Page 91 of Disturbing the Dead
“You know they are intelligent people. Yes, they are kindhearted, and someone could use that to take advantage of them. They might also be a little sheltered and naive. Dr. Gray can be easily distracted. But do you honestly believe that if I gave them a preposterous story, they would accept it without investigating? They’re scientists. That’s what they do. They challenge theories.”
“So your story is preposterous?”
“Is that really all you got from that little speech? Of course it’s preposterous. Slightly less than your changeling theory, but more than your identical twin or doppelgänger one.”
“Doppel…”
“Germanic folklore to describe someone who looks exactly like you. In the lore, it’s an evil spirit. In common parlance, it means someone who just happens to look like you, which is actually more possible than you might think. There are only so many combinations of the DNA that make up our physical features, and people who aren’t related can look alike. There’s a theory, mostly urban legend, that everyone has a doppelgänger out there. As for how I know about the German lore, it’s the same way I recognized the Hand of Glory. Reading. I like the weird stuff. Always have. Helps to have overly indulgent parents with an academic bent, who encouraged their only child to study anything she likes, however strange. Kinda wish I’d studied history more, though. It’d sure be helpful now.”
I’d done the same thing with Isla, bombarding her with information that she’d struggled to process, in hopes it would make my story easier to handle.
“You’re right, Mrs. Wallace. I’m not Catriona. However, if you know any physical trait that would separate her from a twin—scar or such—tell me where it is and I’ll show it to you. This is her body. I’m just not her.”
Silence.
I continue, “I’d like you to just trust that Mrs. Ballantyne and Dr. Gray know my story and accept it, however unbelievable it is. So does Detective McCreadie. Three people who aren’t going to swallow anything without testing it from every angle. They accept it. Now, can we please finish searching? I’m no threat to your employers. I’m only here to help them, and if I haven’t proved that by now, I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Tell me who you are.” The barrel drives into my tailbone. “Now.”
“We’re really doing this?” I settle back on my haunches. “Fine. My name is Mallory Elizabeth Atkinson. I’m thirty years old. Born March 20, 1989, in Vancouver. My parents are Scottish. Mom came to Canada after she went to university here in Edinburgh. She’s a lawyer—a barrister, you’d call it. Dad’s family emigrated… well, around now, actually. He grew up in Vancouver. He’s a university professor. English lit. Especially the Victorian era, which is about all the insight I get into this world.”
I try to glance back, but I can’t see her. “There. Is that weird enough for you? I’m from the future.”
Silence.
I continue, “If you want to test me, can we do that later? I’m not going anywhere. Kinda stuck here, in the body of a Victorian housemaid who was a really nasty piece of work. Seriously, if she ever shows up again, get her out of the house. She’s probably a sociopath. I’ve met a few. In my world, I’m a cop. A detective, like Hugh McCreadie.”
“And how did you end up in Catriona’s body?”
“You want that part, too? Fine. My world. 2019. My grandmother is dying.” My voice hitches there, but I push on. “I was sitting vigil in her final days. After she fell asleep, I slipped out for a jog—running for exercise. I needed to get away. Clear my head. It was late at night, but hey. I’m a cop. I can handle myself, right? I hear a woman in trouble. I run into an alley in the Grassmarket. I see what looks like the image of a young woman in Victorian dress. Catriona, as I realize now. I thought it was some kind of macabre tour video. This young woman was being strangled. At that same moment, I got grabbed by a guy who’d been stalking me. He strangled me as she was being strangled in the same spot a hundred and fifty years earlier. I woke up in her body, and I’m really—really—hoping she didn’t wake up in mine, conning my family—”
There’s a thud behind me, as if she’s rocking back hard. The gun is gone from my lower back.
“Does that mean I can come out?” I say.
No answer.
Someone else might be rendered speechless, not sure how to even answer such a preposterous story. But that’s not Mrs. Wallace. She’ll have lots to say, and I might find myself locked in this tunnel while she decides what to do with me.
Either way, she’s no longer holding a gun to my ass, so I’m taking full advantage. I start reversing out when hands grab the back of my dress and haul me.
“Hey!” I say, twisting.
My hand moves to plunge into the coat pocket for the knife. Except I’m not wearing the multicolored coat. I’m wearing the equivalent of underthings, which have no pockets.
I’m being dragged from this narrow tunnel, fingernails scraping the ground on either side as if I can stop myself. I can’t stop myself. I can only prepare to fight like hell once my attacker hauls me out—
Hands grab my hair and rip so hard I scream, my head jerking back. I kick and twist to punch, but my attacker has my hair wrapped around their hand. Something soars over my head in a blur. A cord cuts into my throat, and my brain goes wild, torn between raw animal panic and disbelief.
You’re hallucinating. You’re mistaking something brushing against your neck for a rope, and you’re panicking when you need to be fighting.
There cannot be a cord around my throat. I just explained to Mrs. Wallace how I got here, saying I’d been strangled by a rope, so this cannot be happening.
Except it is happening. My hands fly to my neck and catch the cord. A smooth silken cord.
Mrs. Wallace is killing me. I told her my story, and she’s decided I’m a madwoman, and she needs to protect her family from me. I’d claimed to have been strangled, so that’s what she’s doing to me. A fitting end.
I wedge my fingers under the cord. A foot slams down on my back, so hard that pain rips through me. I’m on my knees, being lifted aloft by the cord around my throat, the foot on my back now a knee pressing me down, keeping me from fighting.
