Very carefully, she moved to the niche and found the book. Leather-bound, and protected for so many years in this sealed environment, it was in far better shape than she had dared to hope. Then again, she reminded herself, some books—well, scrolls—had survived for millennia.
A breath of cold air suddenly seemed to sweep around her. She frowned and looked over her shoulder. The place was in shadow, but she could tell she was alone. Even so…
“Hello?” she said softly.
She frowned. There could certainly be more ghosts here, of course, but she hadn’t felt the sense that some disembodied being from a different time had joined her, even though surely there were at least a few here. She was certain that some of the people interred in this earth had died violent or miserable deaths. No, she had felt a breeze. Movement. Not just the chill that some suggested accompanied ghosts, but a real breeze. As if someone or something had joined her in the crypt and disturbed the air by moving.
She shrugged. Strange. Even when she had first started seeing ghosts, she hadn’t felt such a sudden chill. She had felt fear, but only the natural fear of the unknown. She had never felt the sense of unease that had ridden on that breeze, a feeling of something icy, like a warning trickle down her spine.
“Enough,” she said aloud, then focused on the shadows. The room wasn’t that big. She was obviously alone.
Gritting her teeth, she dismissed the strange sensation and returned her attention to the book.
As she had hoped, it was the parish register, filled with the dates of weddings, births and, of course, deaths.
She didn’t run her fingers down the pages. She would never disrespect such a precious relic that way. But her eyes roamed. The book had been kept by a Father Browne, and his script was clear, with only a slight flourish. So many people. These were not the rich and famous, though she was sure there were a few rabble-rousers among them, since most of the entries were from the 1850s, when gang violence had been rampant. The Times had written about the desperate throngs, saying that the streets had been filled with ruffians, and there had been no promise of safety anywhere in the disorderly metropolis. May 1849 had brought the Astor Place riots, with many dying when a mob had protested the appearance of the aristocratic English actor William Macready, believing the role of Macbeth belonged to American luminary Edwin Forrest. Had a theatrical question really created such a stir, or had the true cause been the great chasm growing between the rich and poor of the city? Most people believed that the wretched living conditions of so many had lain behind the violence, fanned into action on the pretext of cultural controversy.
She went back and quickly noted that some of the earliest recorded deaths in the book were from May 1849. She wondered if any of the deceased had met their fates during the riots.
Next she went carefully, page by page, looking for a child named Mary.
She found ten of them. With a sigh, she knew she was going to have to find out Mary’s surname before she could go any further.
Bit by bit she grew aware of a slight noise, like a muted shuffle. She had been so intent on the records, she realized, that she had forgotten her strange feeling of a few minutes earlier.
There really did seem to be something—someone?—hidden in the shadows behind her.
She straightened, determined that she wasn’t about to start being afraid of the dark.
No good.
Closing the book, she turned, certain she had heard a noise. But no matter how intently she peered into the room’s dark corners, there didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Shifting earth, she thought. Or a breeze coming in through the hole in the wall where she had originally fallen through. They needed to shore up the place before they did much more work in it or allowed more people in, she decided.
She turned back to the niche where the book had lain, hoping more treasures might be stored there.
As she turned, she knew. Knew.
Someone was behind her.
Someone was there with her, unseen, hidden, but how? Where?
She started to turn.
Too late.
She felt a sudden, fierce pain knife through the back of her head. She staggered against the wall and fell.
Back at his car, Joe stared across the street to Hastings House and saw the door open. The woman in charge of ticketing came out, Melissa…something, he recalled. He’d talked to her in the course of investigating the explosion.
She looked up at the house, stretched and smiled. He felt as if he were interrupting a personal moment, her pleasure in just being there was so evident.
He walked over to her anyway. “Melissa, good morning.”
For a moment she stared at him as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Oh, hi. Sorry. We’ve met…right? You’re Joe Connolly, the P.I.? You look so much like your cousin. I talked to you after the explosion, right?”
“Right. And I’m friends with Leslie.” He didn’t see any reason to tell her that they’d just met a few days ago.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure.”
He followed her inside, wondering why he felt that just being in the house would somehow help him.
“Leslie is phenomenal,” Melissa said as they reached the kitchen.