clearly than the others, the lines and sags of an old man’s face. Weather-roughened skin, red across his cheeks and forehead like windburn. Sunken brown eyes, still bright but emotionless, as if he’s retreated somewhere inside himself.
As he walks toward me, I back up, so I can keep examining him. He’s lean but strong, as I noticed before, his back straight, shoulders narrow and arms hidden beneath his coarse shirt, yet he carries his burden easily.
His burden . . .
A figure wrapped in a sheet. The same sheet that shrouded the ghost I’d seen tonight, the one who tried to lure me into the bog. Her face and hair are covered, but I’ve no doubt it’s the ghost I saw. One hand has fallen partially free of the shroud, pale fingers bouncing with each step. I catch a glimpse of blue.
A blue dress beneath the shroud.
This is the ghost that challenged me on the rocks. It’s also the woman I just saw, fleeing her unknown assailant.
Maybe I should have connected them sooner, but they’d seemed two separate people. A frightened woman lost in the moors and a vengeful spirit enraged by her inability to communicate. Two very different situations, showing two very different sides of the same woman.
If I’d been lost in the moors, alone, and then stalked by a killer, I’d be terrified and tearful, too. Then, if hundreds of years later, my ghost met someone she could communicate with, and that person couldn’t hear me? Refused to follow me? I’d be just as furious as the shrouded spirit.
I’m still backing up, committing the figures to memory, when the man turns. It looks as if he’s leaving the path, but then I see a narrow one to the side. I hurry after them. Another ten paces, though, and he does indeed abandon the path, heading deeper into the moors. I take two steps, and mud squelches around my bare feet.
The bog.
I’ve circled around and come back on the opposite side of the bog.
The bog where the shrouded ghost tried to lead me.
The bog where this man is now taking her body.
An image flashes, the man looking up at the house, at that window. Looking to see whether anyone noticed him slipping into the moor, spade in hand.
That’s what the shrouded ghost had been trying to show me. Her burial place.
I hurry after the man, but in the back of my mind, self-preservation beats a drum tattoo of, “No, no, no.” There’d been a very good reason why I refused to follow the woman into the bog. The same reason William’s picnic spot remained untouched. The same reason he took us the long way over the rocks. The wetlands are dangerous even in daylight. At night? I’m risking my life with every footstep.
Still, I press on until one foot strikes the wrong spot, instantly sinking to mid-calf. Panic seizes me, and I scrabble for firmer ground. My leg pops free, and I stumble. My other foot slides on the damp earth. I flail, and then down I go, and the ground seems to rise up, sucking me in. More flailing, more panic, until I manage to drag myself from the muck.
I sit on the ground, heart pounding, as I catch my breath. Then I crawl to ground firm enough to stand on. When I’m upright, I look out to see the dark figure of the man, surefootedly picking a path into the bog. I strain to watch him, noting the direction he went. Finally, he’s gone.
Gone to bury his dead.
19
It’s nearly midnight by the time I get to the manor house. Muddied and exhausted, I tramp across the yard. As the front door slaps shut behind me, Enigma squeaks from upstairs and tumbles down the stairs so fast I use my last iota of energy scrambling to catch her. Then I sit on the steps, kitten on my lap, stare into darkness and catch my breath.
Memories of the man fade, my heart slows, and I’m reminded that the moors aren’t the only place I see ghosts. It’s past dark. I should take Enigma and flee to my room. But I don’t, because tonight, I want to see the ghosts. I want to talk to them.
I make my way upstairs, straining ears and eyes, but there’s no sign of the woman in black. I’m turning when I catch movement at the linen closet door. A flash of a white-sleeved arm, lace at the wrist.
“Hello?” I say, gripping Enigma tight.
There’s nothing there