through the darkness again. He moved the flashlight away from the body.
"Sylvie, I was wrong," he said. "She's here. You don't want to look."
"After all these years, I've come this far. It's time. Show me."
How could he have doubted her? She said she knew what death was. And she was right. He was the one who had never faced death. It happened at a distance for him. It happened on the TV news. She had held death in her hands.
Even in the darkness, she knew where to look. He turned from her and shone the flashlight onto the corpse.
"Listen, Sylvie," he said. "Whatever you did, you've been paying for it, don't you see? Trapped in this house. It wasn't first-degree murder, it was in a rage, I'm no lawyer but it was probably only manslaughter, you would have been out of prison before now."
She didn't say anything, just panted. Then groaned, a sound torn from the depth of her soul. Was she all right? He turned the flashlight from the body on the mattress to Sylvie's face. It wasn't grief or guilt that he saw there. It was horror. As if she were seeing this scene for the first time. She pointed at the corpse.
"What is it?" Don said. "She can't hurt you now, Sylvie."
"What she's wearing," said Sylvie, her voice weak. "Look what she's wearing."
Don shone the flashlight back on the body. He looked closely this time. The clothing was dark with tunnel grime, but as he stepped closer he could see that it wasn't the t-shirt Sylvie had described. It was a dress. A faded blue dress. He turned the flashlight back on Sylvie. She was plucking at her skirt like a little girl. The identical skirt.
"Same dress," said Don stupidly, trying to make sense of it.
"That's not Lissy," said Sylvie.
She sank down against the stone wall.
"It's me," she whispered.
Chapter 16 Ballroom
It took Don a moment to realize what she was saying. "How could it be you?" he said lamely.
"I thought it was a dream," she said. She was shaking, leaning against the stone wall of the tunnel. The flashlight in his hand made her look like she was on stage, with a tight but feeble spotlight picking her out of the darkness. "I dreamed I came back down the tunnel and I was shaking her again, trying to wake her even though I knew she was dead, and then her hands... shot up and took me by the throat and I tried to apologize, I said I was sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to hurt her, but then I couldn't breathe and it hurt and I kept thinking, any time now I'll wake up, any time."
"She strangled you."
"Her face. So hateful. I thought it was what I deserved. I thought it was her ghost, haunting me. I've dreamed it a thousand times since then. I thought I was dreaming then. Because. Because it all went black, and then I woke up and it was dark because the candles had burnt out but I tripped over a body, lying on the mattress, a body right where I had left her body, I tripped over my body." She turned and looked over toward the corpse on the mattress. "Show me," she whispered. He turned the light toward the body. She crawled over. Touched it. Touched the parchment skin of the bare leg. Touched the damp rotting fabric of the dress. Then touched her own dress, the same dress, but not rotting.
"How can a..." How could he ask her this?
Her head sank. She didn't look at him.
"How can a ghost trip over a dead body."
She shook her head.
"You touched me. I touched you." He reached out to prove it to her.
"No!" she cried, recoiling from him, scurrying back to the wall.
"You're real," he insisted.
She cried again.
He reached out to touch her and this time she endured it. And yes, there was resistance, he could feel the skin of her arm.
And then he couldn't.
And then he could, but his finger was about a half-inch deep in her arm. He cried out in horror and pulled his hand away. She raised her face to look at him. "The house," she said. "I've got to get back inside the house."
"No, you've got to get away from this house."
"We're not in the house," she said. "Shine the light, show me the way back. I'm losing it."
He shone the light up the tunnel toward the basement. Sylvie got up. Too far up - she