Read Online The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James - Free Book Online

window and made my way back across the room. I could not help limping; Mr. Gellis had turned back to his notebook and did not see, but I looked up to see Mr. Ryder watching me, a sharp look in his eyes. I felt as if he were cataloging me, measuring me somehow in his brain, and finding me wanting. My stomach churned in uneasiness at the sight of him, and I looked away.
    I sat down. Mr. Gellis pulled his chair close to mine. Mr. Ryder, still restless and unable to stand still, paced out of my line of vision—he stood somewhere else in the room; I knew not where, perhaps back by the window where I had just been. I did not turn to look. I looked at Mr. Gellis, whose dark gray eyes were on me, the sweet crook of a smile on his mouth. I smiled weakly back at him.
    “Now, begin,” he said. And I did.
    It took a long time. Despite Mr. Gellis’ assurances, I could hear the words as they came from my lips, and they sounded insane. I sounded like a delusional woman who has had a waking nightmare. I pushed away the thought and kept on, forcing the mad words out one after another. I looked at the ground as I spoke, so I would not have to see the expression on either man’s face.
    Partway through my recital, I heard a soft clicking, and a cup of tea was put before me. I raised my eyes. It was Mr. Ryder, his face a careful blank. I murmured a soft thanks and reached for my cup. As he pulled his hand away, I noticed a flat, dark pink scar on the back of his hand, winding up beneath his cuff and into his sleeve. A burn scar, a large one. So Mr. Ryder was, like Mr. Gellis, likely a veteran of the late war. It wasn’t a certainty, of course—perhaps he had received his scar some other way—but I had not seen a young man in years who had not been to war.
    “Please go on,” said Mr. Gellis, and I realized I had stopped cold in the wake of my contemplation of the scar. I looked up at both men anew. Mr. Gellis was sitting easily in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, notebook poised on his thigh, ready to continue writing, looking at me with a polite expectation that only barely hid the obsessive gleam in his eyes. Mr. Ryder was still standing, though he had stepped back after serving my tea andwas leaning against the table, balanced on one hip, his arms crossed over his chest. He, too, looked down at me with a gaze that did not blink or look away. I thought of how both men had been in battle, had seen, likely, death many countless times—violent death that disregarded a man’s personal worth or morals, how many loved ones he had, whether he was good or proud or bright or adored. These were men who had contemplated their own deaths, and come terribly close. It somehow seemed more comfortable to speak of the ghosts of the dead with such men.
    I took a sip of my tea and continued. When I finished, Mr. Gellis put down his notebook and pen and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and his hands cradling his forehead. He looked at the floor for a long moment.
    I looked at Mr. Ryder, but he was turned away.
    “Am I mad?” I asked.
    “No,” said Mr. Gellis, without looking up.
    “Have you seen such a thing before?” I asked.
    He gave a low chuckle that sounded distinctly bitter. “No,” he said.
    “A hallucination.” Mr. Ryder was looking out the window, unseeing, his thoughts racing, speaking nearly to himself. “It can give hallucinations. I’ve never heard of anything like it. It’s incredible.” His voice was soft. “Alistair, we’ve got to get into that barn.”
    Mr. Gellis shook his head, which was still cradled in his palms. “There’s no way. I’ve looked at the angles. Mrs. Clare won’t allow it. The barn is locked tight. They’re never from home.”
    I was mildly shocked. Mr. Gellis had thought to break into the barn? For a ghost?
    “At night, then,” said Mr. Ryder.
    Alistair shook his head, still cradled in his hands.
    Mr. Ryder scowled, acquiescing only for the moment. “Maybe the photos will have