Home for the Haunting(8)

I knew it. I knew it, I thought to myself. Hangovers and tools were a dangerous combination. What had I been thinking?

“What’s the story?” I demanded as I reached the frat boys, who were crowded around the ramshackle shed. “Who’s hurt?”

“No one,” Jefferson said, his face pale. It looked like his hangover was hanging on.

“So what was the screaming about?” I asked, angry. “Not cool, guys. You scared me.”

Jefferson pointed to the shed. “It’s in there.”

“What is it?” I asked. “A rat?”

“It’s not a rat,” said Jefferson. “It’s . . . Well, look for yourself.” He placed one hand on the door and gave it a little shove, then stepped back.

Annoyed at this unnecessary drama, I peered in.

The first thing I saw were locks of hair. Long hair, from someone’s head. Baffled, I searched for an explanation. One of the sorority girls? But their hair was long and silky, with the shine of expensive hair care products. The hair I was looking at was wild and frizzy, a dull mousy brown.

I glanced at Stephen, who was swallowing convulsively but who remained by my side, loyal pal that he is.

Only then did the horror wash over me. It was a person. A woman . . .

“Is she . . . ?” he asked, unwilling to complete the sentence.

“I think so,” I said. “I don’t know . . . but yes, I think so.” I blew out a breath, crouched down, and switched on the tiny flashlight on my keychain. Its faint light did little to illuminate the shed’s dark interior, but I could see that the woman’s skin was a shade of gray that looked more like a Halloween dummy than a person. I guessed her age at around forty.

“Call your friend in the SFPD,” Stephen suggested.

“I don’t have a friend in the SFPD.” Inspector Crawford wasn’t a friend, not exactly, and I worried that she might grow suspicious of my tendency to stumble across dead bodies. Such a thing wasn’t normal, I thought. What were the odds yet another body would turn up when I was around?

“Jefferson, you have a phone, right?” I asked, noting that the confident young man was looking a bit green. “Call nine-one-one, please. Tell them we have a suspicious death.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jefferson said, and pulled out his iPhone.

“Everyone else, listen up,” I said, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt. The buzz of excited chatter around me fell silent. “Do not go anywhere. The cops will want to take a statement from each of you. You haven’t done anything wrong, so there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just tell them what you saw.”

“What if we didn’t see anything?” a scared young woman asked.

“Then tell them that,” I assured her.

“What can I do?” Stephen asked quietly.

“Take the phone and talk to the cops,” I said. Jefferson was staring at his phone, not dialing. I realized he probably didn’t know the street address or any pertinent details. “Will do,” said Stephen.

“And then come back and stay with me? In case I go all girly and faint?”

In the past year I had been involved in several disturbing incidents, but most had involved immaterial ghosts, not all-too-material corpses. But as much as I wanted to flee, it seemed wrong somehow to leave the body alone. I turned back to the shed and crouched to examine her.

“Don’t touch it!” Stephen said, pausing with the iPhone in his hand. “Her. I meant don’t touch her. That’s what I meant.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” I replied, switching the tiny flashlight back on. “I’m just looking. Call nine-one-one, please.”

Stephen nodded and went to stand near the house.

I flicked the penlight over the woman’s face and noticed specks of vomit on her collar. Her eyes appeared swollen and small, and red bumps dotted the back of her hands—hives? Had she died of a bee sting, perhaps?

“With those hives and swollen lips and stuff . . . maybe she had an allergic reaction?” suggested Jefferson from behind me.

“Do you know about that sort of thing?” I asked.

“I saw it one time with a frat brother of mine. He was totally, like, allergic to opioids, but he didn’t know it. He had some pain pills when he broke his collarbone playing rugby, but he swole up like that, eyes and lips and hives. Looked terrible.”

This poor woman looked terrible, too, no doubt about that.

I noticed a tattoo on her neck. It appeared to be a hand holding something. It was upside down from my perspective, and as I was angling my head to get a better view, I felt a hand on my shoulder and fell back onto my butt.