Home for the Haunting(48)

Straight ahead of us was a central stairway, there was a hallway to the right, and to either side were openings leading to a parlor in one direction and a dining room in the other. The dining room had a built-in hutch. Light sifted in through the tall windows from a streetlamp, just barely illuminating the room in a gray light.

Annette kept looking over at me, as though expecting me to go into a trance or roll my eyes or some other equally impressive movement that indicated I was in touch with another dimension.

“I can’t promise I’ll feel or see anything,” I said, rubbing the plain gold wedding ring that hung, solid and warm, on a chain around my neck. The ring was a present from my mother, who had inherited it from her own mother. It was the closest thing I had to a rosary. It made me feel connected to my mother, as she had worn it for years before giving it to me, saying it would connect the generations of Turner women.

I concentrated on it, took a deep breath, and tried to send out signals of welcoming and beckoning. Which was a bit of a joke, because the ghosts always appeared to me unbidden, but it was worth a try.

“You can’t . . . call them, or something?”

I shook my head. “Hate to disappoint, but I’m not really that kind of medium.”

“I thought maybe you were rubbing that ring for a reason.”

“You mean, like a genie’s bottle?” I teased. “It’s not Aladdin’s lamp.”

“Look,” said Annette, compulsively looking behind her. “Once I stepped through the looking glass, I’m open to just about anything.”

Annette really was beyond her comfort zone. I reminded myself of just how hard this all was for me—still was—but especially the first couple of times it had happened. And I had the proof of what I was seeing, while this homicide-hardened cop had to take my word for it all.

“The thing is . . . I don’t really know what I’m doing. I just sort of hang around and . . . I don’t know; it’s like the ghosts can sense there’s someone who might be able to see or hear them so . . . sometimes things—”

Bam bam bam . . . bam!

Annette and I practically leaped into each other’s arms. When the banging stopped, we looked at each other, chagrined, and pulled back in embarrassment.

Before I could say anything, Annette strode to the door, peeked out the eyehole, and then cautiously opened the door while standing to the side.

No one was there.

Annette closed the door and met my eyes. I thought it best not to mention that I had been pushed into the shed, and someone banged on the door four times in exactly that pattern.

“Probably the neighborhood kids,” I said. “I met a few of them the other day, when we were working at Monty’s house. Actually, you met Kobe, the leader of the baby hoodlums. They’re morbidly fascinated with this place, and the tales of yore.”

“Little ghouls.”

“We were all ghouls at that age, don’t you think?” I said as I started to look around the living room. The couches, the piano, a cupboard that held Lenox china figurines. Other than the dust, it could be anyone’s home that hadn’t kept up with the times. Like the stereotypical Grandma’s house. “In fact, the song they were singing was set to the tune of ‘Lizzie Borden took an axe. . . .’”

Annette was doing that one-eyebrow lift thing she did.

“You have a terrible singing voice; you know that?”

“That’s not the point. I’m just saying, there’s a reason kids like horror movies. I know some people never grow out of it, but a lot of times I think kids like to be scared because they don’t really believe bad things can happen. When they grow up and realize just how bad the world can be, the fascination tends to fall away.”

“Or sometimes they live out their twisted fantasies, and then people like me have to step in and clean things up.”

That was a depressing thought. She was right, I supposed, but sheesh. What a hard way to make a living.

Beyond the odd furnishings and the reminders of the tragedy within these walls, the artistic lines of the house called out to me. The entries were a series of arches using flowing Art Nouveau lines, all distinct from one another. The railing on the stair was metal, twisted and free-form in a stylized pattern of flowers and leaves. Everything from the crown molding to the baseboards was just a little different from the norm.

My father would go nuts over this place. In fact, if you stripped out the furniture and wall-to-wall carpet—which I was certain covered up beautiful floors with, most likely, an inlaid wood design—and redecorated with the relatively simple furniture from the era, this house would be a showcase, a rare example of well-preserved Art Nouveau in a city that favored the Victorian.