A Haunting Is Brewing: A Haunted Home Renovation and a Witchcraft Mystery Novella (9 page)

“They’re not. They’re just having a hard time moving normally, I think.”

They bopped around in jerky moves like so many marionettes off their strings. Their still smiling faces looked out at us. It was terrifying, yet fascinating. Then they starting whispering, but their words were unintelligible.

“Can you tell us what happened that night?” I asked, hardly believing I was talking to a bunch of dolls. But despite their constant motion and murmurings, I still couldn’t understand them.

Adam appeared right beside me. “What are you
doing
? Stop that!” He tried to enter the circle but wasn’t able to cross. He put his hands over his ears. “Make it stop! Can’t you hear that? What—”

“Stop it!” Byron yelled, unknowingly echoing his dead friend. “Just make them
stop
. They have nothing to say—are you seriously going to listen to wooden
dolls
? What is this? How are you even making them
do
that?
Stop
it! If you won’t,
I
will.”

He pulled a lighter from Tess’s pocket, then quickly lit a piece of newspaper from the floor and hurled it toward the dolls before Annette could stop him. But, like Adam, when the lit newspaper reached the circle, it seemed to hit an invisible wall and bounce off.

“Stop it right there!” Annette yelled. She trained her gun on Byron as he pulled a plastic container of barbecue lighter fluid from his pocket.
“Don’t even move
.
”

Crying, Byron sank to his knees and followed Annette’s instructions not to move any further.

I hurried to stomp out the flame.

“What’s happening?” said Tess as she roused herself.

“Make them
stop
already,” said Byron, still crying. “Just make them
stop
.”

Adam’s ghost was looking at the dolls, cocking his head as though he were listening. Then he turned to Byron. His friend.

“You?” he said in a fierce whisper. He brought his face very near Byron’s, and though I knew Byron couldn’t see or hear Adam, he drew back as though sensing something. “
You
did this to me? How
could
you? Why?”

“What’s going on, Byron?” asked Tess.

“They . . . they’re telling on me. I can’t stop them. . . .”

“Telling on you?” said Tess. “Wait—you mean,
you’re
the one who killed Adam?”

“I didn’t mean to!” came the anguished cry. “He just . . . How come he got you, and Riley, too? Plus, he’s rich to start with . . . What’s fair about that? How come it’s always Byron the best friend, and never Byron the boyfriend? What’s that about?”

“But . . . why would you
kill
him? You’re that in love with me?” Tess’s beautiful eyes grew even larger, and in her suggestive genie costume she was truly gorgeous. I imagined she had fed more than one hormone-fueled imagination. But to kill over her? “What happened that night?”

“I was going to spend the night here to show you I wasn’t afraid. But then Adam came back, and he told me what happened with him and Riley, and we fought—I was defending you, Tess! He never deserved you.”

Tess was shaking her head, and so was Adam. Both had tears in their eyes, and Byron kept crying, too. It was tragic, and stupid. Such a waste.

“It went too far, and I guess I don’t know my own strength, because I had him in a choke hold and then . . . he stopped moving. I didn’t mean to! I wanted to make it look like a suicide, so I thought of what we talked about with Reginald Spooner, and tied him to the chandelier . . . and I’m sorry. I’m so, so
sorry
!”

We all remained still for a long moment—all except the Spooner mannequins, which kept bopping aimlessly around within the circle. Party noise drifted up toward us: laughter and chatter and pretend screams, and the strains of that old standby, “Monster Mash.”

Finally, Annette said, “Byron, Tess, come along with me. We need to talk.”

They obeyed, heading meekly down the stairs. Annette nodded to me and Lily as she followed them. I smiled my thanks and turned back to my accomplice.

“So, what happens with them?” I asked about the dolls.

“They’re not really holding entire spirits, as you can see. Just a trace amount of the animus of Reginald’s family members. I think we were right: He wasn’t responsible for their deaths; he was trying whatever he could to save them. I think if he’d had training he might have been able to accomplish something truly astonishing, but as it is . . . they’re just barely charged.”

“So . . . what do we do with them?”

“We let them go. Allow their energies to reunite with their spirits.”

“And are those spirits haunting Spooner House?”

“You tell
me
, Mel. You’re the ghost expert.”

“Yeah, maybe not so much the expert. Anyway, the only tormented soul I’ve felt here is Adam.”

Speaking of whom, Adam was slumped on the floor, his back up against the wall, just staring at the mannequins.

“They creep me out,” he said finally.

“Me too. But did you hear Lily? She’s going to let the energy go free and they’ll be able to reunite with their spirits.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Lily seemed to be paying no attention to us—or more to the point, to me. Since she couldn’t see Adam, it must have appeared like I was talking to myself. Instead, she was chanting again, and then she used her toe to break through the circle of salt. As soon as she did so, the dolls fell in a pile on the floor.

Lily sank onto the floor herself, rubbing the little silk bag on her belt and panting as she recovered from her spell casting.

“They’re gone,” said Adam, lifting his head and looking around the attic. “The doll family—I mean, I can see the dolls are still here but they’re . . . gone.”

Thank goodness.
Lily had done her part. Now I had to do mine and convince Adam to move on.

“I can’t believe . . . it was Byron, after all,” Adam said. “Now I remember we fought that night. But . . . he was my friend.”

“I don’t think he meant to hurt you. I think you’d both been drinking, and emotions were running high, and . . . I’m sure he’s sorry.”

“So, he really did kill me. He
killed
me. I’m, like, no longer of this world, or whatever?”

I nodded.

He blew out a breath, and I could see the tears glistening in his eyes. “Listen, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Be sure to get that message to my mom, okay?”

“I will.”

“Also, tell her I’ll be, you know, watching. Like, I mean, not in a creeper way. Tell her I’m on the other side, or whatever, but I’ll check in on her, and my kid brother, and I’ll see them again. Tell her . . . tell her she’s a really great mom.”

I nodded but couldn’t speak. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, Adam had disappeared.

“You okay?” Lily asked as she crossed the room to join me.

I nodded, but I couldn’t find any words.

“Is it Adam?” she asked, looking around, head slightly tilted as though trying to sense something out of the ordinary.

I nodded again.

“How about you and I go talk to his mother together?” Lily said. “I have a charm I could use to help her understand that you’re telling the truth.”

“A charm?”

“Bay leaves and a cinnamon stick, tied with a green ribbon, and a few words . . .” She trailed off with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. But it works. It will make it easier for Adam’s mother to believe you, and it will help her to hear his message. And afterward . . .”

I cringed. “Lily, no offense, but I’m not sure how much more I can take.”

“I was thinking about Texas-sized margaritas.”

“
That’s
more like it.”

“I make them from scratch, my secret recipe. We’ll invite Maya and Bronwyn, and Dog and Oscar. Make a night of it at my place.”

This was
definitely
the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I was hoping to steer clear of the supernatural for a while, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think I wouldn’t encounter ghostly goings-on with another historic home renovation project, eventually. It seemed to be my fate. But at the very least, when in need of a witch—or a “voodoo guy,” for that matter—at least now I knew whom to call.

“Lily, besides the whole putting-poppets-to-rest bit, I think margaritas are your best idea yet.”

Read on for a preview of Juliet Blackwell’s next Haunted Home Renovation mystery,

KEEPER OF THE CASTLE

Available from Berkley December 2014

Communicating with the netherworld can be a game changer.

For instance, I never used to believe in bad omens. But ever since I started encountering ghosts on my construction sites, I’d become more open-minded.

And it was clear that the Wakefield project was cursed.

It had been plagued with ill portents from the get-go: Two well-respected general contractors had walked off the job; sign-waving protesters blocked the tall iron gates to the property; there had been a series of suspicious building mishaps; and the big, burly, and typically fearless construction workers—those who remained on the job, anyway—refused to linger at the site after sundown. I wouldn’t have been surprised to note a line of crows perched nearby, or a ring around the moon, or some other sign of disaster ahead.

Luckily, this wasn’t my jobsite.

“Coffee?” offered Graham.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I had driven to Marin County, north of San Francisco, bright and early today only because a very attractive man had asked for my help. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the cut physique of a man who worked with his muscles, Graham Donovan had a way of making me forget that, when it came to romance, I was a battle-scarred cynic.

Adding to his many charms, the green-building-consultant-to-the-stars also happened to be in possession of a thermos of piping hot, dark French roast.

Besides . . . I was just plain curious: Why would someone dismantle an ancient Scottish monastery, ship it overseas stone by stone, and try to reconstruct it as a retreat center in California?

Graham poured coffee into a small tin cup and handed it to me. Graceful tendrils of steam rose in the damp early-morning air, the rich aroma mingling with the pungent scents of eucalyptus and dried grasses. The day was just dawning, and we stood alone on the hill. My mutt, named Dog, loped around, sniffing the ground and wagging his shaggy brown tail.

“I’ll say this much for your client: He chose an amazing site,” I said. “It’s almost . . . magical.”

A gently sloping meadow surrounded by lush forest opened onto a view of the faraway Pacific Ocean. Behind us was a gorgeous old Victorian manse; below us was the jobsite, where stones lay in piles or stacked to form partially built walls, as though a fourteenth-century Gothic ruin had materialized right here, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge.

“That’s the to-be-assembled pile,” said Graham, gesturing to a massive mound. Bright blue chalk marks—which I knew corresponded to a coded schema intricate enough to drive a Rubik’s Cube expert nuts—stood out from the dirt, lichen, and moss clinging to the rough-hewn stones. Carved pieces were scattered among the rectangular blocks: Some were components of columns and vaults, others crude gargoyles and decorative plaques.

“Okey-dokey,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Would those be the suspicious, ghost-encrusted stones, then?”

“I get the sense you’re not taking this seriously,” said Graham.

“They look perfectly innocent to me. Frankly, I’d worry more about spiders than ghosts.”

“Some tough ghost buster
you
are, scared of a few tiny little spiders.”

“First off, I have never claimed to be a
tough
ghost buster. Not even an official ghost buster, really. And I’m not scared of spiders per se. But you know how this sort of thing goes: A couple teensy arachnids hitch a ride to America, and next thing you know, they end up devastating California’s citrus groves.”

Graham smiled. “I’ve always admired your sunny outlook.”

“I’m a native; I think about such things,” I said. “Look what happened with William Randolph Hearst: He imported zebras to roam the grounds of his ‘Castle’ decades ago, and his rancher neighbors are
still
dealing with them.”

“What have they got against zebras?”

“Turns out zebras are rather foul-tempered. Or maybe they’re just grumpy about being displaced from their natural habitat. My point is, I’m not sure bazillionaires should be allowed to just import whatever they want, willy-nilly. It’s asking for trouble.”

“Which brings us back to ghosts. It’s gotten so bad the men won’t go into the building once the sun goes down.”

“Ancient stones like these, in a setting like this, throw in a little fog and a moonless night . . . Could be people’s imaginations are running away with them.”

“Could be. But I think there’s more to it. You know I don’t say this easily, Mel, but I’ve seen a few odd goings-on, myself.”

“You really think your client imported a ghost along with these stones?”

“Maybe. Is that possible?”

“I’m not sure. I would have thought a ghost would have remained with the land. But, frankly, I probably know more about spiders than the intricacies of ghost immigration. I’ll have to look into it. Does your client have a particular affinity with Scotland? ‘Ellis Elrich’ doesn’t Scottish.”

“I’m not sure,” said Graham. “You could ask him tonight. We’re invited to his ‘sherry hour.’”

“I’m not a big fan of sherry.”

“It’s just what he calls it. There will be other drinks available.”

“Then why call it sherry hour?”

A slow smile spread across Graham’s face, and he reached out to pull on a corkscrew curl that had freed itself of my serviceable ponytail.

“I do love your curious mind,” he said.

“Curious in the sense that I always look for answers? Or in the sense that I’m strange?”

“Why limit ourselves to only one interpretation?”

I couldn’t help but return his smile. After a few years of bitter sniping about men in general, and my romantic prospects in particular, I had been mellowing. Graham was helping me to regain my sense of humor.

“Anyway,” I said, getting back on track. “I don’t really feel like going to sherry hour. The man’s not my client, after all.”

“Perhaps we could change that.”

“Yeah, about that: The whole project sounds like nothing but trouble to me.”

“Mel, look at the big picture: Elrich is willing to spend a lot of money on this project. How often does a job of this scope and complexity come along that will implement cutting-edge green building techniques?”

“Not often,” I conceded. And it was true that Turner Construction needed work. The high-end historic home renovation business in the San Francisco Bay Area had taken a nosedive in the past few months, and while I had so far managed to keep my workers gainfully employed finishing up some residential projects, the principals of Turner Construction—my dad, our friend and office manager, Stan, and I—had been forced to skip a few paychecks.

We were in dire need of a new client. An
important
client. The deeper the pockets, the better. But still . . . I’d already faced enough ill omens for one lifetime. I had been hoping to find a nice, quiet, non-ghost-laden building somewhere to renovate.

“And you’re the only builder I know with ghost experience,” Graham continued.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. The builders who ran screaming from this jobsite experienced some ghosts. They just didn’t want to admit it.”

While we were talking, workmen had started trickling onto the jobsite, arriving in beat-up Jeeps, muddy Toyotas, and full-sized Ford pickups, a few with grinning dogs in the passenger’s seat. Many were Latino, some of whom, I imagined, spoke little English. The rest were a mix of whites, blacks, and a few Asians. They toted lunchboxes, big thermoses of coffee or tea, and carried hard hats tucked under brawny arms. I admired these men—like my dad, they showed up every day, worked an honest eight hours, and built our homes and communities.

One man in jeans, boots, and a plaid jacket made a beeline for us.

“Here’s Pete now. He’s been running the job,” Graham said.

Dog let out a welcoming “woof,” wagged his tail, and presented himself for a petting.

“Pete, I’d like you to meet Mel Turner, the general director of Turner Construction.”

Pete had the ropy muscles common to those who spent their lives on jobsites, but his slightly batty, wide-open eyes and blond hair, worn long and frizzy, lent him a crazy-professor vibe. A knowledgeable foreman was worth his weight in gold and was allowed to push the conventions a little. Construction tended to attract offbeat personalities—like me. It was one of the reasons I liked the business so much: I met a lot of real characters.

On the other hand, construction also attracted a lot of people with criminal records. Perhaps that was no coincidence.

“Heck of a nice thing to meet you, Mel,” Pete said. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You’re the ghost gal, right?”

“I’m . . . uh . . . Sure. Yep,” I stumbled. “That’s what they call me, the ‘ghost gal.’”

Graham winced.

“Here’s the situation,” said Pete with a nod. “A lot of folks in this business, well, I don’t gotta tell you that they don’t care much for woo-woo talk. And I don’t either, to tell the truth. But what can I say? I can’t deny something’s going on, and it’s interfering with getting this building done.”

“And what might that be?”

“There’s a . . . a something. An apparition, I guess it’s called. At the back of the sacristy. He’s got a, uh, what’s that really big sword called? Real broad?”

“A broadsword?”

“That’s right! He’s chased out more than one crew, swingin’ that thing. These are good men, Mel. They don’t scare easy. Also, the folks up at the house have seen lights on down here at night when there shouldn’t be, and sometimes there’s music.”

“Speaking as a professional . . . ,” I said. “That sounds like ghostly behavior to me. It surely does.”

Graham gave me a dirty look.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, there is that, uh, red thing.”

“There’s something red?”

“It’s . . . well . . .” Pete’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Some of the guys think they’ve heard a woman in there somewhere. They go in to look around, and . . . they end up staggering out of there, crying.”

“Crying?”

“I swear, they come out, sit down right on the ground, and sob like their dog died. I tell you what: That’s a little, whaddayacallit, disconcerting.”

“How do they describe it?”

“Like I said, it’s . . . red.”

“What else?” I knew from experience that folks who’d had an encounter of the ghostly kind were often unwilling to relate all the details, for fear of sounding foolish. I had learned to be patient.

Pete shrugged.

“Just to clarify—they haven’t seen any fireballs, have they? I mean, we’re not talking dragons here, right?”

I didn’t have to look to know they were both gaping at me. People come to me begging for help, but when I ask a few simple clarifying questions, they act like I’m making it all up.

“Dragons are a stretch, it’s true, but you were talking about a man with a broadsword. According to ancient lore, that could be a knight out to slay a dragon. Dragons breathe red fire.” I shrugged. “Just a thought.”