Songs of Love and Death: All-Original Tales of Star-crossed Love

Harder even than trying to live in two worlds is being trapped between them, like a bug between sheets of glass…

New York Times bestselling author Yasmine Galenorn is a mystery and paranormal romance author perhaps best known for her seven-volume Otherworld series, which details the adventures of the half-human, half-faerie D’Artigo sisters, who work for the Otherworld Intelligence Agency, and which includes Witchling, Changeling, Darkling, Dragon Wytch, Night Huntress, Demon Mistress, and Bone Magic. Galenorn is also the author of the five-volume Chintz ’n China series, including Ghost of a Chance and Murder Under a Mystic Moon, which straddles the borderline between mystery and fantasy; and she has also written eight books on modern paganism, the most popular of which is Embracing the Moon. She also writes under the pseudonym India Ink. Her most recent book is a new Otherworld novel, Harvest Hunting.

Man in the Mirror

He’d been rambling around the house for years in a fog so thick that he could no longer count the years that had passed. Chained to the house by a chance meeting in a mirror, he was a shadow of his former self, a whisper on the wind, a glint of light against the glass.

The house had sat empty for ten years, although his mother still came in to clean every now and then, but mostly, there was silence. The only way he kept up with what was happening in the world was to listen to the conversations between May, his mother, and the rare friends she brought with her.

He’d come to believe he’d never have another chance to laugh, to smile, to be grateful for what existence he had. And he’d been lonely. So lonely, wondering if he’d ever have the chance to speak to anyone again. If nothing else, he wanted out—wanted to move on.

But today, something shifted—a breeze echoing through the empty rooms swept with it the hint of perfume—the fragrance of hesitation, of anger—and desire. And the scent touched him, woke him fully. Someone new had arrived. Someone he once hated, but now who promised him the chance of life again. The house would become a home again, and perhaps—perhaps he would have a chance.

SOMETIMES, THE ONLY way to exorcise old ghosts is to pack your bags and move in with them. And so, on one of those rare clear mornings in the Pacific Northwest—before the clouds had a chance to gather—I loaded my Pathfinder and left Seattle for what I hoped would be the last time. For all its beauty, the city was a constant reminder of the nightmare that had haunted me for over a year.

Three hours and two pit stops later, I pulled up in front of the rainbow-arched trellis straddling the drive leading to Breakaway Farm. Wild rose canes wound around the latticework, waiting for spring, sparkling with early dew. The trellis guarded an iron gate barring the road to the house, and in the moments just before sunrise, mist rolled silently along the ground, an ankle-deep shroud obscuring the path.

I let the motor idle as I slipped out of my seat and wandered over to the gate, staring at the lock. The key dangled like a promise from my key chain, a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, I could find some semblance of peace. On the other hand, now that I was actually here, the idea seemed a little crazy. Maybe I was just stirring up trouble for myself.

It was simple, really. All I needed to do was gather my courage, unlock the gate, and drive in. Breakaway Farm was mine now, and nobody but my lawyer knew that I was moving here. There was nothing to stop me. Nothing but my own fear. The question was: Was I ready to face the past and conquer my demons? Or maybe, a little voice in the back of my mind whispered, the question I should be asking myself was really: Was I ready to face the future?

Could I accept what I’d done, learn to live with it, and get on with my life? Even harder: Could I accept what had been done to me? It’s one thing to live with your own sins, quite another to be forced to relive the sins of another every time you looked in a mirror.

I rubbed my throat where the scars lingered. Their crimson brilliance had long faded, but the thin, white lines were still visible, and when I touched them, they burned. I knew it was all in my mind; it had taken only a few weeks for the actual slashes to heal, but every time I thought about them, the images that flashed through my mind were as fiery and painful as they had been that night.

A loud mew from the backseat startled me out of my thoughts. I turned around. Circe wanted out of her carrier.

“You’ve been such a good girl.” I stroked her ears between the bars of the cage. She’d slept for most of the drive over from Seattle. “What a good girl!”

As I stared into her emerald eyes, the calico chirped, her squeaks intermingled with the rumble of a purr. She trusted me. Maybe it was time that I learned how to trust myself again.

Taking a deep breath, I looked at the gate. It was now or never. Either go forward and risk the unknown, or admit failure. I couldn’t very well return to the dead-end life I’d left behind in Seattle.

My stomach in knots, I fit the key into the lock. The gate creaked open, protesting years of disuse. As it swung wide, I latched it to the post to keep it from crashing shut, and then, with one last look at the highway behind me, climbed back into the SUV and slowly edged along the graveled road bordered by tall cedar and fir trees.

Huckleberries littered the ground, along with fallen trees covered with moss and toadstools. A flicker of movement caught my eye. A fox? A coyote? A neighbor’s dog? It had been a long time since I’d set foot in the country. Unnerved, I rounded the curve. The drive opened into a semicircle parking space in front of a footpath leading to a three-story house hidden behind a veil of tree limbs and bushes.

I turned off the ignition and squinted at the tangle of vegetation. It would be nice if my Muse would give me a sign—any sign—that I was doing the right thing. I waited. Nothing. Why couldn’t she reassure me that I was making the right decision? But no lightbulbs appeared over my head, no sibyl sang her song for me. This was my journey, and my journey alone.

As I climbed out of the car, exhausted by the turmoil of the past few months, all I wanted to do was to sleep. But I hadn’t slept through the night since… hasty backpedal. No, not ready to go there. Not yet. A glance at the eastern sky showed dawn giving way to day. Thin clouds blended into the pale blue that passed for morning.

I poked my head into the backseat. “Hold on for just a few more minutes longer, babe. I’ve got to check out the house first.” Circe stared at me, blinked slowly, sniffed the stirring of fresh air, then promptly curled up and fell asleep.

Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I set out for the house.

The path was crowded on both sides by a thick row of late-blooming herbs. They grew wild and tall, gone to seed, but still their fragrance lingered in the air, musty and old. Dizzy from the scent, I stumbled and almost blundered into a spiderweb that an orange and black striped argiope had spun across the path. It reared, crooking its jointed legs in the air, and I pulled back as it scuttled away into the lilacs. Spiders made me nervous, with their quick, darting movements.

Breathe deep, calm the soul. That’s what the doctor had ordered. I inhaled slowly, holding my breath for a count of four, then let it out in a slow stream. As the stirrings of panic subsided, I plunged through the arbor to the end of the drive and out.

And there it was… Breakaway Farm.

Framed by two spectacular cedars, the house looked part castle, part cottage. Toss in a southern front porch and five acres of thickly wooded land and… bingo… Breakaway Farm.

I sucked in a deep breath, staring up at the old house. She might be lonely and abandoned, but she still had life to her. That much, I could feel. The morning light reflected off an unusually clean pane of glass on the second story as a gust of wind elicited a ringing peal from a set of wind chimes.

A flash… was someone staring at me from behind one of the third-floor windows? I squinted, looking closer, but the image vanished. If it had ever been there in the first place.

I made my way around back, wading through the knee-high grass and ferns that blanketed the ground. Another glance at the upper stories told me that there had to be a roof up there somewhere beneath the thick layers of moss and lichen, but the vegetation was so thick, it was hard to see. Ivy wound around the chimney, tendrils waving down at me. I completed the circuit and returned to the porch, staring up at the door, the key clenched in my hand.

It all came down to this. Could I go through with it? Unlock the door, and go in? I glanced back at the driveway where my Pathfinder sat, crammed with everything I possessed. No, there was no going back—but how could I go forward?

I held the house key up to the sky. When the lawyer had given it to me, it had rested in a black velvet box. Large and old-fashioned, an engraved R curled down the shaft, surrounded by delicate roses, and it hung on a black satin ribbon. R for rose… R for Jason Rose… the man who had almost ended my life.

A WOMAN WAS on the porch.

With difficulty, he pulled himself out of his foggy cocoon, and, by sheer habit, dusted off his jeans. His shirt was a cardigan—too warm for the summer, but he felt neither warmth nor cold. A glance in the mirror told him that he was probably out of style, but with his straight back, slightly gaunt but not unappealing face, wheat-colored shoulder-length hair, he cleaned up pretty good. The pallor in his cheeks would be a giveaway, but only in the brilliant light. If he kept to the shadows, she need not notice at first. And she would be his ticket out. His ticket to freedom.

He had reached the point of no return, and like the others, had been trapped in the house. The mirror had kept his spirit here, chained to the walls in which he’d once lived. The others walking in his world didn’t like him, they stayed away, finding him strange and unnatural in their dark and endless night. But he… he was just who he’d always been. Except, he was alone. Or had been… until his dark twin had returned. Now he had hope, something he’d never thought he’d have again.

He’d spent a lot of time watching the seasons pass as the years went by. When his mother came to clean each week, he’d pray she’d see him. And yet, when it came time to make himself known, he’d hide. She’d try to free him. And to free him, she’d risk her own life. So he watched from a distance and listened. Now and then she’d talk to him like she had before the accident, before he’d unleashed the djinn. Once it was unleashed, you could never recork the bottle. That much he’d learned, the hard way.

After a quick calculation, he headed for the mirror. He hated the thing, and yet, from here he could travel to any room with mirrors or windows. He could look out on the world and watch the world pass by, but the living couldn’t look in, unless they were gifted with the Sight. They could see only the shallow surface, the image reflected in them.

As the tumblers of the lock began to turn, he slipped into the antique mirror that stood against one wall in the bedroom. After all, what better place to first lay eyes on your new bride?

“EXCUSE ME.”

Startled, I turned, almost twisting my ankle. I found myself facing an elderly woman who might have been fifty, might have been eighty. Her hair shimmered white under the early streaks of sun, and she wore it in a tight chignon, held by a butterfly barrette. Her dress was a tidy periwinkle, with an apron tied at her waist. She smiled and I caught a glimpse of myself in her brilliant blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her gaze flickering over me again. “But are you Laurel Rose?” She held out her hand, a smile creasing the ancient topography of her face.

Wary, I nodded and glanced around, wondering where she’d come from. I hadn’t heard her approach.

As if reading my mind, she said, “Out of the woods. Where else?”

For a moment, I stood disconcerted, uncertain what to say next. I had the feeling that she could see right through me, as if I were made of light, fractured by a prism. I gathered my wits enough to say hello.

“I’m May. May O’Conner.” With a gentle bob of her head, she added, “Jason’s aunt.”

I leaned against the newel post, a stab of pain knifing through my forehead. The headache that had been looming all morning suddenly hit full-force. Jason’s aunt was not who I needed right now. The man who almost murdered me had never been complimentary when he spoke of his family. But then again, he’d never said a good word about anybody but himself. I searched May’s face, scanning for a resemblance, but to my relief found nothing.

“How do you do?” I stammered.

“Oh, fit and tidy, fit and tidy.” May winked at me, then pointed to the door. “I’ve come to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

I fingered the key, surprised by her friendliness. I’d expected a stormy confrontation when I finally met her, accusations for defending myself, tearful threats, but not this welcoming matter-of-factness.

She motioned to the door. “Shall we go in? I’ll show you around.”

This was it, no more room for procrastination. Either I claimed Breakaway Farm or left defeated. And if I left here… I held my breath and inserted the key into the lock.

The door, carved with figures too weathered to discern, swung open with a faint creak. I stepped back, allowing May to enter first. Our eyes locked as she drew me in and flipped on the lights. I was relieved to see them flicker to life—the lawyer had said he’d take care of the utilities, but you never knew whether tasks would get done when you delegated them to other people.

“Breakaway Farm is a solid house, and will take you through the years.” May’s words echoed through the long hall. “She’s been empty for around nine years, since… since my Galen died. I’ve kept the house up, hoping that perhaps Jason might change his mind and want to return home. But I think I knew he never would. Then, when I found out that you were moving in, I came over and spiffed it up with a lick and a spit.” She turned to study my face and added, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why would I mind?” I wanted to hug her in relief. No brewing storms, no callous remarks, just that unrelenting smile. “I’m just grateful that I won’t be facing corners filled with cobwebs and mold growing on old furniture. I’m glad someone took care of it all these years instead of letting it go to ruin.”

Then it hit me—how did she know I’d be moving in? The lawyer had promised he wouldn’t tell anyone. So much for confidentiality.

May stopped in the hallway, where photographs lined the walls. People I didn’t know, places I’d never been, but they were beautiful and melancholy and incredibly sad in a way I couldn’t define.

I raised a finger and hesitantly traced the frame of one that stood out among the rest. Protected by glass, a man and woman were curled together on an iron settee in the middle of a garden.

“They loved each other very much, didn’t they? Who were they?”

May gave me a gentle smile. “My brother, Daneen, and his wife, Ellen.”

Jason’s parents. My in-laws.

“You never got to meet them, did you?”

I gave her a sidelong glance, not sure of how much she knew. “I wanted to, but no… I never had the chance.”

May reached out and tipped up my chin. “You are far too pale for such a pretty young woman.” She dipped into one of the voluminous pockets on her apron and brought out an apple and tucked it in my hand. “You need some color in your cheeks to match that fiery hair of yours. This will help.”

She pointed to another photograph. Daneen and Ellen stood in front of a lush garden. Overflowing baskets filled with tomatoes and lettuce, carrots and cucumbers, surrounded them. “Breakaway has many treasures. Daneen and Ellen were its rarest. They loved this farm. They loved their son. They never looked at the flaws in anything. Or anyone.”

What she left unsaid hung between us like thick fog.

I wondered just how much I could tell her. “Jason seldom spoke of his parents.” It wasn’t totally true, but I felt a sudden desire to spare her feelings.

“That, I do not doubt.” She held my gaze. “Jason seldom divulged anything relating to his past. Come, let me show you the living room.”

We entered the living room, and once again, light flooded the room at the touch of a switch. A velveteen sofa and love seat looked new, but the rest of the furniture stood ponderous, weighty oak, solid and stern. A bay window glittered as May drew open the floor-length drapes. A window seat, upholstered in the same green velvet as the curtains, overlooked the side yard, facing the trunk of an oak that had seen far more years than I.

A dizzy feeling that we were being watched hit me, but it was swept away in the next moment when I realized that I’d fallen in love with the house. I spun around, clapping my hands. “I never dreamed it would be so lovely!”

The room took a deep breath as a splash of sunlight filtered in through the sparkling glass, and the light transformed every corner. Newly potted ferns and ivies draped down from shining brass hooks on the ceiling, and I realized that May had brought them for me. Then I stopped, rooted to the floor, as I spotted a picture hanging low on the north wall.

The man in the photo was young, but there was no mistaking the face. Jason’s eyes glittered at me with the same cruel assessment I’d known throughout my life with him. I pulled my sweater tighter, suddenly cold, and the scars on my throat began to itch again. I glanced over at May. She’d been watching me as I rubbed them gently. Flushing, I waited for her to comment.

“I’m sorry, Laurel,” she murmured. “I should have taken that down. I just wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me?”

Trembling, I reached out, stopping just short of touching the photograph. Would I ever be able to face his image without shaking? May silently stepped in front of me and turned the picture to face the wall. I slowly let out my breath. Breathe deep, calm the soul. A companion photo hung next to it, a man as fair as Jason had been dark, though somewhat older.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

May’s face lit up. “That was my son, Galen. Jason’s cousin.” Pride rang in her voice. “I miss him dreadfully.”

“Was he older?” I asked, examining the photograph. The man’s face was robust, but not red, and he had sandy blond hair gathered into a short braid that hung down his back. He sported a reddish beard and I found myself unable to look away. His eyes radiated the same gentle firmness as May’s. Beneath her wrinkles, I could tell that May possessed the same definite bone structure. Not nearly as angular as Jason’s.

May nodded. She fingered the portrait and her prints remained faintly on the glass. “Galen was six years older than Jason was.” Her eyes sparkled. “He was nothing like his cousin. They were the sun and the moon. He died in this house.” She glanced at her watch. “My word, I didn’t realize so much time has passed. I’ve got pies in the oven.” She edged towards the door. “I just wanted to meet you.”

“How did you know I was here?” I walked her to the door.

May smiled and I suddenly felt exposed. Jason had called her a “nosy old bitch,” and now I knew why, at least from his standpoint. She’d make keeping secrets as hard as keeping your hand out of the cookie jar, and Jason had kept a lot of skeletons locked in that dark closet that was his mind.

She laughed faintly. “I knew. I just knew. Galen and I never thought anyone in the family would ever live at Breakaway again. That’s why he moved in here. We never told Jason.” She gave me a keen look and added, “I’m pleased you’re giving it a try. This house belongs to you… and you belong to it.”

“You don’t know how much I needed to hear that,” I said, swallowing a sudden swell of tears. It had been so long since anybody had been nice to me, had acted like I wasn’t tainted. I almost believed her.

“Words can be powerful allies. Or enemies.” May glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to be hot this afternoon. My garden can use the warmth.”

“Let me walk you to the path. I need to bring in Circe.”

“Circe?”

“My cat. She’s been in the carrier for several hours. We took several breaks along the way, but I’m afraid she’s probably fighting mad by now. She hates to travel.”

“I don’t blame her. Come, let’s get her settled, then.” As we headed toward my car, she said, “My Galen was a veterinarian. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. Jason never said anything about his life here, or his family. He told me Breakaway Farm was a moldering dump.”

“Jason had more problems than his parents wanted to admit,” May said as we reached my Pathfinder. I had to pull out a couple of the suitcases first, but I finally had Circe in hand. May picked up the bag containing the new litter box and bag of litter.

I protested. “You don’t have to do that—your pies, remember?”

“Laurel, I can carry an empty litter box. The pies will keep for another few minutes. They’re huckleberry, by the way.”

“Thank you,” I said.

May led me to the half bath on the first floor. “Why don’t you lock her in here until you get your unloading done? She’ll be fine if you set up her box and fetch her some water.”

Circe let out a yowl, staring indignantly from her cage.

With a laugh, May said, “What a pretty calico! And she’s a lively one, I’ll bet. There are lots of mice and shrews out here. She’ll have fun hunting.”

We put her in the bath and I unpacked her litter box and filled it, then set out food and water before walking May down the path.

As she passed the car, she pointed to my portfolio. “You paint, don’t you? You don’t have much else with you,” she added.

I shook my head. “I travel light. Easier that way.”

“Well, then, good-bye. I’ll bring you over one of my pies.” And, just like that, the fey woman vanished down a side path, quiet as a whisper.

HE COULD FEEL the cat’s presence before he could find her. When he was hiding in the mirrors, he would travel from one to the next and so forth, and now he peeked out of the bathroom mirror to look at the calico, who stared up at him, eyes glowering, with a hiss.

“You may not pass,” she said. “She’s mine. I won’t let you hurt her.”

He laughed and a thousand chimes blew in the wind, low and reverberant. Inclining his head with respect, he said, “Mistress of Cats, little protector. In life, I tended to your kind. I mean no harm to you. What can you tell me about her?”

And Circe, her emerald eyes glinting in the light that filtered through the window, whispered one word, “Lonely.” And then, pleading, “Don’t hurt her.”

The man smiled softly then, and the calico backed away, hunching down, hissing at the mirror. But he passed, and after a while, she curled up and went to sleep.

And he went back to waiting.

AFTER I FINISHED unloading the car, I let Circe out of the bathroom and dropped into a chair in the kitchen with a cup of peppermint tea. Luckily, the place was fully furnished—I wouldn’t have to buy much.

As I relaxed, floating in the diffused light that flooded the room, the scent of peppermint drifted up to clear my mind. Finally, I forced myself to pull out my compact.

May hadn’t asked, but there was no way she could have overlooked them. I ran my fingers along the fading lines that crisscrossed my throat. How many times had I defended myself against the accusations that I’d asked for it?

And yet, inside, I could hear my own voice loudest of all. If only you’d left early enough… if only you’d called for help… The scars would fade from my throat in time, but they’d burn forever in my memory.

Wearily, I wandered into the living room, where I turned Jason’s picture back around. The glittering man. How he’d first sparkled into my life! Suave, sophisticated, the mysterious stranger of all young girls’ dreams, the dark knight who rushes in to sweep us away. I lifted the frame off the wall and stared deep into those eyes. And then I slammed it into the fireplace, smashing it to bits.

You’re dead, I thought. You’re dead and you can’t hurt me anymore. But deep in my heart, I didn’t really believe it.

HE REMAINED HIDDEN for a few days, watching her from mirror to mirror, keeping quiet, talking only to the cat. The calico had set up a cautious conversation with him. In return, he reached out of the mirrors, petted her tummy, offered her a chin scratch.

By the time he was ready to approach the woman, he had a pretty good idea of what had happened. Jason always had been a hardnosed son of a bitch, he’d been cruel and vindictive, and at times, downright dangerous. But Jason was dead, and cruel or not, had brought Galen the key to his manacles.

He tried to make sense of what his cousin told him, but so much seemed confusing. But from what he understood, the woman had killed Jason. And like his cousin or not, murder wasn’t the most desirable option.

Circe told him a different story, but like all cats, she lived on a different time line. She seemed to think the mess went down during the blooming of the daffodils before the daffodils this time—in other words, a year ago, spring.

And so he watched Laurel from the mirrors in the house, watched her alone, and quietly turned away when he felt he was intruding on her private moments. She was beautiful, in an autumn sort of way. Cloaked in red hair and fair skin, Laurel reminded him of a woman made of burning leaves. But he could see the scars on her throat, and they made him wonder.

Jason kept silent on the matter.

A NOISE CAUGHT my attention. That was one thing about Breakaway Farm—the house was filled with creaks and shudders and all the requisite noises that attend old houses. I’d gotten used to most of them, but now and then, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.

I put down my embroidery and listened. This noise had been loud enough to really hear. And it sounded like it was coming from my bedroom.

Circe was sitting on the rocking chair.

“You hear that, baby?”

She slowly turned her gaze to me and mewed. She’d been responsible for my rescue from Jason, knocking a vase within reach so I could grab hold of it and hit him once, twice, and the final third time that ended both his attempts to kill me and his life. She’d meowed in my ear, keeping me conscious till I managed to drag myself over to the phone to call 911.

There it was again—louder. Circe’s ears twitched and she sat up, looking anxious. Even if it was just a squirrel or raccoon in the attic, I needed to know, so I picked up the baseball bat that I’d left in the corner of the room, and started upstairs.

As I approached my bedroom, I heard the noise again. The door was open and I crept inside, my cell phone in my pocket ready in case I needed to call the cops. Out here in the country, though, it would take them precious time to reach me. I had to learn how to take care of matters on my own.

The four-poster bed stood silent. The window was closed. Nothing looked out of place. Slowly, I lowered the bat and squinted in the dim light. The closet door was off its hinges—I’d removed it first thing, out of habit. The door to the master bath was open and I inched over, peeking inside. Nothing.

What the hell? Maybe it had just been the house. Maybe old houses settled more than I thought they did. Shrugging, I turned around and found myself facing the antique mirror that rested against one wall. I’d moved it away from my bed because something about it made me nervous.

A man stared back at me from my reflection.

Whirling, I raised the bat, but there was no one standing behind me. I jerked back to the mirror. Sure enough, he was still there, gazing at me from inside the glass. I slowly lowered the bat. What the hell was going on? Was I hallucinating? Overtired? Or is it a ghost? whispered a little voice in my mind.

Ghost. A ghost. I tried the word on my tongue as I gazed into the man’s eyes. And then I recognized him from the photo in the living room. I was staring at May’s son. Galen, who was long, long dead.

NOW THAT HE had her attention, how could he keep her from running scared? He pressed one hand against the glass and smiled softly. The last thing he wanted to do was chase her away. As he watched her struggle to believe, he noticed Circe saunter up to her mistress. The cat casually leaped onto the vanity and stretched up, her front paws leaning against the frame of the mirror. She gazed into the mirror at him, her luminous eyes almond shaped and glowing, and then let out a hiss and lightly leaped into Laurel’s arms.

Laurel stared at him, then at the cat in her arms. She whispered something—he couldn’t fully hear, being stuck in the mirror—but when she looked at him again, her gaze was soft, and a flicker of a smile rested on her lips. She shifted the cat to her left arm and raised her right hand, slowly bringing it up to meet his on the other side of the glass.

A shiver raced through him—a whisper of song on the wind. It was enough for one night. He flashed her a pale smile, then faded from sight.

AT FIRST, I only saw him in the mirror, but as I got used to his presence, Galen began to show up in other places. I’d turn around and he’d be in the corner of the kitchen. I’d be out in the garden and see him watching from the attic window. He never left the house, though, and I had the feeling he was trapped.

Circe didn’t like him, but cats and spirits didn’t mix, so I wasn’t too worried. She followed me around the house, seldom leaving my side at night.

As the weeks went by, I kept meaning to broach the subject with May, but I wasn’t sure how to begin. Hey, I see your dead son rambling around my house… What gives with that? just didn’t cut it. And whenever May came over, Galen made himself scarce.

Meanwhile, I pumped her with questions. If Galen was going to hang around my house, I wanted to know as much as I could about the ghostly man who always had a cheerful smile for me.

“How did Galen die?” I asked one day after we’d been talking about the renovations he’d made on the house.

She pressed her lips together. “The doctor… the doctor said he had a heart attack. But Galen was strong, he was in shape and kept his health up. One day…” Her voice cracked, but she waved away the tissue I offered her. “One day, I came over to see why he hadn’t shown up for breakfast. It was the morning after Halloween. His body was on the floor in the bedroom. He… just died.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, wondering if that was why he’d come back. Maybe he wanted May to know something. “What was he like?”

May sniffed back her tears as she picked up the rolling pin. She was attempting to teach me how to make pie crust. Baking wasn’t one of my strong suits, but with a tree full of apples growing ripe in the side yard, it just seemed wrong to let them go to waste.

“He was a good man,” she finally said. “He was the son every mother dreams of having. Strong, handsome, good hearted, loved animals. He never had a date because all the girls wanted to just be friends. They’d cry on his shoulder about the men who treated them badly, then go right back for more abuse.”

She shook her head. “I’ll never understand,” she added, then stopped abruptly, looking at me. “I’m sorry…”

I stared at the pie crust as she gently flipped it over the rolling pin, then spread it over the deep pie dish. How could I explain? I’d been explaining for months to people… and making excuses for years to myself.

“Sometimes… you believe what you’re told. That nobody else will ever want you. That you’re worthless. You believe it because you grow up hearing it over and over. Jason was a god in my eyes. He acted—he told me—he was doing me a favor by loving me. None of my mother’s string of boyfriends were role models, and I was so shy that nobody else ever asked me out. How could I avoid falling for a man who I thought could actually love me? Who promised to love me forever?”

I busied myself with the teakettle, then gave up and looked at her bleakly. “It ended the day after our honeymoon. And I was so embarrassed, I could never tell anyone just how bad our marriage was.”

May laid a gentle hand on my arm. “I know, child. I know. I understand.”

“Not all of us are strong,” I whispered, dropping several tea bags in the chintz pot. “Not all of us know how to be strong.”

After that, May came over a lot. She taught me how to bake. She strolled with me through the gardens and showed me which were weeds and which would blossom into flowers come spring. And always, always in the background, Galen hovered at the edge of my vision.

At night, I talked to him. Sometimes he showed himself, others not, but I always knew he was there. I’d tell him about my day while I folded laundry or brought out my paints or thumbed through the newspaper. And meanwhile, I did research on ghosts to find out just what I was dealing with.

But for all my research, I still couldn’t figure out what Galen wanted. He wouldn’t talk to me—I didn’t even know if he could—and he never ventured outside. If he wanted to resolve some lingering issue with his mother, he would have been falling all over himself to appear when she came over. All the books did was to confirm that some ghosts were benign, others weren’t, and that some might just be memories trapped in a space-time continuum.

But as the weeks wore on, I did know one thing for certain: I enjoyed his company. Galen was the perfect roommate—undemanding, quiet, and there every night. And he really listened to me—even though I didn’t know if he could actually hear me.

Eventually, I began to feel more than just friendship… enough to start undressing in front of the antique mirror where he appeared in my bedroom. On a morbid note, it occurred to me that I was probably standing right where he had when he’d died, but I pushed the thought away. And when he stared at me as I let my clothes drop to the ground, I made it worth the look.

HE HAD HER, and he knew he had her. Jason had been right—she was pliable. And before long, he’d have his freedom. The house had held him chained for years. But he always knew there was one way out. He didn’t dare show himself to his mother—she might offer herself and that would never do. He’d never be able to live with the guilt. But this girl… this woman… she would make it possible for him to slip out from behind the mirror. To walk into the light.

He had to win her trust, had to convince her that he was safe. And so he listened to her, night and day, and no one was the wiser.

Except for the cat.

Circe planted herself on Laurel’s lap or on the floor between them whenever he showed up. Whatever the case, he wasn’t afraid. There was no way she could expose him, even though she could see right through his smiles.

Gradually, Laurel began to let down her guard. Galen found himself mesmerized by the sight of her as she stood naked, caressing herself through the dark sultry nights. Autumn wore on and instead of growing more excited about his impending release, he began to dread the turn of the days.

Each night, he hesitated a little bit more. The sound of her voice, static-ridden though it may be, filled him with the urge to smile. Galen began to live for the evenings when they could spend time together.

At the end of each day, they bid each other good night with hands pressed against the glass, touching through the veils. And Galen began to question his plan, because there was something in Laurel’s eyes that gave him pause, that made him think that maybe she really could love him. And no woman had ever fallen for him before.

HALLOWEEN.

I stood by the window, watching the sun slowly lower itself below the treeline. The season was turning, autumn had arrived. May was due over tomorrow, we were going huckleberry picking and she was going to teach me how to make jam. As I took a deep breath, a tangy chill settled into my lungs, and I felt incredibly sad. The smell of wood smoke and crackling leaves reminded me of some lurking sorrow. Just what it was—I didn’t know, but whatever it was, it hovered in the shadows.

I turned back to the bed. Circe was sitting there, staring at me with her brilliant green eyes. She let out a little chirp and I sat beside her, scratching her under the chin. Her eyes were closed—cat bliss—and I let out a long sigh, looking over at the mirror.

Galen was late tonight. He usually appeared an hour or so before I went to sleep and we spent the time together, quietly pressing hands through the mirror or I would read to him, wondering if he could hear me. Right now, I was reading to him from Tennyson and was set to read The Lady of Shalott next.

Circe suddenly hissed, her hackles rising as she stared at the mirror, poised for a fight. I slowly stood, wondering whether Galen was coming. Even though I knew she didn’t like him, she’d never acted like this before.

I slowly approached the mirror, and there he was, standing, his hand against the glass. He looked upset, and I leaned closer, bringing my hand up to the cool glass.

“Is something wrong?” I stared into his eyes, my hand against his. “What’s wrong?”

He stared at me, his gaze fastened on mine, as the clock chimed the hour. At the first stroke of midnight, the mirror began to melt as his hand closed over mine. Startled, I screamed, as Circe leaped into my other arm.

The looking glass vanished and I became Alice.

GALEN SHOOK HIS head, dazed. Had it really happened? Was he free from the mirror? Could he move on, out of the house, to whatever afterlife waited for him? And then memory hit. He let out sharp gasp.

No… no… please no. Don’t let it be true. His heart spoke before his mind and he turned toward the mirror, dreading what he knew he would see.

There, behind the glass, pounding against it, stood Laurel, Circe at her feet. Her body and the cat’s lay in front of the mirror, near him, both seizing.

I’m free suddenly became mingled with I just killed the best thing that ever happened to me.

Galen shook his head. “No… no… please…” It came out a whimper, lost in the silence of All Hallow’s night. It came out a scream from the back of his throat.

“Laurel! Laurel!” He tried to pound on the mirror but here he was spirit, unable to touch the glass except… except for one way. “Please, tell me I didn’t do this to you…”

And then he stopped. The clock was chiming the final strokes of midnight. He slammed his hand against the pane and motioned for Laurel to do the same. A look of terror in her eyes, she obeyed. As their hands met, he could feel her fingers sliding through the glass. Behind her, he caught a glimpse of Jason, watching them, seething.

“You can’t have her!” With all his strength, Galen yanked Laurel by the wrist and she tumbled out, back into her body, Circe following suit. And just as quickly, he was swept into the mirror, his spirit captured once more.

The clock fell silent. Midnight was over. The veils between the worlds had closed for another year and he was still trapped, but this time, it was his choice. He’d made the decision that his own captor chose not to make.

Galen turned as his cousin came up behind him. There would be no forgiveness. Jason had been whispering in his ear too long. Galen let out a single laugh and as the mists swirled, he grappled Jason, who slipped out of his grasp and faded from sight.

“You didn’t win,” Galen whispered. “You won’t ever win, because I’ll always watch out for her. As long as she lives in this house, I’ll be there to watch over her!”

I WOKE UP on the floor, aching and feeling bruised. What the hell had happened? As I rubbed my head, vague images drifted through my mind. Touching the glass, feeling Galen’s delight as he traded places with me…

But if that was true… then what was I doing sitting on the floor? Circe was sitting next to me, nosing me with her sandpaper tongue. I scratched her between the ears.

“Hey, baby, what happened? Did I pass out?” Maybe I was more tired than I thought.

She stared at me, unblinking, then walked over to the mirror. As she reached up to scratch it, she yowled. Startled, I fell forward, knocking the mirror to the floor. The glass broke into shards, and I leaped away to avoid getting cut. Circe raced off, her tail high in the air.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay—it’s just an old mirror.” But as I looked for the dustpan and broom, an odd feeling settled in my stomach. I looked back at the mirror. The nerves were gone.

I walked into the bedroom and swept up the glass. For a moment, I thought I saw Galen’s image in the broken shards, but then it vanished. Once my floor was free from glass slivers and the broken frame, I headed into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I looked into the mirror, a mist formed on the other side and there he was. My beloved. I pressed my hand against the glass.

“Galen,” I whispered. “I wish there was a way we could touch.”

He gazed back sadly, and pressed his hand against the glass on the other side.