Page 13 of Petrify

The young boy in this photo is only a couple years older than Henri is now. They’re strikingly similar—the same soft cheeks, the same long lashes; but where Henri’s emerald eyes sparkle with life, this boy’s dark eyes arehollow.

And the more I look at the photo, the more my unease grows. The story is clear-cut. Why should I doubt it? I have noreasonto doubt it. Even the article hinting at foul play mentions there is no real evidence to suggest anything other than an accident occurred.

Henri, at his age, would know better than to play so close to the water. An eleven year old wouldn’t be found on the bank of the pond, already dead.

Something sinks in my chest.

Maybe Arnie did drown. Or maybe he was murdered. Maybe the spirits of this estate claimed him for their own.

I enter the practice room with five minutes to spare, though it’s not Henri waiting for me.

“Mrs. Beauchene.” I pause just inside the door, a bit breathless from the trek across the house.

She plasters on her smile. “Miss Doyle. Good morning. I thought I could check in with you about Henri before I head out for the day.”

Blonde hair perfectly waved, her makeup just subtle enough, her pantsuit ironed into crisp lines. She’s alone, seated at the low sofa in the center of the room, an impatient edge to her posture.

“Oh. Sure.” My face heats with embarrassment, like I’ve already done something wrong.

She gestures to the seat across from her, which I sink into slowly. I force my spine straight, chin high, breathing steady. Immediately, I’m analyzing my own outfit for the day—another sweater, a ridiculously-priced pair of black jeans, and my boots—feeling entirely too casual around this woman who keeps company with celebrities and other politicians.

“He seems particularly excited for your lessons,” she says. “I believe he really likes you.”

My blush deepens. “He’s a great kid. And he’s already working hard.”

She hums, nodding. “Again, I do appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

“It’s really no problem. Thank you for—”giving me a chance— “for this opportunity.”

“But.” She flashes that smile again—the practiced, perfect smile. “I wanted to hear your opinion on his progress.”

“Well, it’s only been a few days. He’s quite skilled for his age. I think by the end of the week, I can give you a clearer answer about the speed we can move forward?—”

“End of the week. Yes. Of course.” Lips pulling tight over her teeth, cheeks taut. “We are just eager to see him back on track. In fact, we worry his last tutor was actually behind on their lessons.”

“I can assure you he is notbehind. I think he’s right where he needs to be,” I say. “And once we're in a good flow, I can have him up to speed with the curriculum in no time.”

I expect her to say something, but she just looks at me expectantly.

“We’re still getting to know each other—I’m still figuring out what he does and doesn’t know?—”

“What hedoesanddoesn’tknow should all be in the lesson plans. Yes?” Her smile hasn’t fractured one bit.

“Yes. I—I’ll make sure to keep the lesson plans in mind.”

“Good. And you—how are you settling in?”

“Oh,” I say again. She must think I’m an idiot. “The house is very nice. Everyone here is very… nice.”

“And your room?”

“Comfortable.” I force myself to smile back. “Thank you.”

Though I can’t think of anything else but the figure standing at the foot of my bed, too opaque to be a shadow, too solid to be anything other than aman. Faceless, soundless. Watching me. Unmoving, except for the subtle shift of his head to one side.

While I was sleeping.

The ghost of her son, all grown up, who doesn’t know he’s dead.