Low Midnight

Chapter 3

CORMAC ARRIVED in Manitou Springs at midday. After parking the Jeep on a side street, he walked to Soda Springs Park, a sheltered stretch of space along the creek in the middle of town. The bare winter branches and trunks of a row of trees and shrubbery gave a semblance of seclusion from the nearby road. Some modern hippie types with white-kid dreads and creative piercings gathered under a covered picnic area and gave him a passing glance.

I don’t remember any of this, Amelia said. Heavens, when did this all become so built over? The streets, the trees—it all seems wrong. We can’t possibly be in the right town, but I know we are, because I remember that view of the mountains, and that row of houses there. But wasn’t there a gazebo here, and not that ugly thing?

She meant the picnic shelter, clearly a product of modern parks-and-rec department utility. Her chatter was nervous. Amelia was tough. Ruthless, when it came to her own survival—after all, she’d managed to at least partly survive her own hanging and find a way to continue on, whatever the form. But Cormac could feel the trepidation she’d suppressed for over a century, now boiling up. He got ready to power through it.

A quick search online revealed that Amy Scanlon’s aunt, Judi Scanlon, ran a “supernatural” walking tour of Manitou Springs. Not just a ghost tour, but a tour that promised to highlight all of the town’s supernatural points of interest, from Native American sacred sites to the so-called magic surrounding its famous springs, and so on. Cormac signed them up as a way to gauge the woman before formally meeting her, rather than just walking up to her to tell her that her niece was dead, and could she please help decode the book.

Even in winter a good collection of tourists gathered for the tour, which met at the paved space at the park entrance. The relatively warm, sunny day had brought them out, in ski vests and hip knitted hats. A solitary guy in his leather jacket and sunglasses, Cormac looked out of place. He kept to the edges of the group and watched.

When a lone, older woman came up the sidewalk, wrapped in a colorful wool coat and striding like she was on a mission, Cormac guessed this was Judi Scanlon. Surveying the group, she offered a broad smile, rubbing her hands together, like she was scheming. “You all here for the tour? Great! I’m Judi, thanks for coming out on this chilly day. Let’s get started, all right?”

Cormac worried that she might be into icebreakers—demanding to know everyone’s names and where they were from. But she didn’t go there, just marched on, leading the group to the sidewalk. Judi was vibrant, one of those types who always seemed to be volunteering at libraries or walking in charity fundraisers. Stout without being fat, with short silver hair under a baseball cap, an oversized comfortable sweater and sensible sneakers.

We’re going to have to tell this kindly woman what happened to her niece, Amelia said.

Cormac still hadn’t figured out exactly how that was going to happen. He was playing this by ear. He trailed along at the end of the group, arms crossed, listening to history he mostly already knew.

Tucked in at the base of Pikes Peak, Manitou Springs had been a tourist town for some hundred and thirty years. Its collection of mineral springs made it an early destination for rich health nuts and tuberculosis patients who’d traveled west in the late eighteen hundreds to take advantage of the dry climate. The wealthy founders of nearby Colorado Springs had vacation homes here. A collection of gingerbread Victorian mansions remained, but most of the businesses on the main drag had been converted to T-shirt shops, art galleries, and trendy restaurants.

Manitou was a storied city, starting out on the frontier of the Old West, with prospectors and explorers, even a few gunslingers and gamblers, along with the original Mexican settlers and Native Americans getting pushed out by the brand new world. Lots of travelers, which meant lots of history, lots of lore, lots of ghost stories. Judi seemed to know them all.

Amelia knew a number of them herself—some of these ghosts had been haunting buildings in the town for a long time. She murmured corrections to Judi’s commentary in the back of Cormac’s mind and added her own observations about what buildings had been there back in the day, which hadn’t, what had changed, and what no longer existed. Like any traveler coming back to any spot after a long absence, some of it was familiar, some of it utterly changed. Ten years, a hundred years, didn’t seem to make a difference.

The word “Manitou” comes from the Algonquin tribe of Indians, she murmured. Cormac thought she might have been talking to herself, repeating old lore. It refers to a kind of nature spirit, as I understand it, although I’ve read some authors who insist that manitou refers to gods. There was so much argument, a hundred years ago, about whether the Indians even had gods. Mostly among missionaries, I imagine. Does anyone still argue about such things? I should do some reading on it. At any rate, I’m certain the word has nothing at all to do with local legends or native spirits. I’ve even heard tell someone got the name from Longfellow, as if that was the only relevant lore any of them had encountered—unacademic drivel, hardly worth speaking of. Really, the Algonquin are an eastern tribe and have nothing to do with this part of the country.

She was distracting herself from more concrete memories, he realized.

The tour progressed to a certain street, and Amelia grew quieter, until she stopped talking at all.

“Next I’m going to tell you what’s probably the most gruesome story on this tour—don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Judi said, with a wink and a grin, and approached one of the gingerbread Victorians at the end of the block. It was two stories tall with dormer windows in the attic, and a porch wrapped around two sides of the house, all of it painted blue with white trim, hooks over the porch where planters would hang in summer, brass light fixture by the door, the works.

Judi drew a key from a pocket and gestured them up. “I have permission from the owner to bring you inside, if you’ll step up this way.”

Cormac stopped at the foot of the porch’s stairs.

I know this house, Amelia whispered. It’s different—it stood alone, then. The street’s been built up. I would have walked right past it. But I know it.…

Judi began her lecture. “In 1900, this house witnessed a terrible murder. A beautiful young woman, Lydia Harcourt, beloved by the whole town, met her end here, murdered in what can only be described as a demonic ritual by the most unlikely perpetrator imaginable—an English noblewoman. Let’s go inside.”

Gathered on the porch, the rest of the tour-goers murmured with interest. Cormac tried to take a step—and couldn’t move. A freezing dread had traveled down his legs, and Amelia’s presence overwhelmed him.

I remember. I can smell the blood.

Her memory gave him the scent of it, like the smell of a butcher shop, tangy and foreboding.

That was over a hundred years ago, he thought at her. Let’s go in.

Their partnership worked because he kept possession of his body. Unless they were explaining or working magic—and often, even then, when Amelia fed him instructions rather than performing the movements herself—Cormac was in control. Her fear had overridden his control. She wasn’t going to let him move.

An anger grew up in him, his thoughts turning hard: Do they say “Get back on the horse” where you’re from? Just let me go in and get it over with.

The rest of the tour was already in the house, and Judi waited at the front door, looking out. “Is everything all right? I promise, it isn’t too scary for a big tough guy like you.” She wore an amused smile.

Gritting his teeth, Cormac made an angry shove at himself, and his legs moved. They scuffed on the walkway, but they moved.

Judi described the day in 1900 when the door burst open and people saw the bloody corpse of Lydia Harcourt lying on the floor, and Lady Amelia Parker bending over her, kneeling in a pool of blood, perpetrating some ungodly ritual on the body. A circle had been drawn on the floor in chalk, incense burned, lit candles flared, the whole nine yards. Like something out of a horror movie with all the usual clichés.

The house had been restored since then, and the story clashed with the Victorian parlor setting: clean hardwood floor, a rug at the base of a staircase, padded straight-backed chairs, a mirror and table against one wall, nondescript paintings of flowers hanging at intervals. It looked like a dozen other restored houses in town. But Judi painted a picture, and Amelia’s memories rose up.

It was such a horrible crime, she murmured, recovering, her explorer’s mind returning. This all looks so … polite, compared to when I last saw this place.

Through her, he saw that scene. It was more than déjà vu, this feeling Amelia’s perspective gave him. He had two memories in one body, and her memories of this place were strong, filled with emotion—regret, anger, despair.

Her perspective shifted the setting, overlaying what had happened with how the room looked now, and the double vision gave him vertigo. He almost put his hand out to steady himself. There was the body of the girl Amelia had been accused of murdering, her throat cut deeply, her head bent back unnaturally; there was the pool of blood around her; there were the candles and mirror of the spell Amelia worked to try to question the victim from beyond the grave. That was how the locals had found her, bent over the bloody scene, a witch out of a nightmare.

“This is where the body lay when the local constabulary burst through the door,” the guide said, pointing to the side of the room near the staircase. “There was a struggle as the murderer threw her tools at them and made to flee out the back door, but she wasn’t fast enough. She didn’t escape.”

Amelia was looking at a different spot. The memories played out.

“No,” Cormac said. He pointed to an area four feet over, more in the center of the room than to the side. “The body was there. They came in—Amelia had to turn to see them. She didn’t struggle. She knew what it looked like, knew they weren’t going to listen to anything she had to say to defend herself.” His voice faded; he wasn’t sure if he’d been passing along her words, or if he was trying to explain the emotions she was showing him.

The other half dozen people on the tour stared. Rather than apologize or try to explain what he knew, he frowned back and stayed quiet.

Judi studied him while picking up her spiel and carrying on. “The horror of it ensured the crime would make all the newspapers.…”

If Amelia had a body, she might have been holding a breath that she now released. The memory faded, along with the scent of blood, and the reality of the present won out. This was a competently restored house, a moderately accurate historical tour, and the emotional hooks that dug into their skin eased away.

Judi had still more story to tell: “As you might imagine, many stories about this house have grown up over the years. Screams on certain nights, pools of blood appearing at midnight. Many people are convinced that poor Lydia’s ghost haunts the place where she was killed. Some people say that Amelia Parker’s ghost also lingers here, still stalking her victim after death.…”

Well, we know that’s wrong, Amelia thought with a huff.

I don’t know—you’re here, aren’t you? Maybe we should knock over a chair, just for fun.

She was indignant. I don’t think so.

Finally, they left the house.

You all right? Cormac asked that corner of his mind.

I—yes. I think I am. It’s better, now that I’ve seen it. I needed to see it. You were right.

I’m sorry, he thought stiffly, unaccustomed to the sentiment. It was stupid luck that they caught you.

I’m not one to say that all things happen for a reason. But, well, here I am. I’m not inclined to argue. Let’s move on.

The guide led them down the street, the circular tour curving back to the park where they’d started, and she shared a couple more stories of lurid suicides and Native American magic. Cormac started to think about how he was going to approach Judi. The tour she led was full of supernatural weirdness, but how much of it was just stories for her? How much did she really believe? Amy Scanlon had listed her as a mentor—how much did the woman really know about magic?

The tour ended back at the park. The tourists drifted off, but Judi lingered, like he thought she might, regarding Cormac with curiosity. He waited for her to ask the questions she so obviously had.

“Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked.

He smirked, amused at the roundabout lead-in. “I did. Thanks.” Another beat of waiting.

“You’re very interested in the Harcourt murder, I take it,” she said finally, leading to the real question. “Why?”

He nodded, acknowledging. “I’m interested in Amelia Parker. She didn’t kill the girl. She was innocent.”

“Then who did kill her?”

There wasn’t a subtle way to say it. “The demon Amelia was hunting.”

The tour guide’s eyes narrowed. “You know what? I’ve always thought it was something like that. What makes you think so?”

“I’ve talked to Amelia,” Cormac said, just to see the reaction.

Her eyes widened in wonder. Not skepticism, which would have prompted a shutting down of expression, not an opening up, like this. He kept his expression still.

After a moment she said, “Would you like to come back to my shop for some tea?”

He said yes.