The Girl in the Stormfront Café

It was impossible to ignore the girl in the Stormfront Café. I tried my best. All I ever wanted to do was sip my vanilla latte before work each morning. She was, unfortunately, too strange to ignore. The girl looked like an extra from the set of a vampire movie, the way she wore old-fashioned dresses under her black Victorian jacket. A few times a week, she would haunt the table in the far corner, scribbling in her little black notebook like she thought it might disappear. When she finished writing, she would tuck the notebook into a hidden pocket in her jacket, and then she would leave.

Until February 7th, the day she left the notebook behind.

I picked it up. I had to. It was instinct. The weight of it felt nice in my hand, like it belonged with me. It was like I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

I waited to open it until I got home from work. Curiosity got me through the work day even better than caffeine, and the hours of phone calls and emails had passed by quickly. I thought about hoarding the book for a while longer, but I didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of keeping it from the girl. It wasn’t worth the trouble of finding a new café.

The front page of the notebook had a space for contact information, which she had not filled out properly. Instead of giving any identifying information, the page read:

Emma. If found, please return to the Stormfront.

The sight of the name sent a shiver through me. I could not figure out if it was her first name, or if she had found out mine. I suppose she could have heard it in the café, if it was mine, but how could she have known that I would take it?

I was expecting gothic poetry or dramatic love letters that she never intended to send. Something that was beautiful and worth waiting for.

What I found was this:

11/15. The ghost left 17 scratches on the stairs last month. 12 new scratches have appeared this month already.

11/19. The ghost wedged the door shut and it would not open for at least 36 hours. I might have lost track while I was asleep.

12/1. The ghost said that there wouldn’t be any birds in the swan pond this year. 21 scratches total on the stairs this month.

12/6. The ghost stole five pennies from my nightstand.

12/12. The ghost ruined my good boots. I’ll have to make do with my spring shoes for now. Hopefully, the weather turns soon.

Each note had its own page, surrounded by a tangle of messy sketches depicting the note’s subject matter. Either the girl’s house was haunted, or something was seriously wrong with her, and I have never believed in ghosts. Without a reason to keep reading, I tucked the notebook back into my purse.

In the morning, I got to the café half an hour earlier than I preferred. A few minutes after I sat at my usual table, the girl flung open the café door and walked directly over to me.

“You found my notebook, didn’t you?”

“I did. Do you want to sit down for a minute? I’m Emma.” I didn’t really want to invite her to sit with me, but she looked unwell. She clearly hadn’t slept, and her hair was a tangled bird’s nest.

“I’m Emma, too,” she said. Her lips jerked up quickly, before she scowled again. “Where’s the notebook? I need that back.”

“So you can keep track of your ghost?” I blurted it out before I could stop myself.

To my surprise, she started laughing. “There’s no goddamn ghost,” she said. “It’s a code. Now give it back.”

“Why do you need a ghost code?”

She sighed. “Look, it’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you, but only if you’ll help me.”

“Help you how? And I can’t stay here too long, I have to get to work.”

“Fine. I’ll make it short.” She closed her eyes. “When I was a teenager, my parents died in a car crash. The only family I had was my uncle. I’ve had some mental health problems, I’ll admit that, but I’m fine if I’m on my meds. My past problems were enough for my uncle to twist things around, though, and the courts kept him in charge of my life once I turned 18. He’s been stealing money from what my parents left me ever since then, and doing his best to make sure it seems like I can’t take care of myself. I’ve tried documenting it before, but he’s always stolen everything I could get my hands on. I don’t have a phone, I don’t have a camera, all I have is this notebook, and the code to keep him from being interested in taking it away.”

No wonder she looked so exhausted. Finally, I managed to say, “So he’s the ghost.”

“Exactly.” She sighed. “Listen, I thought it was going to take longer for me to get in touch with anyone who could help me, but now that you’ve found this, maybe you could?”

“What’s in it for me?”

She looked shocked. I was shocked with myself, but my gut told me that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I wasn’t willing to let it go by.

“It won’t even take you that long to help. I just need a couple minutes to write the key to the code in the notebook. One of my parents’ friends was a lawyer, Mark Carmichael. He’s right in town. He’ll know what to do. It would be less than an hour of your time.”

“I’m the person with the notebook.”

“Look, he’s already burned through a bunch of the inheritance. I can give you ten thousand dollars.”

“Make it 20.”

“Are you serious?”

I realized that I was. With twenty thousand dollars, I could pay off the last bit of my student debt and start fresh. I was still helping her. It wasn’t exactly blackmail, I reasoned, since she could always take down more notes and look for someone else to help her. These ones had only taken a few months. I just stared at her cold, furious face.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars if you do this for me.”

I pulled out the notebook and set it on the table. “Write it in there to make it a contract. Should I tell him to meet you here tomorrow?”

“At lunch,” she said. “I don’t want to run into you.”

“That’s fine.”

I bought her a coffee to sip while she wrote out the code and contract. That didn’t seem to change her opinion about me, but that was fine. I took the pen and signed the final page next to her name.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” I said, as I put the notebook back into my purse.

I called Mark Carmichael on my lunch break, and met him at the end of my work day. He seemed both thrilled to hear from Emma Lachlan, and appalled to know what had been happening to her. He thanked me effusively for my kindness to her.

I knew he would see the contract eventually, and wondered if his opinion would change.

After the meeting, life went back to nearly normal. Anticipating a windfall, it turned out, was even better than curiosity for making the daily grind better. My coffeeshop mornings were better, too, without Emma perched in her corner.

A month later, I was absently listening to the morning news when I heard a familiar name.

“After a dramatic court case, Emma Lachlan has won control over her estate. The multi-million-dollar candy heiress has announced that she will be diverting a portion of her wealth into advocacy for people held under conservatorships.”

My attention cut off there. She was a millionaire. Maybe she would offer me more money than she had before. I would have to call Carmichael.

I didn’t expect to see her standing in the doorway when I went to get my coffee.

“Congratulations,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

“So you saw the news.” She was grinning. She held out the check. Twenty thousand dollars exactly.

I tried to hide my frown as I took the check, in case this was a test, but she caught it. “Are you seriously angry? You blackmailed me! I could have gotten the whole contract thrown out!”

“I appreciate you not doing that.”

“No, you don’t.” She was right. “You know what the funny thing is? I was so hopeful that you would help me. I left the notebook for you to find, since I knew you were always there, like clockwork. I would have given you a million dollars if you could have just found it in your heart to be kinder.”

“I usually am,” I said. Even I could hear how weak my voice sounded.

She ignored my defense entirely, and stared, instead, at the café’s awning. “I’m buying this place,” she said. “I got really attached to it. You should find another place to drink your morning coffee.”

And with that, she walked in and closed the door on me. I didn’t bother trying to follow her. I tried to remind myself that I still had the check in my hands. I didn’t start to feel better until I paid off my loans and opened a bottle of wine.

“To the future,” I said to my empty apartment, as I raised my third glass. “And to being kinder.”