still on edge from her ghostly encounter, she nearly tripped down the steep steps, eliciting her fair share of sniggers from the surrounding students. Unfortunately, the lone available seat was directly in front of where the hulk of Dr. Vandin loomed.

His hand ceased its theory-espousing conducting and remained poised in the air when he saw her, as if he were holding one of his trademark cigars. The rumple of his black turtleneck, the reddish shine of his forehead, and the sloop of his uncombed hair bore testament to another night of his notorious drinking.

“Miss Thomas?” He raised his cunning, albeit bloodshot, eyes to her, visible even behind his reading glasses, and rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. “Miss Thomas, you are always so ready to offer your opinion. Go ahead, amaze us. It is a Monday afternoon. What else do we live for but to hear your, what is the word in English…oh, ah, that’s it—perspective.”

Apparently he was sober today.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”

“Well, if someone had their head in the game and could tell time, we would have enlightenment, would we not, class? I suppose I’m going to have to tell you then. Take good notes, everyone. Oh, and Miss Thomas, you might want to take a seat. Make yourself comfortable, by all means.”

Emily tripped over a sorority sister’s hot pink toes and nearly upended three laptops in an attempt to get to her chair. Dr. Vandin cleared his throat and positioned his papers, peering at her from over his black-rimmed reading glasses.

“First, telepathy, the transfer of information or emotions between individuals by some means other than sensory perception.

“Miss Thomas, you will be a good sport, won’t you, and serve as an illustration, since you missed half the class. Good. Now, one would say she appears anxious, fidgeting with her bag like she does as she retrieves her notes.” Here he shook his notes for effect, a lock of his black hair tumbling across his forehead. “See how she doodles in her book and drums her fingers?” Emily’s eyes flashed to his; he took no notice but chose to begin pacing back and forth in front of her row. “I mean no offense to Miss Thomas, I’m merely trying to illustrate how she is perhaps able to communicate with me telepathically. Perhaps she is telling me how attractive the female student body finds me? How much she—how much they—long for the presence of the university’s sexiest professor?” Snorts and guffaws peppered the class. “Or perhaps not?” He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned the pages of his notes with an attempt at a smile.

“Ah, but if she wasn’t telepathic, I could use my clairvoyance, that’s right, clair-voy-ance, scribble that word down. You too, Miss Thomas, right next to the doodles of Prince Charming or whatever secrets you have adorning your notebook.”

His eyes found hers this time, and she flattened her hand over her notes. A sketch she didn’t remember making of Andrew lay hidden underneath her palm.

“Clairvoyance: a supernatural ability to retrieve information about people or places or even events. But that is not good enough. Miss Thomas doesn’t want anything to do with me. See how she sits, straight-backed and rigid? No slamming her books shut and storming out the door, no such drama for her. How do I know that? I have precognition—scribble again you monkeys—an understanding of information about future places or events before they occur through extrasensory means.

“I see she will not slam her book shut and storm out the door, but wait instead until after class to upbraid me. So I apply psychokinesis, another phenomena, class—no, not just the mind’s ability to twist and turn spoons, but the ability of the mind to affect time or energy by means unknown, and so I have her fall madly in love with me.”

He stood directly in front of Emily now, as if awaiting her reply. She met his stare and said nothing. “Ah, but I tire of her,” he said and dismissed her with a smile and a flip of his hand. “She grows clingy. Unable to bear the pain of being separated from me, she, of course, ends her life, hoping for reincarnation, that’s right, another phenomena, the rebirth of a soul in a new physical body after death. Perhaps one who could tell time?

“But alas, she merely becomes a ghost. Which brings us to our last phenomena, haunting. My area of expertise, as you well know, wherein the deceased individual frequents his former home or, pardon the pun, haunts.”

Several of the girls in the class had ceased taking notes, enamored by Vandin’s commanding stage presence. Like any performer, he used his physical prowess and resounding voice to his benefit, and Emily could remember how easily it was to fall under Vandin’s spell. The sexuality of the intellect, Margot had branded it. The brilliant, Russian bear of a man. Emily had almost fallen for it. Almost. The reality of the man had won out. Even his accent was an affectation, practiced to complete the image of “the hard biting, worldly professor,” but in the end it proved yet another demonstration of his boorishness and arrogance. He could fake a Boston Brahmin just as well. Who knew if even his last name was authentic or just manufactured for a dustjacket?

“There is a whole mythology surrounding ghosts,” Vandin continued, “encompassing how a ghost can communicate with the physical world, what they are forbidden to say or do, to even the ridiculous notion of what can and cannot destroy them. Say what you want of the rest of this questionable science, but as you know from my research, I have spent the greater part of twenty years repudiating this particular fallacy. I have, in all of my cases, been able to prove that what was first purported as a haunted house is nothing more than a—”

“I saw a ghost,” Emily said. Why the words left her mouth, she was unsure. Perhaps a semester of being Vandin’s favorite whipping girl had finally taken its toll and she had reached a breaking point. Perhaps she wanted to see him proven wrong, discredited, embarrassed.

“Miss Thomas?”

“The old Victorian I just moved in to. My closet—it’s haunted by a woman. I’ve heard her.”

The announcement created quite a stir in the classroom as expected. Heads twisted between Emily and Vandin as they waited for his response.

“There has never been any reproducible scientific evidence to support—”

“She spoke to me. She knew Walter de la Mare—and she liked my clothes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am. A hanger in my closet…it levitated, and I distinctly heard a woman’s voice.” The more she spoke, the greater her conviction grew.

“Miss Thomas, do you usually drink this early in the day?”

“No. I’m not a professor yet.”

The class laughed, but Dr. Vandin did not.

“And nor will you ever be at this rate.”

“Thank God for that. I’d hate to aspire to ghost-busting as my academic career.”

A susurrus of shock filled the room. Emily didn’t realize she was standing, her hands balled into fists.

“Please see me after class.”

She slammed her books, grabbed her satchel, and stormed toward the aisle.

“Going so soon?” Vandin remarked offhandedly.

That’s when she heard them. Footsteps. The sound rifled down the lecture hall and stopped halfway. An eerie quiet descended on the class as Dr. Vandin looked up from his notes; his smirk soured to an irritated stare. Emily heard a few girls next to her gasp, and she turned.

“Might I suggest you change the style of your lecturing method?” Andrew said, his voice deathly cool as he stood there with his arms at the sides of his black leather jacket. “I believe you have heard of the term sexual harassment? You seem to possess a passing intelligence. I suggest you look it up.”

By now the class had leaned forward like spectators at a boxing match. A few began to whisper among themselves, evidently aware of who Andrew was.

“Miss Thomas, class isn’t over. Given your poor grades, I suggest you ask your boyfriend here to leave.”

“You’re all right, yes?” Andrew asked her, ignoring the hisses around him. She raised her face to his and nodded. “Let’s get you out of here, then.”

“Miss Thomas,” Vandin warned.

But Andrew had offered his hand, and she took it, and together they walked up the steep stairs and back out into the day.

They stood outside in the quad. The sunlight danced off Emily’s face as she smiled demurely at Andrew. All of his courage from a few minutes before had vanished. Storming the castle was one thing—but now…

“I was about to leave, you know. He was a—”

“A shite?” Andrew couldn’t stop himself.

“That’s the word I was looking for.” They laughed together, their prior awkwardness slowly dissipating like bubbles rising from champagne. “Thank you. He was just being particularly brutal today. It’s part of the persona—he likes to get a rise out of…he likes to see his students squirm. It must be a Russian thing, I guess. But what brings you here? I mean why were you—I mean, you aren’t taking a class, are you?”

“I was on campus looking for a place to rehearse, actually. Didn’t think you’d care for that kind of late night entertainment. Good neighbors and all…Margot had mentioned you had a class here. Thought maybe you might need a ride back home.”

“How did you know I didn’t drive?”

“I took a chance.” Christ, he thought, how easily the lies came when he needed them.

She tilted her head to look up at him and a wrinkle formed between her eyes, and something melancholy passed through them. Her auburn curls danced about her face, a few strands getting caught in her old fashioned sweater, twining about the top button.

“Actually, I took the MUNI. I better be going if I’m going to catch the next one though.”

“Have you had lunch?” he said a bit too quickly. “Would you care to join me? That is, if you don’t have any other plans.”

Her hands slid into the pockets of her jeans and she rocked on her toes. She smiled now, more settled. “I’d like that. There’s this little place not far from here. They serve tea the proper way.”

His grin ignited hers. She almost sounded British.

In retrospect, Andrew couldn’t have remembered the way to the shop if someone had put a gun to his head. He was too busy listening to her, gazing at her as she pointed out the shops and the restaurants.

“And that’s where the witches are.” She nodded to an alley between stores at the corner.

“Witches?”

“It’s one of my favorite shops. You can have your palm read and collect all your coven related material inside. It looks like something out of Hawthorne. Do you want to see it?”

They wandered down the alley, where bougainvillea and jasmine ran wild along the surrounding brick walls. A small fountain sat sentinel in the courtyard, and the top of a Dutch door hung open at the far end. A sign bearing the words
The Bell and the Candle
hung overhead. Andrew almost expected to see a grizzled-haired witch poke her head through the opening and cackle.