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Home for the Haunting(19)

By:Juliet Blackwell


I crept around the shed, squeezing through the gap between the fence and the shed. I gained a few slivers in my hands from the rough gray wood. I felt the slight sliminess of fresh green weeds underfoot, smelled the damp earth as I walked. I tried looking in the window, but it was caked in grime and even the beam from my mini-flashlight couldn’t make it through the layers of dust to show anything more than some old shelves shoved up against the glass.

At least there was no sign of ghosts.

I continued around to the other opening of the shed, feeling guilty and looking over my shoulder. Slowly, I turned the old brass knob on the door. The air inside was chill and dank, and smelled vaguely of rodents. Slowly, I pushed the door in, trying to peer into the dim depths of the small building.

I heard whistling.

“Hello?” I said, and the whistling stopped.

I felt strong hands on my back, and before I could turn around, I was shoved headlong into the shed.





Chapter Six




The door slammed behind me. I rushed to it and tried the knob; it was locked from the outside. I banged and yelled for a long moment before thinking, Is this ghostly behavior? Or some sort of joke? I thought of Kobe’s little group and what Etta—and Monty, for that matter—had told me about possible drug dealing around here. Could I have stumbled across some kind of drug deal?

I’m from Oakland, so I’m not particularly skittish around street thugs, but I do know one thing: You don’t mess around with anything having to do with the drug trade. Young people in possession of guns but no future added up to people getting shot—a lot.

I stopped yelling. If I had unwittingly interrupted some sort of drug exchange, it was best to play along, hunker down in here until everyone had cleared out.

Of course, I hadn’t seen a soul around other than Monty or heard anything next door while I was talking with him. But . . . if not that, who could have pushed me in here?

I heard it again—the whistling. Faint, off-key, the way my dad did when he used to work in his woodshop after hours.

It sounded like it came from inside the shed.

I stopped and listened for a moment, pondering my options. I had my phone with me, but it would be embarrassing to have to call Luz or Stephen to come let me out. And it was hardly high-security in this shack. If worse came to worst, I could always break the window to escape and replace it along with all the other outstanding work we still owed Monty. For that matter, given the state of these wooden walls, I could probably bash a hole in the siding without too much problem.

Or . . . I could just go out the other side, crime tape or no.

I started to make my way through the building, crawling over old chairs, past cans of old house paint and motor oil, around cracked storm windows, atop a large wooden crate with CALISTOGA MINERAL WATER written on the side. Everything was covered with spiderwebs and accumulated grime, as though it hadn’t been touched for decades. Finally, I emerged at the other end of the outbuilding.

The place where Linda’s body was found.

The floor held numerous footprints and scuff marks in the dust, and an evidence marker lay on its side. There was no sign of blood. The police must have bagged all the evidence after photographing the scene. I wondered what they had found, though I knew it wasn’t my business. None of this was. Probably the death was the result of an accident, an overdose, or maybe the grim outcome of a hard life.

But perhaps, just perhaps, Linda would talk to me.

I peered back the way I’d come. It didn’t seem like she had come in that side, as I’d had to clear a path to get through myself.

I heard something behind me. I swung around to face the closed door.

Someone started banging on the door with something heavy: Bam bam bam . . . bam!

There wasn’t a knocker on either access door. Maybe they were pounding with a rock or a bar of some sort.

Bam bam bam . . . bam!

As I watched the door, little puffs of dust arose with each hammering. Orangey rays seeped in through the cracks surrounding the door, reminding me that while the afternoon was waning, there was still daylight out there. A lot of good that did me.

Then I realized that I didn’t see a shadow cast through the cracks in the door.

The banging stopped. But then I heard whistling again . . . this time from the opposite end of the building.

“Hello?” I said. My voice came out as a low croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Are you trying to communicate with me?”

Two more bangs on the door. I wondered . . .

“Two bangs for yes, one for no.”

I waited. Silence. So much for the Morse code approach to ghosts.

“Linda? Linda, if you’re here, I’d like to help. Could you give me a sign, talk to me?”