Page 11 of Waysider
“What the fuck is a voyant?” Cass asked.
The tape recorder whirred between them, but Sally had paused. Her blue eyes were steady and solemn. “Someone who can sense what lies beyond the veil. The divide between life and death,” she said.
“Ghosts. You’re telling me I can see ghosts.” Even now, Cass’s tone didn’t reveal anything. She sat slumped in the uncomfortable chair, her arms folded against her stomach.
“We call them revenants,” Sally said simply.
Images screamed through Cass’s head. Things she’d seen since leaving the hospital. A woman with half her skull missing. A naked boy covered in dirt. A man assaulting a woman at a gas station.
No one else could see them. No one else ever reacted. But Cass had, in the beginning—it was how she’d wound up in a psychiatrist’s office. And it was why she wasn’t really surprised by what Sally Crane was saying.
Cass reached for her joint before she remembered it was up in her room. She clenched her hand and tucked it beneath the table. Her voice was tight as she said, “I was diagnosed with cerebral anoxia. Lack of oxygen to the brain, causing sensory distortions and hallucinations.”
Sally inclined her head, still holding a pen between her red-painted fingers. “Your diagnosis is only partly correct. While I’m sure your brain did experience some trauma, the things you saw were not hallucinations. And over time, the intensity of them will fade. A voyant is at their strongest when their abilities first manifest. It may not seem true right now, but you’ve been given a gift, Miss Ryan.”
“A gift, huh?” Cass’s lips curved in a faint, humorless smile. She looked out the window, ignoring how it hurt her eyes. Beyond the glass, a tree swayed in the breeze. One of the smaller branches tapped against the pane like a finger, asking to be let in. Cass’s gaze flicked to the lock, making sure it was secure.
“I saw a tree once,” she said abruptly. “A big, creepy tree. It was growing in the corner of my psychiatrist’s office. But that wasn’t the only funny thing about this tree, besides the fact my doctor couldn’t seem to see it—it was bleeding. Not just a few drops, either. Big, gushing streams that soaked the carpet and made it squish when you walked. I could smell the blood. I could feel that thing’s pain. At every session, I barely heard anything the psychiatrist said. I knew it was costing my dad hundreds of dollars, but all I could focus on was the fucking stench.”
Even now, Cass could remember it in her nostrils, feel that relentless sting stuffing itself so high she couldn’t breathe. She finally met Sally’s calm gaze, and with cold finality she concluded, “I don’t want anything to do with this ‘gift,’ and whatever your offer is, whatever this school wants from me, I’m not interested.”
Cass could feel Cal looking at her. “You never told me about the tree,” he said softly.
Even if Cass could’ve answered, Sally was talking, and something in her countenance had softened, somehow. “What you saw was not evil, Miss Ryan. Some revenants take on strange forms, their minds twisted by trauma and time. At Else & Bellows, you can learn how to free them. How to defend yourself against them. For the most part, the only revenants you’ll actually see will be on a supervised, structured Haunting or during certain academic events. The grounds themselves are for the students and the instructors. The living.”
That got Cass’s attention. “No ghosts?” she said.
“No ghosts,” Sally said firmly. Cass fell silent again. The woman studied her, as if weighing the risk of continuing. Apparently she decided it was worth it, because she went on, “The students who graduate possess capabilities few individuals in the world have, Miss Ryan. That means their services are in high demand, and high in value. As a trained voyant of Else & Bellows, the sky is the limit when it comes to your future.”
Her meaning was clear—someday, Cass would be loaded. She could pay back whatever her dad still owed the school. Cass looked away again. Neither Cal nor Sally rushed her, or tried to influence her decision. Her gaze went back to the window, and the corners of her mouth deepened.
Bothered by the sight of the tree, Cass quickly shifted her focus downward. She forced her fists to unclench and found herself staring at her fingers. The chipped, black paint was gone now, leaving nails that were practically chewed down to the quick. Nice nails, she heard Cal’s voice say.
Then she heard her own voice murmuring, There’s someone up there.
Other sounds from that night clawed through her memory. Car brakes squealing. Footsteps on pavement. Uneven breathing. Shouting. Screaming.
Cass raised her face back to Sally, and the flatness had returned to her eyes. “Sorry. Don’t think your school is for me. I can’t afford it, anyway.”
“Cass—” Cal started at the same time Sally opened her mouth. A beat later, they all heard the distant hum of the garage. Seconds after that, a door opened and slammed shut.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Kathleen called. A moment later, she walked past the doorway. She must’ve realized the dining room wasn’t empty, because she backtracked immediately and gave Sally a polite, slightly quizzical smile. “Is everything okay?”
Cass pushed her chair back and stood. The world tilted, and she put her hands on the table for balance. How long had it been since she’d eaten? “Everything is fine, Mom. Sally was just leaving.”
She gave the woman a pointed look. Sally pressed a button on her recorder, and the tape stopped. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ryan,” she said. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Sally?” Kathleen’s smile faded. “You sound familiar. Would you happen to be Sally Crane? The one who’s been leaving messages for Cass?”
From her guarded tone, Cass knew her mom was thinking about the reporters. There had been several since the accident, wanting to write stories on Cal. He’d been bound for the NFL before everything happened. “Yeah. She was just trying to sell me something,” Cass said casually.
Sally’s expression had returned to its earlier neutrality. She put the tape recorder into her bag, followed by the notebook. Once she’d gotten to her feet, she paused and looked at Cass. “‘It was against the rules to remain indifferent to it,’” the woman in the red suit said. “Even your beloved Doctor Zhivago found the strength to join the battle, Miss Ryan.”
Cass made a soft, humorless sound. “He didn’t have much choice in the matter—he only did it to survive.”
“Then don’t just survive. Live, Miss Ryan.”
With those departing words, Sally nodded at Cass’s mother and walked over to the door, her heels making hollow sounds against the floor.
