“Ghosts? Nah. Now, the missus? She’ll talk your ear off about paranormal activity. She watches all those ghost shows on the television. Got so scared she started coming to bed with a baseball bat. I said, ‘what good is a bat gonna do against an intangible, demonic specter?’ She told me to mind my business and go back to sleep.”
Finn decided he liked this guy. The thought startled him; he liked so few people.
“I’ll take a look at that truck. Then I gotta find the missus. You can go on and get settled if you like. The bedrooms are upstairs. Might be one that still has furniture. The locked door at the end of the hall is Venable’s office. I don’t think anyone’s been in there since he died.”
Finn held open the front door. Bud slowed a few steps behind him and held up both hands. “The missus says the grease jumps off me and onto anything within ten feet.”
Single file, the men walked out to the driveway.
Grabbing his duffle from the truck bed, Finn left Bud with his head under the hood and turned back to the house. The covered porch and the roof overhangs produced a circle of shadows around the building. Darkness surrounded it like a shroud—the funereal aura all the more stark against the whimsy of the architecture, like a black veil on a child. This place had once known happiness. The thought flitted through Finn’s mind as he made his way back to the wooden front door.
Dropping his duffle at the foot of the stairs, he turned back around. A gust of wind whipped through, waking the dust and eliciting a groan from the thick front door as it blew closed. Finn watched the motes swirl, then settle, some coming to rest on top of his soft-soled combat boots as if the house were attempting to claim him. Unease propelled him to the end table, where he reloaded and holstered his Sig.
Moving to the right, he peeked through another doorway, relieved to see an empty dining room. Once cheery wallpaper of flowers and vines covered the walls. Someone had painted the ceiling, continuing the ivy path in whimsical swirls. The sunshine yellow had faded to sepia, the paper curling at the edges. Finn flashed on a memory: his mother on a ladder stenciling the top border of the wall in his childhood bedroom. Finn and his younger brother perched on the rungs below, passing her supplies.
He walked through and entered the ghost of a happy pink kitchen. He tested the switch on the wall, and one bulb, of the six on the decorative chandelier, lit. The refrigerator contained only an open box of baking soda. The pantry, however, looked like a prepper’s dream. The shelves were filled with MREs—meals ready to eat, familiar from his Navy days—canned goods, pasta, and powdered milk. On the floor in a corner was a case of what looked like homemade liquor.
In the kitchen, Finn crossed to the two sets of French doors. One set opened to a screened-in porch with one filthy, black, lattice-backed chair and a cracked glass-topped table. The other set of doors led to an empty patio and overgrown yard. The roots of a massive elm had tunneled under the flagstones, creating ripples and waves on the patio surface. Weeds had sprung from the gaps between the stones.
Retracing his steps to the front room, Finn moved to the stairs. He paused at the first step and looked where his hand rested on the finial. Rather than a simple knob, the end of the banister was fashioned into a fairy, with flowing hair, wings, and even a delicate wand. Finn ran his hand over the carving.
The image unleashed a rush of emotion. He hadn’t felt anything but hate for so long that this mix of longing and joy and love had him gripping the wood with white-knuckled force.
Charlotte.
A slideshow of images from the first time he had seen her battered Finn’s mind. Charlotte—he could never seem to bring himself to call her Twitch—sitting on a bench in New York City’s South Street Seaport, buried in her laptop, wisps of red hair dancing around her face like a candle flame in the breeze. She wasn’t trying to get noticed or spur a reaction. She was just herself, real.
Looking back, Finn thought maybe that’s why he had been so drawn to her. While he was a confident, charming guy, he was always trying to win someone over, always seeking the next thrill. He stood fifty yards away, and yet he knew; Charlotte radiated a quality that he lacked—contentment.
Stumbling back, Finn released the carving as if it had burned him. On closer inspection, the image bore no resemblance to Charlotte but touching it had unleashed a storm within him. Familiar anger flowed, eclipsing his other emotions. He didn’t know why; it was simply his default setting. Reining in his urge to punch the plaster, he grabbed his bag, skirted the finial, and took the stairs two at a time.
The second-floor hall ran the length of the house. To the left, two doors on each side opened to empty rooms that Venable and Annabeth’s daughters must have used. Finn pictured the five girls Cassie had spoken of scampering around. To his right, a bay window looked down on the screened porch and backyard. Across the hall was the master bedroom. At the end was the closed door, Bud, the mechanic, had mentioned: the entrance to Venable’s office. It must be the tower room Finn had seen from outside. He took a step closer, wondering what secrets the room held.
That’s when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder.
Finn’s temper lit. Friend or foe, nobody got the drop on him. He threw down his duffle and spun around battle-ready.
He was met with an empty hall.
Finn knew what he felt, but he checked the ceiling for signs of falling plaster nonetheless. He unholstered his Sig from beneath his jacket and moved back toward the open unfurnished rooms. Clearing them didn’t take long.
Reholstering his gun, Finn returned to the hall to grab his duffle. The main bedroom was the largest in the house and as sparsely furnished as the rest of the place. The dresser and bedside tables were all handmade and practical. The bed, however, was large and inviting. This must have been the bed Venable had shared with his wife. The sleigh bed sat in the middle of the room like a priceless antique in a thrift store. Running a hand over the beautifully carved wood, he wondered why none of Venable’s children had taken this.
Looking up, he stilled, frozen in place at the sight before him, lips parting as he stared.
The headboard was an ornate, hand-carved mural. The right side depicted a woman wandering in the woods, her hair and clothes billowing in swirls cut in the dark pine. The left side showed a man, sword drawn, battling a three-headed dragon that blocked his way. Finn saw fairies and wolves and a man with the head of a donkey. The carving seemed to pull him in, the story hypnotic and fascinating. Parts of the carving broke free of the rectangular canvas—the dragon’s tail, a fairy wing, the crescent moon—creating a ridge of shapes and images along the top.
The whole display was spellbinding. Finn shook himself free of the image and cleared the room.
No one else was in this house.
Finn walked the few short steps and stood in front of Venable’s office door. Gripping the handle, he attempted to depress the latch with his thumb. Locked. He shook the shaft, more out of habit than expecting the door to give way.
Bottling his frustration, he returned to the bedroom, sat on the mattress, and pulled out his laptop. It was a weekly obligation that brought both torment and solace. Without introspection, he opened the dummy email account and began to write.