‘Where?’
I point over to our left where, far off, there are blinking red lights. In the dark, they look as though they are floating of their own accord. Really, they are left-over Christmas lights we bought in bulk from a hardware store. I attached them to a series of pulleys, so they flicker up and down.
‘Moroaica are from Romania, Mr Henderson. They’re women who shapeshift into glowing balls of light. Sometimes they turn into animals, but this is their favourite form. If you saw them as their true selves, you’d see that they have red hair, two hearts and bright-red cheeks. They like to drain the life from plants and animals. Humans, too, if they’re feeling extra wicked.’
Mr Henderson watches them, fearfully, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.
‘I don’t mean to offend, Ankaa, but I was always sceptical about all of this.’ He gestures into the night. ‘It was my wife, Rosemary, who believed in it all. Moroi and vampires and ghosts. She had books and books on superstitions and stories. Real-life accounts from people who claimed to have seen the other side.’
‘And what changed your mind?’
‘Well, Rosemary always said that, if she died, she’d come back to haunt me just to prove a point,’ he laughs weakly. ‘She didn’t like to lose an argument. And … well … since she passed, I’ve started seeing her. Only glimpses, mind you. I see her red scarf at the bus stop. Hear her laugh late at night. The sound of her shoes in the kitchen in the morning as I lie in bed upstairs. Sometimes I smell her perfume so strongly, I swear she’s standing right behind me. But when I turn, there’s nothing there.’
‘What perfume did she wear?’
‘I don’t remember the name of it, but it smelled of roses.’
‘Women have a special relationship with death, Mr Henderson. It doesn’t surprise me that she comes back to visit.’
‘And do you really believe that women created death?’
‘Most cultures around the world have stories that say so, yes.’
‘Eve, and so on?’
‘Eve. Pandora. Many others. In the Banks Islands of the Coral Sea, it’s said men used to live forever. When their skin became wrinkled and creased, they simply discarded it as snakes do, and stepped back into the world smooth, new and innocent.
‘But, one day, an old woman discarded her skin in a river, where it floated downstream and caught on a branch. The woman, now looking youthful, skipped back home. But her grandchildren didn’t recognise her – they cried and ran away. She searched for them up mountains and in forests, but still they would not come to her. So she returned to the river and pulled her old skin back on. Then her grandchildren came running, but so too did death. After that, no man could live forever. And it was all the woman’s fault.’
The red lights in the distance bob and float.
‘Now, let me take you to the cave of Seven Whistles. Sometimes you can hear the spirits there, gathering to chant. And keep an eye out for the Krasue. They come over from Southeast Asia: the floating heads of beautiful women, whispering in the dark.’
‘One thing I don’t understand,’ Mr Henderson’s hat gets stuck on a branch, and he struggles to pull himself free. ‘If your Coffin Hotel allows us to come here and spend a night in the world of the dead. If you cast a spell while we sleep, so we’re sent there for a few hours … why don’t we just die? Do you summon us back?’
‘Partly. It’s all rather complicated,’ I say, vaguely. ‘Many people have tried to document the phenomenon. In the Qur’an, for example, it’s believed that humans are animated by a self or spirit, called nafs. Nafs represent the soul. During the night, nafs are taken away by Allah to dance in the world of the dead, and those who are destined to survive are sent home again in the morning.’
Mr Henderson stops. ‘So, what happens to us is not actually within your control?’
I sense his panic. ‘It is and it isn’t. Try not to worry. This is something that happens to everyone, every night, when they sleep, regardless of where they are. What happens here is slightly different, slightly heightened. Even I don’t understand my powers fully, Mr Henderson. But I promise that we look after you to the best of our ability. It’s all covered in the terms and conditions, which you signed yesterday.’
‘OK.’ He starts walking again. ‘I suppose one can’t really expect to have these types of experiences without some form of risk, realistically. But … no one has ever died unexpectedly, have they? I mean, whilst staying at your hotel?’
I try not to think of Eric and his panic attack. I try not to think of Mrs Turner’s scratch marks on the inside of her coffin.
‘No,’ I lie smoothly. ‘Never.’
‘Did you have a good time?’ Aunt Libby helps Mr Henderson out of his coat. The hallway smells of chicken and dumplings.
‘Oh, very illuminating,’ he gasps, his cheeks red from the cold. ‘It’s started blowing a gale out there, mind you. Out by the cave, I swear I heard Rosemary calling my name on the wind.’
‘How wonderful.’ Aunt Libby thrusts the coat into my hands and ushers Mr Henderson forward. ‘You must be starving, come and eat.’
They disappear into the dining room. I hang back, arms full of tweed and tartan. Through the wall, I hear Trevor telling them about his goals for the rest of the year. How he plans to go bungee jumping, and bareback horse riding.
‘And I might even get on a plane,’ he says boldly. ‘I’m not making any promises. But I might very well do it. I’d like to visit my sister; I haven’t seen her in eleven years.’
There’s a knock at the front door.
I put Mr Henderson’s coat on the floor, and struggle to pull the heavy door open. The wind outside snakes its way past me, whistling in my ears.
‘Hello?’ I call out, my hair blowing every which way. ‘… Hello?’
There’s no one there.
I tiptoe out onto the doorstep and glance around, pulling my cardigan close. I can barely make out the lake, the wind rushing white smoke across the surface, tumbling like broken birds. Everything is dark, bar the red lights of the fake Moroaica, which seem, somehow, closer than before.
I slip back inside.
‘Ankaa?’ Aunt Libby calls. ‘What are you doing?’
I slam the door.
‘Coming!’ I shove Mr Henderson’s coat on the rack, along with his scarf, and hurry through for food.
‘Did you find out anything more about Rosemary?’ Aunt Libby asks, as we clean up after dinner.
‘She used to wear a red scarf and wore a perfume that smelled of roses.’
‘Excellent. I think we’ve got some rose-water in the cupboard. You can use that along with the coastal sounds.’
‘OK.’
She passes me a tea towel. ‘By the way, if he mentions it, I’ve promised Mr Henderson that, when he dies, you’ll be able to send him to the same part of the afterlife as Rosemary.’
I blink. ‘What?’