The House on Hallowed Ground

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  The next morning I found my bra and panties on the kitchen table, along with my burlap bag and the keys to my van.

  Game on.

  I responded by retreating to the living room. Grabbed a gold statue off the bookshelf, opened the front door, and jammed the statue up against the base like a doorstop.

  As though the house had shuttered, I felt a gust of wind come from behind me. Smiling to myself, I determined it was time I took a seat, and was about to sit down in one of the green-striped wicker rockers and contemplate my next move, when I heard my name.

  “Misty!” Denise had parked her late model Lexus across the street and came trotting up the walk with a package in her hands. She stopped mid-path, held the package to her chest, and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. Misty, this isn’t good. I should have warned you.”

  “What about?” I doubted Denise had any idea about the haunting of her brother’s house.

  Denise gritted her teeth and pointed to the statue like it was a snake about to strike. “The Academy Award, Misty. It...it was Wilson’s. You’re using it as a doorstop.”

  “Am I?” I picked up the statue, looked at the engraved nameplate–Wilson Thorne–then cradled it against my chest. “You’re right. I guess I am. Careless mistake on my part. Won’t happen again. The door’s been banging open and shut all morning. I grabbed the first thing I could find. I thought I might air the place out.”

  “Probably a good idea. The house’s been closed up for a month.” Denise took the statue from my hand, replaced it with the package, and put the statue on the entry table next to the study. Immediately the upstairs bedroom door banged shut. “You alone?”

  “Other than my cat, yes, but she’s in hiding. Beneath the staircase, I think. As for the banging upstairs, I left the windows open. Must be a breeze.” I pointed to the L-shaped staircase directly in front of us where I believed Bossypants had taken refuge.

  Denise ignored the staircase and turned left to the living room. As though she was drawn to it like a child in a candy store, she approached the couch in the center of the room and ran her long fingers across the back of it. “You know I’ve only been inside this house once or twice. My brother never wanted me here. Look at this, would you? It’s a museum. This couch, it was Norma Desmond’s sofa from the set of Sunset Boulevard. Wilson worked on the Broadway production and shipped it home as a souvenir. And these,” Denise took a step toward the dining room and picked up one of the elaborately hand-carved, silver candlesticks from the table. “They were from a TV show, I think. The Addams Family, maybe. A bit over the top, but then, if you knew my brother, so was he.

  “Quite the collector,” I said.

  “To say the least. Every room has something from some set he either worked on or fawned over.” Denise put the candlestick down and dropped her wrist. “And I do mean fawned over. The man had such a sense of style. Loved pretty things. Didn’t matter who or what. Male or female. Long as it had–how’d he put it? Pizzazz. The man was wild about pizzazz. I think that’s why he never wanted me around, he was afraid I’d walk off with one of his prized possessions.” Denise laughed, and I felt a sudden chill in the room. “Crazy, huh? But that’s not why I’m here. I thought I’d drop that off.” Denise took the package from my hand and unwrapped the brown paper surrounding it. “It’s a shingle. I thought you should have it. I had it made for you yesterday.”

  The sign read, MISTY DAWN. Psychic Readings. Inquire Within.

  Chapter 2

  After our initial tit-for-tat exchange, the moving of each other’s items around the house, the banging of pots and pans, and the slamming of doors, Wilson Thorne made himself scarce. So scarce in fact, I began to wonder if perhaps he had moved on.

  It wasn’t until one of my consults, an attractive young woman who had come to me for romantic advice, had left, I realized that wasn’t the case.

  “You call that a psychic reading?” Wilson appeared, leaning over the banister at the top of the L-shaped stairs. With his dark hair slicked back, and tortoiseshell glasses, he was dressed as I had seen him in photos: in a pair of pleated trousers, a blue collared shirt, suspenders, and a bow tie.

  I tempered my surprise–this was the first I had actually seen him, and with a measured response, I replied, “If you think you could do better, Wilson, you’re free to sit in.”

  “You can see me?” Wilson stood upright, straightened his tie, and looked back over his shoulder. He pointed to himself. “You know who I am?”

  “Tsk. Of course, I know who you are. You’re Wilson Thorne, the recently deceased, former Hollywood set designer. And apparently, for lack of a better way to describe it, you’re stuck.”

  “Stuck?” Wilson skipped down the stairs like a dancer, his lithe body taking the steps two at a time. When he reached the bottom, he stopped and did a perfect three-sixty pirouette in front of me, and with the palms of his hands upward, smiled. “And exactly what do you mean by stuck?”

  “Between two worlds,” I said. “In short, Wilson, you’re in limbo.”

  “Limbo?” he scoffed and brushed the sleeves of his shirt. “Nonsense. I can’t be in limbo. I’ve never believed in such a thing or any of the rest of it for that matter. Heaven or hell. I’ve never given it a lot of thought.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. I moved from the entry into the living room and settled myself on the Norma Desmond couch, where I picked up a magazine and, ignoring him, started to thumb through it.

  Wilson followed me into the living room. “What doesn’t matter?”

  “Whether you believe it or not,” I said. I put the magazine down and stared directly at him. “You can choose to believe whatever you like, but the fact of the matter is, you’re stuck. You’re what people in my business call a shade.”

  “A shade?” He looked down at himself, patted his body, then put his hands on his hips and paced the room. “And exactly, Ms. Dawn, just what is a shade?”

  “You can call me Misty if you like. Everyone does. And a shade is a person who hasn’t fully passed on. It happens. Not often, but sometimes. Particularly when a person dies suddenly or unexpectedly. They get stuck.”

  “Well unstick me then. Or whatever it is you do. Use some of that witchcraft or psychic voodoo you use and bring me back.” Wilson stopped pacing and raised his hand above his head dismissively as though all I had to do was wave my magic wand or some such ridiculous thing and voilà, suddenly he’d be back to his old self.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’m not a witch, and what I do, despite what you may think, is not voodoo. Not by any means. But I do believe I may be able to help.”

  “Help?” Wilson chuckled. “Just what is your idea of help? And let me add if it’s anything like the advice I overheard you giving that young bobblehead this morning, I doubt you’ve much to say I’d find of any interest.”

  “Well then, it’s up to you. We could exchange insults all morning, or you could choose to listen to what I have to say and make up your own mind.”

  “Fine,” Wilson said. “We’ll do it your way.”

  “You might like to sit.” I nodded to the chair.

  “I don’t believe I need to.”

  “Entirely up to you. But to start with, you’ll need to understand a few rules.”

  “Rules.” Wilson fluttered his lips, like a horse expelling air, and gave me a Bronx cheer, displaying his displeasure. “I’ve never been particularly good with rules. I prefer to make my own.”

  “You won’t now. The universe won’t allow it. So, if you’d like to get unstuck, you might as well learn what they are and get on with it.”

  “And I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter, just as I had no choice in the matter of roommates or that wretched creature you brought into my home,” Wilson took the chair and crossed his arms. “Because if I had, mind you, I would have preferred someone a little younger, perhaps
with a little less padding around the middle.” He pointed at my midsection like he would have liked to poke me in the ribs.

  I gave no credence to Wilson’s rude remark. In fact, I considered it less of an insult and more of an attempt on Wilson’s part to test my mettle. I may not be the sweet young thing he would have preferred to take up residence in his house, but I like to think of myself as a wizened senior citizen, a woman of indeterminable age, with style all her own. One I haven’t changed in years. My hair may be gray, and my wardrobe not fancier than the long skirts and tie-dyed shirts and moccasins I came to California with, but I’m quite comfortable in my own skin.

  I squared my shoulders and fired back. “You can stop right there, young man. I’m well aware of your preferences. Some of which, I might add, may well account for your present situation. Not that I’m judging. I’ve always been a bit of a love-and-let-love type myself, but you should listen up. Your future may depend on it.”

  “Humph.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “Alright, Misty. Have at it. Just what are these rules of yours?”

  “Again, not my rules, the universe’s. To start with, as far as your physical being goes, you’re no longer part of the material world, and much as you may enjoy the pot banging and door slamming, it needs to stop. It’s very amateurish and really unnecessary.”

  Wilson tilted his head up and gave me another of his Bronx cheers.

  “And second, you have a job to do. You’re a shade, you exist between two worlds, and at times I will need you to assist me in my readings. Which means, when it’s necessary, you make contact with those spirits who have crossed over and channel their message back to me. Ultimately whatever you do to help me, helps yourself. One way or the other.”

  “That’s it then, I’m to be an interpreter?”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds. The work can get complicated, but we’ll do the best we can with the time we have. However, you have to understand, this is a temporary assignment. And I should warn you, don’t get too settled in, things can change in a flash. Hopefully, the powers that be, or however you choose to interpret them, will find favor with you, and your actions here will either earn you your wings or—”

  “Or what?” Wilson scoffed.

  “Or not,” I said. I put the magazine back on the table. I was done for the moment. I needed a cup of tea and my noonday nap. “It’s entirely up to you. Think about it. Your future may depend on it.”

  Chapter 3

  After an initial flirtation as my sidekick, sitting in on my readings and reluctantly relaying messages from the other side, Wilson informed me he thought the work beneath him. He saw no reason to assist me in what he believed were whiny women seeking advice in dead-end relationships or hoping to reconnect with long-lost loves. Content with his limbo state, Wilson retreated to the study, which he now called his sanctuary, sans my cat, and barred my entrance.

  We were in the midst of an argument with me on one side of the study’s door, reminding Wilson he couldn’t remain in his limbo state forever, and him on the other side, protesting, when the front bell rang. I excused myself and answered the door.

  Standing on the porch was a petite, young woman dressed in a short, floral cotton dress—too flimsy for January’s colder temperatures—a leather jacket, and Ugg boots.

  “May I come in?” The girl wrapped her arms around herself and her small feet tap danced a jig, as she glanced over her shoulder back at the street. “I need to talk to you, and it’s cold out here. You mind?”

  I recognized the young actress instantly. The curly-haired, baby-faced blonde, known to the world simply as Zoey, was as close to Hollywood royalty as it gets. Like Beyoncé or Madonna, Zoey was one of the few Hollywood elites who didn’t need a surname. Although, as a Chamberlain, a fourth-generation thespian with a lineage going all the way back to her great-grandfather and the days of silent movies, her ancestry didn’t hurt.

  “Are you alone?” Celebrities, particularly those of Zoey’s ilk, seldom traveled without an entourage. I felt certain at any moment paparazzi would come speeding up to the house and my front lawn would be swamped with flashing cameras and rude reporters.

  “I am now, but if I stand here any longer, I won’t be.” She glanced over her shoulder, bit her lip, and looked back at me anxiously. “Please?”

  I opened the door and pointed toward the living room.

  “Zoey, right?” I said the name just loud enough so that Wilson, who I knew was standing with his ear to the study door, might know that today’s caller was no ordinary caller, but the one and only, hugely popular Zoey. Granddaughter of Clifton Chamberlain, one of the most revered Hollywood stars of the twentieth century. “Please, come in and make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you.” Zoey stepped inside, her arms still about herself as her eyes scanned the living room, taking in the furnishings and bookshelves. Going to the couch, she ran her hand across the sofa’s smooth satin finish and stopped. “This looks familiar.”

  “The former owner was a set designer,” I said.

  “Sunset Boulevard?” Zoey patted the couch. “I recognize the set.”

  “Each room in the house is different. Upstairs, the bed in the master bedroom was from a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

  Zoey laughed. “If only that bed could talk. Right?”

  I wondered if Wilson could hear us. “Sometimes I think it does,” I said.

  Zoey twisted a long strand of her blonde hair around a finger and continued to inventory the room. “I’ve never been to a psychic before. I guess I was expecting something different.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised. The house is different for me, too. I’ve only been here a short while, but if it’s crystal balls and cards you’re looking for, I don’t use them. Unless of course, you’d like me to.” I cleared the magazines and a stack of Wilson’s books off the coffee table and put them on the floor. “I do find a cup of tea will do much the same. Not to read leaves of course, but to warm you up. How about I make us some? You look like you could use a hot cup.”

  I left Zoey in the living room and went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Forsaking my own glass teapot, I used Wilson’s silver tea service, complete with two cups from a Windsor China set I found in the cabinets. Fancier than I might have ordinarily used. When I returned, I found Bossypants purring contentedly on Zoey’s lap.

  “I see you’ve met my cat.” I was about to scurry her off when Zoey stopped me.

  “Don’t. She’s fine. I like cats.” Zoey stroked the cat’s long hair.

  “She must like you, too,” I said. “She’s been playing hide-and-seek with me since I moved in. If her food bowl wasn’t empty each night, I might think she had run off.”

  Zoey scratched beneath Bossy’s chin, and as I leaned over to put the tray on the coffee table between us, the cat suddenly screeched.

  Roww!

  I heard a sneeze and took a quick step backward, just in time to avoid Bossy knocking the tray from my hand as she scampered back to her hiding place beneath the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Wilson—confirming my belief cats can see spirits most humans can’t—and without losing a beat, steadied my tray and placed it on the table.

  “You’ll have to excuse Bossy,” I said. “She’s still a bit skittish from the move.”

  While Zoey adjusted her skirt, Wilson took a seat on the back of the couch. Like Rodin’s Thinker, he balanced himself with his feet on the cushions, his chin rested on his fists, and stared at Zoey as though she was an alabaster statue he might worship.

  “Ahem.” I raised my brow in Wilson’s direction—a subtle hint he needed to move—and poured tea into Zoey’s cup. “Cream?” I asked.

  “Sugar, please.” Zoey reached with the silver tongs and took two sugar cubes and plopped them into her tea.

  “Look at her, would you?” Wilson stepped in front of t
he couch. Like a director, he framed Zoey’s face with his hands as though he were about to take a shot. “Those eyes. Her cheekbones. Her brows. She’s the image of her grandmother. That woman could light up the stage with her presence. One smile and she had the audience in the palm of her hand. And this one, with her mother’s genes as well, she’s even better.”

  I scowled. I was not amused. Wilson knew better than to speak. I had been very clear about the rules. Spirits, like children at a fancy dinner party, were to be neither seen nor heard, particularly in the presence of clients. Not that Zoey could see or hear him, but I could and didn’t appreciate the interruption. I had work to do. Wilson’s job was simply to observe until called upon.

  He gave me an overly dramatic head roll and turned his back.

  Proceeding as though nothing were amiss, I sat back in my chair and stirred my tea. “So, Zoey–I assume I can call you Zoey?”

  “Everybody does,” she said.

  “Tell me what it is you’d like my help with.”

  “It’s not me.” Zoey looked down and a lock of her blonde hair fell across her pale face. “It’s my house. It’s haunted.”

  “Haunted? Oh, now this is interesting.” Wilson moved back to the couch and took a seat next to her.

  With my head down, I continued to stir my tea and muttered under my breath so that only Wilson might hear. “Now you’re interested?” Two weeks of consults and never a peep from the man and now he was interested. And only because it was Zoey. Wilson was as starstruck as he was stuck in his limbo state.

  “Pardon me?” Zoey asked.

  I cleared my throat. “I said, that’s interesting. May I ask, why do you think the house is haunted?”