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“The what…? Oh,” I said. The microfiche. It’s pronounced “micro-feesh,” but I can see why she would say it that way.
She pointed. “They’re in the back corner.”
We found the ancient machines gathering dust behind the biographies. I switched one on, and its screen lit up with a lazy yawn. Next to the machines were row after row of shoe box—size metal drawers, which held the slides of information. Megan grabbed a three-ring binder labeled “MICROFICHE LOG” from the top of the cabinet and started flipping through it.
“Drawer 5E,” she a
I pulled open the drawer to see hundreds, maybe thousands, of sheets of celluloid film, each containing a six-by-ten grid of articles no bigger than a fingernail. Four dividers broke the drawer into sections. The second one said surrey-de
Megan flipped to the center of the October sheets and pulled one out.
“It doesn’t get any more specific than this,” she said. “I’ve been looking for articles that mention my mom’s accident for about two years.”
“And you haven’t found anything?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Grandma won’t talk about it, and Mom’s headstone only says the year. So I had to start in January and go from there.” She sighed. “I’m up to April, and I haven’t found a thing.”
I thought of my own mother and felt a nervous shudder run through me. I also couldn’t help but be impressed by how well adjusted Megan was about the whole thing. And then I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have cut her a little more slack all this time if I’d known she’d had such a hard life.
Megan pointed at the screen. “Start looking.”
I set the slide in the little metal tray and slid the whole thing into the slot on the side of the machine. A newspaper article showed up on the screen in negative— yellow-white print on a black background. I tried to
move to the next article, but the images spun by dizzyingly. Finally I found one with a date on it: October 4.
“Wrong date,” I said. “We’re looking for the middle of the month.”
Megan switched the slides. The date on the new one was October 18.
I began scrolling through the articles one at a time. Megan leaned in to look at the first few, but the screen was really only big enough for one person. She backed away and continued flipping through the drawer.
My eyes were already tired of searching the tiny print. I was approaching the last square on the page and starting to doubt that we’d ever find anything.
Then I saw the headline.
YOUNG MOTHER’S DEATH RULED SUICIDE.
Local residents were shocked by the October 15 death of Surrey resident Shara Wiley. Now they have even more reason to be dismayed as the coroner’s report categorizes the death as a suicide and possible murder attempt on Wiley’s two-year-old daughter, who, after presumably escaping out the back door of the house, was found wandering on Whitley Street by neighbors.
Shara Wiley.
Megan’s mom.
I leaned in again, my heart beating so hard I could barely sit still enough to read the tiny print.
Wiley was found deceased in her home at 989 Whitley Street after neighbors called police to report having found the two-year-old, but not being able to reach her mother. All doors and windows had been sealed off, and a gas pipe in the house had been disco
Police initially considered the possibility of foul play, but after continuing investigations, the death has been ruled a suicide. Wiley, 27, bought the historic house in 1995 and lived there with her daughter. She worked part-time as a grocery clerk, but had recently begun pursuing professional photography following years of award-wi
The coroner declared Wiley dead at the scene. She was unmarried. Her daughter was turned over to the custody of relatives, who refuse to speak to reporters. As of press time, police investigations continue.
“Alexis.”
I jerked to attention and looked at Megan.
“What is it?” she asked, trying to edge around behind me. I blocked her path with my chair.
“Wait,” I said. “Maybe we should…We can print it out. Do you have a quarter? I don’t think I do.” My clammy hands groped in my pockets for change, but they were empty.
I could tell that Megan wanted to push me out of the way and read what was on the screen. But then our eyes met.
She nodded slowly and fished a quarter out of her bag, then stuck it in the coin slot. My fingers fumbled as I pressed the big green print button.
The ancient gears inside whined and groaned and then a page shot out the side with the article printed on it in shiny black ink.
We both reached for it, but Megan was faster.
She started sca
I tried to think of something to say that might soften the blow.
But of course there was nothing.
“Huh,” she said, and kept reading. I couldn’t look away from her. It felt like my duty, my responsibility. Soon I heard her breath catch in her throat. She pulled the page into her chest, crinkling it against her heart.
She looked at me, eyes intense and searching, like a hurt, confused animal.
I took a step toward her, but she held her arm out to keep me away. She leaned up against the row of metal cabinets and finished reading the article. Then her fingers released it, and it floated to the floor.
“My mother…tried to kill me,” she whispered. Her eyes were unfocused, like she was seeing a progression of possibilities, answers.
“Megan…”
“All those psychics—they weren’t saying Sarah. They were saying Shara. I’m so stupid. All these years I’ve just been hearing it wrong,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. “Grandma told me she died in a car accident….Why didn’t she tell me the truth?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“We have to go back to your house.” Her whole face seemed to harden. “I want to talk to her. I want to ask her why.”
A second passed. My heart thumped so hard it hurt.
“It’s dangerous,” I said. “Megan, remember what you said in the car?”
It’s evil.
“If my sister is possessed,” I continued, “if there’s something in the house that wants you dead, and Kasey was home when we got there…”
Megan lifted her chin and leveled her gaze on me. My body seemed to vibrate with a striking new fear—that Megan would do something stupid and get herself killed.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’m not afraid.”
“She could…she could really kill you.” Was that what all of this was about? Megan’s mother’s ghost trying to finish what she started?
She made a noise of protest, more of a whimper than an actual word, but I knew exactly what she couldn’t say. She had to at least try. Wouldn’t anyone feel that way? Wouldn’t I?
I would.
But still.
“You can’t go back until we know more,” I said, trying to steady my shaking voice.
“Maybe she’s changed,” Megan said. “Maybe she’s angry because she’s stuck in the house and she wants to talk to me.”
“No,” I said.
She shook her head like she hadn’t heard me right. “No?” “No. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.” “What,” she said, her voice edged with hurt, “like you’re going to stop me?”
“I will if I have to,” I said.
“Alexis,” she said. “I thought we were…”
“We are friends,” I said. “That’s why I can’t let you
do this. Just give it one day. We’ll keep researching, keep looking for ways to—”
“Ways to do what, to destroy her? She needs help, not—” She shook her head, looking for a word.
I could imagine how much it would mean to her to know her mother. I felt her pain and loneliness as if they were my own, and my whole body ached with sadness for her.