Charon's Crossing

The old man nodded. "If that is what you wish, I will do it."

"Thank you. I'll be in the garden, if you need me."

She was heading towards the side of the house when Hiram's question stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Kathryn? Shall I change the lock on the cellar door, too?"

The cellar? Damn. Oh, damn. She'd been so busy worrying about the doors and the windows that she'd never even thought of the cellar. But she thought of it now, dank and damp and probably unlocked all the long hours since she'd first set foot in this house.

"Oh yes," she said, as if there weren't a sudden cold knot in her belly, "that's a good idea. Absolutely. Change the lock on the cellar door, too. That way, I'll be certain no one can get into the house."

"No one will," Hiram said, "unless, of course, it's haunts you're tryin' to keep out of Charon's Crossin'."

The old man's tone was so matter-of-fact, his expression so bland, that she thought she must have misunderstood him.

"Haunts?"

"Ghosts," he said calmly. "If that's what's payin' you visits, there's no lock in the world will keep it out."

She laughed. At least, she tried to laugh. But what came out sounded more like a croak.

"Why—why on earth would you say a thing like that?"

Hiram shrugged. "Well, considerin' the things you said yesterday, about chains draggin' and things moanin' in the night..."

"Come on, Hiram. I was joking!"

The old man was undeterred. "Folks say there's a spirit been trapped in this house for nigh onto two hundred yea

rs."

Kathryn felt as if a clammy hand had touched her.

"You didn't say that yesterday."

"You didn't ask."

"You're right. I didn't ask, because sensible people don't believe in such nonsense!"

Hiram shrugged his shoulders. "Sensible people admit that there are lots of things in this life that are beyond explanation."

"Yes, but a ghost..." Kathryn blew the hair back from her forehead. "Is that why you asked me if there was anything special about the man I saw? Because you think I saw this—this spirit?"

"They say his name is Matthew McDowell. And if you did see him, you'd be the first."

Kathryn stared at the old man. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was, she knew, a peaceful, even a beautiful, scene. But she felt as if she were standing in a dark cave with a chasm yawning at her feet.

She wanted to do something to defuse the moment. To laugh. To make a joke out of the whole thing. But the best she could manage was a wan smile.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You're telling me there's a ghost in this house, that he's been here for two hundred years—and that I'm the first person unlucky enough to see him?"

"I'm only sayin' what I know," the old man replied.

"That's not only impossible, it's illogical. If no one's seen this ghost, how do you know who it is?"

The look Hiram gave her said that her question was patently foolish.

"Everybody knows who it is."