"Easy, easy…" said the man hovering over me. He was handsome--beautiful, really--with exquisite cheekbones and full lips. The neon sign washed his skin blue.
If I was dead, this wasn’t a bad way to find out.
"What happened?" He helped me sit up.
I took a moment to get my bearings. Parking lot of the Moonlight Motor Inn, the door to 105 still open before me. The back of my head hurt. I rubbed at it. No blood, at least.
Goddammit, when was I going to learn to listen to Grandpa Abe? I grimaced and tried to stand, but the stranger reached out and settled a hand on my shoulder. He said, "Slow. That was a crazy fall, man. You just toppled straight over, didn’t even try to catch yourself. I was afraid you dropped dead or something."
"I didn’t," I grumbled. "What are you doing here? The family is supposed to be away tonight."
"No way I was going to leave our place out here all alone and unlocked while a stranger rummaged through it." He smiled, though, as if this was funny to him. He held out one hand. "Adam Ha. And you’re Courtland. Nice to meet you."
I looked at his hand and frowned. No pentagram tattoo. I glanced at the other one--none there either. Weird, because I was pretty sure he was the guy the ghost who’d just tried to possess my ass had been talking about. "You being here could mess up my read."
He let his hand fall. "Sorry. I got practical concerns on top of the paranormal ones, bro."
I met his gaze. It was deep, almost black in the weird light. He struck me as an old soul. I was still goddamn annoyed with him, pretty or not. I tried to stand on my own power, swayed a little as I got to my knees, but made it onto my feet eventually. Adam Ha held out his hand a few times but didn’t seem offended when I didn’t accept.
"You look like shit. Lemme make you some tea or something, at least," he said.
I glanced dubiously at room 105. I should get the fuck off the property altogether, truth be told, but there was no way I could drive just then. Fucking Elise, though I immediately regretted the thought. She hadn’t made me come here by my damn self like some kind of rookie. I’d been cocky and let my curiosity get the better of me.
I nodded, trying to look more grateful than I felt. "Thanks. But not--not in there."
"Come on over to the office." He waved me toward the sign, and I followed in silence, trying not to sway like the world was bobbing beneath me. It wasn’t, it’s just felt like it. The usual aftereffects of a really angry ghost trying to push me out of my own head.
The office was bright and cheerful, the front desk decorated with colorful statues and a calendar in a language I didn’t know. It was romanized, though, so I guessed, "Vietnamese?"
"Hmong," Adam replied. "But good guess."
Right, should’ve known.
He led me past the desk and around the back to a tidy little kitchen. Surprising at first, but then not so much. They lived here, after all. Or at least, Adam did. He gestured for me to settle at the small table, and I did so without hesitation. My head was clearing but my knees were still shaky, and that amped-up spirit was too close for comfort, still.
"My parents emigrated in the 80s." He moved around the kitchen, opening cupboards and filling the kettle. "They bought this place in ‘89, right before I was born. It means the world to us."
Family businesses usually did, but I could imagine there was an added element here. I didn’t know much about the Hmong diaspora, but I did know it occurred because the US government had conscripted a lot of them into a "secret war" in Laos during the Vietnam War. That was a whole lot of American-created mess in Southeast Asia to escape. Damn. Even without details, just, damn.
"Well, I wouldn’t usually want to know any of this before I completed an initial read…" But I wasn’t sure I could complete an initial read, and I definitely couldn’t tonight. So might as well make the most of it while I recovered enough to drive. "But how long have you been experiencing activity here?"
"There was always some, and we all experienced little things. Voices and scratching and knocking." Adam said quietly, his back turned to me as he fiddled with the tea. "It drove my mother crazy, but she’s one of those converted Christians that’s a little bit too into it, so her faith kind of protected her."
"Faith can be a good shield." Anything that made a person confident in the face of the paranormal had its place.
"That’s what she says. But about four years ago we redid all the wiring and updated the plumbing, and shit just went wild."
"Right." Also standard; spirits tended to dislike changes made to their environment. Renovations were a classic cause of disturbance. "What kind of experiences since then?"
"Stuff moving or disappearing." Adam turned around and leaned a hip against the counter. His body was small, tight, and his jeans left nothing to the imagination. He wore a leather jacket that looked soft as butter, but if he had a shirt under it, it was too low-cut to see. And--god, I must’ve been really fucked up if I hadn’t noticed before, but he was also wearing a collar. About two inches thick, with a buckle to it.
I swallowed hard. Yeah, could use that tea right about now.
Oblivious to my checking him out, or really good at pretending to be, Adam went on: "Doors opening and closing. My mother swears she wakes up and there’s something black hovering over her--then she feels drained all day. My father sees shadow figures. My sister got married and refuses to come back to visit."
"And you?" I asked. "Any experiences?"
He shrugged, leather jacket creaking. "I know objects move on their own, the door thing, the rapping and scratching. But I’ve never felt threatened."
"Because you’re a witch." And as I said it, I knew it was true. There was something in his energy--not just an old soul, but an experienced one.
"What?" He made a face.
"Witch," I repeated pointedly. "You are. I can see it. And that spirit--whoever he is--knows it too. He’s been trying to talk to you."
Adam snorted. "If I was magical I’d have a million bucks and be married to Ryan Reynolds."
That got a small smile out of me. "That’s not really how magic works."
"Shame."
"I’m serious." I leaned forward, resting my arms on the table for the added support. The hairs on the back of my neck wouldn’t go down. "You might not have studied, but you’re, like, organically a witch."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"You can do things witches do, but naturally."
"Liiiiike what?"
"Protection, for one thing. There’s an angry spirit in--what I assume is your room? 105?"
He nodded, biting his lower lip.
"And he thinks you should be able to communicate with him. But you don’t listen." I cocked an eyebrow.
"The spirit told you that?" He didn’t seem disbelieving, exactly. After all, he’d hired me to figure out who was here.
"Explicitly. Right before he tried to take over my body."
"What an asshole."
I shrugged. "He’s trapped and angry, and no one can help him."
Adam was quiet for a moment, gaze fixed on the table. The kettle clicked off, and he gave a little start, then returned to making tea.
"It makes sense to you, doesn’t it? You being a witch," I suggested.
"Maybe." His hesitation was clear. "But if my mother heard you say that she’d ban you from the place. And my life."
"It’s not about darkness. It’s about light," I assured him. "Or it should be, anyhow."
"Are you a witch?"
"No. I’m just a medium."
"Just a medium." He glanced over his shoulder and snorted. "I’d think you were crazy, except I’ve seen enough shit to know you’re not."
"If I had a nickel," I said wryly, "then I’d be the millionaire."
He poured water into the pot in silence for a moment. I let him have the time to process. It wasn’t easy to tell someone they were a medium or had P.K. abilities or whatever, but usually, they already knew, deep down.
&nb
sp; Adam turned back around, two empty mugs in hand, and came to the table. "I guess it could explain a few things."
"Like how your family has all bailed but you can still live here," I said.
"Yeah. I mean, it’s not that I didn’t believe them. But it didn’t scare me." He set down the mugs and returned to the counter. "My sister’s miserable; my parents moved in with her and her husband and their kids and it’s way too much."
"So she wants them to move back in with you."
"She’d give her right arm if they would."
"And you want that too?" I asked.
"It’s their place. I want them to love it again." He brought the teapot with him this time, wafting some flowery scent through the kitchen. He set it in the middle of the table and sat beside me. "And I don’t mind running the place. It’s not exactly a dream job, but I don’t want to leave them either."
"Then we better figure out what this spirit’s problem is," I said.
"Can you do that?"
"I have some ideas. Pretty sure he was murdered. Not sure how, but it hurt like a bitch." That emptiness, the feeling of the life draining out of me, was going to stick with me for a while.
"You felt it?"
"Oh yeah. I’ve felt shittier deaths, but I’ve felt better ones, too."
He looked appalled but not disbelieving. "So we need to solve a murder."
"Looks that way."
***
On the drive back to St. Paul, I thought it was kind of funny. All that energy I’d sensed when I’d pulled into the Moonlight, and it had just been one weirdly murdered dude who was pissed off about being trapped there for a few decades. Not chock full of ghosts after all.
Something much, much worse.
I got home as the sun came up and crashed for about 30 hours. That kind of sleep is deep, dark, dreamless if I’m lucky. I woke, as usual, feeling like I needed to sleep for another 30 hours, but morning meditation and a few cups of coffee set me right.
It could’ve been worse. Last time a spirit jumped me that hard, I’d caught the flu. Fucking gross.
Elise had left me twenty messages apologizing, but she knew how I was after checking out a new place, so she didn’t come banging on the door. I called and told her I had a murder to solve, gave her what little info I had on the Moonlight, and sent her off on a quest for info. Then I sat down and wrote in my notebook. Every single detail that spirit--Steven--had shown me before I’d sent him packing and cracked my head on the pavement.
In the late afternoon, Adam Ha sent me a text. My sister will talk to you. 1001 Johnson Parkway between 4-7. Text when you get here. Hope you like pho.
I love pho, I assured him. So much so that I didn’t waste any time getting my ass over there. I put the address in google and it told me I was looking for the Hmong Village Shopping Center, which I’d been wanting to check out anyhow, so score. The lot was crammed full when I arrived, which I took to be a good sign, even though the place just looked like a warehouse.
Inside was different. Inside, that plain warehouse was throbbing with people, commerce, and music. It was sort of like a mall but composed of stands with barriers between them more than permanent walls, with shops selling everything from cell phones to bright, ceremonial clothes, beauty products to jewelry. I wasn’t the only white guy, or non-Asian, for that matter, in the place, but I was definitely in a small minority. Good sign for the much-touted food scene.
I texted Adam: I’m near a place selling calling cards, and another one selling flip flops.
He sent back immediately: Turn left, walk through the produce stands, and then turn right when you can. Meet you there.
So I followed his instructions and found myself in a gigantic indoor farmer’s market, walls decorated with colorful murals of scenes from Laos--or so I assumed. I paused to admire jackfruit already taken out of the impossible husks and mushroom blends packaged up with chilis and ready to saute. Note to self: shop here from now on.
"Courtland!"
I glanced up. Adam approached from the right, as promised. He still had on his leather jacket and collar, but this time I definitely spotted a white t-shirt under it. I beelined it for him. "This place is amazing. How have I never come before?"
"No idea. I come every weekend." He laughed and waved me onward. We wove side-by-side through the busy aisles between more shops and stands. "You want bubble tea?"
"Hell yes, I want bubble tea."
We paused at a nearby stand to order, taro for me, Thai iced tea for him. A line of people waited before us, so we relaxed in an out-of-the-way spot for a second. I asked, "How’d you get your sister to agree?"
"It was her idea when I told her about you," he replied with a shrug. "Told you she’d give her right arm to send my parents home."
"Fair enough. Some people do fine living with their parents, I know, but I couldn’t wait to get the hell out." I loved my mom, honestly. She tried, and once she married Gary he tried too. But a weird little kid with the "gift" of mediumship? Not easy to raise. Especially once the weird little kid realized they’d been assigned the wrong gender at birth.
After the medium thing, though, the trans thing had been pretty easy, so hats off to them for that.
"It’s like that for American kids," Adam replied. "Well, I’m American, but I mean after a few generations. For us, we’re still used to sticking around. Partly so we don’t miss out on this." He waved his hand to encompass the entire warehouse of awesome.
"Can’t blame anyone for that," I had to admit.
He laughed, so I must’ve been making a pained face. "You don’t have to say that."
"I’d do a lot of things for pho." Which was true enough. I really did understand there was a cultural difference in play here, though, and I appreciated it. Truth was, I had massive respect for Adam wanting to help his folks out. He could’ve just ditched them and, I don’t know, run off to be a model, with those cheekbones. It said a lot that he hadn’t.
"Good, because Paj’s in-laws own a place here, and it’s amazing," he assured me.
We got our tea, popped the straws through the plastic on top, and started sucking down little balls of black tapioca goodness as we wandered. Eventually, we got to the food court, which was like a row of stalls along the longest wall, just like in any other mall. He waved to a woman behind one of the counters, and she said something in Hmong to an older woman, who waved her off.
She yelled something at Adam. Adam yelled back. She nodded and disappeared.
"She’ll order our food, then come out to talk," he translated, nodding toward a table.
We settled, and I eyed the various offerings up and down the line of stalls. Lots of pho, but also pad thai, papaya salad, meat on sticks, tofu, chicken feet… Yeah, this place was dope. Definitely coming back when I wasn’t trying to work. I needed to try me some chicken feet.
Paj came out quickly, an apron around her waist and her hair tied back under a scarf. She had those same beautiful cheekbones, and a friendly crinkle to her nose and eyes when she smiled and held out her hand. "Adam says you made some headway?"
"Almost," I said, wryly, as I shook. More like I’d been knocked on my ass and couldn’t go back there until I was strong enough to fight that fucking spirit off proper. But hey, I’d take it. "Can you tell me what you know about the place?"
"Our mother and father bought it in ‘89 I think?" Paj dropped into a seat across from me.
"I told him that," Adam said.
Paj rolled her eyes. "The guy who owned it before us died, and his daughter just wanted to offload it, so we got a bargain. I took pictures of the paperwork for you." She slid her phone across the table.
I picked it up and flicked through the photos until I got to one that was a selfie of her with two small kids. "This is great, thanks. Can you send them to me?"
"Go ahead." She gestured vaguely.
"What did they say?" Adam asked, as I messaged myself from Paj’s phone.
"They said, do what you have to do.
Niam crossed herself a lot. She doesn’t want to hear about it."
"Figures."
"Mmm-hmm."
It was a shame the parents wouldn’t get involved, but understandable. At least we had Paj and the name and info of the guy who’d owned the Moonlight before them. "What do you know about the place, other than that, before you bought it?"
"I was five," she said with a shrug. "They didn’t tell me much, or I’ve forgotten it. I tried asking them, but they say they don’t know anything. You think someone was really murdered there?"
I nodded. "Or their spirit somehow went there or got called there after the murder. I saw a summoning circle, too."
"What’s that?"
"Usually for demons, but sometimes ghosts," I said.
Paj made a face.
"Can’t they be protective?" Adam asked.
"Different circle," I said. Not that he needed them.
"Right."
"You said you redid the plumbing and wiring. When that happened, did you find or remove anything from the place? Maybe the ceiling or the walls?" Trying not to lead them too much, but--
"There was that box." Adam shot Paj a look.
"That was weird," she replied.
"What box?" My heartbeat quickened.
"It had all these--like they were letters, but I think they were in code or something," Adam said.
"Do you still have it?" I asked.
"Yeah, it’s somewhere. Our mother wanted to throw it out, but I kept it. It seemed important somehow." Adam shrugged.
So maybe he was listening more than Angry Witch Steven thought.
"That murdered guy, Steven, he showed me that box. In a room that had a cracked light fixture," I said.
Adam sucked up the last of his bubble tea with a slurp. "Shit. It did. Remember, that was the one with the loose wire?"
"Oh, right." Paj nodded.
"What about--was there a painting with a blasted tree?" I figured I might as well ask, at that point.
"There were all kinds of shitty landscape paintings," Paj replied.
"Really bad stuff," Adam assured me.
"Do you remember what was where?" I asked.
Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection Page 12
