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We have the old witch. Adelaide Proctor. She is here. She will be ours!
Theta squeezed Evie’s hand harder. “Miss Addie? It’s Theta! Where are you?”
Another small voice broke through, like a radio signal fighting static. “Evie?”
“Mabel,” Evie whispered. “Mabel—I’m here! Oh, please, please talk to me! I miss you so, Mabesie.”
But Mabel’s voice was gone. In its place was the unholy din:
You will be sorry.
You will be sorry.
You will be sorry.
Zarilda’s head flopped forward on a mighty groan. The fog dissipated. The voices were gone. Zarilda came to, her mascaraed lashes fluttering open. Arnold raced to the small sink, returning to his lover’s side with a wet rag to cool her face. He nodded emphatically at Johnny, who said, “She’ll need to rest now.”
Elsie still sat at the table, her eyes big as quarters. “What in the hell was that?”
“That was Miss Addie,” Theta said on their walk back to their compartments.
“I’m just saying, we can’t be sure of what’s what anymore. That coulda been, I don’t know, some ventriloquist spirit,” Sam said.
“Do you trust Zarilda?” Evie asked him.
Sam nodded. “She’s the real McCoy, all right.”
“I’m sorry, Evil,” Theta said.
“Don’t be. I only wish I’d been able to talk to Mabel.”
Sam slipped his arm around Evie’s waist. “Maybe Zarilda is right and she’s at peace, Baby Vamp.”
But Evie wasn’t so sure.
A sleeping circus was like a dream waiting to take flight. The tiger paced in its wagon. It stuck its black nose between the bars, sniffing for freedom, until it gave up at last and settled down in the sawdust. The elephants, too, slept. Evie was envious of their rest. It was her own restlessness driving her now; no matter how far she traveled, she’d never be able to outrun it. Evie pulled Mabel’s favorite ornamental comb from her coverall pockets. Carefully at first, then with abandon, she removed her gloves. The comb was cool between Evie’s palms. It jolted her back in time—just an ordinary day, the two of them walking Manhattan’s congested sidewalks after going to the picture show, past the men selling roasted nuts from a cart, past the Automat with its revolving trays of food for a nickel, past the grand Art Deco façade of Bonwit Teller, where they stopped to swoon over an evening gown of peach perfection. Nothing special at all, really. But here under the stars, with Mabel dead and gone, dead in her grave forever—forever, that terrible word—the memory was like touching a hot stove. Evie could scarcely bear to relive it.
Mabel had loved Evie. Mabel had envied Evie’s daring, and Evie had envied Mabel’s goodness. Sometimes it was a bridge between them; sometimes it was a wedge. If only Evie had tried harder to understand that. Would it have mattered? Or were people just who they were, no matter how much they tried to be something or someone else? How many times had people scolded Evie or offered “helpful” advice designed to fit her into a smaller world that would make them less uncomfortable but that would never make her happy? People had to be who they were. The challenge was to love them for it. And to be honest when they’d hurt you. To apologize when you’d hurt them. It seemed pretty simple on the face of it. So why was it always so hard?
Evie left the train and walked out into the cool, clear night, wandering far from the empty circus camp. There in the tall spring grass of Illinois, she lay on the ground and let herself cry until she was emptied. Then she stared up at the moon for a long time, wondering why she couldn’t seem to make a real connection to Mabel. Maybe it was as Sam said and she was at peace. But Evie was not. It ate her up to know that the last encounter she’d ever had with her best friend had been an argument. If only she could talk to Mabel just one more time. If only she could know.
Wind whistled through the leaves. A frog croaked nearby. And another sound, faint but very present. Like the low growl of some injured, hungry animal. Evie sat up quickly. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh. Far behind her at the sleeping fairgrounds, the two lanterns hanging from Zarilda’s wagon were like the eyes of a dragon. Thinking of those awful voices coming out of Zarilda’s mouth made Evie shiver. She shouldn’t have come so far all alone.
“Okay,” she said, smoothing down her dress with a trembling hand. “I’ll simply walk back. ‘Pucker up and whistle / till the clouds roll by / have a happy little twinkle in your eye.…’”
Evie stopped short. There in the fields: a shimmering ghost, keeping pace with her. Even from this distance, she could see that the eyes were shiny black buttons, soulless. No. Not completely. This ghost seemed to be wavering between states. She looked confused, as if she did not quite know how she’d come to be here. The ghost appeared to be traveling alone, but so was Evie. If she called out to Sam or Theta, the thing could be on her before help arrived. Evie hastened her steps. So did the ghost. It watched her closely, mimicking her movements. It was studying her, she realized, unnerved. She could sense its quickness. The confusion was temporary, Evie felt. Underneath, there was a fast, feral quality to this one.
Calm, keep calm, Evie thought. She just had to get close enough to call for Sam and Theta. Together, they
could annihilate this filthy thing before it turned. You’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry, you’ll be sorry.
“Sorry, sorry,” the ghost echoed in its strangled whisper.
Evie stopped cold.
“Sorry. So sorry. Sorry,” it said.
Had the ghost… read her mind? Evie turned slowly toward the thing. No matter how many dead she’d faced, it never stopped being terrifying. That’s what happens to every one of us in the end, Evie thought. Who wouldn’t want to fight it?
