Home for the Haunting(32)

Hugh didn’t seem offended by my unsolicited advice. He just shook his head.

“I have to put the house back in order. Just as it was.”

“Didn’t you say you left it just as it was?”

“There have been some changes, the unavoidable effects of time.” He rifled through the box and pulled out another album, this one strewn with yellow sticky tabs. He flipped to one of them to show a picture of a young girl and her mom, presumably one of Hugh’s sisters and his mother, in a kitchen very much of the period. “But I have pictures here, and I want you to restore it so it’s just the way it was then. Same wallpaper, appliances, everything. A lot of it is still there, but it’s shabby, mildewy after all these years.”

“I just don’t . . .” I began, wondering whether this was some sort of brilliant scheme or just a sign of mental illness. I wished Luz were present to form a professional opinion. I should have called her when I heard that Hubert wanted to meet with me.

On the screen, the images spoke, but there was no sound other than the clicking and whirring of the camera. The film had faded, so the colors were washed out to shades of blue and yellow. I tried to ignore it, but I noticed the images out of the corner of my eye, the way I often saw ghosts. It felt almost nightmarish to witness such remnants of happy memories, before tragedy struck.

I was about to come up with an excuse to leave when I heard the sound of keys in the front door. Simone walked in, a canvas tote full of groceries in each hand. She dropped them in the hall and hurried toward us.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, switching off the camera. “I’ve told you, you can’t watch these films alone. Hugh, I asked you what you were doing.”

Her hair was swept up in a simple bun, and she wore a fashionable wool coat over a simple but chic red dress, matching lipstick, and fine gold jewelry. A few steps up from the stained sweatshirt and jeans she’d worn to Monty’s the other day.

Hugh gave a far-off look and shook his head. Simone looked as though she’d been through this routine before; when her husband had no response for her, she swung around and fixed her gaze on me.

“This is about that house, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Hugh asked me to come over so we could talk about it.”

“How soon can we get back in there, do you know?” She flicked a switch to rewind the movie. “The police haven’t been in touch.”

Her words surprised me. I had expected Simone to be protective of her husband, to say he shouldn’t be going back there, that it wasn’t good for him.

“I don’t really . . .”

“Have you asked her about taking the job?” she said, addressing her husband.

“I did ask,” he replied. “But she has yet to answer.”

Nothing got past this guy.

“I, um . . .”

“Isn’t this the sort of thing you do?” Simone demanded as she removed the reel from the camera, then unlocked a box sitting on a bookshelf and placed it inside. Then she started gathering the snapshots that Hugh had scattered atop the desk. I thought of the theory that opposites attract; Simone seemed to have all the energy and focus that her husband lacked.

“Renovating old places,” she continued. “Bringing them back to their glory days . . . ? And if possible, talking to the ghosts? I read all about you in Haunted Home Quarterly.”

“So, you believe the house is haunted?” I asked her. “The neighbors mention lights going on and off.”

She waved a hand. “I had the place wired as a ‘smart house’ so we could turn lights on and off from afar, that sort of thing. That’s not the haunted part. It’s the thoughts, the memories that plague Hugh. Those are the real ghosts.”

Despite myself, my curiosity was stoked. Why were Hugh and Simone so intent on having the place put back to the way it was?

Though it seemed macabre, it would be interesting to do a walk-through of the Murder House with Hugh.

I had to admit that, as with so many historic homes, something about the house at 2906 Greenbrier called to me. And not just the faces I had seen in the windows. For some time now, I’d had the feeling that my unique talent might be to seek out and find homes filled with pain and strife, and maybe, by renovating them and communicating with their ghosts, bringing them back to life. My mother used to find homes that felt warm and inviting, and she and my father made a pretty penny over the years bringing those homes back to high standards and reselling them. So maybe I’d inherited her talent but added my own unique, rather dark twist.

“Why don’t we do a walk-through together?” I heard myself saying. “You could tell me what you’re envisioning, and we could go from there.”