The Revenant Read Online Free PDF Page B

grandmother used. French, I think, for one who returns. ” Her expression softened slightly. “We lost Ella, but her spirit returned to the place where she was happy and beloved. Now her spirit is confused.”
    I could only stare at her for spouting such idiocy. Papa had often scoffed at the weak-willed and easily led, but I hadn’t truly known what he meant until that moment.
    “I am sensitive to these things,” she continued, “and I have felt a presence—there are cold spots in the building, strange rapping noises, and water faucets that turn on when no one is nearby.”
    “You can’t be serious!”
    “I am. Don’t you believe in spirits that become trapped in the earthly plane?”
    “No, I do not. There are plenty of ghosts in Shakespeare, but my papa always insisted they were born of the characters’ fevered minds, and would only be taken for spirits by the poor and ignorant. He loathed such superstitions.”
    Olivia sighed. “You would not be the first doubter I’ve encountered. People close themselves off to what the spirit world tries to tell us, and when they do experience something out of the ordinary, they are quick to dismiss it as the work of imagination or fever.”
    I shook my head. “My dear papa died most tragically, and if anyone had a reason to come back and haunt his family, it would be he. And if he were to communicate with anyone, it would be me. Yet I’ve never felt his presence, nor heard his voice. So, no, I can’t say I believe in spirits that visit the living.” I laughed. “In fact, I find this notion of spirits very backward.”
    “You needn’t be so dismissive. I will not speak of it again.” With those words, she drew away a few inches, and I knew she would have walked off had we not been in formation. Instead, she retreated into herself, her face drawn with disappointment. We walked in silence for the remainder of the outing.
    I dreamed of Papa that very night—the first time since those sad days right after his death. In the hazy murk of the dream, he was sitting by the fire in his study, surrounded by shelves crammed with books. Joy flooded my heart. Papa was not dead! He’d merely been resting in his study—waiting patiently for us to realize our mistake. I bounded into the room to embrace him, calling out to him. But no matter how loud I cried, he did not look up. My feet turned to lead and my arms grew heavy at my sides. I could not reach him. I called and called, but he only looked into the fire, his eyes sad and mustache drooping.
    I woke with an ache in my stomach, an emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger. Why wouldn’t Papa look at me?
    Mother had erased Papa’s presence from our house. His study was now the boys’ room. His clothing, pipes, toiletries, and books—almost all had been sold or burned. I’d begged her to let me keep his Shakespeare books and pocket watch, but the rest was lost. The last time I’d stood in that room, I could no longer smell the sweetness of his pipe tobacco. Instead, the air was ripe with the stench of soiled diapers.
    I thought of Papa’s cold face in the dream. Had he refused to look at me out of anger ? Did he blame me for leaving Mother?
    I shook my head. Papa was dead and couldn’t be angry with me.
    Mother was angry, to be sure. She begrudged the hours of labor she’d planned to extract from me, for she couldn’t afford to pay someone else to do the work. I was valuable to her, if only as a workhorse. Was I so valuable that she’d send the law after me? Would they be able to track me down and drag me back to the farm?
    A tap near the window jolted me upright in the bed. I sat still and listened. Another tap. I drew back the covers and moved slowly to the window to pull the curtain aside. All was darkness. If there was someone underneath my window, I could not see him. Or her.
    Had the noise come from inside the room? My arms prickled with gooseflesh.
    Perhaps a ghost was standing next to me.
    I shook my