I tried to meet Mom\u2019s flickering, pixellated gaze as it skittered across the screen, and to parse meaning from snippets as her voice shifted in and out of audibility, \u201cLots of people asked about you\u2026 with this fever\u2026 won\u2019t let me\u2026 bloodwork\u2026 don\u2019t know how long I\u2019ll be here\u2026 have to come home for high school in September if Dad can\u2019t find you a tutor\u2026\u201d <\/p>\n
The trip-planning sites all warned that Myanmar had the worst connectivity in Asia. No lie. We were waiting for delivery of a satellite dish, but in this part of the country, the electrical supply was as much an issue as the signal. <\/p>\n
Mom had gone back to Toronto for cancer treatment, leaving me stranded in Mawlamyin with Dad as he carried on converting the old rubber plantation into a museum\/hotel\u2013certain that it would attract a steady and lucrative stream of cultural and academic tourists. <\/p>\n
Twelve Oaks Estate sat in the center of a pegboard orchard of old and stingy rubber trees \u2013 a morning wagon\u2019s ride west of the enclave of colonial mansions known as little England. As far as I knew, there wasn\u2019t an actual oak tree within 1,000 klicks. The house was a vast block of stone that had long since lost most of its balconies and porches and canopies to rot and rust. <\/p>\n
The day I met Lawrence, was the first day of the rewiring, so all the electrical power in the house was switched off \u2013 no air conditioning, no TV, no computer. The contractor doing the reno didn\u2019t want the boss\u2019 son \u201cunderfoot,\u201d so I didn\u2019t have access to most of the house. I couldn\u2019t go outside because the gatherers didn\u2019t want people wandering the grounds of the plantation \u2013 outside of organized tours \u2013 for fear they would get in the way of the tappers or inadvertently contaminate the cup things they collect the latex in. Even though Dad had let me shadow him one day, he made it clear that I was a big distraction that couldn\u2019t happen often. And he didn\u2019t trust me to go into town on my own. <\/p>\n
Dad had augmented the library with books he\u2019d collected for display at the hotel \u2013 antiques and early editions to augment the immersive experience of living in a British colonial mansion: Robert Louis Stevenson, Daniel Dafoe, Rudyard Kipling. I read them mostly because there was nothing else to do. <\/p>\n
And I slept. <\/p>\n
I dreamed of boarding the subway at Museum Station. There were no other passengers except for a young woman at the far end of the train. As I walked toward her, she stood and I saw that she was wearing a deep green Edwardian dress with lace across the d\u00e9colletage, her long dark hair twirled atop her head with emerald combs. The air around her was a stale, slightly rotten potpourri of disquiet and despair. As beautiful as she was, there was no joy in her demeanor. Sadness clung to her, emanated from her. And need \u2013 an unfed hunger that sucked up the light as she put her hand on my shoulder and stared into my eyes. Darkness reached up in tendrils from between the seats, clinging to me, crawling up my arms, caressing my face. My breathing grew shallow.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can feel him near, my Henry,\u201d she said, then handed me a coconut shell and sighed. \u201cIf you see him, give him this.\u201d <\/p>\n
The subway doors opened into jungle, I followed her out onto what should have been the platform, but she almost instantly vanished in the trees. The shell opened like a book. In its cavity, nested an India rubber ball, milky purple shading to amber, like a heart that\u2019s drained of blood. It gave a larval twitch, squirmed, lengthened and dropped to the ground. I turned to get back on the train, but it had vanished and the platform had turned into a churning swamp of translucent worms that sucked me down. I woke up gasping for breath, face buried in a sweaty pillow.
\n
\nClimbing out of bed, I stumbled through the thick air to the stairs. It grew cooler, almost bearable as I descended, then turned the corner into a kitchen swathed in shadows.<\/p>\n
Dad was at the table, and the man across from him stood. \u201cBrent, this is Lawrence Pelham. He comes highly recommended by the Mawlamyine Board of Trade as the best English speaking tutor in the area.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rumpled and groggy, I simply grunted as I plodded past them toward the fridge, the door barely open before Dad snapped, \u201cDon\u2019t open it when the power\u2019s off. The food will spoil.\u201d Blah, blah, blah. \u201cThere\u2019s bread in the breadbox and fruit on the counter. And our guest brought us some local cheese.\u201d <\/p>\n
Hearing that word, I turned with a smile. I hadn\u2019t had cheese in weeks.<\/p>\n
\u201cLeicester\u2013British cheese\u2013made locally since 1820. You see, I raise dairy cows \u2013 on the side. Tutor, rancher, entrepreneur. At any rate, felicitations, young man! Delighted to meet you,\u201d said Lawrence, straightening his curved spine to achieve an impressive height while proffering a handshake that conveyed little of the intended enthusiasm of his words. His long fingered hands were unnaturally slender, arms so long that his bony wrists were entirely visible beyond the cuff of his white suit. He looked like Ebenezer Scrooge on a prison camp regimen \u2013 skin fish-belly white, and a long fringe of yellow feather duster hair surrounding his liver-spotted head. But the thing that struck me most was his voice \u2013 piping and proper, with a strange, slurpy British accent and a hint of a lisp. \u201cAs I understand it, getting you out of the house is our first order of business. And being your local dairy connection, I know a shop just an hour\u2019s drive from here that makes primo Italiano gelato.\u201d He turned back to Dad. \u201cI\u2019ll have him back by seven.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cA trial run then.\u201d Dad nodded. \u201cUntil the weekend.\u201d <\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t seem to have any say in the decision. Which was okay I guess. Lawrence\u2019s ancient Mercedes had state-of-the-art AC and despite being creepy looking, the old tutor was like a walking collection of interesting quirks. During the drive, he mostly just got me to talk about myself, but I also learned a bit about him, most surprisingly that he had been born and raised in Mawlamyine and spoke no other language than his peculiar and meticulous English.<\/p>\n
He shrugged, the moist corners of his lips curling into a smile. \u201cThe street I grew up on was a closed community of old British families. My grandfather was a friend of Rudyard Kipling. My uncle was a counselor when George Orwell was on the local police force.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike, the writer, Orwell?\u201d My English teacher had loaned me Animal Farm and Orwell\u2019s tale had absorbed me. <\/p>\n
\u201cJust like that, yes,\u201d Lawrence grinned broadly. \u201cWe knew him as Captain Eric Blair. He had blue circles tattooed on his knuckles but he never said what they were all about.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou knew him personally?\u201d I asked, trying to calculate how old that would make him. That would have to be like the 1930s!<\/p>\n
\u201cPerhaps not.\u201d Lawrence laughed. \u201cBut my father\u2019s stories were vivid enough I can almost remember being there.\u201d<\/p>\n
After that we talked about books. At least until we saw the giant Buddha reclining on the hillside ahead\u2013at which point the conversation turned to local culture and the eclecticism of the Buddhist way. As we grew closer to the slumbering deity, life sized painted statues of monks carrying alms bowls appeared on the verge of the highway just before we took the turn off for the gelato shop. It was in a tiny cluster of wooden houses, mostly selling different representations of the reclining Buddha, none very well made or expensive. The gelato itself was pretty runny and lumpy with mango, but cold and good just the same.<\/p>\n
After that, he took me to the monument that housed the Win-sein-Taw-Ya Shrine. It was filled with colorful dioramas of people being tortured and swimming in lava and turning into animals. \u201cThere\u2019s another nearby shrine that\u2019s rather like a carnival \u2013 with neon fountains and bowls moving across the landscape that the children can aim at. Doesn\u2019t seem very dignified for a great religion, really. But who am I to judge?\u201d<\/p>\n
I admitted to Lawrence that I didn\u2019t understand Christianity or Islam much better than Buddhism and he simply nodded, shrugged and said, \u201cReligion is the opium of the people.\u201d<\/p>\n
To which I responded brightly, \u201cErnest Hemingway,\u201d and enjoyed the admiring way he looked at me while people around us jostled and prayed and filled the many fountains with coins. <\/p>\n
He said to me, \u201cSuch a relief. Someone of your generation who cares about literary masterworks. We should get along smashingly.\u201d<\/p>\n
The next day, he assessed my math skills by setting out a bunch of questions that involved my buying video games in Myanmar currency. All of his lessons were tied to real life \u2013 and when I went shopping in Yangon that weekend, I\u2019m sure I saved about $40 buying games. Our attempts to contact Mom were a bit more successful and we talked for hours that weekend, but with that came the bad news that she had several more chemo treatments that would keep her grounded in Canada for months. I gave my new tutor a rave review and she helped convince Dad to keep Lawrence on, at least for the time being. <\/p>\n
We got home early Sunday evening, and I excused myself right after dinner to go upstairs and install the new games on my computer. But as my bedroom door closed behind me, I realized it wasn\u2019t eagerness that compelled me up the stairs. The instant the door closed behind me, it was like someone had opened a spigot in my chest and drained out every ounce of energy. I leaned back against the wall and slid toward the floor, and even before sleep had completely claimed me, the dream started pulling me in. <\/p>\n
The woman in green was rushing toward me from the far end of the subway train. Leaning over me, she asked, \u201cDid you find Henry?\u201d <\/p>\n
I reached into my shopping bag and pulled out a coconut shell like the one she\u2019d given me in the previous dream. Instead of a larva inside, there was a face \u2013 Lawrence\u2019s face \u2013 waxy and distorted. Red rimmed eyes peered out at me from deep within the sockets. The lips wrapped themselves around words, \u201cStill here, Penelope, my love. Only you can see me, know me, release me. And I, in turn, release you. Can you hear me? Come to me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTell him, yes,\u201d said the woman urgently, but it wasn\u2019t until I saw my reflection in the wardrobe mirror that I realized it was actually me saying it. In true dream fashion, I had become Penelope. I put my hand to my belly, empty of the child it had once contained. Our child. I shook my head, confused as I heard myself saying, \u201cWe will be together again.\u201d<\/p>\n
My eyes fluttered open, and I sat staring at the reflection of a fifteen year old boy, sitting on the floor, clinging to a shopping bag. After a brief check to reassure myself it contained no coconut shells, I hung the bag from my chair. Any urge to check out the new games had long since dissipated, so I lay on the bed, listening to the pounding of my heart, until I finally drifted back to sleep. As far as I can remember, it was a totally normal sleep. <\/p>\n
On Monday, with the power down again, we went to Lawrence\u2019s house. Being wood frame, it had not survived the ravages of time and typhoon as tidily as Twelve Oaks. The teak interior had remained intact, but it had lost its gleam, fading almost to grey and creaking like a tall ship whenever you walked down a hallway or went up the stairs.<\/p>\n
After retrieving some books from his library, we stopped off at a massive wooden wardrobe in the hall, where Lawrence seemed to have a sort of epiphany and threw open the doors with the flair of a game show presenter. The interior was filled with the crisp white suits that Lawrence always wore, each in its own plastic dry-cleaning bag. \u201cThey were purchased for the house staff \u2013 when we still had a staff. When I still had a family for that matter. Extremely well-tailored. The Burmen are slighter, so there are almost certainly smaller sizes that would fit you if you\u2019re interested.\u201d<\/p>\n
Imagining myself in one of these suits, I had to put my hand over my mouth to hide my smile. I smiled so seldom back then that the braces felt weird against my lips and I was aware of them for the first time in a long time. \u201cI\u2019m good, Lawrence. But thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAll right then,\u201d he declared throwing his hands in the air. \u201cYou don\u2019t want a free suit. No accounting for modern tastes. <\/p>\n
A few hours later, he said out of the blue, \u201cDo I understand that your pater is trying to restore Twelve Oaks as a working plantation? If so, I have something he might be interested in. It\u2019s called a steam mangle. They\u2019re also called wringers. This one compresses slabs of rubber between rollers. And it\u2019s steam powered. Perhaps even predating the dawn of the 20th century. I have an idea of how much it would sell for through Sotheby\u2019s, so I shan\u2019t let it go for a song. But I\u2019m sure we can work something out, maybe even some manner of rental arrangement. Would you like to see it?\u201d<\/p>\n
I shrugged. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t exactly confide in me, but he needs this sort of thing for the restoration. So he\u2019d probably be interested.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have a perfectly adequate hand mangle,\u201d he explained, \u201cso I don\u2019t need this monstrosity. Come down for a look-see.\u201d<\/p>\n
I trailed him down the basement stairs into the darkness. When he flipped a bank of switches at the bottom of the stairs, I expected a glare like a football stadium, but the few shaded lamps that were still working merely struggled to make certain parts of the room a bit less dark than others. A thick sliver of light sliced into the room from between the big barn doors that opened into the yard.<\/p>\n
Lawrence was delivering an enthusiastic sales pitch. \u201cYou can let him know what excellent shape it\u2019s in. I bought some fresh thick-slab from a local gatherer and ran a few sheets through.\u201d<\/p>\n
As Lawrence stepped into the darkness to retrieve a sheet of rubber from the wire where it hung, I remembered the dream and asked, \u201cDo you know anyone named Henry or Penelope?\u201d <\/p>\n
Lawrence stiffened as he reached up to take a slab off the drying line, then said, \u201cSo someone has told you the story? Or did you always know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat story?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout the ghost at Twelve Oaks. Penelope MacGregor. Nothing like a good ghost story to attract tourists of a certain type? Any type, really.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cPoor Penelope. Always looking, looking, looking for her Henry. More sad than tragic, I suppose. Very romantic.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t know there was a story,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve just been having dreams about her.\u201d<\/p>\n
He raised a brow. \u201cYou must have heard the story, even unconsciously. To remember the names like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNope,\u201d I shook my head. \u201cIt\u2019s all in the dream. She\u2019s always asking about Henry. Sure that I\u2019ve seen him. Giving me messages and gifts to pass along.\u201d<\/p>\n
Even though he stood just a few steps away, Lawrence\u2019s face seemed as featureless as the rectangular slabs hanging from the racks like meat in an abattoir. \u201cWhat kind of gifts?\u201d he asked. \u201cPhysical objects? Books or letters?\u201d<\/p>\n
I told him about the coconut shells in the dream, the larva and the face. \u201cBut nothing real. In the dream, you were Henry, only younger.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cAt least that\u2019s how you remember it. Dreams are curious that way. Always changing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe face spoke to me, but I don\u2019t remember what it said.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t seem as spooked about the prospect of a ghost as one might expect.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re just dreams,\u201d I shrugged. \u201cIf I saw an actual ghost, I\u2019d probably be more freaked out. But it might be pretty cool.\u201d <\/p>\n
Lawrence stepped out into the light, carrying a sheet of rubber the size of a bathmat. \u201cLet\u2019s take this sample to show your da how well the machine works.\u201d <\/p>\n
I took the rubber from him, surprised at its weight, given that it wasn\u2019t much thicker than a cotton blanket. I draped it over my arm, but as I followed Lawrence back upstairs, I felt overwhelmed with curiosity about what would happen if I draped the sheet of rubber over my head \u2013 wondering if it would conform to my features.
\nAs I came out of the doorway at the top of the stairs, I was shocked by Lawrence\u2019s outburst as he shouted, \u201cTake it off.\u201d<\/p>\n
As I spun it to look out through the gap, Lawrence grabbed the edge of the sheet and angrily pulled it off, nearly ripping my head off with it. The force slammed me into the wall and I stood there rubbing my shoulder.
\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said Lawrence immediately, \u201cAbout the unintentional roughhousing. I didn\u2019t mean to do that. Rubber attracts mold spores. No telling what kind of jungle fever it may give you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I grimaced at his silhouette in the light funneling in from the far end of the narrow hall.
\nAfter a while, he said, quietly, \u201cI do apologize. I did ask you to remove it. Are you\u2026 quite alright?\u201d<\/p>\n
I glared at him \u2013 surprised how strong he was for an old man. \u201cMaybe you should take me home. We could do the math lesson there.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s not enough light at your house. Perhaps when the power comes back on.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s bright in my room.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lawrence smiled and said, \u201cWise tutors avoid going into their students\u2019 bedrooms. Why don\u2019t we just go into town? The Martaban Museum is displaying some newly acquired Mon relics. We can have curry for lunch at the Khit Thit and I might even buy you a beer as long as you don\u2019t tell your dear da.\u201d<\/p>\n
As he spoke, the sheet of rubber dangled from his forearm like a big awkward wing. Within its flaps and drapes and jiggles, I saw the contours of a face looking out at me from the pliant surface\u2013not my face, but Penelope\u2019s.<\/p>\n
It vanished into the folds as Lawrence turned away from me. I followed him out the front door and as he locked it behind me, I said, \u201cOn the way into town you can tell me the story.\u201d<\/p>\n
He gave me a blank, wordless look, so I went on. \u201cYou can\u2019t just drop the bomb that there\u2019s a ghost in my house and then not tell me the story.\u201d <\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose I did open that can of worms.\u201d <\/p>\n
As we pulled the Mercedes out onto the highway, Lawrence said, \u201cI\u2019d have told you earlier, but didn\u2019t want to frighten you unnecessarily. The locals call them preta, which translates to hungry ghost. Spirits that desire things they can never have. Twelve Oaks has its very own preta. Simply put, Penelope MacGregor died under mysterious circumstances after receiving news of the demise of her betrothed, my great-uncle, Major Henry Pelham. And she\u2019s been waiting for him ever since.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s the whole story? I mean, Henry\u2019s your uncle. Have you done any ghost-hunting? Has she ever come looking for him at your estate?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would she do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
I shrugged, \u201cmaybe her ghost tracked down his ghost.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lawrence shook his head. \u201cHenry is long gone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow can we be sure?\u201d I said. \u201cThere has to be more you can tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know more details, background sort of thing. Major Henry Pelham was appointed to head up the front line garrison in Mandalay and tasked with quelling the latest round of unrest\u2013both real and rumored \u2013 within the Raj. Family legend has it that my namesake, Lawrence Pelham, went out of his way to look in on and look after his elder brother\u2019s fianc\u00e9e while Henry was away. The young Lawrence adored her, her kindness, her beauty, even her faithfulness to his brother and knew there was nothing he could do to win her favor or her romantic interest.<\/p>\n
She made it abundantly clear that she could hardly wait until Henry either returned from his post or called her to Rangoon to live with him. Then Henry died on the front. Suffocated in a burning barrack after an attack by insurgents. But even after he died\u2013after his funeral\u2013Penelope kept waiting for him and him alone, and is waiting still they say. She was delusional, hysterical, eventually institutionalized.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it possible that Henry wasn\u2019t really dead?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe army couldn\u2019t ship his body back for burial, but I\u2019ve seen the casting that they made\u2013a death-mask that\u2019s entombed in his crypt.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf it was entombed, how did you see it?\u201d<\/p>\n
After a long silence, he said, \u201cThe crypt was damaged in a storm. It\u2019s been resealed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you know that he sent her letters, after he had supposedly died,\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Lawrence shook his head. \u201cDo you have any of these actual letters, or did you just learn about them in a dream?\u201d \u201cEven in death, you consume me,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s how the first one began. He sent them after he died.\u201d \u201cShe couldn\u2019t tell anyone,\u201d I explained. \u201cThe letter said that if their union became known to any mortal soul, it would become no more than a memory. The letter bid her to burn his letters so that he could climb the ladder of ash to her room.\u201d<\/p>\n Lawrence\u2019s voice croaked a bit as he said, \u201cI\u2019m not sure it\u2019s safe for you to stay in that room. What if she draws you into her dementia?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cWhere else am I going to stay?\u201d I put to him, realizing as I did so that the prospect of communicating with the ghost excited more than terrified me.<\/p>\n The next day, my dad sent a truck and three men to pick up the mangler. While everyone else was outside, hoisting the machine onto the truck, I explored the cellar. In an unlit corner, I found a cabinet that was nowhere near as dusty as everything around it. As I reached out, I was startled by a noise a hissing and slithering through the darkness. The ground seemed to squirm at my feet and I jumped back.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s Henry,\u201d the snakes hissed and slithered. \u201cHe\u2019ssss here. Henry? Henry? Henry? Sssssssssssssssso near.\u201d \u201cDo you have snakes down here?\u201d <\/p>\n He laughed. \u201cThere are probably snakes living under most of the houses in Burma. Did you see one?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt spoke to me,\u201d I almost told him, but instead I said nothing. <\/p>\n That night on the dream train, Penelope sat down beside me.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t think I truly believed Henry would come back to me until the night he came knocking at my door,\u201d Penelope whispered. Through her eyes, I saw his face perched upon the pillow. With her fingertips, I traced the curve of his jaw. Although all the features were Lawrence\u2019s features, this was not him. It was Henry. Of course it was Henry, who had declared his immortal love, who had broached the greatest chasm to be with her for one beautiful night. It was Henry who had entered her and spilled his angelic seed inside her\u2013completing their bond. It was Henry\u2013right up until that awful moment when it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n She handed me a book instead of a coconut shell. I awakened, certain I had seen a copy of that book, Pride and Prejudice, somewhere in the house. I got out of bed and started searching through the bookshelves, finding it in the living room. When I opened it, two envelopes, along with a yellowed, scallop-edged photograph slid out from behind the vellum frontispiece. It was a picture of a man in uniform \u2013 of Lawrence to be precise. On the back was inscribed, \u201cCounting the heartbeats until you are back in my arms. All my love, Henry.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook in his cellar,\u201d an urgent whisper awakened me from the dream. The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was Penelope\u2019s face, inches from my own \u2013 locking her gaze with me, as she repeated, \u201cthe cellar.\u201d<\/p>\n The next morning. Lawrence drove up and honked for me rather than coming in as usual.<\/p>\n \u201cDid you dream of Penelope again last night?\u201d <\/p>\n \u201cShe gave me something to show you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnother coconut shell?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSomething real this time. She told me where to find it.\u201d<\/p>\n I refused to show it to him until we sat down in his living room. He read the inscription on the back then flipped it over and stared into his own eyes. \u201cThe resemblance is uncanny, I\u2019ll give you that. He shrugged, smirked. \u201cGenetics I suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n I shook my head. \u201cShe told me to look in your basement.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook for what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHell if I know.\u201d I said, \u201cBut do you mind if we go down and look. Our personal ghost adventure awaits, right down these stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n I grasped the knob, opened the door and stepped down. The surfeit of creaking behind me made me turn my head in time to see Lawrence coming up behind me, swinging a fireplace poker down toward my head, but I stepped aside and his downward arc carried him off balance and he tumbled past me down the stairs. <\/p>\n At the bottom of the stairs, I flicked on the bank of feeble lights to find Lawrence sprawled, face down on the concrete floor. One leg had snapped and was bent sideways. In the fall, he had dropped something that was now lying just beyond his outstretched fingertips \u2013 looking like the pupae from my dream. I nudged it with my shoe, and it unfolded as it rolled over.<\/p>\n It was Lawrence\u2019s face, or rather, a rubber mask of his face \u2013 distorted and hollow eyed. I picked it up and stared into the empty eye sockets. Behind me, the man moaned and lifted his head. What was left of the features on his skull stood out like inflamed scabs on stretched white parchment. The creature gestured toward the mask, imploring me to give it back, which made me grip it tighter. <\/p>\n As I tried to step around him to get to the stairs, a strong hand clamped around my ankle. I didn\u2019t fall, but as I struggled to free myself, he grabbed the mask, tearing it from my grip so violently that I was left clinging to a rubber ear and part of a jaw.<\/p>\n He toppled me onto my back. As he pulled what was left of the mask tightly over his skull, I could see his body begin to instantly repair itself, the broken leg bending and straightening back into shape as he climbed to his feet and took a clumsy step toward me. <\/p>\n I watched his rubber lips move, his eyes blink, almost normal again. \u201cYou found my masks, didn\u2019t you? Yesterday? You better not have done anything to them or I\u2019ll make a death-mask of you.\u201d Blood poured down his neck from the missing ear and I glanced down at the bloody bit of cartilage in my hand.<\/p>\n He backed me to the corner where I had heard \u201cthe snake.\u201d On the upper shelf was a plaster mask \u2013 the deathmask, I assumed. On the bottom shelf were rubber castings, a dozen masks at least \u2013 all with Henry\u2019s features.<\/p>\n He pulled off the one he was wearing and threw it to the floor with a bloody splat. While he was replacing it with a fresh mask, smoothing it into place, I took advantage of the distraction, running past him, unbolting the swinging door and bursting out. As I glanced over my shoulder, it was not the elderly tutor my father had hired who I saw standing there, but rather the young colonial soldier whose face had supplied the mould. Lawrence had somehow become 40 years younger.<\/p>\n I ran through the rubber grove, screaming for help from anyone who might be out there, but seeing no one, no gatherers, no construction workers, or cowherds. As I paused, disorientated, the creature that was Lawrence caught up to me, hauling me down and straddling me. But coming up through the well of panic inside me, I felt a presence, and like in the dreams where I became Penelope, she stepped into my head. <\/p>\n I don\u2019t know what Lawrence saw when I spoke in her voice, \u201cHenry, you\u2019re back.\u201d<\/p>\n He stared back down and said, \u201cYou can\u2019t possibly still be waiting?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd why wouldn\u2019t I be?\u201d said Penelope. \u201cYou have always been everything to me.\u201d <\/p>\n He seemed paralyzed with shock and disbelief. Frozen enough at least that I was able to squirm out of his grasp and buck him off me. He jumped to his feet, but instead of attacking me again, he ran back into the house, slamming the basement door behind him. A moment later, I saw motion though an upstairs window, in the trophy room near Henry\u2019s crypt. Penelope imagined him loading an antique rifle and since she was inside of me, I shared that supposition. I stood swaying in the hot morning sun, trying to convince myself to turn and flee, but she clung to me, refusing to let go.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve finally found him,\u201d she told me. \u201cI need you now.\u201d<\/p>\n My eyes fluttered shut and I struggled to escape the waking dream, but she remained in front of me. \u201cIt\u2019s not really Henry.\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019s Lawrence, he was\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d <\/p>\n Her stark words hung in the air. \u201cI know what he really is. There\u2019s one honest thing he told me. If a mortal learns the truth it comes undone. Now that you know about him, he will come for you. If you run away, there\u2019s no telling what he would do to silence you. He\u2019d kill your father, I\u2019m sure. But right now, we have the upper hand. We can destroy him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut what is it I know?\u201d I said to the ghost. \u201cI\u2019m so confused.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome with me.\u201d<\/p>\n My shock and terror was finally beginning to ebb, as Penelope\u2019s outrage and hunger for vengeance filled me. I ducked down into a crouch and began running through the grove, not towards Twelve Oaks, but rather, circling back toward Lawrence\u2019s house. Of course all the doors were locked. I was leaning back against the basement wall wondering how to proceed, when the door swung open. Thinking that he\u2019d caught us and half-expecting a bullet through the chest, I staggered back, but the figure in the doorway cocked a sly brow at me as she turned to smoke. As I felt her flow back into me, I thought (or at least felt her thinking), there are some advantages to being a ghost.<\/p>\n I could hear Lawrence stomping and shuffling across the floor above me, walking as though he hadn\u2019t just broken his leg. My breath caught in my throat as he moved back toward the stairs. The cabinet door was open and the shelves were empty. There on the floor, looking up at me, was the mask that Lawrence had discarded \u2013 the torn face that I had gotten to know as Lawrence. <\/p>\n I picked it up.<\/p>\n \u201cPut it on,\u201d said Penelope\u2019s voice in my head.<\/p>\n She held it out to me, a layer of raw, bleeding flesh dimming its translucence.<\/p>\n I felt like puking on the floor or shouting what the hell do you want from me lady? Or just curling into a ball. But I knew what she wanted, and required me to turn the mask over, and lower my face into the bloody mess as though it was a hot towel. <\/p>\n Henry\u2019s final memories flooded into me, of being dragged by his wrists out of a fire that was enveloping the barracks at the camp where he was stationed. He had regained consciousness, opening his bleary eyes to find himself lying in a box. The smell of plaster was overwhelming, the last face he saw before the viscous fluid flowed over his forehead filling his eyes was his younger brother\u2019s long gaunt face. Henry opened his mouth to scream and the substance filled him, choked him, drowned him\u2013trapping his soul in that living deathmask. <\/p>\n Inside me, Penelope writhed, her hunger for the truth undermined by its bitterness. In the same way that a part of Henry\u2019s soul had been captured in the deathmask and transferred to the rubber copies, the thoughts and recollections now racing through my mind were from Lawrence\u2019s perspective \u2013 far fresher, more fervid than Henry\u2019s comparatively petrified memories. The whole story was laid out before her now, a banquet of poisons.<\/p>\n Through my senses, she experienced Lawrence\u2019s nightly vigil while he watched, in a rapture of adoration and devotion, as Penelope prayed and got ready for bed. <\/p>\n We accompanied Lawrence on his journey to the shrine of the demon, Kama-Mara, in a huge hollow baobab bole in the jungle, vividly recalling the moment he pushed aside a great curtain of moss, to be enveloped in a haze of earthy incense that reeked like dung and mud and fungus. Unlike Buddha, who never greets you personally at the door, Kama-Mara was waiting cross legged in his thorny robes and grateful for their visit. When he took Lawrence\u2019s hands in his, the young man staggered back and the demon laughed companionably. \u201cYou must let me feel your need. The better I understand it, the better I can help with your problem. Show me the depth of your desire.\u201d<\/p>\n Lawrence had wanted his brother\u2019s life. He had wanted Penelope. And so, the deal was struck, the steps were taken: the kidnapping from the battlefield, the making of the mold while Henry\u2019s lungs filled with plaster, and the letter to Penelope in a very good approximation of his dead brother\u2019s hand, (for Lawrence had practiced many years) declaring that death had not freed him from her love, the ink running where his tears spilled onto the page. <\/p>\n Putting his plan into action had been a gradual thing. There had been many letters, growing bolder each time. Explaining how difficult it was to cross between the realms, convincing her that she was pulling him inexorably into the mortal world by following his instructions \u2013 going out onto her balcony, touching herself in certain ways so he could watch. Henry\u2019s dress uniform had hung large on him the first time he stepped out into the faint light that permeated the gardens of the estate, making sure she glimpsed him before stepping back into the shadows.<\/p>\n Then finally putting on the mask, on the night of the winter dance at the Anglican Church when he had convinced her to stay home alone. The love and longing in her eyes, the most powerful thing Lawrence had ever felt. As they kissed, all his worries were washed away in a tide of fulfillment and desire. She gave herself to him again and again and again, as they both forgot that the rest of the world existed.<\/p>\n Until a knock came at her bedroom door. <\/p>\n \u201cWe heard noises. Are you alright my dear?\u201d came her father\u2019s voice.<\/p>\n Lawrence whispered to her, \u201cIf they see me, then I will never be able to come back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll keep them away, my love.\u201d<\/p>\n As he hid, he began to sweat and the mask no longer adhered to his skin. He tried desperately to put the disguise back on. When it didn\u2019t work, he dressed quickly. <\/p>\n \u201cWhat is going on in here?\u201d her father demanded, bursting into the room. The mask slipped from Lawrence\u2019s fingers, and with it, all pretense.<\/p>\n \u201cLawrence?\u201d came the father\u2019s voice. \u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n Penelope gazed at him with widening eyes as he fastened his belt. \u201cWhy are you wearing his clothes? Where is Henry?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cListen here young man! What are you doing in my daughter\u2019s room?\u201d<\/p>\n Wordlessly, Lawrence fled, leaving behind a crowd of open-mouthed onlookers and a wailing and very confused and grief-stricken young woman.<\/p>\n In the aftermath, she denied ever letting Lawrence into her bedroom and refused to believe that Henry was dead. She had seen him, made love with him\u2026and as it turned out, was carrying his child. The family confined her to the house, ashamed of both her pregnancy and her growing madness. And Lawrence, having once tasted her, was both sated and banned from Twelve Oaks. <\/p>\n One moment I knew none of this, the next the memories were part of me. I even shared in the feeling of relief he\u2019d felt upon hearing the news that Penelope had hanged herself following her return from the asylum.<\/p>\n Her screams of anguish and fury erupted from inside me. Her treasured memories of her final tryst with the man she loved now fully exposed. <\/p>\n I opened my eyes to see Lawrence coming down the stairs, holding an elephant gun he had shown off to me earlier in the week.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that on your face?\u201d Lawrence demanded. \u201cThat\u2019s not yours. That\u2019s mine! Take it off!\u201d<\/p>\n He pulled the trigger\u2013and I\u2019m not at all sure what followed.<\/p>\n There were curtains of rubber between us, which the bullets couldn\u2019t seem to penetrate. They hit the barriers, unearthly and inviolable, and simply dropped out of the air, mingling with the shell casings on the floor. <\/p>\n As Lawrence stared stupidly at the empty gun, his face grew longer, mouth gaping stupidly, eye-sockets emptying of all sensibility as the final lies fell away.<\/p>\n \u201cI know everything about you now,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd so does Penelope.\u201d <\/p>\n As her name escaped my lips, her spirit seemed to billow out from my chest \u2013 her long arms reaching, her cold hands grasping his ankles as she pulled him back down the stairs, his enfeebled hands clawing, fingers snapping off, fingertips crumbling to dust. It screamed as she reached into him and tore out his life-force like gutting a fish.<\/p>\n Now knowing where Lawrence had put the masks, I ran up the stairs, opened the vault beneath the Henry\u2019s monument and pulled them out. When I smashed the plaster deathmask onto the flagstones, I felt Henry\u2019s spirit, pouring from the rents, rising up between the pieces. Penelope was there to gather them, And I left the two of them there, spirits swirling as I went back down to the basement to prepare an acid bath for the rubber faces\u2013which were now no more than faces, with Henry\u2019s spirit having escaped at last.<\/p>\n You might think I\u2019d have been covered in his blood, but Lawrence had apparently lived a bloodless life. There was nothing left of him beyond the ash smeared white suit crumpled on the floor. The police investigation was over in a heartbeat. For all of his unnatural years, it seems that Lawrence did not make much of an impression upon the world.<\/p>\n Since The Colored Lens<\/em> published “Along Dominion Road” in 2015, Dale L. Sproule has sold a few stories to micro-markets like Three Minute Plastic<\/em>, Strange Mysteries Magazines<\/em> and Stories from the Near Future<\/em>. He also has a story coming in the Unbound II<\/em> anthology, which brings his published story total to over 50. Dale L. Sproule is working mostly on novels these days and hopes to have one on the market before summer.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I tried to meet Mom\u2019s flickering, pixellated gaze as it skittered across the screen, and to parse meaning from snippets as her voice shifted in and out of audibility, \u201cLots of people asked about you\u2026 with this fever\u2026 won\u2019t let me\u2026 bloodwork\u2026 don\u2019t know how long I\u2019ll be here\u2026 have to come home for high …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":16632,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,14351],"tags":[14352],"class_list":["post-100738","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-23-spring-2017","tag-the-colored-lens-23-spring-2017","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100738","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/16632"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=100738"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100738\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139472,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100738\/revisions\/139472"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=100738"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=100738"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=100738"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI shrugged, unable to explain how I knew about the letters in the first place. But I remembered their neat script, their luminous words, Even in death, you consume me. How can I pass unto that cold land without us ever consummating our bond that made each day on Earth worth living? At the mercy of the seraphims who believe in love above all else, I have been given human form in which to come to you. <\/em><\/p>\n
\n\u201cAhhh, ghost letters! There\u2019s a new theory.\u201d<\/p>\n
\n
\nA hand clamped over my shoulder and I just about jumped out of my skin as Lawrence said, \u201cSo we\u2019re all done here.\u201d<\/p>\n