upstairs, lying down, having taken something to calm her nerves. She had been torn to pieces when he gave her the news about her mother, Millie, that morning. The rest of the day they’d spent making calls, answering calls, accepting condolences, giving condolences. There’d barely been enough time to consult with the Monsignor and finally with Dalton’s Funeral Home down in the center of Whitechapel before the end of business hours. Now, Owen’s email inbox was flooded, and he felt as though he’d never catch up.
The sound of the rain and the wind was not helping. Nor was his memory of the previous night, when he’d received a very unwelcome visitor …
He wondered if Kitty had an extra of whatever it was she took. Maybe he’d forget about the rest of the work he was trying to catch up on and join her upstairs.
No, he thought after a moment, if it happens again, I want to be sure my mind is clear. But a beer wouldn’t hurt, would it?
After struggling to rise from the chair’s sunken seat, he stumbled, exhausted, toward the office door. Swinging it open, he saw the short dark hallway that led to the cavernous foyer beyond. Thankfully, Kitty had left one set of sconces glowing faintly, so that he might find his way to the bottom of the winding grand staircase.
Flicking off the light in the room behind him, Owen continued toward the glow of the foyer, passing by the garage door on his left where he’d stored most of the stuff he taken from the Hermit’s driveway. He paused, his curiosity keeping him still.
Just last night, he’d stood in the same spot, a dull whiskey buzz numbing his limbs, when he’d heard something on the other side of the door. His fuzzy mind quickly provided an image: A couple of the neighborhood delinquents had broken in and were looting his taxidermy trove. Owen had swung the door open with a loud crash. The motion-activated light was already on, and beyond the open garage door a vague indigo dusk obscured his driveway. To his surprise, there were no teenagers rummaging through his belongings; instead, to his horror, he found himself staring into the eyes of Ursula Chambers, who was standing in the direct center of the garage.
She’d been dressed in a silvery purple jogging suit, white stripes running up the sides of her plump legs, her skin sallow, almost gray. As he stared in shock, he noticed streetlights peering back at him through her. He’d clutched at the doorframe to catch himself from fainting. Ursula had turned her head slowly, seeming to take in the scene, the piles of taxidermy animals that had once inhabited her home up on the hill — the fox, the badger, the owl, the hawk — the treasure that Owen had hoped to make a mint from at the Hudson House Auction in the fall.
When Ursula had glanced back in his direction, her eyes flared with anger. She didn’t need to say a word for him to understand what she was trying to communicate: Return the items to the house. Or else.
“Get out of here!” Owen had screamed at the thing. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” By the time Kitty had come running, the apparition had gone. In fact, it had dissolved into nothingness even before he’d spit out the final word of his rampage.
Now, all that seemed like it had been a dream. A vivid hallucination. Something he’d seen in a scary movie. Bad things happened all the time — more often than most people were willing to admit — but ghosts ? Ghosts existed only in the realm of fiction.
He imagined Millie, her eyes crimson, laughing at him with shimmering Ursula, their voices rising and crackling and piercing the night. How funny to watch a grown man shiver at the thought of two dead old ladies. A real hoot it must be.
Now, to reassure himself, Owen reached out, for the second night in a row, to tug open the door to the garage. This time, the room was pitch dark. Sheets of rain waved against the automatic doors. Quickly, he reached inside and flicked on the lights. Bright
The sound of the rain and the wind was not helping. Nor was his memory of the previous night, when he’d received a very unwelcome visitor …
He wondered if Kitty had an extra of whatever it was she took. Maybe he’d forget about the rest of the work he was trying to catch up on and join her upstairs.
No, he thought after a moment, if it happens again, I want to be sure my mind is clear. But a beer wouldn’t hurt, would it?
After struggling to rise from the chair’s sunken seat, he stumbled, exhausted, toward the office door. Swinging it open, he saw the short dark hallway that led to the cavernous foyer beyond. Thankfully, Kitty had left one set of sconces glowing faintly, so that he might find his way to the bottom of the winding grand staircase.
Flicking off the light in the room behind him, Owen continued toward the glow of the foyer, passing by the garage door on his left where he’d stored most of the stuff he taken from the Hermit’s driveway. He paused, his curiosity keeping him still.
Just last night, he’d stood in the same spot, a dull whiskey buzz numbing his limbs, when he’d heard something on the other side of the door. His fuzzy mind quickly provided an image: A couple of the neighborhood delinquents had broken in and were looting his taxidermy trove. Owen had swung the door open with a loud crash. The motion-activated light was already on, and beyond the open garage door a vague indigo dusk obscured his driveway. To his surprise, there were no teenagers rummaging through his belongings; instead, to his horror, he found himself staring into the eyes of Ursula Chambers, who was standing in the direct center of the garage.
She’d been dressed in a silvery purple jogging suit, white stripes running up the sides of her plump legs, her skin sallow, almost gray. As he stared in shock, he noticed streetlights peering back at him through her. He’d clutched at the doorframe to catch himself from fainting. Ursula had turned her head slowly, seeming to take in the scene, the piles of taxidermy animals that had once inhabited her home up on the hill — the fox, the badger, the owl, the hawk — the treasure that Owen had hoped to make a mint from at the Hudson House Auction in the fall.
When Ursula had glanced back in his direction, her eyes flared with anger. She didn’t need to say a word for him to understand what she was trying to communicate: Return the items to the house. Or else.
“Get out of here!” Owen had screamed at the thing. “Get out! Get out! Get out!” By the time Kitty had come running, the apparition had gone. In fact, it had dissolved into nothingness even before he’d spit out the final word of his rampage.
Now, all that seemed like it had been a dream. A vivid hallucination. Something he’d seen in a scary movie. Bad things happened all the time — more often than most people were willing to admit — but ghosts ? Ghosts existed only in the realm of fiction.
He imagined Millie, her eyes crimson, laughing at him with shimmering Ursula, their voices rising and crackling and piercing the night. How funny to watch a grown man shiver at the thought of two dead old ladies. A real hoot it must be.
Now, to reassure himself, Owen reached out, for the second night in a row, to tug open the door to the garage. This time, the room was pitch dark. Sheets of rain waved against the automatic doors. Quickly, he reached inside and flicked on the lights. Bright
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