The ghosts watch these ministrations. They remember and yearn; some remember and regret. But they remember. They wish they could tell the citizens the secrets they know about the past, about mistakes, about love and desire, hope and choice, about what is important and what is not.
They wish, too, that they could warn them about the gray man in the stovepipe hat, about the King of Crows.
For not all ghosts remember, and the citizens have need of warning.
The Shadow Man walked through the echoing corridor and stopped before the thick steel door bearing the symbol of a radiant eye shedding a lightning-bolt tear. He adjusted his tie, unlocked the door, and entered. The room was simple, rustic in its comforts: A single cot. A nightstand. A toilet and washbasin. The only light came from a ceiling fixture, which was regulated by a man at a switchboard each evening and a different man in the mornings. The right side of the cell was anchored by a simple wooden table and the type of large upholstered chair one might find in any American sitting room. It was the one thing of comfort in the dank room, and the woman sat in it, her eyes closed. The woman was of average height but too thin, and this lack of substance made her nearly into a ghost.
Tonight’s dinner sat untouched on its tray. “Mmm, Salisbury steak. My favorite,” said the man, whose name was either Hamilton or Washington, or, possibly, Madison.
The woman didn’t answer.
“Mashed potatoes. And peas and carrots. Delicious.” He slid the fork through the potatoes and circled the utensil near her face. “Open wide.”
The woman didn’t move. The man dropped the fork back on the tray. “Now, Miriam, if you don’t eat, we’ll be forced to give you a feeding. You remember how unpleasant that was, don’t you?”
The woman’s skin twitched along her jawline, assuring the Shadow Man that she did, in fact, remember.
“What, no smile for me?”
Her expression did not change.
“Wouldn’t you like to see your family again?”
“I have no family,” she whispered.
“All you have to do is find the others and give us the names. Tell us where they are.”
The man moved about the room as if accustomed to its contours. He ran a finger along the desk, examining the layer of dust there before rubbing it away. “Afterward, you’ll take a nice walk in the woods. You’ll like that, won’t you, yes? To smell the fresh air? Does it remind you of the birch trees bordering Moscow? Does it smell of home?”
Her reply was feathery light. “This is my home.”