On that rainy day in late spring, Isaiah woke up to the sound of droplets pounding against the windowpane. He was alone in bed – Nigel had woken up earlier to make breakfast, as per usual. With a yawn and a stretch, he nestled into his blankets and assumed fetal position for a few more minutes, enjoying his first leisurely morning in a while. Now that he was done with the Archive for the time being, he could afford to sleep in a bit.
He also had Milton as an aide. The two exchanged numbers and agreed to inform each other whenever they made progress on the investigation. Now, Milton was working in the police, so technically he could access all kinds of information that couldn’t be found in the public records – however, Isaiah explicitly forbade him from doing so. He intended to honor his promise to chief Sarratt: confidential info was off limits, even if it was being provided by someone else.
But Milton had something that Isaiah didn’t: a direct familial connection to one of the boys in the photo. This put him in a far better position to dig out knowledge on Milo Bax, whether by cooperating with his father or going behind his back. So while Isaiah was to contact the surviving family of all three boys he singled out from the photo, Milton was tasked with trying to find something on his uncle specifically. Harlan Douglas was dead and Ezra Rowse was missing, but Milo’s status was entirely up in the air. Putting Milton in charge of gathering info about him was the best course of action. Plus, it also gave him something to do, a way to contribute to the case.
As he passed by the hallway and entered the dining room, Isaiah could hear the sound of plates and cutlery from the kitchen – breakfast preparations were obviously well underway. On the dining room table, his notebook and pencil lay next to Bubba’s school photo. With slight hesitation, Isaiah picked it up again.
There it was, that same feeling he experienced sitting at Colin Sarratt’s desk. Only this time, he could swear that the spectral thread stretching from the photograph felt more tangible. He could follow it slightly further into the distance than last time. The spirit, it seemed, was like a spider. With all of its spindly legs, it clasped tightly onto the photo, its presence concentrated on it. But from its abdomen, a long string of cobweb connected it to something else, something far away. And Isaiah had a hunch as to what it might be.
His deep thought was interrupted by a head peeking through the wall.
“Good morning!” Nigel exclaimed, staring at Isaiah from the kitchen, jolting him back into the real world.
“I told you not to do that!” Isaiah shouted back.
One of the first things that the couple had noticed when they moved into their new apartment was that, for some unknown reason, there was a small square opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. It quickly became Nigel’s favorite thing about the apartment. If you bent down slightly, you could see into the dining room from the kitchen, and odds are nobody would notice because they’d have no reason to expect a hole in the wall in such a random place. The first time Isaiah saw his husband’s sheepishly smiling, wide-eyed face staring at him through the opening, he let out a less-than-manly yelp that all the neighbors could probably hear. Since then, Nigel would occasionally repeat the prank, much to Isaiah’s chagrin.
“Here you go!” Nigel said cheerily, extending his hand into the dining room to pass Isaiah a mug of hot tea.
“I married a five-year-old,” Isaiah just muttered to himself as he grabbed the mug, took his notebook and sat next to the phone.
The first person he wanted to call was Ivor Bax. He figured there was no harm in trying to reach out to the man himself, even though Milton would surely be talking to him.
After several rings, someone picked up the call.
“Good morning, is this Ivor Bax?” Isaiah asked.
“Yes,” a voice answered brusquely.
“My name is Isaiah Hargraves. I am currently investigating a lingering spirit possessing a school photo from Gresham Barlow Academy. My apologies if this is an inconvenience for you, but I was wondering if I could speak to you about your brother, Milo Bax…”
“I have no brother,” the voice on the other side said coldly, and the call disconnected before Isaiah could say anything else.
It was not exactly an encouraging start. Hopefully Ivor would be less curt when Milton asked him about Milo, though it seemed like too much to ask for considering the way he reacted to the call.
Fortunately, the remaining two conversations proved far more pleasant and fruitful. Celia Rowse and Queenie Douglas all patiently listened to what Isaiah had to say and agreed to cooperate. He would be visiting Queenie later that day, and Celia tomorrow morning. It took a while to get there, but the wheels of the case were finally beginning to turn.
After having breakfast and spending some quality time with Nigel, Isaiah left the apartment and hitched a ride on the funicular leading to the highest level of the city. There, tucked into a charming small street and nestled between old trees, was the building Queenie Douglas lived in. As he walked up the stairs, Isaiah tried to work out what to say in his head. Getting back into the habit of interviewing made him feel excited and nervous all at once.
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Third floor, flat 8. He knocked on the heavy wooden door, which was soon opened by a graceful woman in her sixties. Her long, greyish hair framed a face wrinkled both from smiling and stress.
“Queenie Douglas?” Isaiah asked.
“Come in dear,” she smiled warmly.
Her apartment was the definition of homely, with pastel orange walls, wooden furniture and well-taken-care-of potted plants everywhere. Isaiah immediately noticed countless photos with her husband – hanging on the walls, in small picture frames on shelves, stacked on tables next to a photo album. Cozy as it was, the whole place seemed to be stuck in the past.
They sat across each other in the dining room. As she seemed unsure of how to begin the conversation, he spoke first.
“Thank you for having me here today…” Isaiah hesitated, unsure of how to address his host.
“Queenie is fine, dear,” she said as she poured him a glass of lemonade.
“Alright, Queenie. I really appreciate the fact that you’ve agreed to help me. This must be difficult for you.”
She faced away and turned to the window, the sunlight imparting a bright amber hue to her brown eyes.
“My husband… Harlan… was the only man that I ever loved, Mr. Hargraves. And how I loved him. Every moment of my life was filled with a deep joy simply because I was spending it with him. It would take me an eternity to tell you every reason why he made me feel the way he did.”
“At the same time,” she continued with a nearly palpable sorrow, “I felt that he just wasn’t made for this world. He was too smart not to notice all the hopelessness and injustice around him, and too empathetic to not let it get to him. Sometimes just existing seemed to be a huge weight that he couldn’t bear.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Isaiah said.
“There’s a memory that I will carry with me as long as I live,” Queenie said. “The two of us were sitting by a lake at sunset. It was such a breathtaking, beautiful scene, the colors in the sky were truly something else. We both just stared at it silently, my eyes literally ate it up. And out of nowhere, still looking at that incredible image, he just said: ‘Too often, life feels like a disease that I caught the day I was born.’”
“And he didn’t have to say anything else,” her voice cracked. “I just knew. Everything the world had to give, everything I had to give… It was not enough to keep him tethered to this life.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, subduing the wave of emotions that flooded into her. When she turned around to face Isaiah, she seemed calm. It was clear to him that she was used to it. Suppressing her sadness to keep herself sane must have been second nature to her.
“I understand that you may have something connected to my husband?” she asked.
Isaiah nodded and took the photo from his suitcase. He ignored the filament extending from it into the unknown, only acknowledging to himself that he could now follow it even more into the distance. He then placed the photo on the table in front of him. Queenie’s eyes widened ever so slightly when she laid eyes on a young Harlan.
“Heh,” she let out a brief chuckle. “This was before I knew him. So, this photo is possessed?”
“The most accurate way of putting it is to say that there’s a spirit lingering around it. The photo is a physical anchor of sorts that the spirit is using to stay connected to the material world,” Isaiah explained.
“And this happens when there’s unfinished business, so to speak?”
“Yes, that’s the most common reason. If someone leaves this world with a big regret, or something important left unsaid, or just a strong connection to something or someone, chances are their spirit will linger.”
“You… you said it might be my husband?” Queenie asked hopefully.
“It’s a possibility. The spirit is desperately missing someone. With the circumstances of your husband’s death, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could be him.”
Queenie took another deep breath.
“What happens if it’s him?” she asked. “Will I be able to talk to him?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Isaiah replied. “You see, certain people are able to actually experience spirits with their senses. This is why they are often trained to be spiritual investigators. For example, I can hear them. There are people who can smell them, or even see them, although they are truly rare.”
“But,” he continued, “99% of the population don’t have this ability. Instead, they have a non-specific reaction to the spirit’s presence. Which is to say, you just feel it, but not with any specific sense. If it’s a loving spirit, you feel something akin to a warmth spreading from your heart all over your body, an all-consuming contentment. If it’s a spirit with a grudge… well, there’s no need to get into that now.”
“I’m sorry,” Isaiah said once he noticed Queenie gazing at him somewhat blankly. “I can get carried away when I talk about these technical things.”
“Think nothing of it dear,” she responded. “I just never had a chance to hear anything about it before. It’s all a bit too alien to me, that’s all.”
“So, suppose it is Harlan,” she said softly. “What happens?”
“His desire of being reunited with you is fulfilled, and his spirit is free to go into the Great Beyond.”
“Are spirits happy there?” she asked shakily.
“The way I see it, they have to be,” Isaiah mused. “Think of all the people who die every day. Yet only a small fragment of them ever stays as lingering spirits. Whatever’s on the other side, it’s obviously good enough that most of us never look back.”
Queenie smiled. “That’s oddly comforting,” she said, staring pensively at the floor.
Isaiah slid the photo towards her. After some hesitation, she took it into her hands. The room became eerily silent.
“Do you feel anything?” Isaiah asked gently.
“No,” she replied, and the disappointment in her voice could be hid from no one.
“Then it’s not him,” Isaiah said. “I’m sorry”.
All the barriers Queenie had built up inside herself seemed to crumble in that instant, as heavy tears started rolling from her eyes. How Isaiah had wished that he could have told her that it was in fact her husband, that he’s telling her that he loves her and that he will always remember her, just to give her some piece of mind. But what would be the point of that? It would make him no different from countless con-artists feigning the ability to speak to the dead, providing hollow comfort to grieving people.
“I truly am sorry,” he said empathically.
“It’s alright dear,” Queenie wiped her tears. “It’s good to know that he already crossed over, that he never looked back as you said. It’s just… It would’ve felt good to know that he was still here because he missed me, that’s all.”
She slid the photo back towards Isaiah.
“I suppose this means that you need to continue with your investigation,” she said.
“It does,” he said politely and got up from his chair. His instinct was correctly telling him that Queenie wanted to be left alone.
“Good luck,” she said. Isaiah thanked her and walked to the door.
As he closed it behind him, his eyes caught one last glance of Queenie standing in the kitchen, looking out her window, motionless as a statue.
It was all too easy to imagine her staying like that forever.