A Haunting Is Brewing: A Haunted Home Renovation and a Witchcraft Mystery Novella (4 page)

Adam didn’t believe me.

I talked for half an hour, but he kept shaking his head and trying to turn the brass doorknob, insisting it was broken. At last I opened the door and invited him to leave, but he couldn’t get past the threshold. He used all his strength, but his foot paused over the threshold in mid-air and he couldn’t go any further. It was as if an invisible wall blocked him.

Still, he refused to believe me. Not that I blamed him; what could possibly prepare a person for something like this?

It was heartbreaking to watch him try to leave Spooner House. I thought about how wrenching it must have been for Annette Crawford to inform Adam’s family; the grief and devastation they must be feeling right now. I have a stepson in high school, only a few years younger than Adam. . . . I couldn’t imagine the anguish of losing him. Adam’s circle of friends, too, would be forever marked by his loss.

Had this beautiful Victorian mansion, which already had witnessed the death of a family and a suicide, taken another life? And . . . could the dolls have been roused by a trespasser, as in the legend the students had mentioned?

Ridiculous
. Adam either killed himself in a bleak moment of despair, or someone—someone human—had done this to him.

After watching him struggle, I felt compelled to figure out what had happened. Then maybe I could help Adam to walk toward the light, or into the stars, or to do whatever he needed to do to pass on to . . . wherever we went after this life on earth.

One thing I knew for sure, I thought as I watched Adam banging fruitlessly on the window: I couldn’t leave the poor guy’s ghost trapped in the Spooner Mansion forever.

***

Two days later the police department released the scene. The medical examiner had declared Adam’s death a presumed suicide. When I arrived on-site Maya was sitting on the bench outside Spooner House, coffee cup clutched in gloved hands with cutoff fingers.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” I said to her as I approached the house.

“You’re welcome. I was a little surprised to hear from you—I guess I assumed they’d call off the Halloween fund-raiser, given what happened.”

“I thought so, too, but Lurch—sorry, Ed Gaskin—said Adam’s family asked the board to continue in Adam’s memory. He had been devoted to the Spooner House and the youth center. They’re even providing matching funds to whatever the event raises.”

She looked thoughtful. “I guess that makes a certain kind of sense. But still . . . it seems sort of eerie. But then, I guess that suits Halloween, right?”

I nodded.

“Speaking of which . . . is that your costume, or just your normal dress?”

Today I was wearing a sleeveless orange dress trimmed with fringe, topped with my dad’s old leather bomber jacket.

“I have a strange fashion sense. I spent years dressing to please other people while I was married, and now that I don’t have to I dress to please myself,” I explained as I unlocked the front door, “My friend is a frustrated fashion designer, and I got in the habit of wearing his designs, even on jobsites. I always bring coveralls for the dirty work, and I wear my work boots, so I’m good to go.”

“Hey, I understand. I work at a vintage clothing store. Half our customers wear old prom dresses with flip-flops and tattoos, that sort of thing. It’s a look.”

I was getting the feeling Maya and I were obstinately talking about everyday things to avoid thinking about poor Adam.

I pushed open the front door.

The threadbare but precious Oriental rug had been pushed to one side. A ceramic bust had been knocked over and shattered on the wide-plank oak floor. I looked overhead to see that the light fixture had been pulled from the ceiling and was now hanging limply by wires. I felt a wave of rage and regret. Could Adam really have killed himself? Or was he the victim of foul play?

I was aware of Adam’s presence but didn’t see him. I supposed it was possible he would remain invisible while Maya was here. On the other hand, he could pop up at any minute and scare the daylights out of me, at which point Maya would think I was a lunatic.

We started gathering items to put away before the event, continuing the job we had started three days before. Later Jeremy would finish up just two more stair treads, and then the decorating committee could get started—assuming they were willing to come back to this house after Adam’s death.

I brought a box up to the attic, climbing the steep steps to find the mannequins sitting just as we’d left them.

Except . . . weren’t they in a different order? The two girls had been next to each other the other day. I was almost sure of it. That’s why I wasn’t sure if it had been Betsy or Charity who turned her face toward me.

I watched them for a long moment, trying to glimpse a movement. But there was nothing.

It was when I finally gave up and turned away that I saw something, again, out of the corner of my eye.

I whirled around to face them.

“Hello?” I ventured. “What do you want? Can you understand me?”

Their glassy eyes stared at me, their permanent smiles looking more like leers.

They did not respond to my greeting.

“Who are you talking to?” Maya asked, her head popping up through the hatch.

“I . . . could have sworn the mannequins moved.”

Maya gave me a worried look.

“Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. But . . .” Why try to hide it? “The truth is, sometimes I can see, or sense, really, spirits.”

“Spirits?”

“Ghosts.”

“Like . . . a psychic?”

“No. I mean, I guess maybe it’s a kind of psychic ability, right? But I don’t have any other kind of psychic powers. Heaven knows I’m no good at predicting the future. But sometimes I can talk to ghosts.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I waited for more reaction, but none came. “That’s it? It doesn’t, I don’t know, freak you out or anything?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t raised with that kind of thing, so yeah, it’s sort of disconcerting. But as I mentioned, my boss is a little . . . different.”

“Different how?”

“She’s a . . . witch.”

“A witch?”

Maya nodded. The beads on the ends of her braids made a pleasing, everyday sound that was strangely reassuring. Or maybe it was Maya who was reassuring: She always seemed so calm and collected.

“You mean ‘witch,’ as in rhymes with . . . ?”

“No.” Maya laughed. “As in, flies on a broom. Except witches don’t actually do that—apparently that’s a Hollywood convention. It’s a little hard to keep it all straight. Mostly I don’t ask too many questions. But I know she’s real.”

“So she’s Wiccan?” I couldn’t keep the different pagans straight, but most local witches identified with Wicca.

“No, she’s a natural-born witch. Wicca is a religion, and while they call themselves witches, it’s a little different. And not all witches are Wiccan.”

“Okaaaay,” I said with a smile. I didn’t know Maya well; maybe she was pulling my leg.

“You don’t believe me?”

“A couple of years ago I didn’t believe in ghosts, and now I have a rather uncanny ability to communicate with them. So by and large I don’t rule anything out anymore. But someone who calls themselves a natural-born witch?”

“I know what you mean. But the thing is . . . she knows things, is all I’m saying. And she can fix things. Strange things. Like I say, I don’t ask a lot of questions. But I have a lot of respect for her abilities.”

“That’s fair.”

“So anyway . . .” Her dark eyes slewed around the attic. There wasn’t anything active to see other than the dust motes careening around in the shafts of light from the tiny dormer windows. “Are you seeing ghosts now?”

“No, nothing right now.”

“Good.”

“But . . . I could have sworn I saw these guys move.”

“They seem to be quiet now,” said Maya. She sounded calm, but I noticed she was giving the dolls a wide berth, and not turning her back on them. “So should we carry on?”

“First I want to try something.” I pulled a piece of newspaper out of one of the boxes full of packed items, tore it into small squares, and placed two on each of the mannequins, one on their shoulders and the other in their laps.

“What’s that for?” Maya asked, her dark eyes huge and questioning. “Did you . . . cast a spell? Does newspaper keep poppets down, somehow. . . . ?”

“No, of course not. I thought this way I could see if they moved—the paper will be disturbed. I mean, they don’t seem dexterous enough to put the papers back where they were.”

Now
Maya was looking at me as if I were crazy. “Mel, no disrespect or anything, but what if the air currents when the door opens and closes blow them off?”

“Hmm, good point.” I shrugged. “Oh well, it was just an idea. It’s not like I know what I’m doing.”

Maya smiled. “Anyway, since that newspaper isn’t enchanted and able to keep those guys still, I’m getting out of here.”

As I followed her out of the attic, I tried to think what could have happened the night Adam was here. According to what Inspector Crawford had been willing to share with me, the authorities were assuming Adam had hung from the chandelier and then fallen, but what if . . . ? Could the mannequins have attacked him, somehow? Come alive in the night as in the legend? And could they have strangled him, and then he fell down the attic stairs and down the main stairwell? And the damage to the light fixture was something else entirely?

Get a grip, Mel
. These mannequins hadn’t killed anyone. And ghosts, if there were any, couldn’t kill, could they? And why would they?

And for that matter . . . I hadn’t made contact with any ghosts but Adam here in Spooner House. If Reginald had killed himself here, it would stand to reason that he might have a presence as well somewhere . . . wouldn’t he?

Downstairs, Maya and I packed the remaining couple of boxes, then did a walk-through to be sure we hadn’t missed anything. She took the bedrooms, while I checked the main floor.

I found Adam in the parlor, lounging on a wine-colored brocade settee in front of the stone fireplace. He was staring at his smartphone.

I whispered: “Does that work?”

“I’m not getting any reception.” He frowned as he stood and wandered the room, holding his phone high and low, staring at the screen. It was like a cell phone commercial for the afterlife. He kept tapping at it, bewilderment on his face.

I knew one day I would be joining his ranks—we all would. In the immortal words of Mark Twain, there was no escaping death and taxes. But I hoped I wouldn’t linger in the sort of confused limbo that afflicted so many ghosts I had encountered. I didn’t know whether it was a matter of walking toward the light, or putting to rest matters in the present, or resolving murders, but the confusion rampant in the ghost world was disheartening.

“What are you wearing?” he said.

“You’ve seen how I dress. We went through that when you were alive, remember? What are you doing?”

“I need to call my mom and let her know I’m gonna be late.”

“Adam, I’m so sorry. So very sorry, but you have to understand . . . you aren’t going to be able to go home. You’re dead.”

He looked at me blankly.

“You’re stuck here in Spooner House for the meantime, but I hope soon I can help figure things out and you can move on.”

“Move on to what?”

“I have no idea, but I’m thinking it’s better than haunting this house forever.”

I thought I saw light dawning. “I’m
haunting
this house?”

“Sort of. I’m so sorry, Adam. Did you . . . did you kill yourself?”

“No!”

“Are you sure . . . ? Can you remember what happened?”

“No,” he said, shoulders slumping.

“Maybe you were upset that night, you drank too much, and . . .”

“I would never do something like that. Suicide’s a coward’s way out. And besides, what did I have to be upset about? School’s going well, I landed the lead role in our holiday musical, and I’m in love with a beautiful girl who’s in love with me. We’re the real deal.”

I nodded. Young people could be impulsive and overly dramatic, but he was right: He didn’t seem like a candidate for suicide.

“I would never. . . . Could it have been some sort of accident?”

“You can’t remember anything toward the end of that night?”

“Just drinking with the gang, and Preston and Duff helped me break in through the window, and . . . I feel like I had a dream where the mannequins were talking to me. Is that possible?”

Ugh
. I hoped it wasn’t possible.

“Do you remember what they said?”

He shook his head. “My mom’s gonna be so upset.”

I nodded. “Do you . . . do you want me to get a message to your mom? Or anyone else?”

He looked at me now with tears in his eyes. He shrugged, his lower lip quivered, and I remembered how young he was.

“Yeah,” he finally said, clearing his throat. “Just . . . tell her I love her.”

***

“You okay, Mel?” asked Maya.

I nodded as she came into the room. Tears stung the back of my eyes, and I had to swallow hard to keep from crying. I felt the warmth of her hand on my shoulder. She squeezed lightly, then hugged me.

“Did you see him?” she asked me.

I nodded.

“It’s so sad. First, his death, and now . . . he’s still here?” Maya said.

“He was asking about his mom. I have a stepson, and I just can’t imagine . . .” I blew out a long breath. “Anyway, I guess I should go see her and give her the message that he loves her.”

“It might be hard to hear that sort of thing. Depending on her belief system, she might think you’re just playing a cruel joke.”

“I thought of that. But I wouldn’t feel right to withhold.”

“Maybe we should figure it out first.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I was thinking about what you thought you saw before, with the mannequins moving. What if . . . what if we accidentally dressed one of those dolls in a serial killer’s clothes, or something, and then it went after Adam? Or is that too out of left field?”

“That’s . . . wow. I have no idea. I may see ghosts from time to time, but serial killer clothes are a little out of my league.”