Home for the Haunting(51)

Hugh nodded and took a deep breath, as though gathering his thoughts.

It was oddly fascinating to watch these two. Simone seemed to play the role of mother as much as mate, but they certainly seemed to care deeply for each other in a relationship that appeared beyond the norm. I supposed someone like Hugh would require a special kind of love. In fact, it was hard to imagine him romancing anyone, taking the time to court or even respond to another person’s advances.

But then, as was pointed out to me so often, I was no expert in the field of romance.

Our foursome continued on the tour of the house, and Simone and Hugh suggested upgrades and renovations they’d like to see. By and large, the ghosts were still. I caught glimpses of movement in my peripheral vision, a sense of yearning, but no one spoke to me. Not that I really expected them to. In my experience, ghosts were pretty fickle about when they decided to make contact. Usually, they waited until particularly inopportune times.

Or maybe there were simply too many people here. If I was truly brave, I thought, I would come back all alone.

Nope. Not that brave.

Simone kept pulling swatches and samples out of her bag; I had no idea where she had managed to dig up such relics. There was a lot of blue with ducks, little diamonds, mauve and green and ferns. When she wasn’t doing that, she was fiddling with the control panels in each room and synching them with her handheld electronic devices.

“Uh-huh, looking good . . .” She had a habit of talking to herself that I personally would find very difficult to live with. I talked to myself from time to time, sure, but usually I was actually talking to ghosts that no one else could see, so that didn’t really count. But then I noticed her husband whispering something under his breath while stroking dusty curtains. I guess I cut him more slack because I assumed he was writing award-winning poetry in his mind, whereas for all I knew, he was crafting his grocery list.

Bam bam bam . . . Bam!

Then came more noises. And a thumping.

Annette swore under her breath. “Dammit, those kids are getting on my nerves.”

“At least they knock,” said Hugh. “Kids these days just walk in. A person’s house is his castle; people should knock. Don’t you think?”

He gazed at me for a long moment, until I realized that this wasn’t a rhetorical question.

“Sure I do,” I said. “I’m all for knocking.”

“Wait,” said Annette. “Do y’all hear that?”

Hugh looked vague and distracted, as per usual. Simone shrugged and shook her head. Clearly, this wasn’t something she’d dealt with before.

Faint voices, as though whispering. Another thump. And . . . the smell of smoke.

Okay . . . this just got interesting.

As we turned down the little hallway behind the kitchen, we realized the sounds and the smells were emanating from the basement.

Carefully, we crept down the small staircase off the kitchen to the lower level: me first, then Annette, with Hugh and Simone bringing up the rear. As in Monty’s house, the lower floor wasn’t a basement per se, in that it was above ground at the lower backyard level.

At the bottom of the stairs was a closed door. There was light showing through the cracks. And then more noises . . . was that chanting?

Annette glanced at me as though I had a clue. Unfortunately, though she was a smart woman, she was off base in this one.

I made an exaggerated “no idea” shrug, hands palm-up.

She looked impatient, and I wondered whether she was considering turning me in for a more useful ghost buster on her next otherworldly case.

Annette held her gun up and at the ready. She put her back against the wall on one side of the door, and I mimicked her on the other, feeling like I was enacting every cop show I’d ever seen on TV.

Behind us, Simone and Hugh clutched each other. She was as tall as he, and held his head to her shoulder, patting him as though comforting a child.

Annette looked at me and telegraphed her intent, mouthing “on three” and holding up three fingers. She counted down: One, two . . . three.

Then she flung the door open.





Chapter Thirteen




At least ten teenagers sat in a circle on the floor. Dressed to a one in black, with heavy pale makeup and black eyeliner. There were candles everywhere, and a pentagram had been drawn in chalk in the center of a circle of salt. A Ouija board sat in front of them.

For a couple of seconds everyone froze, and you could hear a pin drop.

A bunch of teenagers were a lot less scary than encountering Sidney Lawrence’s murderous ghost. Especially with an SFPD inspector at my side, with firepower.

“Seriously?” I said. “A Ouija board?”

But then Annette holstered her gun. As soon as she did, the kids bolted, scattering like rats on a sinking ship.