Hello Ms. Robbins,
My name is Denise Farber, and I’m hoping that you’re some relation to an agent named Marty Robbins. Marty Robbins used to represent a man named Joe Vaughn who wrote comic books a long time ago, and I think he might have died in my house. My parents bought this place in New Orleans (a neighborhood called St. Roch, if that helps) and I found a manuscript hidden in the attic. It’s not a printed comic book, but more like a script for one. It’s called Lucida Might and the House of Horrors.
She paused, and scrambled off her bed to where the comic was still sitting. She flipped it open and carefully snapped some pictures of the first few pages. Then she went back to the email and attached the pictures to it.
Anyway, I’ve included some shots so you can see what I mean. Can you write me back, and tell me if you know Marty Robbins? Do you know where Joe died? Whose house was it? Why would he leave this manuscript hidden upstairs in mine?
Also, do you know if this comic was ever published? It would be cool if I could see it all finished.
Thank you for your time, and I look forward to hearing from you.
It was a formal sign-off, but she’d read it someplace and liked the sound of it. Very professional. Very confident. It totally stuck the landing.
She hit SEND and her phone immediately chimed in response. It was Terry, texting to say he was on his way over. Not asking if he could come over … just giving her a heads-up.
“Typical,” she sighed, even though he’d never done it before. She had a feeling that he did it all the time. Give him an inch, and he’d take a mile. Well, he already had an inch, and there was no stopping him now.
From downstairs, her mom called out: “Honey, we’re going to grab breakfast. Shall we bring you the usual?”
“Yeah, that’s fine!” she called back.
But just before they could leave, Denise heard Terry arrive. Her mom greeted him at the door with a question, “Oh! Hello, Terry—are you here to help Denise scrape wallpaper?”
He floundered, and said something like, “Um … whatever she needs me for, I guess!” and scurried up the steps with Mrs. Cooper following behind him. “Hey Denise,” he greeted her, then moved aside for Sally to lean into the bedroom.
She scanned the scene for signs of productivity. “I see a lot of ratty wallpaper on the walls up here, and not on the floor.”
“I’m working on it,” Denise said with an eye-roll. “I’m just taking a break. It’s hot, okay? It’s miserable in every single room except this one. I’ll get back to the bathroom in a little bit.”
“I hope we don’t regret getting you that AC unit.”
“You won’t, Mom.” And after she’d left, Denise admitted under her breath, “Not until the power bill comes.”
“Have you actually scraped any wallpaper today?” Terry asked, looking around her room. She hadn’t started in there yet. Or out in the hallway, where she kept picturing a corpse lying, decomposing, leaking body-juices down into the floor.
“No, but I’ve thought about it real hard. What brings you over today? You want to read the comic some more? Because I’m pretty sure my mom would frown upon such leisure activities, when there’s so much wallpaper intact.”
“I would love to read more of the comic, but that’s not actually why I’m here.” Then he asked if he could show her something.
“Sure, hit me.”
He whipped his backpack around his shoulder, unzipped it, and pulled out his voice recorder. He sat down on the edge of her bed, and motioned for her to come closer. “I’m going to turn this up real loud, okay? You have to listen hard. It’s kind of tricky to hear, but I’ve got the good stuff all queued up.”
She humored him by leaning forward and cocking one ear toward the handheld device. “All right. Go for it.”
He pressed PLAY. At first, Denise heard only full-volume static blasting from the tiny speaker. It was loud and rough, a noise so big that it took up the whole room. She listened because she was supposed to, not because she thought there was anything to hear—but then, very softly, she caught something else buried within it—a whisper of rushed words, harsh and low.
I keep what’s mine.
She jerked her head away from the recorder like it might bite her. “Is that … was that … ?”
He beamed from ear to ear. “It was a ghost.”
She shook her head, not really believing him, but not arguing with him, either. “How do I know you even recorded that here? You could’ve done it at home, when nobody was looking. You could’ve … you could’ve gotten your dad to say it.”
His broad smile went sly, like something was funny. He pressed PLAY again, and Denise’s own voice blew out of the speaker, louder than life—since he hadn’t turned down the volume. “You’re wasting your time,” she heard herself say. “This is completely stupid.”
“I think I got this one out in the hallway, right in front of the attic door.” He didn’t turn down the volume, but he rewound the tape to play that first bit again. “What does it sound like he’s saying, to you? To me, it sounds like “I want more time.”
“Don’t play that again—” she started to command him, but he’d already hit the button and the gravelly, angry-sounding words rushed out again.
I keep what’s mine.
It scared her, because she knew good and well that it wasn’t Terry or his dad, and it didn’t sound like anybody she’d ever heard speak. It didn’t sound like anybody who was alive. Before she could stop Terry, he played the damn thing once more.
I keep what’s mine.
She snatched the recorder out of his hand. “It’s not time,” she said, clutching it to her chest. Her heart banged against her hand. “I think …” She tried to compose herself. Slow breaths. Stay cool. “I think he’s saying ‘mine.’ ”
He wiggled his fingers at the recorder. “Give it back. Let me play it again.”
“I don’t want you to play it again!”
Terry grabbed for it anyway, and got just enough of a grip to wrench it back into his own grasp. “It’s not awful—it’s evidence of the afterlife!”
She held up her hands, not surrendering, but calling for a halt to all this nonsense. “Maybe you used an old tape, and some other recording bled through … or my parents had the radio on downstairs and we didn’t notice, or somebody was outside the window, or out on the street. Anybody could’ve said that, Terry. It doesn’t have to be a ghost.”
“But it was, and you know it. If you thought it was anything else, you wouldn’t be so scared right now.”
“I’m not scared!” she yelled at him.
“Do you always holler when you’re not scared?”
She quieted her voice. “It’s not a ghost, it’s just somebody, somewhere, saying ‘I keep what’s mine.’ I think that’s what it says.”
He considered this. “Hmm. Maybe.” He whirled away from her, rewound the tape against her wishes, and hit PLAY even as she danced around him in a circle, trying to take the recorder away again.
I keep what’s mine.
“Yeah, I think that’s it. ‘I keep what’s mine.’ ”
“Put that thing away. I don’t ever want to hear that voice again. It’s gross, and weird, and it sounds mean.”
“No, not yet,” he protested. “I got several other pieces too, when I was walking around the house, asking questions. I want you to hear them.”
“Oh God, no …”
“They’re not all from that same guy, I promise! I got one that sounded like it came from a lady.”
She could’ve chosen that moment to tell him about the humming and the perfume, and the tiny footprints that came and went. But she didn’t. “Jesus, Terry. How many people do you think died in this house?”
“I don’t know. It’s really old. Probably lots of people haunt it. At least two, I know that much for sure. The mean guy, and the nice lady.”
Denise clenched her fists, and unclenched them again. “I’ve had enough of this, and eno
ugh of your stupid recorder.”
“That doesn’t mean your house is any less haunted.”
“Stop talking like that!”
“Maybe I’ll ask your mom …” Terry ignored her like he always did, except that he paused to look around. He went to the window and asked, “Hey, where are your parents going?”
The blue Kia was sliding out of the parking pad and reversing into the street. “They’ve gone to pick up breakfast,” she told him. “The electrical breakers are off, down on the first floor—so we can’t use the kitchen.”
“What are you going to eat?”
“They’re bringing something back for me.”
“Do your parents believe in ghosts?”
“I don’t know.”
“I bet they do, and I bet they’ll find this interesting.” He had his stubborn face on. She wanted to smack it clean off. “I bet they’d be interested in hearing from Mean Guy and Nice Lady.”
“You’re completely wrong.”
“Why are you being such a jerk about this? Most people would be excited to find proof of ghosts.”
“You’re wrong about that too. God, Terry. It’s like you don’t know anybody in real life.”
The stubborn face hardened. “I know lots of people. Lots of people like ghosts.”
Denise folded her arms and opened her mouth to evict him, but he changed his approach, going from demanding to pleading.
“Come on, don’t you at least want to hear the lady? If you’re going to be scared of the man, you should at least—”
“I’m not scared.”
“—Fine, but wouldn’t it be great to know that there’s someone nice, looking out for you?”
She frowned. “Looking out for me?”
“Just let me play you the other messages. Come on.”
Denise sighed with great, unhappy drama. She could either force Terry to leave, or listen to him play a couple of clips from his voice recorder. It’d probably be faster and easier to let him play the voices and then kick him out.
She relented. “Okay, fine. Play them, and then get lost before Mom and Mike get back.”
“Great!” He sat back down and waved her over, and she reluctantly obeyed, sitting cross-legged, to match her crossed arms.
“Let’s get this over with.”
He was way ahead of her, thumbing his way toward something else on the little cassette. “Okay, but listen to this, and listen close. She’s quieter than the mean guy.” The tape queued up. Terry’s thumb squished the button, and static poured out again. Then a whisper, a woman’s voice that was low and soft, but firm.
… you lousy greaser …
Denise laughed, then clapped her hands over her mouth to catch it, and hide it—but it was too late.
“See?” Terry pressed. “This lady ghost has moxie!”
“What the hell is moxie?”
“Attitude,” he informed her. “I looked it up online. I found a whole list of old-fashioned slang when I looked up what a ‘greaser’ was.”
“Is that what she says?” She reached for the recorder again. This time, he let her take it. She rewound, and listened again. Just three words, clear as day: … you lousy greaser.
Terry explained, “A ‘greaser’ is basically a loser. One of those guys who wears too much hair stuff and thinks he’s hot, but he’s really just stupid-looking. It’s just one of those words they used to use, sixty or seventy years ago.”
“Like ‘moxie.’ ”
“Uh-huh. Your nice lady ghost talks like a character from an old detective movie. Here, I’ve got another one.” He reclaimed the device, urged the tape along, and pulled up his next find.
… mine …
That was the only word she could make out. But the tape kept rolling, and the woman’s voice said: … never yours. When they find me …
… they won’t …
“Wow,” she said. She didn’t mean to be impressed. She meant to toss Terry out, and eagerly await her glorious fast-food breakfast. “It’s like they’re arguing about something.”
Her phone picked that moment to ring, startling the crap out of her. She flailed wildly and pulled it out of her back pocket, where she wasn’t quite sitting on it. It was Mike. “Mike! Where are you, man? I need me some breakfast burritos, stat!”
“The McDonald’s was closed—something about a plumbing problem.”
Her mom called from the background. “So how about chicken biscuits instead?”
Denise sighed into the phone. “Chicken biscuits sound fine.”
Terry swallowed wetly. He didn’t say anything—not with his mouth. His eyes, on the other hand … he might’ve been one of those sad-faced dogs in a humane society commercial.
She closed her eyes and slumped down against the mattress, her butt settling on the floor. Surrendering to the inevitable she said, “Mike?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“Any chance you could pick up a couple of extras? Terry’s still here, and I was going to send him home, but …”
“Two more biscuits, added to the order. Yes ma’am.”
When the call was over, Denise put her phone on the table. “Happy now?” she asked Terry, who was vibrating in his seat.
“I completely forgive you for being a jerk about the ghost recordings.”
She almost objected, but shrugged instead. “Fine. I was a jerk about those. You’re right, and they’re kind of cool. Did you catch anything else?”
“So you believe me now?”
“I believe …” She hesitated, hard. “I definitely believe there’s something strange about this house.”
“Close enough. And no, that’s all I found—and I listened to this tape backwards and forwards, with the speakers at top volume, for hours, man. Hours.”
“Do you think the mean guy is Joe Vaughn?” she asked. “I mean, I kind of hope not. He wrote a comic about a kick-ass girl detective. I’d rather not think he’s a jerk.”
“Or a lousy greaser.”
“Or that, either.”
“Have you finished reading the comic yet?” Terry asked, with a greedy gleam in his eyes.
“No, I’ve been busy.”
“Can I read it?”
“You can’t take it home with you, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s mine.”
“No it isn’t.”
She unfolded her legs and stretched them out, then put her feet on the floor. “We found it in my house, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Who told you that?”
“Lawyers,” she informed him. It was generally true. Lawyers probably wrote the books about passing the bar exam. “It’s mine, but you can read it if you want. While it’s here. With me.”
“It might belong to somebody else, though.”
“Like who?”
“Like … if Joe Vaughn is our ghost, and he’s dead … he might have kids who aren’t.”
She drummed her fingers on the table beside her phone, considering the implications of this. The Lucida Might manuscript might be worth some money to the right person, and she could definitely use some money. Maybe somebody would give her a finder’s fee. Even the best scholarships couldn’t cover everything. “You know what we should do?”
“What?” Terry asked, but it probably didn’t matter. He sounded like he was game for anything.
“We should put it on the Internet. Not all of it,” she added quickly. “Just some teaser pages, to see if anybody knows anything about it. Maybe someone will come forward. Maybe we can give it back. Or sell it.”
“Do I get a finder’s fee?” he asked immediately, because apparently they were more alike than Denise wanted to think.
“How about a couple of chicken biscuits?”
“For a down payment,” he suggested shrewdly.
“All right, we’ll talk about it later—if anybody actually, you know, recognizes the thing … much less wants it badly enough to buy it. Come on,” she said, smacking him on the arm. She rose from the chair
and collected her phone. “Let’s open that bad boy up. I need to take some pictures.”
“ ‘I keep what’s mine’ … that can’t be a coincidence!” Terry declared triumphantly.
Denise was flustered. She tapped at the word balloon and rubbed it with her fingers like she could erase it. “Anything can be a coincidence.”
“It’s probably not, though. And I hate to tell you this, but I’m kind of getting into it,” Terry informed Denise.
“Why would you hate to tell me that?”
“Because now I’m going to be over here all the time, until I’m finished reading it.” He reached for the corner, to turn the page—but she smacked his hand away. “Your hands are dirty.”
“Then you do it.”
“Fine.”
Denise and Terry sat stunned, the manuscript splayed out on the floor before them, open to the page with the big panel about the big house. Denise slowly dropped a finger down onto the artwork, feeling the faint press of pen strokes on the paper. “Are you seeing this?” she asked aloud. “This is … this is obviously my house, isn’t it?”
“Obviously,” he echoed with a nod. “Back before it got … before it was … back when it was, um, newer.”
“Back before it was a dump. You can say that, if you want. I give you permission.”
“Okay, back before it was a dump.”
“I wonder if there are any pictures of this house, from all the way back then. At the library, or someplace.”
“Have you tried the Internet?” Terry suggested helpfully.
“Not yet. It only just occurred to me to look. Hang on.” She’d stopped taking photos of the manuscript several pages back, because she was getting caught up in the story—but now she retrieved her phone and called up a browser. She plugged in 312 Argonne Street, and found a bunch of real estate listings, property tax records, assessments, and other pointless things she didn’t care about. Next, she tried an image search, and got a little closer to the mark.
“Is that it? Let me see …”
“Hang on, Terry. Jeez.” She dragged her thumbs around the screen, enlarging a promising black-and-white shot of a Victorian neighborhood that could’ve been St. Roch. “Is … is this it? Do you think? It’s kind of grainy; I can’t tell.”
The Agony House Page 8
