by Tamara Berry
They’re also why I don’t make an attempt to speak right away. It’s amazing how much insight you can glean from people with a little awkwardly prolonged silence. In this fast-paced, constantly-plugged-in world of ours, few people know how to deal with quiet. They push it, close it, fill it—anything to avoid the company of their own thoughts.
And often, in the process, tell me everything I need to know about the real things that haunt them.
“So, Ms. Wilde,” he says, “how long do you plan on remaining in Mexico?”
It’s not the burst of human insight I was hoping for, but the man’s easy air of conversation does tell me a few things—namely, that he has social polish and he’s not afraid to use it. Those facts don’t fill me with ease. Practiced liars are the worst kind.
“Two weeks of rest and relaxation,” I reply. “In my line of work, I find that caring for the body is just as important as caring for the soul.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he says. “I don’t have a few weeks.”
“Why? Are you dying?”
My question is meant to shock him into revealing something of himself, but he turns the question on me with an appreciative glint in his hard, gray eyes. “Not that I’m aware of. Do you foresee that sort of thing, too?”
“I can foresee anything if the money is right. I’m quite good, you know. You won’t be able to afford me.”
“Oh, dear.” He feigns a worried look. “Are you very expensive?”
With that, I realize this man definitely falls under the foe category. It’s his delivery that does it—to look at him, you’d think he’s engaging in a perfectly serious conversation. To hear him, however, leaves little room for doubt. That rich, polished voice is mocking me. It’s testing me. My heart thumps heavily.
“Yes,” I reply, matching my voice to his so as to give nothing away. “Especially when you plan to offer me a job in an attempt to out me as an imposter and a charlatan.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Is that what you are?”
“You’re not the first to try it, you know,” I say. “I’ve seen and done it all before. You’ll beg me to eliminate a ghost. I’ll politely decline due to continued scheduling conflicts.”
“One can hardly vacation in Mexico forever,” he points out.
I ignore him. “At which point you’ll double your offering price. No, you’ll triple it—quadruple it. Anything to get your life back in order. My fees are already high, so I’ll naturally become suspicious at your generous offer. That’s when you’ll put other incentives on the table. Maybe you have a famous friend you can refer me to, or you’ll promise me a bonus once the ghost is gone. Either way, I’ll find a way to keep increasing my fees until even you have to balk at the cost.”
“I hate to criticize a woman I’ve just met, but that seems like a highly unethical way to run a business.”
“Yes, well.” I press my lips together in a tight line. “It’s the only way I’ll get you to realize I have no intention of falling for your trap. You don’t believe in ghosts any more than I believe my sister will someday awaken from the coma that’s been her entire life and livelihood since the day we turned eighteen. I appreciate you coming all this way to find me, but I’ll not be made a fool of. Not for any price.”
He doesn’t speak right away, but I don’t feel any triumph at winning this particular battle. It’s never fun to pull back the veil and expose myself as a snake oil charmer, but it has to be done sometimes. I’ve spent far too many years in this business not to recognize a skeptic when I meet one. The best thing for me to do is get rid of him—and quickly.
“Does believing in ghosts have to be a prerequisite for your services?” he eventually asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. “I’m afraid the spirits can sense a disbeliever from miles away. You’ll taint the process.”
“What if I promise not to be present at the, uh, exorcism?”
“I prefer to call it a cleansing. And it won’t make a difference. Your aura is quite powerful.”
“Thank you.”
At his easy reply, a surge that’s equal parts annoyance and laughter fills me. I suspect that getting the better of this man requires a more lengthy campaign than I’m willing to wage right now. I still have a plane to catch, after all.
“Can I be frank with you, Nick?” I ask, falling into saucy familiarity with his name.
He sighs. “Would you? I can’t tell you what a relief that will be.”
“I like you,” I say as neutrally as possible. “More than you deserve, and more than is probably good for me. In fact, I’m tempted to perform your cleansing for free if only to discover what you’ve got up your sleeve. But as you can see for yourself, I have more than just myself to think of. This facility doesn’t come cheap, and my sister is young.”
“Are those two things related?”
“They are to the woman responsible for paying for her lifetime of care.” I splay my hands. “As enlightening as I’m sure it would be to help you, I can’t afford to have you diminish my reputation. Literally.”
The movement he makes as he shifts in his chair to face me is so slight as to almost not count as movement at all, but I can feel the full weight of his regard.
“May I be frank in return?” he asks.
“By all means. Let’s get it out in the open.”
“I’ve done my research on you, or as much as I can do, given your lack of an online presence.” There’s a slight note of criticism in his voice.
“The spiritual world and the virtual world are natural enemies. I don’t need the Internet when I can just plug in to the entire universe.”
“Yes, well, not all of us remembered to upgrade to that package,” he says. “You have a positive reputation, all things considered. Not everyone sings your praises, of course, but most of the time, you leave behind a family that’s satisfied and at peace in their residence. Now, I don’t believe in ghosts, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I do believe that in each case, you exorcised something—whether that be marital strife, memories of the past, or”—he gently clears his throat—“rats in the attic.”
“Nasty things, rats,” I say, my head tilted. “Do you happen to know someone named Mrs. Levitt?”
“I may have talked with her son this morning.”
Aha. That explains how this man tracked me down. And after I smoothed Jimmy’s romantic path for him and everything.
Nicholas clears his throat. “You’re good at what you do, Eleanor Wilde. Even more to the point, you’re capable of making other people believe you’re good at what you do. That’s what I want to hire you for.”
Intrigue pricks at my spine, almost against my will. I can’t help it any more than I can help breathing. Pretending to be a medium is a financial necessity, yes, but I’d be lying if I didn’t also say I enjoy the work. It’s the mystery of it all—figuring out what’s behind each haunting, learning enough about a family to make them believe it when I finally get rid of the ghost.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re buttering me up again?”
“Because I am. Again.” He draws a deep breath and continues before I have an opportunity to voice my protest. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to come to my ancestral estate and purge my mother of her mistaken belief that she shares the space with a ghost.”
Ancestral estate? That sounds old. And promising. I’d love an opportunity to break out my 1830s Châteauneuf du Pape. I’ve been saving it for a rainy day—I piped Carlo Rossi into the vintage flea market bottle last year in anticipation of just such an event.
Still. It won’t do to show too much eagerness.
“No offense, but why don’t you just purge your own mother?” I ask. “You strike me as a man who doesn’t balk at getting his hands dirty.”
“Ah, yes.” He studies his fingernails as if inspecting them for metaphorical dirt. “Well, I’m afraid my mother thinks I lack imagination.”
“No kidding. You?”
&n
bsp; “My sentiments exactly. Her words were, and I quote, ‘Of course you don’t notice the ghost. You can’t see a bloody thing without your ego getting in the way.’ ”
That almost seals the deal right there. “She sounds delightful.”
“She is.” He coughs. “Or she would be, if she could get beyond this possession. I’m afraid it’s taken over her ability to make sound judgments. The sooner you can, ah, lay this particular ghost to rest, the better it will be for all of us.”
“You know, this is starting to sound an awful lot like you want to hire me to con your own mother.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “And I tried so hard to frame it as something else.”
I can’t stop a burst of outright laughter from escaping my lips. “I don’t con people. What I do is provide a necessary service.”
“I know,” he says. “And I’m trying to hire you to do it.”
With remarks like that, he’s almost accomplished his goal, too.
“Getting someone to believe in an exorcism is all well and fine, but what’s really causing the haunting?” I ask.
“Not what. Who.” For the first time in this whole conversation, there’s a glimmer of actual human emotion in his voice. It doesn’t make him softer or more approachable, but it does strike whatever empathetic cords I have left. “And I don’t know. That’s the problem. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.”
I pause. I don’t doubt that, given enough time and incentive, I’m capable of exactly what he’s asking. No one can hide a haunting forever, especially if I’m there watching every move. But ghosts caused by people rather than circumstance are tricky, because at least one other person in the house always knows I’m a fraud.
As if hearing my doubts aloud, he lowers his voice and adds, “Please, Ms. Wilde. Just come to England and meet the ghost for yourself, that’s all I’m asking. If you decide you can’t take the job after that, I’ll fly you to Mexico on my personal jet. Word of a Hartford.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What do you mean, your personal jet?”
“Oh, did I forget to tell you that part?” As if out of nowhere, he grins, cementing the heavy lines of his face. “I’m afraid I’m terribly wealthy. I can afford you no matter what outlandish price you set.”
I look over at Winnie in alarm. As expected, she’s impassive and still, her beautiful face as serene today as it was the day I brought her here. She was serene at the last place, too, which was state-run and in deplorable condition, but I vowed that I would never make her go back while it was within my power to prevent it. I could feel how unhappy she was there, how lonely.
Don’t ask me how, but I did. One might even call it a gift.
And that decides it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my sister, including the sale of my soul to the devil. If my illustrious career as a ghost-hunting psychic-cum-medium has proven anything, it’s that I’ve done exactly that.
“Well, Nick. I guess that means we’re in business.” I extend my hand, unsurprised when he takes it and gives it a perfunctory shake. “And for the record? Next time, I suggest you lead with the cash.”
Chapter 3
Although my line of work takes me to private residences of all shapes and sizes, my opportunities to cleanse a castle—a real castle, complete with crumbling stones and gargoyles—are disappointingly rare. Ghosts these days have an annoying tendency to hang around in newly established areas where the houses are stamped from cookie-cutter patterns and prefab from the eighties.
I blame the rising crime rate in the suburbs for it. Well, that and the fact that people who live in rambling old homes in the middle of nowhere are used to the squeaks and bumps of centuries-old architecture and the occasional rodent in the walls. Their first suspicion isn’t a haunting; it’s the plumbing. And they’re usually correct.
Which is why, when the taxi drives up the circular drive of the ancestral Hartford home, I’m not prepared for the glorious vision that awaits me. Large, ungainly, seeping with moisture—the whole house appears to have been pulled out of a Poe story, with windows for eyes and a sinking tarn out back. I can’t help but wish I’d been able to time my arrival for later in the day, when rain would batter against the window and my skin would glow eerily pale in the moonlit mist, but Nicholas insisted I book the first flight out.
I don’t love being ordered around like that, but I take comfort in the box of “vintage” wine I brought. I think Old Nick will find that several bottles need to be shattered before this ghost is laid to rest. We may even have to drink a few of them.
“Well, this is it,” the taxi driver informs me with something approaching glee. I can tell that he, too, is delighted by the spectral spectacle before him. He spent the better part of the hour-long drive from London to Sussex outlining the various ways in which young, unaccompanied American women are likely to meet their untimely end this far south. High on his list are rich, psychopathic landowners. “You sure you want me to leave you all alone? Seems an awful lot of places to hide bodies out here . . .”
I laugh. He’s right. There are dozens of great body-hiding spaces, not excepting the moss-covered cemetery we passed on the way in, which featured several huddled dirt lumps of questionable origin. As if any of that’s supposed to make me less likely to take on the job. This place is the perfect setting for a haunting—fake or otherwise. Ghostly fingers walk up and down my spine just thinking about it.
Those ghostly fingers kick up in earnest as I pay the driver. He unloads my suitcases and boxes of supplies while I lift my vintage medical bag and head for the door. This time, it’s not the dark gloom causing my delight so much as the cherry-red Porsche I find parked on the crunching gravel walkway. The car is as unsuitable to this estate as it is tacky. I hope it belongs to the man of the castle. Few things would make me happier than to find that Nicholas Hartford III is as susceptible to flashy overcompensation as the next eccentric British millionaire.
I wave the driver off with a cheerful smile and a promise that I will have someone collect my things. I’d carry them myself, but it’s better to make an entrance without looking like an unwanted relative struggling under the weight of mundane things like toothpaste and underwear.
Besides—I’m too distracted by the front door. It’s as gothic as the rest of the place, the heavy wooden portal rising to a point in the center arch as though transported from a medieval cathedral. There isn’t a doorbell in sight, so I lift the heavy cast-iron ring on the knocker and let it fall instead. Even from outside the huge slab of a door, I can hear the hollow echo of the sound moving through the house, can almost feel the shaking of plaster and stone as my presence makes itself known.
Silly Ellie. The house isn’t shaking. It’s shivering in anticipation.
I blink, unsure where the voice came from and unwilling to indulge it further. It’s one thing to enjoy gloom and despair for ambience’s sake; it’s another to fall prey to it. That’s a fake medium’s first rule of business: Never buy your own lies.
The door creaks open to reveal a young woman dressed in flannel pajamas with a winter parka thrown over the top. I think she’s pretty—her cheeks appear round and flush, her violet eyes vibrant—but it’s difficult to tell through the blanket she has wrapped around her head like a scarf.
“Hullo,” she says. She’s not unkind, but she’s not welcoming, either. “Who are you?”
I take a moment to extract a business card from my medical bag and extend it in her direction. She takes it carefully, her hands wrapped in fingerless gloves, and examines the print. “Eleanor’s Cleansing Service. Are you a maid, then?”
“Cleansing, with an s.” I point out the letter. “As in purging.”
“How is that different?”
She hasn’t made any effort to welcome me into the house yet, so I shift from one foot to the other, trying to peer around her to see inside. “Well, Miss . . . I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”
“Hartford. Rachel Hartford.�
�
Hmm. A daughter, perhaps? Maybe a younger sister? Nicholas had been reluctant to tell me anything about his family or the manifestations his ghost prefers to take, so I don’t know what to expect on the other side of this door. I want you to see the ghost through virgin eyes had been his excuse. Untainted by any suspicions I might already harbor about its origins.
Which, to be honest, is the way I prefer to work. Mysterious. Powerful. Alone.
“Well, Miss Hartford, a cleaner would show up on your doorstep with bleach and scouring pads,” I say. “I’ve shown up with electromagnetic analytical equipment and talismans used by the druids to forge bonds with the ancient gods. I’m here to cleanse.”
“Oh, you’re the ghost lady. Got it.” She finally pulls open the door. “I heard you’d be arriving today. Come on in. And if you brought a coat, you should probably put it on. It’s always freezing in here when Xavier comes calling.”
Actually, I suspect it’s always freezing because the walls are made of damp stone and there don’t appear to be any modern heating appliances installed, but I keep my mouth shut. Clearing out the chimneys will fix that in a trice.
“Thank you, but I’m quite comfortable.” I gesture to the shawl I have draped around my shoulders. It’s dark purple and paisley—the perfect accompaniment to the rest of my attire, which rests on the slightly shady side of bohemian chic. “I anticipated the chill. One thing you’ll find about spirits like Xavier is that they lack imagination. They have the capability to make a house blazingly hot instead of ice cold, but they almost never do it.”
“Is that so?” Rachel asks. I can’t tell from her tone whether she’s interested or mocking me. Considering she’s a relative of Nicholas’s, I want to say she’s mocking me, but she is layered up like she’s expecting an attack on Winterfell, so who knows? “If I ever become a ghost, I’m going to turn the house into a perfect summer day. Well, this is it. Do you need a tour, or do you plug in to some kind of spiritual map?”
A spiritual map? What am I, a mystical GPS?
“I’ll have Mr. Hartford show me around later,” I say. “Is he here?”
