Charon's Crossing

He laughed. "They would probably call you insane." He lifted one hand in a sweeping gesture that took in the entire room. "Besides, even if they believed you, they could not catch me. Shall I walk through a wall to make my point?"

"No," Kathryn said quickly. "Don't... don't do that." The last thing she needed was to see him slip through a wall. Or turn into a column of dazzling light. It was taking all her courage as it was, just to stand here and face him like this.

After a moment, she cleared her throat.

"What did you mean when you said you could not leave?"

"I meant exactly what I said. I am trapped here, held within the boundaries of Charon's Crossing as if by an invisible wall."

"But—"

"Do not 'but' me, Catherine." His voice was sharp, his eyes dangerously bright. "I assure you, it is a fact, one that pleases me no more than it pleases you."

"What are you doing here? I mean, why are you—are you..."

"Haunting this house?" The taunting smile touched his lips again. "It isn't necessary to dance around the subject. I am a ghost. Ghosts haunt houses. There's little logic in pretending otherwise."

She nodded. He made it sound so matter-of-fact but there was nothing matter-of-fact about finding yourself standing around in broad daylight, having a polite little chat with a—a delusional blob of ectoplasm.

A strangled sound caught in Kathryn's throat. She turned away hurriedly and made her way out of the drawing room, through the foyer and into the kitchen. He was following after her. She could hear his footsteps.

How interesting, the still-rational part of her brain mused thoughtfully. I never knew you could hear ghosts walk.

His hand fell, hard, on her shoulder.

"What do you think you're doing?"

It was a good question and she searched for an equally good answer.

"I'm going to make some coffee," she finally said. "Any objections?"

"Coffee?"

His tone seemed almost wistful. She turned and looked up at him.

"Yes." She smiled politely. Maybe you were supposed to deal with a crazy ghost the same way you dealt with a crazy human being, by being calm and pleasant and by not doing-what instinct was telling her to do, which was to throw up her arms and run screaming from the house. "Would you like a cup?"

Would he like a cup? Matthew almost sighed. That was like asking a drowning man if he'd like someone to toss him a line. Lord, he hadn't had a cup of coffee in... in...

His smile faded. It was such a simple question, yet he had been doing his best to avoid it. Now, he knew he could avoid it no longer.

"What year is it?" he said.

"What do you mean, what year is it? Don't you—"

"Damn you!" She gasped as his hand bit into her flesh. "Answer the question, madam. What is the year?"

He didn't know the year? Kathryn took a breath. This was getting worse by the minute.

"It's—it's 1996."

What had she expected? That he would cry out? Fall to the floor in shock? He did neither of those things. He simply stood there, his eyes locked with hers, but she could see the swift flare of his nostrils and the sudden pallor of his skin.

"Nineteen ninety-six?" he repeated hoarsely.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Then, I have been de-... I have been here for 184 years?"