magic potion 03 - ghost of a potion

by blake, heather

  I tried to imagine the stories it could tell. Not only about the various eras it had seen, but also the people who’d lived here.

  My gaze shot to the cemetery at the edge of the property as Mr. Butterbaugh led the way up the front walk. I fully expected to see a ghost or two floating near the iron fence, but there weren’t any to be seen.

  I thanked my lucky stars for that. I had enough ghosts to deal with.

  Mr. Butterbaugh was already looking a hair better since drinking the potion I’d made for him. A tincture of hawthorn berries and Leilara was just what he’d needed.

  My daddy hadn’t been at all happy to see me and had lectured a good five minutes about taking some much-needed time off.

  He said nothing about my nosing into Haywood’s case, but it was an unspoken elephant in the room. Seemed to me that he really wanted Patricia to sit in jail for a while.

  I loved that about him.

  I’d left my bike and cupcakes in his care while I went off with Mr. Butterbaugh to figure out why he kept hearing things go bump in the night.

  Raindrops sparkled on the petals of colorful mums as Mr. Butterbaugh and I dodged puddles along the mansion’s front walkway. There wasn’t any crime tape strung across the front door, but as soon as we went inside, I spotted the yellow tape draped across the stairs.

  “Sheriff says it’ll come down in a day or two,” Mr. Butterbaugh said, following my gaze. “The basement’s this way.” He motioned for me to follow him down a hallway and into the bright kitchen at the back of the house.

  For a moment, I stopped to soak up the space. It looked like something out of a magazine, the perfect mix between rustic and modern. The hand-carved mahogany wainscoting was a work of art, and I couldn’t help myself from running a finger along the polished panels. A soaring floor-to-ceiling fireplace surround with detailed inlays complete with a large cast-iron pot hanging over a pile of stacked wood anchored the far end of the kitchen near the back door. Crystal kerosene lamps in differing shapes, sizes, and colors were displayed on the mantel.

  Three tall windows flooded the kitchen with light, highlighting the dark pine floor, white cabinets with black metal pulls, stone countertops, and beautiful stained-glass pendant lights above a long center island. The decorating touches ranged from fresh fruit and empty vintage milk bottles, to a rusted rooster and a copper pot rack. The scent of something garlicky hung in the air, no doubt a remnant left behind by last night’s caterers.

  It was beautiful.

  And had to have cost a small fortune. Probably more than my whole house was worth.

  “Nice, eh?” Mr. Butterbaugh said, looking around. “I don’t think Mr. Rupert ever could have imagined it looking this good.”

  “What did it look like before the Harpies took over? Is anything original?”

  “The floors and the fireplace. The rest is new. Mr. Rupert and I were lucky each day a cabinet didn’t fall off its hinges. The ceiling was a terrible mess with holes and water damage from roof leaks.” Proudly, he looked around. “If only he could see it now. He’d be prouder than a peacock.” Then he suddenly startled. “You think it’s Mr. Rupert who’s haunting the place?”

  “Could be,” I said, shrugging.

  Nodding thoughtfully, he scratched his chin. “If that’s so, those bumps in the night don’t seem so frightful anymore. It’d actually be nice. Does that make sense?”

  “It does.”

  Virgil and Jenny Jane had been with me most of the day, and I’d grown to find their presence reassuring. They were here now, looking around the house. My body ached slightly, which meant Virgil was closer to me than he should be, but the pain wasn’t too bad, so I didn’t mind much.

  With his chin, Mr. Butterbaugh nodded to a door tucked under the back staircase. “My room’s there.”

  Logistically, it made sense that he’d hear any bumps in the basement.

  He pulled open the basement door and cut on the lights. I peeked down the narrow wooden steps and understood immediately why he’d called the basement creepy.

  Thoughts of dungeons filled my head as we started down. It smelled of cut wood, mildew, and earth.

  “Careful now,” he cautioned. “Keep hold of the railing. Some of these steps are loose.”

  The dry wooden railing was loose, too, so it offered me no comfort. I clutched it anyway.

  Something skittered in a corner, and my heartbeat kicked up a notch. It was probably a mouse, but the farther we descended the more spooked I became. Stacks of plastic bins and cardboard boxes threw long shadows across the room, and some of them looked like human silhouettes.

  Alongside the bottom step was a pile of wooden trim, two by fours, plywood, and narrow strapping in addition to paint cans, tarps, and rolls of insulation. A rolled-up rug leaned against a wall along with several paintings and a stack of fabric samples. I certainly hoped this was short-term storage for those items or they were bound to be ruined.

  “Told ya there was nothing down here,” Mr. Butterbaugh said, his arms splayed wide.

  The foundation consisted of large stacked stone blocks. Above my head, floor trusses made of long beams pocked with age supported the house. Several of the beams looked new, and I guessed they’d been piecemealed in with the renovation. Two hanging bulbs lit the room, revealing a custom redwood wine rack, built floor to ceiling, wall to wall. It was enormous, dusty, and all the slots were completely empty.

  I wondered if Hyacinth had cleaned it out.

  Then felt badly about thinking so and sent her a silent apology.

  But really, I was curious.

  Jenny Jane and Virgil watched from the top of the steps as I walked around the space. Except for the wall with the wine rack, the others were made of stone set with a thick mortar. Any hidden rooms had to be behind the rack.

  “Are you up for an adventure, Mr. Butterbaugh?” I asked, running a hand along the redwood.

  Thick eyebrows dipped. “What kind of adventure?”

  “I think there might be a hidden room behind this rack. There has to be a way to access it.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. I saw some blueprints for the house recently, and the basement was large. Much larger than this area. And if I saw those blueprints, someone else might have, too, and broke in to check it out.” I didn’t tell him when or where I’d seen those schematics. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him none. “Which explains the bumps you heard.”

  His chin came up, and he glanced upward, then all around. “It doesn’t make no sense, does it? This space being so small?”

  I shook my head. “And if you think about it, your room would be right above what’s behind this wall.”

  “Hot damn.” He coughed. “Pardon my language.”

  He clearly hadn’t spent much time with my mama if he thought I was offended by that mild of a curse.

  “If you start on one side, I’ll start at the other,” I said. “Work top to bottom then bottom to top in each section, then left to right and right to left. My granddaddy was a master carpenter and he often built secret releases into his pieces. It’s here somewhere. We just have to find it.”

  I grabbed a milk crate, turned it upside down and stood atop it to reach the upper part of the rack. I ran my fingers along each piece of wood looking for a seam. I tugged, I pushed, I sneezed. The dust was something else.

  The dust . . .

  “Mr. Butterbaugh, as you check, keep an eye out for a place where the dust is disturbed.”

  “Yes’m,” he answered, intent on his work.

  We worked in silence for a few minutes until we both froze at the sound of footsteps above us.

  “Were you expecting anyone?” I whispered.

  “No one. I’ll go see who it—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, a shadow appeared at the top of the stairs. Something came hurtling down the steps. It crashed and burst into flames as it hit the floor.

  Startled, I fell off the crate, and I shielded
my face against the sudden explosion. Flames shot to the beams above our heads, and the fire quickly spread to the tarps and the dry, rotted wooden steps. Within seconds the stairway was engulfed. Smoke quickly filled the room.

  Keeping low to the ground, I crawled over to Mr. Butterbaugh. Unresponsive, he lay prone on the floor. I rolled him over. Blood seeped from a shallow wound on his forehead. I checked his pulse. It was faint, but there was one.

  My own pulse hammered in my ears as I tried to determine how to get out of here. The stairs were a lost cause—I’d be burnt to a crisp before I reached the top. There were no windows. Our only hope was finding that release catch.

  And I could use a little ghostly help as well.

  “Virgil!” I yelled. A second later he was at my side, his eyes glowing in the smokiness.

  Fighting back a sudden wave of pain, I said, “Please go and find Delia. Bring her here.”

  With a nod, he disappeared.

  Frantically, I ran my hands along the wine rack, growing more and more frustrated that I couldn’t find the latch. Pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth, I kept searching.

  Jenny Jane had moved a little closer to me, and I had to keep asking her to move back because I needed full use of both hands.

  I coughed, my eyes stinging and watering, as I told myself that finding the release shouldn’t be this complicated. This was a private residence, not Fort Knox. It was then that I realized I hadn’t been checking the rear panels of the elaborate rack. As the smoke thickened, I pushed and shoved each panel until one suddenly gave way beneath my palm, swinging the very center section of the rack backward. A secret door.

  Using what little energy I had left, I grabbed Mr. Butterbaugh under his armpits and dragged him through the opening. Once inside, I closed the door behind us, hoping to keep the fire at bay for as long as possible. I realized as I did so that there was no way anyone who managed to get down the stairs would find us in here. I could only hope there was another way out. Some sort of egress I hadn’t noticed on the Ezekiel plans.

  Civil War houses were infamous for having escape tunnels, and I held on to the hope that this one did, too.

  Plunged into darkness, I searched for a light switch and finally found one about waist-high on my right. I cut it on and realized escaping wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. Smoke had already filtered into the space, making everything look hazy. The room appeared to be a gentleman’s study, complete with bookshelves, a large desk, and a seating area. A large area rug covered a wooden floor, and several beautiful landscape paintings hung on the wall. There was even a fireplace and for a crazy moment, I wondered if I could shimmy up the chimney . . .

  Because there didn’t appear to be any other way out.

  I bent to check on Mr. Butterbaugh and was dismayed to find that his pulse had weakened even further. I set his head on my lap and tried to think, but my thoughts grew fuzzy. It was becoming harder to breathe as more smoke filled the room.

  Glancing around, I focused on the bookcases. If there had been a secret door leading into this room, there might be one leading out as well. I gently set Mr. Butterbaugh’s head back on the rug and stood up. My legs wobbled as I crossed the room.

  As I passed the desk, I noticed a framed black-and-white photograph. It was Rupert Ezekiel, with a woman and a little boy about four or five years old.

  Was this the son who’d been at war when Haywood was conceived? What had happened to the boy? Where was he now?

  Taking another quick look around, I noted that the drawers of the desk were pulled out and appeared to have been rummaged through.

  Someone had been looking for something.

  But what?

  And did he or she find it?

  Keeping low, I pressed onward to the bookshelves and started looking for yet another release. I pulled books off shelves, pushed and pulled every divider. It felt like it was taking me forever just to move from one section to the next. I supposed it was. My body was giving out, weakening with every move I made.

  Sagging, I rested my head on a bookshelf and closed my eyes. Suddenly, I just wanted to sleep, but behind my lids I could see Dylan’s face. My mama’s. My daddy’s. And I couldn’t give up.

  Letting out a primal cry, I kept tugging and pulling. I flung books, cursed out loud.

  Nothing.

  Sinking to my knees, I tried pushing the baseboards and the floorboards until my eyelids drifted closed.

  Suddenly, a searing pain in my head had me shooting upward and gasping. I opened my eyes to find two blue eyes peering at me not six inches from my face.

  I screamed before I realized it was only Haywood.

  He beckoned me toward the desk.

  Mustering some strength, I followed him, belly-crawling across the floor.

  He jabbed a finger toward the corner of an area rug.

  I lifted it. Saw nothing.

  He kept jabbing.

  I pulled the rug back farther and finally noticed a ridge on the wooden floor. Adrenaline shot through me, giving me the strength to roll back more of the rug, which revealed a hatch cut into the floorboards.

  I tugged on the recessed latch and looked downward into the darkness, barely able to make out a short ladder.

  Freedom.

  Rolling away from the hatch, I started to crawl back toward Mr. Butterbaugh when Haywood zipped in front of me and pointed to the hatch.

  Fighting against the head pain, I whispered, “Mr. Butterbaugh.”

  Haywood’s eyes widened, and I realized he hadn’t known I wasn’t alone. By the time I reached Mr. Butterbaugh, tears streamed down my face. I didn’t know how in the world I was going to get him over to the hatch, never mind down it and out to safety.

  Calling on every bit of steely reserve I possessed, I grabbed under his arms and tugged backward. I landed flat on my backside. Not giving in, I repeated the process until I was next to the desk, the hatch in sight.

  I just needed to rest a bit before the next heave-ho. Close my eyes. Just for a second.

  The next thing I knew I was outside in the bright sunshine and someone was shouting my name.

  “Carlina Bell Hartwell! You’d better damn well wake up!”

  At first I thought it was my mama, because she was the only one who ever said my full name that angrily. Then the fuzziness cleared for just a moment, and I realized it wasn’t my mama at all.

  It was Dylan.

  Somehow, I’d ended up in his arms, pressed tight against his chest. His heart beat hard and fast against my cheek as I looked up at him.

  His green eyes brimmed with tears. “That’s it,” he encouraged. “Don’t go quitting on me now, Care Bear.”

  I tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. All I wanted to do was sleep. I closed my eyes. It was okay to rest now.

  In Dylan’s arms, I knew I’d be safe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’d had to spend the night in the hospital, which was hell on earth for an empath.

  Hell. On. Earth.

  Which was why I’d been surprised that Delia had voluntarily slept all night in one of the chairs next to my bed.

  Dylan had been in the other.

  I’d been released at noontime the next day and they had driven me straight home, where I’d taken an extremely long shower in an attempt to cleanse my body of its smoky smell.

  An attempt that had failed.

  The scent clung relentlessly to my hair, my skin, and I had the uncomfortable notion that it was seeping straight out of my pores.

  It was now pushing two o’clock, and I was stretched out on the couch, resting per doctor’s orders.

  And hating it.

  I was restless, feeling like there were things I needed to do. I didn’t have time for proper recuperation. Today was November first, All Saints’ Day. A day some churches and their congregants celebrated those who had attained sainthood. For me, it marked the rising of more spirits. More ghosts in need of help. The day also signaled that time w
as running out as well. I had only until eleven fifty-nine tomorrow night to ensure the eternal departure of Haywood, Virgil, and Jenny Jane.

  Lying here on this couch wasn’t going to help any of them. Time was not on our side.

  “It wasn’t premeditated,” Dylan said. “The Molotov cocktail was made with items found in the Ezekiel kitchen. A milk bottle, kerosene from the lamps on the mantel, a dish towel. Whoever it was must have seen you two together and when you went into the basement, they took action. But who? And why?”

  Dylan, Delia, and I were trying to make sense of why someone had wanted to roast Mr. Butterbaugh and me like marshmallows.

  “Carly definitely ticked someone off but good,” Delia said, biting back a smile. She was working on my laptop, researching Avery Bryan. Boo lay next to her, his head resting in the crook of her arm.

  “That’s nothing new,” Dylan said, kissing my head as he walked into the kitchen.

  “Hey!” I protested, my voice raspy from the smoke inhalation. “How do we know Mr. Butterbaugh didn’t tick someone off?”

  Delia tipped her head and gave me a wry look. Dylan popped his head out of the kitchen and did the same.

  “It’s possible,” I said, sniffing.

  “Let’s go over this again.” Dylan brought Delia and me cups of tea.

  The tea was supposed to soothe my throat, but I knew a dose of Leilara would have me feeling as good as new in no time. My daddy was dropping off a potion for me any minute now.

  “Who all did you talk to yesterday?” Dylan lifted my legs and sat on the sofa, then dropped my legs onto his lap.

  Which didn’t make Roly and Poly very happy. They bookended my hips; Roly curled into a ball as she napped, and Poly sleeping on his back, his limbs outstretched. Dylan had disturbed their slumber and they meowed protests until Dylan scratched their heads and they started purring. They offered forgiveness easily.

  They did not get that trait from me.

  I said, “Mama, Daddy, Delia. Ainsley, Eulalie, Mr. Dunwoody. Avery Bryan, the Kirbys, the Ramelles. Jessa, Mr. Butterbaugh . . . you. I saw Hyacinth Foster but didn’t actually speak with her. I think that’s it. Unless you count the ghosts.” I sounded a lot like Jessa with my strained voice.