Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
“What’s wrong, hon?” Ellen asked.
“Were you wearing that last night?” Harper croaked, struggling to sit up and orient herself, trying to focus her eyes, and her mind.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your nightgown—were you wearing that last night?”
Ellen looked down at her bright pink flannel. “Of course. This is my cold-weather nightgown, and it’s been chilly lately. Why? And why are you on my couch holding a gun?”
Harper opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She had no idea what to say.
“Let’s have some coffee, shall we?” Ellen suggested. She led Harper into the kitchen, sat her down at the table, and pushed the button on the coffee machine.
Harper placed the revolver on the table with a heavy thunk. “I should put that back in the gun safe.”
“That’s probably a good idea. But have your coffee first. It’s not loaded, is it?”
“No.” Harper took the clip out of her robe’s pocket and set it beside the pistol.
The kitchen was soon filled with the welcome aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.
Harper happily accepted a mug, watching the steam rise and curl, its wispiness reminding her of what she had seen in the mirror yesterday at the mansion.
What she thought she had seen in the mirror yesterday.
It had all happened so fast, and she kept telling herself it was a trick of the light…
but she could have sworn something, or someone, had been standing behind her.
And then she had seen something similar in her bathroom mirror last night…but no, that was just a dream, no doubt stoked by the mansion’s shrouded mirror.
“Now, why don’t you tell me why you slept on my couch with my gun,” urged Ellen, settling in at the table.
“I’m not sure where to start.”
“Start at the beginning. Last night, after we talked, you went to your apartment and…?”
“I worked on my book outline for a while, then went to bed. I woke up suddenly around three a.m., and thought I heard someone coming up the stairs and scratching at my door.”
“Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”
“I…might have been. The thing is…when I looked outside, I saw a woman on the lawn. And your back door was wide open.” Harper left out the part about the woman’s glowing eyes—surely that was a trick of the light, or her imagination in overdrive.
Ellen reached out and squeezed her hand. “You must have been dreaming, sweetie.”
“That’s what I thought at first—but I really don’t think so. There was a woman dancing on the grass in your backyard. She wore a long white gown and a Mexican shawl.”
“A white gown and a rebozo?” She sat back. “Huh. Well, now. That might be a different kettle of fish altogether.”
“Meaning?”
“That sounds to me like the Lady in White,” Ellen said calmly, as if discussing the weather.
Harper froze, the mug of coffee halfway to her lips.
“They say that if you see her face in the mirror,” Ellen continued, “she might just pay you a visit.”
“And why would she do that?”
“I suppose she has something to tell you.”
“The Lady in White,” Harper repeated, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
Ellen nodded.
“You honestly believe in such things?”
“Don’t you?”
Harper shook her head emphatically.
“I suppose I just assumed you would, given your area of study, and your interest in the Perles Mansion.”
“I’m a historian. My interest is purely intellectual.”
“I believe the departed may still be among us. They might visit us in our sleep, or sometimes to whisper a word of warning. Haven’t you ever been visited by a departed loved one in your dreams?
” Ellen stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her mug and blew at the steam.
“I find it’s often when things seem dire.
After all, one can only see the stars shining when shrouded in darkness. ”
Harper thought of Sigrid, who had said something similar. “So you do believe in ghosts.”
Ellen shrugged. “When we gaze up at the night sky, we see the light of stars that have been dead for thousands of years. Maybe humans are the same way. Maybe some souls, especially the powerful ones, echo through the generations.”
In the silvery light of a new day, Harper’s fears felt silly.
She stood in the driveway and stared up at her apartment.
The door was now closed. Everything seemed normal.
Maybe Ellen was right; maybe it had all been a bad dream stoked by the trauma during the ghost tour and then the odd sensations inside the Perles Mansion.
And the bloody scene in the mirrored room. And that shrouded mirror.
Maybe Harper had been the one sleepwalking.
As she was trying to psych herself up to enter her apartment alone, a dusty Camry pulled up to the curb.
“Good morning,” Tariq said as he climbed out of the car, holding up a pink-and-white-striped box and a cardboard tray with two paper coffee cups. “Thought I’d surprise you with some goodies from the Monterey Donut shop. Best apple fritters in town.”
“I—I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” Harper stammered, relief settling on her shoulders like a blanket. She gave him a sideways hug.
“Harp?” Tariq asked. “What’s going on? Dare I ask why you’re out here in your jammies?”
“It’s sort of a long story,” she murmured.
“I’m in no hurry,” said Tariq.
The next-door neighbor, on his way to work, called to her: “Hey, Harper, everything okay last night? I heard a car alarm, but when I looked out, I didn’t see anything.”
“Yes, I’m so sorry about that,” said Harper, clutching her robe tightly. “False alarm. I hope you were able to go back to sleep.”
“No problem. Have a good day.” He waved and got into his car.
“I should get dressed,” said Harper. “Would you come upstairs with me to check out my apartment? Just in case?”
“Of course,” Tariq said, starting down the driveway toward her apartment.
“Maybe we should get Ellen’s gun…”
“A gun? What the hell happened last night?”
“Let’s go inside, and I’ll fill you in.”
“Someone set off your car alarm?” Tariq asked over his shoulder as he led the way up the stairs. Their feet sounded loud on the treads and reminded her of the icy fear she had felt last night.
“I did it myself. I wanted to make some noise. I thought—I thought there was someone at my door, and then on the lawn.”
“Someone like who?”
“That’s the question. I may have been dreaming, or sleepwalking.” Or I may be haunted.
“Ready?” Tariq asked as they stood on the landing. He reached out, turned the knob, and opened the door.
Inside was quiet, and everything looked to be as she had left it. Sunlight streamed in through the gingham curtains. A faceted crystal cast tiny rainbows on the wood floor. Her laptop rested on the dining room table she used as a desk, and her research books and papers were organized in neat piles.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here,” said Harper.
“Hardly even you. You’re a neatnik, I take it. The only thing messed up is your bed.”
Harper pushed her computer and notes aside to make way for the pastry box and coffee cups. Suddenly famished, she took a huge bite of an apple fritter, then gave Tariq an abbreviated version of last night’s events.
“Sounds like you were dreaming,” Tariq said, concern etched on his face.
She started to deny it but, in the clear light of day, had to admit last night’s events had a dreamlike quality. “I could have sworn I was awake. And I was aware enough to go get Ellen’s gun, and to remember the combination to the safe.”
“And to set off your car alarm. That was clever, by the way,” said Tariq.
“I was hoping it might scare off an intruder.”
He nodded and studied her face. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to my place for dinner tonight? We both know you don’t eat right. Apple fritters notwithstanding.”
“I beg to differ. I have discovered the wonders of the taco truck.”
“My point precisely.”
“Isn’t it karaoke night at the Pearl?”
“It is. Come over to my place, I’ll cook for you, and we’ll go to karaoke together.”
She smiled. “I don’t know, I have a pretty busy day ahead of me.”
“Well, give it some thought,” Tariq said, downing his coffee and getting to his feet. “Right now, though, let me use your bathroom and I’ll be on my way.”
Tariq pushed open the bathroom door. “Harper? Did something happen in here?”
She saw as she approached that the bathroom mirror had been shattered. Shards riddled the tile floor and porcelain sink, glinting in the light. Harper could see her own horrified face reflected in the bits of glass.
“Was someone in here last night, or could you have done this yourself?”
Harper did not know how to respond. She remembered thinking she’d seen something in the mirror, but had no memory of smashing it.
But then again, if she had been sleepwalking, she might not remember such a detail.
This was precisely the reason for sleep paralysis: to keep people safe while they dreamed.
Without it, sleepwalkers often acted out their dreams, to the point of jumping out of windows believing they can fly. Or smashing mirrors in their bathrooms.
Is that what happened?
As she went to fetch a broom and dustpan from the kitchen, Harper thought about the bizarre nature of somnambulism. Historically, folks often associated sleepwalking with demon possession or messages from the gods.
“You know, I was supposed to go hiking with a friend today,” Tariq said. “But I can cancel if you’d like company. Or you’re welcome to come with us.”
“Thanks, Tariq, but I’ll be fine.”
They hugged. His arms felt strong and reassuring around her. As she pulled away, Harper noticed a small scar over his right eyebrow. Had he always had it? She couldn’t remember. Her gaze then fell to his lips.
“All right then, Professor,” Tariq said with a smile, as he started for the door. “Now that you’re awake, fed, well caffeinated, and at least temporarily safe from the boogeyman, I suppose my work here is done.”