Ways to See a Ghost by Emily Diamand Read Free Book Online Page B

apart: a newly planted tree, a rosebush under the window, a different-coloured door. This one had diamond-patternedwindows, which gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight, reflecting away any view of the inside.
    Cally scanned the thick cream paper, and nodded. “Definitely. This is twelve Worthington Avenue.”
    Isis pressed the doorbell again. The tune tinkled, and this time the handle crunched downwards, the door swinging open. A plump, soft-faced man regarded them from under mousey, thinning hair. He was dressed in pale jeans and a lemon yellow pullover.
    “Oh, hello,” stammered Cally. “We’re early I think. I’m Calista, and this is my daughter…”
    The man smiled, his face transformed by dimples and wrinkles. Not handsome exactly, but… something.
    “Of course!” he said, reaching to shake Cally’s hand. “I’m so pleased you could make it. I’m Philip Syndal.” He opened the door wider. “Please, call me Phil.”
    “I’ve been to your performances!” said Cally, smiling and enthusiastic. “And read all your books. But I never dreamed that… I mean, this invitation means so much… I just wanted to thank you. Thank you.”
    He smiled at Cally, then turned the beam on Isis, before beckoning them inside.
    “You’ve been attracting attention with your work,”he said, as they walked into his house. “We believe you could be a very useful member of the Welkin Society, especially at this time.” Philip Syndal turned to Isis, examining her from his plain grey eyes. “And your daughter is welcome too.”
    He closed the door behind them, shutting off suburbia.
    The inside of the house was completely different from its bland exterior. Isis stared at the wide, double-height entrance hall and the dark-wood staircase leading to the upstairs. The walls were painted green above the skirting, the colour blending into sky blue further up and then rich, midnight blue over their heads. Pinprick lights spotted the high, night-sky ceiling, with paintings of wistful, shimmering men and women curling between them. They were packed together; their oversized butterfly wings fluttering awkwardly from their backs, their limbs jumbled and confusing in some places. As if the artist had struggled to fit them all in.
    Isis tipped her head back, staring.
    “I see you’ve noticed my guardians,” said Philip, standing close beside her.
    “Are they… fairies?” she asked.
    “Spirits, or angels perhaps.” He gazed at the figures. “The artist was recommended by Norman.” There was thetiniest pause before he said the dead man’s name, his grief clear but restrained. “The artist says she paints what she sees. These are portraits of the beings she saw circling this house, acting for my protection.”
    “Oh,” said Isis. She hadn’t seen anything circling his red-tiled roof, except for a couple of squawking jackdaws.
    “How wonderful to have them watching over you,” said Cally. “So many people only think of spirits as being frightening, when there are also these messengers of goodness.”
    “The angels are always with us,” said Philip.
    “Oh I’ve read it!” cried Cally. “It’s wonderful.” It was the title of one of his books; they were all lined up neatly on a shelf back at their flat.
    Philip smiled, modestly accepting her praise.
    “
I
Angel,” said a small voice.
    Isis went still.
    “I Angel,” said the voice again. Isis turned her head, as casually as she could, and saw Angel standing by the door. She was wearing a pink dress, and the flowery sandals. The little girl-ghost spoke again.
    “I here. I Angel.”
    Isis glared at her.
    Go away!
She didn’t even dare whisper it, not here. She glanced back at Philip and Cally, now deep in conversation.
    “Of course,” Philip was saying, “this is a very difficult time for the society. Our founder was so dedicated, I hardly feel worthy to continue his work.”
    “Oh yes, Norman Welkin was a very great man.” Cally said his name awkwardly, with