Witch Haunted in Westerham

by Dionne Lister

  James looked at me. “I’m sorry to say that your estimation seems to fit. So, what are we going to do about it?”

  I frowned. “I thought that’s what you were going to tell us.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “It was a rhetorical question. Of course I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do. We can’t interview anyone or be seen investigating the murders, but we’re still digging into who owns the companies that bought the houses. We’ve set up a few computers on a different system. Olivia has access to one. We can find most of what we need that way. I also have a friend in local government who can help if we’re desperate. We’re also investigating the people living there now, who all happen to be witches, so your theory is likely correct, Lily.” I smiled, quite proud of myself. They were rare moments when I was being praised rather than chastised, so I enjoyed it when it happened. “We need to establish if these people are in on it or not. The other thing we need to do is stop this from happening while we get to the bottom of it. Which means we’re going to have to figure out how these witches are managing to put ghosts in peoples’ houses, or if, in fact, they’re magicking the whole scenario.”

  Olivia sat forward. “Are you saying the ghosts aren’t even real?”

  “Maybe not.”

  “But what about the one I saw in Mrs Soames’s place? It even moved things and tried to kill us! If that was a witch magicking the ghost, wouldn’t it mean they were spying on us as they did it? Otherwise, how would they know what we were saying and where we were standing?”

  Beren looked at me. “Surveillance video. It would be easy for them to break in, install stuff, and leave without anyone realising they’d been there.” Of course it would, and I should’ve thought of that already.

  James nodded at me. “This is where you can help, Lily. Are you still getting those photography jobs?”

  “Yes. I’ve got four for tomorrow. Today was a day off because of Oliver’s death. The office is having a day for his funeral.”

  “Right, well, I need you to ask your magic to show you the surveillance cameras and who put them in. Even if the witches weren’t there to install the actual cameras, they would have had to have been inside at some point to visualise exactly where they were going to put them. We should be able to sneak you into the murder scenes too. Even though Oliver was killed somewhere else and magicked into his office, maybe these victims weren’t. We’ve also got a tail on the guy who took over—Samuel. If there’s any way to stop the hauntings and stop people from selling, we need to make it happen. And ultimately, we want to find these bastards and put them in jail, where they belong.” Amen to that. But it wasn’t so simple.

  “If whoever’s doing this has watched us go and do interviews, they’ll know I’m working with you. Won’t they start killing people if they see me at one of the houses? And wouldn’t they tell Samuel not to use me?” This was an issue. And since witches could see through any magical disguise because of the orange thing, that was a no go either.

  James wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know. They might, but they don’t know about your talent. Maybe they’ll just keep a close eye on you? You can still do what you need to if someone’s in the room, can’t you?”

  “Yeah. I can ask my magic in my mind. It doesn’t have to come out of my mouth, and it’s not like anything happens when I take a photo. It’s business as usual, but still, we don’t want to provoke them.”

  James sat back in his chair. “Hmm…. Has Samuel cancelled your appointments yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I know of. Hang on, and I’ll check my emails.” I got my phone out of my bag and went to the mail app. “Nope. Nothing.”

  “Well, I say you go as per normal; just be careful.”

  “But what if they kill more people?”

  Beren looked at me. “I don’t think they will, Lily. It’s clear they have the upper hand, and if they trust Samuel, they probably aren’t monitoring the advertising stuff since it’s just a formality, and they likely have no idea that you’re the one taking the photos. We could bleach your hair and give you a pair of glasses so that anyone watching from a distance doesn’t immediately recognise you?”

  “I suppose that could work. But me as a blonde? I’m not so sure about that.” I snorted. It was stupid of me to even be thinking of that, but if they couldn’t get me back to brown easily afterwards, I was going to be stuck with it for a while. Maybe I could borrow one of the PIB wigs?

  “You’ll look gorgeous for sure,” said Olivia.

  “I’m not convinced this is going to work, but we have to try, I suppose.” There didn’t seem to be any other way, so this was it.

  “Good,” said James. “While you’re gathering as much evidence as you can, Lily, I’ll have another couple of agents acting on the information Olivia unearths. Beren can sit tight, as I’ll need him for a different investigation we’re in the middle of, and Imani can shadow you, Lily, as per usual. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds good,” said Beren.

  Imani and I nodded, and Liv said, “Yep, all good.”

  James stood. “Let’s get to it!”

  Chapter 12

  There were forty-five minutes to go before my first real-estate job of the day, but I stood frozen in front of the mirror, unable to decide whether I should leave the house. Okay, maybe it was an overreaction, but, oh my God, my blonde hair did not suit my winter-paled olive complexion. It was official: I looked sick, and not the teenage version of sick—meaning smoking hot. I looked as if I needed to get back to bed and take some vitamins. The large round frames of my new glasses were bright purple. At least people would be too shocked by my white-and-purple brightness to even notice what my features looked like.

  I took a deep breath. “Get it together, woman. What you look like doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. I took my advice and snuck downstairs to grab breakfast before I left—I didn’t want Mrs Soames to hear me and bother me while I ate. Yeah, that was pretty crummy, but we had nothing in common, and I was always waiting for her to get angry or annoyed about something and whinge to me, which was not a pleasant way to wake up.

  An interesting idea came while I sipped my coffee, uninterrupted, thank God. If there weren’t actually any ghosts—which hadn’t been proven yet, but we’d see—I could probably test the theory in Mrs Soames’s place. Maybe we could do a spell that froze the recordings or transmission of data through the cameras; then I could go in without the bad witches knowing, and if there was no ghost, the theory would just about be proven. If it worked, we could get Mrs Soames back into her house sooner rather than later. That would be awesome. It would also mean we could start clearing other houses before they sold.

  I crossed my fingers. If all went as I planned, it would work. But that sounded too easy, and when was anything I ever did without its disasters and problems? I pushed my purple glasses up my nose, case in point. After grabbing my equipment, I slid into the car. My first job had been changed to a home about fourteen miles from here rather than one in Westerham itself. Samuel had emailed me last night at 10:00 p.m. Apparently it was urgent because it was an expensive house, and Samuel wanted to make sure the clients felt looked after. Maybe this wasn’t going to be one of those haunted houses, and he had to work to earn the sale?

  The journey was pleasant enough, if not slower than I’d like with morning traffic, but I pulled up to the property just on time. I ignored the nerves zipping around my belly warning that something bad might happen to the people we’d interviewed if I showed up to this job. Samuel was a non-witch, though. Maybe the witch criminals hadn’t told him exactly who they were or what they were doing? I could hope.

  Rather than drive up to the parking area and get in the way of any long-range shots, I pulled to the side of the wide gravel driveway behind another parked car. I could edit that stuff out, but better to start without it if possible. We were still around one hundred metres from the home, an expanse of lawn and gravel parking area between us.

&nbs
p; I cut the engine and got out. Samuel hopped out of the car in front of me. “Morning. Can I help you?”

  “Hi, Samuel. It’s me, Lily.” Okay, so the disguise worked. That was a hell of a lot easier than I thought it would be. But still, he knew who I was now that I’d told him, and if the bad guys had said anything to him, I could still be in danger. But maybe they hadn’t said anything to him about them being witches and our investigation, and if they were spying right now, they wouldn’t know I was me. And that made total sense. My life was beyond confusing these days.

  He laughed. “Oh, I didn’t recognise you, obviously. You’ve changed a few things?”

  Typical man couldn’t figure out what was different. I resisted an eye-roll. “Um, just a couple. Anyway, where would you like to start? This is an amazing property.” And that was an understatement. Sprawled in front of us was a double-storey, rendered-brick, white Regency mansion that went on forever—I counted eight chimneys on its grey roof. On over seven acres, it really was more of an estate than just a home.

  “Yes. This one’s going to take a couple of hours, I’d imagine. I’ve moved our other appointments to later in the day. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I had nothing on this afternoon.” I smiled. I’d be working late to get these edited and sent back by tomorrow, but maybe I could use my magic to do it quicker. Hmm, why had I never thought of that before? Probably because I didn’t mind the creative process, and, to be honest, I’d had time lately. It was just now things were getting busy again.

  Samuel handed me a shot list—which had a roughly sketched floor plan attached—and explained all the shots he wanted. I took a quick look and shoved it in my pocket. The first shot was obviously a wide one, which encompassed that grandness upon first seeing it. I started by setting up my tripod on the grass. The pics I took showed the magnificent size of the home in its expansive setting with the sweeping circular driveway that passed the grand entrance door. Once that was done, we hopped in our cars and drove to the parking area so I wouldn’t have to lug my heavy equipment too far.

  After I’d dragged my equipment out of the car for the second time, a forceful, chilly gust swept past, flapping the bottom of my coat and making me shiver. I looked up. The sky was mostly blue with only a few wispy white clouds hanging around. And whilst it was cold, the air was fairly still… except for that shot of breeze. Another car came along the driveway towards us, kicking up dust that hovered in place before settling again. Yep, no wind. So what had that chill been all about?

  “Ah, the copywriter’s here.” Samuel turned to me. “The front door’s open. Why don’t you get the entry shots while I get our writer organised? When you’re done with the entry, move around as you need to. This one has a large budget, so go to town. Get us shots of every room, as per the list I gave you, and I’ll choose later.”

  “Sounds good to me. Just out of interest, how many bedrooms does this place have?”

  “Eleven.” His close-mouthed smile was a bit sharkish, and I was anticipating him rubbing his hands together in glee any moment. Maybe he was seeing commission dollar signs—or pound signs—in the air.

  “Wow, okay. I’ll see you inside soon.”

  A small stone-paved porch led to two four-paned windows that sat to either side of the massive arched timber front door, matching coach lights nestled between window and door frames. The door was ajar, so I nudged it open enough to fit myself through, in case they had the heating on. When I stepped inside, I pouted. It was just as cold in here as outside. My fingers and nose were suffering, and the blood supply to those areas appeared to be on strike. I should have worn gloves. Should I magic myself some? Hmm, probably not. If the witches who’d cooked up the whole ripping-people-off scheme were around, they’d feel my magic. I did not need to draw attention to myself. I would have to suffer in silence, so I might as well get this done as quickly as possible, which was a shame since I loved old buildings.

  I set the camera on top of the tripod and took a few pictures of the entry and turned-timber staircase, with its thick dark timber bannister and stair treads. A Persian stair runner in blue and white led upstairs and was held in place against each stair-back by a gold rod—swanky. I sent my thought to the universe. Show me a witch installing video cameras. Halfway up the stairs, on the landing, a man in a pastel-blue jumper stood with his back to me. Yes! This meant the ghosts weren’t real; at least I thought it meant that. The witches needed the cameras to spy on their victims so they could interact in real time. The only other alternative was that they’d managed to control ghosts, which would be pretty impossible. There were so many ghost stories floating around—pardon the pun—but in none of them were ghosts ever controlled by anyone. Unless they’d talked all the ghosts into taking over these homes? Argh, stop thinking! My brain was making life harder for me, yet again. I needed to find an assumption and stick with it.

  I took a deep breath and focussed on the vision through the lens. The man’s head was tilted back, towards me, while he gazed at the corner three-quarters of the way up the wall. Click. He seemed to be staring at a small, round, black device, but when I looked at the wall without my Nikon, there was nothing there. Could they have made all the devices invisible, and if they had, how the hell was I supposed to check it out?

  Muffled voices chatting came from the other side of the front door; then it opened. I straightened from looking through the viewfinder and turned. Samuel held the door open for another man in a white suit, black shirt, and no tie. He was around forty, and had wavy dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and a goatee. He was a smidge taller than Samuel, of average build, and fairly attractive. Nevertheless, my hackles rose. Samuel followed him in and shut the door.

  Click.

  I looked at the guy with my other sight and quickly manifested a return-to-sender spell. Yep, he was a witch. I didn’t want to overreact, but he gave me the creeps. I mean who wore a white suit around except a man who was overly confident or part of the Mafia?

  “Lily, this is Adrian, our copywriter.” Yep, double creeps. All the other copywriters I’d met had dressed neatly but still fairly casual. This guy was over the top.

  “Pleased to meet you.” His accent was Eastern European and his grin way too smooth, as if he thought he was God’s gift to women. Not this woman, buddy. He held his hand out. I didn’t want to shake it, but if I didn’t, I’d look rude, and the guy who had the power to give me more work was standing right there. This could be his best friend, for all I knew.

  “Lovely to meet you too,” I lied and shook his clammy hand. He tried to hold on for over three seconds, but I was having none of it. I snatched my hand away. “I have to get to work. This house won’t photograph itself.” I gave a nervous laugh. He was probably harmless, but that didn’t mean I had to leave my hand in his for longer than was absolutely necessary. I also hoped he’d washed his hands last time he went to the toilet. Hmm, maybe I’d wash my hands at the end of this job because there was no way I was touching my lunch with that hand, just in case.

  He looked at Samuel. “And I shall get started too.” He pulled out a notebook and pen and wandered through one of the two doorways leading off the vestibule. Just because he was a witch, didn’t mean he couldn’t be a copywriter. I was a photographer doing this, after all.

  I went through the doorway on my left and set my tripod up in the next room, which happened to be the games room. Ornate cornices in a crenellated pattern bordered lofty ceilings. Chestnut-coloured parquetry floors sat underneath a billiard table, and a massive timber fireplace sat mid-wall to my right. To my left, tall double timber-and-glass doors opened to the side garden. Light streamed in. This room was the epitome of wealth and the good life. I could easily live here. Shame I needed over three million quid to do it. Ah, the things I’d learnt from my latest research.

  I turned my camera on again and sniffed the chilly air. The scent of old smoke permeated the room, and ash coated the bottom of the fireplace. You’d thi
nk they would have lit a fire for the shoot. That would have lent the photos a gorgeous and cosy atmosphere. Maybe I should suggest it? Or maybe they didn’t care because they already had a buyer? I guessed it wouldn’t matter if this was all just a set up to get the owner over the line and not report them to anyone for dodgy service, plus the owners paid for all this out of their own pockets. My mouth dropped open. The agent would make money on that too because didn’t everyone build a profit into offered services?

  Guilt dampened my enthusiasm for the home. I was taking people’s money, money they shouldn’t even be spending. But then again, maybe the universe had sent me here to solve the crime and stop this from happening to lots of other people. Besides, they would have paid someone else to do it if it wasn’t me. Still, I didn’t have to be happy about it. But would I return the money? Probably not, not that I received much of it. The copywriter and floor-plan person got their share, then add in the agent’s cut. Still, the right thing to do would be to return my fees to each of the affected parties. I could afford it, so I probably should. I sighed. Who was I kidding? Of course I was going to return the money to the individual owners. Being a decent person was often quite painful.

  After photographing for the ad, I whispered, “Show me the witch installing the hidden cameras.” No one was in the room, so I figured it was safe to say it if I was super quiet. I took my camera off the tripod and peered through the lens. And there the guy in blue was again, back to me, hands in the air, palms pointing to a black camera sitting in a nook where the cornice met the wall above the fireplace. Click.

  I packed up and went through a door to the next room—the sitting room. It smelled like leather polish with the faint hint of smoke. This room also had the rich-aristocrat vibe with parquetry floors, ornately carved timber fireplace with a gilt-framed mirror hanging above it, two Chesterfields, and a grand piano with expensive knickknacks on it.