“Hey, I understand. I work at a vintage clothing store. Half our customers wear old prom dresses with flip-flops and tattoos, that sort of thing. It’s a look.”
I was getting the feeling Maya and I were obstinately talking about everyday things to avoid thinking about poor Adam.
I pushed open the front door.
The threadbare but precious Oriental rug had been pushed to one side. A ceramic bust had been knocked over and shattered on the wide-plank oak floor. I looked overhead to see that the light fixture had been pulled from the ceiling and was now hanging limply by wires. I felt a wave of rage and regret. Could Adam really have killed himself? Or was he the victim of foul play?
I was aware of Adam’s presence but didn’t see him. I supposed it was possible he would remain invisible while Maya was here. On the other hand, he could pop up at any minute and scare the daylights out of me, at which point Maya would think I was a lunatic.
We started gathering items to put away before the event, continuing the job we had started three days before. Later Jeremy would finish up just two more stair treads, and then the decorating committee could get started—assuming they were willing to come back to this house after Adam’s death.
I brought a box up to the attic, climbing the steep steps to find the mannequins sitting just as we’d left them.
Except . . . weren’t they in a different order? The two girls had been next to each other the other day. I was almost sure of it. That’s why I wasn’t sure if it had been Betsy or Charity who turned her face toward me.
I watched them for a long moment, trying to glimpse a movement. But there was nothing.
It was when I finally gave up and turned away that I saw something, again, out of the corner of my eye.
I whirled around to face them.
“Hello?” I ventured. “What do you want? Can you understand me?”
Their glassy eyes stared at me, their permanent smiles looking more like leers.
They did not respond to my greeting.
“Who are you talking to?” Maya asked, her head popping up through the hatch.
“I . . . could have sworn the mannequins moved.”
Maya gave me a worried look.
“Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. But . . .” Why try to hide it? “The truth is, sometimes I can see, or sense, really, spirits.”
“Spirits?”
“Ghosts.”
“Like . . . a psychic?”
“No. I mean, I guess maybe it’s a kind of psychic ability, right? But I don’t have any other kind of psychic powers. Heaven knows I’m no good at predicting the future. But sometimes I can talk to ghosts.”
“Oh. Okay.”
I waited for more reaction, but none came. “That’s it? It doesn’t, I don’t know, freak you out or anything?”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t raised with that kind of thing, so yeah, it’s sort of disconcerting. But as I mentioned, my boss is a little . . . different.”
“Different how?”
“She’s a . . . witch.”
“A witch?”
Maya nodded. The beads on the ends of her braids made a pleasing, everyday sound that was strangely reassuring. Or maybe it was Maya who was reassuring: She always seemed so calm and collected.
“You mean ‘witch,’ as in rhymes with . . . ?”
“No.” Maya laughed. “As in, flies on a broom. Except witches don’t actually do that—apparently that’s a Hollywood convention. It’s a little hard to keep it all straight. Mostly I don’t ask too many questions. But I know she’s real.”
“So she’s Wiccan?” I couldn’t keep the different pagans straight, but most local witches identified with Wicca.
“No, she’s a natural-born witch. Wicca is a religion, and while they call themselves witches, it’s a little different. And not all witches are Wiccan.”
“Okaaaay,” I said with a smile. I didn’t know Maya well; maybe she was pulling my leg.
“You don’t believe me?”
“A couple of years ago I didn’t believe in ghosts, and now I have a rather uncanny ability to communicate with them. So by and large I don’t rule anything out anymore. But someone who calls themselves a natural-born witch?”
“I know what you mean. But the thing is . . . she knows things, is all I’m saying. And she can fix things. Strange things. Like I say, I don’t ask a lot of questions. But I have a lot of respect for her abilities.”
“That’s fair.”
“So anyway . . .” Her dark eyes slewed around the attic. There wasn’t anything active to see other than the dust motes careening around in the shafts of light from the tiny dormer windows. “Are you seeing ghosts now?”
“No, nothing right now.”
“Good.”
“But . . . I could have sworn I saw these guys move.”
“They seem to be quiet now,” said Maya. She sounded calm, but I noticed she was giving the dolls a wide berth, and not turning her back on them. “So should we carry on?”
“First I want to try something.” I pulled a piece of newspaper out of one of the boxes full of packed items, tore it into small squares, and placed two on each of the mannequins, one on their shoulders and the other in their laps.
“What’s that for?” Maya asked, her dark eyes huge and questioning. “Did you . . . cast a spell? Does newspaper keep poppets down, somehow. . . . ?”
“No, of course not. I thought this way I could see if they moved—the paper will be disturbed. I mean, they don’t seem dexterous enough to put the papers back where they were.”
Now Maya was looking at me as if I were crazy. “Mel, no disrespect or anything, but what if the air currents when the door opens and closes blow them off?”
“Hmm, good point.” I shrugged. “Oh well, it was just an idea. It’s not like I know what I’m doing.”
Maya smiled. “Anyway, since that newspaper isn’t enchanted and able to keep those guys still, I’m getting out of here.”
As I followed her out of the attic, I tried to think what could have happened the night Adam was here. According to what Inspector Crawford had been willing to share with me, the authorities were assuming Adam had hung from the chandelier and then fallen, but what if . . . ? Could the mannequins have attacked him, somehow? Come alive in the night as in the legend? And could they have strangled him, and then he fell down the attic stairs and down the main stairwell? And the damage to the light fixture was something else entirely?
Get a grip, Mel. These mannequins hadn’t killed anyone. And ghosts, if there were any, couldn’t kill, could they? And why would they?
And for that matter . . . I hadn’t made contact with any ghosts but Adam here in Spooner House. If Reginald had killed himself here, it would stand to reason that he might have a presence as well somewhere . . . wouldn’t he?
Downstairs, Maya and I packed the remaining couple of boxes, then did a walk-through to be sure we hadn’t missed anything. She took the bedrooms, while I checked the main floor.
I found Adam in the parlor, lounging on a wine-colored brocade settee in front of the stone fireplace. He was staring at his smartphone.
I whispered: “Does that work?”
“I’m not getting any reception.” He frowned as he stood and wandered the room, holding his phone high and low, staring at the screen. It was like a cell phone commercial for the afterlife. He kept tapping at it, bewilderment on his face.
I knew one day I would be joining his ranks—we all would. In the immortal words of Mark Twain, there was no escaping death and taxes. But I hoped I wouldn’t linger in the sort of confused limbo that afflicted so many ghosts I had encountered. I didn’t know whether it was a matter of walking toward the light, or putting to rest matters in the present, or resolving murders, but the confusion rampant in the ghost world was disheartening.
> “What are you wearing?” he said.
“You’ve seen how I dress. We went through that when you were alive, remember? What are you doing?”
“I need to call my mom and let her know I’m gonna be late.”
“Adam, I’m so sorry. So very sorry, but you have to understand . . . you aren’t going to be able to go home. You’re dead.”
He looked at me blankly.
“You’re stuck here in Spooner House for the meantime, but I hope soon I can help figure things out and you can move on.”
“Move on to what?”
“I have no idea, but I’m thinking it’s better than haunting this house forever.”
I thought I saw light dawning. “I’m haunting this house?”
“Sort of. I’m so sorry, Adam. Did you . . . did you kill yourself?”
“No!”
“Are you sure . . . ? Can you remember what happened?”
“No,” he said, shoulders slumping.
“Maybe you were upset that night, you drank too much, and . . .”
“I would never do something like that. Suicide’s a coward’s way out. And besides, what did I have to be upset about? School’s going well, I landed the lead role in our holiday musical, and I’m in love with a beautiful girl who’s in love with me. We’re the real deal.”
I nodded. Young people could be impulsive and overly dramatic, but he was right: He didn’t seem like a candidate for suicide.
“I would never. . . . Could it have been some sort of accident?”
“You can’t remember anything toward the end of that night?”
“Just drinking with the gang, and Preston and Duff helped me break in through the window, and . . . I feel like I had a dream where the mannequins were talking to me. Is that possible?”
Ugh. I hoped it wasn’t possible.
“Do you remember what they said?”
He shook his head. “My mom’s gonna be so upset.”
I nodded. “Do you . . . do you want me to get a message to your mom? Or anyone else?”
He looked at me now with tears in his eyes. He shrugged, his lower lip quivered, and I remembered how young he was.
“Yeah,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Just . . . tell her I love her.”
***
“You okay, Mel?” asked Maya.
I nodded as she came into the room. Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I had to swallow hard to keep from crying. I felt the warmth of her hand on my shoulder. She squeezed lightly, then hugged me.
“Did you see him?” she asked me.
I nodded.
“It’s so sad. First, his death, and now . . . he’s still here?” Maya said.
“He was asking about his mom. I have a stepson, and I just can’t imagine . . .” I blew out a long breath. “Anyway, I guess I should go see her and give her the message that he loves her.”
“It might be hard to hear that sort of thing. Depending on her belief system, she might think you’re just playing a cruel joke.”
“I thought of that. But I wouldn’t feel right to withhold.”
“Maybe we should figure it out first.”
“What would you suggest?”
“I was thinking about what you thought you saw before, with the mannequins moving. What if . . . what if we accidentally dressed one of those dolls in a serial killer’s clothes, or something, and then it went after Adam? Or is that too out of left field?”
“That’s . . . wow. I have no idea. I may see ghosts from time to time, but serial killer clothes are a little out of my league.”
“My boss, Lily, can sometimes ‘read’ clothes.”
“Read them how?”
“She senses their vibrations.”
“This is a witch thing?”
“Like I said, I don’t ask too many questions, but I was thinking—”
Maya stopped short as we heard a loud thumping overhead. We both froze and rolled our eyes upward.
Footsteps. In the attic. The formerly unoccupied attic.
“At the risk of repeating myself,” whispered Maya, “that’s . . . creepy.”
I nodded.
“We’re the only ones here, aren’t we?”
I nodded again. We were the only humans here. The only live humans.
Maya held my gaze.
“I think it might be time to call in a witch.”
Chapter Six
Maya’s boss met up with us an hour later in front of the Spooner Mansion.
Lily Ivory, the proprietor of Aunt Cora’s Closet, struck me as . . . odd. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was about her that seemed so different, and at first I tried to put it down to the fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about Samantha from old Bewitched reruns. I was pretty sure I had never encountered a natural-born witch before.
Her long dark hair was swept up in a ponytail, and she wore a retro striped sundress topped by a cardigan and periwinkle blue Keds. There was something otherworldly about her, and she had a serious air.
But then she smiled and spoke, and I relaxed.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mel,” she said with warmth, her deep voice softened by a slight Texas drawl. “Maya told me about this project, and I’m excited to see the house. But first, I hear you’ve got things going bump in the night.”
“And during the day,” said Maya.
“Most importantly,” I said, “a young man was found here a couple of days ago, dead.”
“Yes, Maya told me about that as well. I’m so very sorry. What a shock.”
“Yes.”
Our gaze held. After a long moment, Lily nodded and said, “I know how that is.”
“Lily comes across . . . death . . . more than the average person,” explained Maya.
“You and me both,” I said.
“So you’re saying we’re like the Typhoid Marys of San Francisco?”
“I guess so,” I said with a reluctant smile, which she mirrored.
“May I enter?”
“Of course.” I stood back and let her walk up the porch to open the front door.
Lily paused in the doorway, warm brown eyes taking in her surroundings. I noticed one hand sneaking over to a small leather pouch that hung from a belt of braided silk strands.
In response I reached up to touch the wedding ring I wore on a chain around my neck. This had been handed down to me by my mother, who had inherited it from her own mother. I always thought of my need to touch it before facing ghosts as superstition, not witchcraft. But perhaps there was something to such talismans, as a manner of grounding oneself in the here and now . . .
Maya and I hung back and let Lily enter. She walked into the center of the entry foyer, her hands held palm up at her side, as though inviting sensation. She paused when she was standing right in front of the spot where we found Adam’s body, and turned in a slow, full circle.
Finally, Lily turned back to face me. “Maya says you can communicate with ghosts?”
“Sometimes.”
“I take it you weren’t able to learn what happened from the departed soul?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t really work that way.”
“But you can talk to him? I sense someone. Someone . . . new to the spirit world.”
I realized then that Adam was sitting on the third step, watching us in silence.
“Yes . . . I’ve been able to communicate with him,” I said.
Adam let out a rude snort and rolled his eyes.
Lily took a turn about the foyer, then headed for the stairs. I was about to tell her to wait when she paused, foot held in the air over the first step.
“He’s here?” she asked.
“Yes. Right there.”
“Sorry.” She stepped back with a sheepish shrug.
Adam glared at her. His earlier sadness seemed to have morphed into peevishness. “What’s she doing here? Who is she? What’s going on?”
“I . . .” I felt awkward speaking to Adam in front of Lily and Maya, but I didn’t want to be rude. Rude to a ghost. My life was so bizarre. “Adam, you knew Maya from before, remember? This is her boss, Lily Ivory. Lily’s a . . . She has special skills. I was hoping she could help us figure out what happened.”
“I don’t like people walking into this house like they own the place.”
Uh-oh, that didn’t bode well for the Haunted Halloween Ball.
“He’s on the stairs, isn’t he?” Lily asked.
I nodded.
“Okaaaay,” said Maya, backing toward the front door. “I tell you what, guys, I’m going to wait out in the garden. Be sure to let me know if I can help with anything. Anything . . . outside. Run for coffee, whatever you’d like.”
The door banged closed behind her.
“She’s a smart one,” I muttered.
“That she is,” said Lily with a smile.
“So, I thought you couldn’t see ghosts. But you see Adam sitting there?”
“I can’t see ghosts,” said Lily. “But . . . I can feel them. And I think they can feel me as well.”
“Feel her? I should say so,” said Adam, bristling. “She gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
I felt like a reluctant translator. “Let her pass, Adam. I want to show her the attic.”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“The dolls are up there. It’s possible there’s something odd with their clothing. . . .”
He looked skeptical.
“Just move,” I said, losing my patience. “Or she’ll walk right through you.”
He went to stand by the window, looking out. I led the way up the stairs, pointing things out to Lily and feeling like a surreal tour guide.
“That’s the light fixture where Reginald Spooner was found hanging, long ago. And also Adam . . . I mean, apparently he was hung there, though the sash slipped and he fell to the foyer below.”
A Haunting Is Brewing Page 4
