Ghosts and Other Lovers by Lisa Tuttle Read Free Book Online Page B

none the wiser, because what had happened to her belonged to another realm, not of scientific medicine, but of mysticism.
    She could suddenly see herself in a hospital somewhere, locked in an underfurnished room in a building where lunatics screamed and raged, watched by men in white coats through a hole in the door, and she went cold with dread. She burrowed under the sheets and pulled the blankets up to her nose with hands that were cold but, for once, miraculously dry. That must not happen -- surely Mildred wouldn't let that happen to her? But of course Mildred didn't understand, and she might well trust a doctor who promised a cure. She wished the doctor had never come. She knew he would never cure her, no matter what he tried, and she did not want to be studied by him. If he decided she was an interesting case . . . Eustacia clenched her teeth to stop them chattering. She wouldn't let it happen. Mildred wouldn't let it happen. Lydia wouldn't let it happen. Lydia was coming soon. Lydia would understand; Lydia would save her.
     
    * * *
     
Lydia arrived four days later. Sitting in her chair by the window, well wrapped in shawls and blankets, with nothing to do but watch and wait, Eustacia thought she'd never been so glad to see another person. It was life Lydia brought into her room -- the sickroom, her prison -- life and a taste of the world she had grown hungry for.
     
    "Whatever is the matter with Mildred?" Lydia asked as she swept in. "A face as long as a wet Sunday when she said you were poorly but -- oh!" The cheerful prattle ended, the exclamation shocked out of her, when, as she bent to kiss her sister, her lips encountered not the familiar warm, soft texture of her check, but flesh slippery with a chill and slimy coating.
    "I'm not ill," Eustacia said looking urgently into her sister's eyes. To her relief, she saw neither horror nor disgust reflected there, only a puzzled concern. "No matter what Mildred thinks, or the doctor. It is odd, though . . . hard to understand . . . hard to write about in a letter. That's why I wanted to see you. I wanted you to see me. Because I am all right . . . I am still me .
    "Of course you are! Still my own dear sister. Is this some new ploy to escape doing chores? Or is that what Mildred thinks? I had thought, from the way she spoke, that it was your time."
    She shook her head. "Do sit down, Lydia. I'll have to show you." She was excited and scared. There was a tingling inside, a nervous reaction to match the purely physical, localized tingle in her hands. The feeling of something that had to come out. And, now, a new excitement because there was meaning and new purpose to what she was about to do. For the first time she had an audience. Was she good enough for her audience? Lydia's response was all-important.
    "You remember . . . Mr. Elphinstone?"
    "Yes, of course."
    "And what he did that evening, and what he showed us? The ectoplasm? He did something else that same evening, to me. When he touched me. I don't understand how or why, but he gave it to me somehow." She paused, aware of gathering her power, of concentrating it all in her hands, which she held now before her, just above her lap. Lydia said nothing, and there was nothing in her look but waiting and wonder.
    "Watch," said Eustacia, and stared at her own hands as the thick, wavering white steam poured out of them, her fingers become fountains. Ten separate streams merged and grew into one almost-solid form: head, neck, shoulders, chest . . . until it was a baby floating there, its features somewhat vague and undefined but still and undeniably a baby. There.
    Eustacia felt a little dizzy, and had the familiar sensation of having been drained. But she also felt triumphant, and as she looked up from her creation she was smiling happily. "There -- see? It's your baby."
    Lydia's face had gone an unhealthy yellowish color. She shook her head slowly. "No," she said, sounding tortured. "That's not my baby --