Pen Pal(43)

“It’s an old house. It has lots of problems.”

Blowing right past that, she continues her assault on my sanity.

“Perhaps you’ve been having strange dreams. Maybe objects are being moved, appearing in places other than where you put them.”

She must catch something in my expression, because she leans closer. “Books falling off shelves? Furniture rearranging itself in the middle of the night?”

My voice faint, I say, “A jar of honey flew out of the cupboard on its own. A coin I put in one place showed up in another. And all the kitchen drawers and cupboards were standing wide open in the morning one day when I came down.”

She nods solemnly. “What about strange scents? Perfumes or strong odors? Any of that?”

I think of the odd burning smell when I run the dryer, the smell Eddie couldn’t find a source to—or any of the other electrical problems in the house—and feel as if I might jump right out of my skin.

When the kettle on the stove whistles, I do jump. Suddenly, I’m scared witless.

Fiona rises from her chair, gets two mugs from a cabinet, and pours hot water into both. The tea bags go in next, then she sets one of the mugs in front of me and sits back down across from me.

As if she hasn’t just given me an aneurysm, she says, “It would be proper with a drop of milk, but I’ve gone lactose intolerant in my old age. Would you like some?”

I barely manage a shake of my head.

“Now, now, dear, please don’t be frightened. I know being haunted is a bit much for our twenty-first century minds to deal with, but we’ll get through it together.”

Maybe I’m still asleep. Maybe this is just a bad dream. Maybe all that wine I had yesterday went to my head and killed more than the usual amount of brain cells.

Ever the practical one, Fiona turns businesslike. “What we need is a séance.”

I say flatly, “That’s ridiculous.”

“No, the federal tax rate is ridiculous. This is simply a situation that needs to be remedied.” She sips her tea and makes a yummy noise. “As soon as possible, I might add. The longer a spirit is trapped in this dimension, the greater the odds it will never be able to move on.”

“Fiona, I don’t have a ghost in the house!”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval at my tone. “I know it’s alarming, dear, but please try to control yourself. Scots have a genetically built-in aversion to overt shows of emotion, and I’d hate to think less of you over something so minor as being haunted. Now, what about visual disturbances? Have you seen anything strange around the place?”

Into my mind flashes an image of the strange, hostile man in the hat hiding behind the tree who left no footprints behind. Another image comes, this one of the little blonde boy playing in the yard…

The boy my security camera didn’t catch, presenting me instead with a recording of static.

Horror creeps over me, starting at my feet and slowly moving up my body until I’m gripped in a cold, tight skeleton hand of fright.

As if her case is closed, Fiona says sagely, “Ah.”

Chilled to the bone, I say, “It’s impossible. Ghosts don’t exist.”

Fiona smiles. A bass rumble of thunder rolls through the sky. The rain increases, peppering the windows and drumming against the roof.

Then the overhead lights turn themselves off and on three times, like a smug supernatural fuck-you.





22





“Now listen carefully,” says Fiona, turning businesslike again. “I need to tell you something important.”

“What is it?”

“No matter what happens, don’t tell the ghost it’s dead. They have no idea they’re no longer living.”

I’m convinced we’re both in a padded cell somewhere having this conversation. That’s really the only reasonable explanation.

When I sit there staring at her in disbelief, she continues.

“Ghosts are simply souls with a story to tell. When a person dies tragically or violently, their spirit often can’t move on. They have unfinished business that keeps them tied to this realm. Until they get closure, they will remain here, haunting the people and places that meant the most to them while they were alive.”

“Are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth?”

She arches a brow. “I’m aware this is difficult for you, dear, but there’s no need to be snippy.”

Chastened, I sigh. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying…what was I saying?”

“Ghosts need closure.”

“Yes, that’s right. And until they get it, they’re stuck here, wandering the earth in misery.”

She stares at me expectantly.

“You’re saying we need to help this ghost who doesn’t exist and definitely is not haunting me get closure.”

Fiona beams. “Well done.”

Stupendous. She wants me to give up art and become a guide for lost spirits. “I hope you won’t be offended by this, but that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I can tell by her expression that she’s definitely offended.

She sniffs, lifting her nose. “All right. If you don’t want my help, I can’t force you to take it.” She stands, takes her mug to the sink, and dumps the rest of her tea down the drain. Rinsing out the mug, she says over her shoulder, “Do you need your office cleaned today?”