The Year of Shadows Read online

  When they were gone, no one moved for a long time. A stone formed in my stomach, weighing me down. We had failed that ghost. He would be a shade now, because we couldn’t save him.

  I felt the other ghosts’ eyes on me. They didn’t say anything, but I knew that’s what they were thinking too. Even Mr. Worthington seemed disappointed, or maybe just surprised, like he’d never considered we might fail.

  Henry pulled me aside. His hair was dark with sweat, plastered to his forehead. “Olivia, what do we do? We’re not going fast enough, but we can’t keep on like this. Who knows, we might be giving ourselves permanent brain damage or something.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “We need help.” And then inspiration hit me, as my brain searched frantically for an answer. “And I think I know just who to ask.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Henry and I met at The Happy Place, our ghosts right behind us.

  “I don’t know how I feel about showing myself to another human.” Tillie had been muttering that all morning. “Who is this lady again?”

  “Her name is Mrs. Barsky,” I said. “And she knows things, apparently. She said so when we first mentioned you.”

  “Everybody knows things.”

  “Yeah, but I think she knows things about ghosts.”

  We stepped inside, and Gerald squawked, pacing back and forth on his perch. His neck feathers stood up. I wondered if he could see the ghosts no matter what, like Igor could. Maybe animals were different in that way.

  “I don’t think she’s going to be too happy about this,” Henry said. “Maybe we should leave.”

  “And watch the ghosts get sucked into Limbo, one by one?” I said. “Or kill ourselves trying to save them? No way.”

  I hoisted myself up onto a stool at the counter. “Mr. B? Mrs. B?”

  Mr. Barsky threw himself out of the kitchen with a flourish of an invisible cape. I sighed. Merlin today. He’d probably been peeking out from the kitchen, waiting for the best moment to make his entrance.

  An older couple sitting by the window started applauding.

  “Ah, young heroes,” Mr. Barsky began, in this lofty, wizard-like voice. “You have journeyed far and wide, through many terrors, to arrive safely at my magical abode. I must reward such bravery, of course, as is my solemn wizard’s vow.” He bowed to us. “Whatever you ask of me, is yours.” He stood back up, grinning. “Croissant? Green tea?”

  Jax laughed. Tillie just stared. “This guy is nuts!”

  “Actually,” I said, “we need to talk to Mrs. Barsky. Privately. It’s important.”

  Mr. Barsky’s face turned serious. “Of course. Right this way.”

  Mrs. Barsky was in her office, jotting something down on a notepad. Today, her beads were bright purple. “Oh hello, you two! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Henry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Henry mumbled. “Sorry, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  “You seem a bit out of sorts.”

  “The children wish to speak with you about something serious,” Mr. Barsky said. He gave Mrs. Barsky this look I couldn’t read, and then he left us and shut the door.

  “All right.” Mrs. Barsky settled back in her chair. “What’s this about?”

  And we told her—everything. The séance, the ghosts—both old and new—the shades. Sharing, the ceiling.

  “And now there’s too many of them,” I said quietly. I felt ashamed to say it out loud. “We can’t . . . It’s not working anymore. It’s getting too hard to share, and yesterday a ghost got sucked into Limbo. Right in front of us.”

  Mrs. Barsky put a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. The ghosts peered curiously at her.

  “We can’t keep going like this. I’m missing assignments, and I can’t keep up with the cleaning, and I can’t sleep—”

  “And I got a B in biology,” Henry blurted all of a sudden, like he’d been struggling to keep it in. “A B!”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s the end of the world.”

  Mrs. Barsky was still sitting there, her eyes closed.

  Henry and I shared a look. “Mrs. B? What’s wrong?”

  After a minute or two, Mrs. Barsky opened her eyes. “Will you show me the Hall? The shades?”

  “Sure . . .”

  “Mrs. Barsky,” Henry said hurriedly, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “No. A good idea would have been to come to me much sooner, when all this started. I could have helped you. But . . . then again, you couldn’t have known to ask me. I never talk about it. Not anymore.”

  Henry’s jaw dropped.

  “What are you talking about, Mrs. B?”

  Mrs. Barsky shook her head. “First, I need you to show them to me.”

  So we did, leading Mrs. Barsky across the street and through the Hall’s main front doors in a solemn procession. We showed her the ceiling, which the Maestro was having a couple of handymen patch up. We showed her the basement, where the shades had dug the tunnel while searching for Frederick’s anchor.

  And we showed her the shades. The new ghosts huddled together in a tight group backstage, where at least the presence of Nonnie and the Maestro could help keep the shades away. But the shades hovered close by anyway, slinking around in the shadows onstage, curled around the organ’s pipes.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Barsky said calmly. “Yes, those are shades all right.”

  Tillie, Jax, and Mr. Worthington whirled around to stare at her.

  “You’ve seen shades before?” I said.

  “A long time ago.” Mrs. Barsky sighed. “A long time ago, I was something like what you’ve become. A ghost talker, I guess you could say.” She smiled crookedly at me as we headed back outside. “I spoke with ghosts, helped them find their anchors and move on. Lots of people do, you know, more than you might think. My mother taught me how. I did it from when I was a girl. Instead of playing with dolls and dressing up like little girls should.”

  “I don’t play with dolls and dress-up,” I said.

  “No, you draw skulls and pirates and monster intestines,” Henry said matter-of-factly. “Which is much cooler. You know, in my opinion.”

  “Anyway,” Mrs. Barsky said, “one day, I failed to find a ghost’s anchor, and she was pulled into Limbo. I watched it happen, right before my eyes. Just like you did.”

  I shivered, remembering. I didn’t think I would ever forget that scream, and the awful sucking sound of Limbo.

  “It was terrible,” Mrs. Barsky said. “Horrible. I gave it up, after that. At first, the ghosts wouldn’t leave me alone. I had to be firm. It’s hard, ignoring them when they come to you with all these tragic stories. But I did it, and eventually they stopped coming around.” Mrs. Barsky took a long, slow breath, and then let it out. “The sounds she made, the ghost who got pulled away . . . I felt dreadful, like it was my fault. I felt responsible. But I wasn’t. And you two need to understand that as well.”

  We were back in Mrs. Barsky’s office now, settling around her desk. Our ghosts watched Mrs. Barsky reverently, like she was a queen.

  “But we are responsible,” I said. “They asked for our help, and if we don’t help them in time . . .”

  “If you don’t, then you don’t,” Mrs. Barsky said briskly. “You’ll do your best, won’t you?”

  “Of course we will.”

  “Well, that’s all that matters as far as you’re concerned. You said you would help, and that’s a huge, important thing, and very serious. But ultimately, the ghosts’ lives or . . . half-lives or . . . whatever you want to call it, are their own. And what does or does not happen to them is not the responsibility of two twelve-year-old kids.”

  Then, to my shock, Mrs. Barsky glared right at where the ghosts hovered. “Do you hear me, you three? Or is it four? I can’t quite tell; I’m out of practice.”

  Impressive. I grinned at Henry. “There’s three. Only our ghosts are here, not the other ones.”

  Mrs. Barsky raised an eyebrow. “Your ghosts?”

&nb
sp; “Not like we own them or anything,” Henry said quickly.

  “I was gonna say!” Tillie said, crossing her arms.

  “Just that they’re our friends. The original ones, you know.”

  “Well? Where are they?” Mrs. Barsky snapped her fingers again. “Come on, show yourselves. I know it’s hard, but if you care about your friends, you’ll do it.”

  Tillie and Jax looked at Mr. Worthington, who nodded. I only knew when they appeared to Mrs. Barsky because she whistled at the sight of Mr. Worthington. “You’re an old-timer if there ever was, aren’t you?”

  Mr. Worthington ducked behind Jax.

  “Wow, you’re a pro,” Henry said.

  “It isn’t hard to understand that the darker a ghost is, the older he is. That’s Paranormal 101.” Mrs. Barsky examined each of the ghosts, and after they’d introduced themselves (Jax spoke for Mr. Worthington), her eyes had this new sparkle in them.

  “I swore I’d never do this again,” she said, “but I can’t very well let you handle . . . how many ghosts did you say?”

  I grimaced. “Fifty-one, now that our ghosts are back.”

  “Fifty-one ghosts, all by yourself. What kind of person would I be if I did that? Bring the first one tomorrow,” she said, turning back to her notepad, “and we’ll see how it goes.”

  The next day, Sunday, The Happy Place didn’t open until noon, so Henry, the ghosts, and I—plus Gregori Stevsky—showed up early in the morning.

  Mr. Barsky let us in and led us through the shop to the office at the back. I wasn’t sure about the expression on his face. I hoped he wasn’t afraid, or angry at us.

  “Do you help ghosts too, Mr. B?” I asked.

  He laughed. Merlin again. “A wizard has many powers, Olivia, but ghost whispering is not one of them.”

  “Who is that?” Gregori asked. He was nervous about leaving the Hall, and even more nervous about showing himself to someone besides me and Henry.

  “Mrs. Barsky’s husband,” I said. “Don’t worry, he’s cool.”

  “He seems a bit unbalanced.”

  “Mr. B, are you unbalanced?”

  Mr. Barsky swung open the office door. “In all the best ways!”

  Mrs. Barsky sat there on the floor, in the middle of a plush rug. Her nails were blue, her beads were blue, her slippers were blue. Candles surrounded her.

  “We never used candles,” Henry said. He whipped out his clipboard to take notes.

  “They’re not strictly necessary,” Mrs. Barsky said, her voice serene, almost musical, “but they help calm me.”

  Gregori eyed her blue nails. “You’re sure she has done this before?”

  “Mrs. Barsky doesn’t lie,” I said sharply. To be honest, I was nervous myself. I’d shared four times now, but I’d never watched anyone else do it. And Mrs. Barsky was older than we were. Would it hurt her even worse?

  “When you’re in a room with me, Mr. Stevsky,” Mrs. Barsky said, “you will speak to me directly. Now, shall we begin?”

  “I’m really starting to like her,” Tillie whispered to me.

  Mr. Barsky dimmed the lights and shut the door. Gregori Stevsky ducked his head like a punished kid and started drifting toward Mrs. Barsky until they occupied the same space on the rug. It was like looking at Mrs. Barsky through a swirling charcoal-colored fog.

  Then, her mouth flew open, wider than it should have been able to. Her head jerked back. Gregori Stevsky disappeared, and all we could see of him was this smoke curling out of Mrs. Barsky’s nose, out of her ears and mouth and around her fingertips.

  Henry grabbed my hand. I knew what he was thinking: That’s what we looked like while sharing? Disgusting. Disturbing.

  And kind of fantastic.

  “I’d forgotten how gruesome it can be,” Mr. Barsky whispered excitedly behind us. “Just think how good this will be for business!”

  Before I could ask Mr. Barsky how this could possibly be good for business. Mrs. Barsky’s body jerked, and Gregori spat out of her mouth like a funnel cloud. The candlelight wavered. The beads marking the doorway to the private bathroom rattled softly. And just like that, it was over.

  “That’s it?” Henry said. “But did it even work?’

  “Of course it did.” Mrs. Barsky stretched and sighed, reminding me of Igor after catching a particularly fat rat. “Goodness, did that feel good. It’s been far, far too long.”

  “Ethel, you are astonishing.” Mr. Barsky hovered around her, patting her face with a cloth. “You’re simply a star.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  “Gregori?” Tillie waved her hand in front of his face. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” Gregori’s figure shimmered like a veil, but he smiled anyway. “I am more than okay. I am hopeful.”

  “What happened?” Henry asked. “How did you die?”

  Mrs. Barsky waved her finger. “That’s only for the sharers to know, Henry. Privacy is important. And besides, the fewer death memories you have in your head, the better. I will tell you, however, that Mr. Stevsky’s anchor is a set of marbles in a black mesh bag. He was going to give them to his son and teach him how to play. I trust that, with fifty-one ghosts at your disposal, you’ll find them quickly. And be careful. Be watchful.” Mrs. Barsky turned and pointed one blue-nailed finger at us. “The more ghosts you help move on, the more shades will show up, and the angrier they’ll get. Make sure the ghosts stay around people at all times. And they can come over here if they want, just as long as they don’t haunt my customers.”

  While she spoke, Mrs. Barsky blew out candles and straightened up her office. Then she turned around and put her apron back on and clapped her hands. “Now. Who wants to help me make muffins?”

  Mr. Barsky nudged me in the side. “Isn’t she something?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She is.” I didn’t look at Mr. Barsky, though, and I didn’t stay to make muffins. I put our list of ghosts on Mrs. Barsky’s desk and got out of there as fast as I could.

  See, I had recognized the look on Mr. Barsky’s face—the way his eyes had lit up, how his mouth had gone soft.

  I knew it because the Maestro used to look at Mom that way.

  That night, Henry, Tillie, Jax, Mr. Worthington, Igor, and I gathered in my bedroom for celebratory snacks. Well, Henry, Igor, and I snacked. Our ghosts tried to snack. But no matter how much Tillie rammed her head through my bag of chips, they didn’t budge.

  Igor watched her distrustfully. She had better not try that with my tuna.

  “Yeah?” I poked him softly between the eyes. “And what’ll you do? Claw her arm that doesn’t actually exist?”

  His whiskers twitched. I’ll think of something. Cats always do.

  Henry was licking cheese puff crumbs off his fingers. “Are you talking to your cat?”

  I shrugged. “Sort of. Not really. It’s complicated.”

  “Fair enough.” Henry flopped down next to me on my bed. It was nice. It was comfortable. His tee-shirt lay right past my fingers, and I suddenly realized how freckles were quite possibly the cutest thing in the world.

  Igor, purring, slid between me and Henry. And I thought the nice-smelling trumpet player was your boyfriend.

  I almost said, “He’s not my boyfriend!” but stopped myself in time and stuffed my face full of chips instead.

  “I have a question,” Henry said after a while, gazing up at the ceiling, where Mr. Worthington drifted in a hammock of his own smoke. “Now that you’re back . . . I guess you want to move on pretty soon, huh?”

  For a long time, none of us said anything. The words “move on” had this final-sounding feel to them, like the chords at the end of a symphony.

  “Well, yes,” Jax said slowly, “but we wouldn’t have to do it right this very second, would we?”

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “What’d he say?” Tillie asked, trying to smell an empty bag of chips.

  I told her. She smiled up at me through the chip bag. “Yeah. I mean, we could wa
it a while. Just a little while. You need all the help you can get to keep these new guys in line.”

  “And if the shades started up again, we’d obviously just go ahead and share as fast as possible, to get you out of here,” Henry said, sitting up. The look on his face was like Tillie’s, so happy and relieved that looking at it made my stomach hurt.

  I felt it too, that relief. I didn’t want them to go. Not yet.

  “Mr. Worthington?” I waved at him. “What do you think?”

  He smiled blackly at me and gave me a wavering thumbs-up.

  “Good,” Tillie said, settling happily next to me and watching as I ate. “I don’t mind staying. Not too much, anyway. I like it here.”

  And right then, with Henry and Igor and my ghosts piled on my cot, I thought something for the very first time:

  Maybe I liked it here too.

  DECEMBER

  COUNSELOR DAVIS CALLED me into his office for another session, right before winter break.

  “How are we doing this month, Olivia?”

  I thought about that for a second, and I guess he took that pause to mean I was struggling with some kind of awful emotion.

  But for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t. I had ghosts for friends. The Maestro was keeping out of my way, which was just how I liked it. I’d found this great purple scarf for Nonnie at the charity store and already had it wrapped under our tabletop tree in the kitchen. The new ghosts were down to twenty-six. Mrs. Barsky was going through them like wildfire, but of course more kept popping up, so now she’d opened up this side business in The Happy Place, called The Ghost Room. She and Mr. Barsky had made it all official, turning their office into a space properly decorated for séances and conferencing with ghosts and meeting with sad people who’d lost their loved ones—candles, incense, floor cushions. And complimentary tea, of course.

  And then there was Henry. Studious, organized, sky-eyed Henry. He’d started helping me with algebra after work most days. And he requested drawings—a drawing of Igor, a drawing of the ghosts, a drawing of him in a Superman costume. I made him a superzombie instead. He didn’t seem to mind.