Restless Spirits Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Haunted House Mysteries

by Skylar Finn

  “She was more than that,” I said. “I felt different playing her. Stronger, you know?”

  “Hey.” Jazmin squeezed my cheeks between her fingers. “Listen to me. Madame Lucia is the same person as Lucia Star. You have the same strengths. Once you stop doubting yourself and realize that, you’ll be unstoppable.”

  I looped my arms around her neck. “Have I told you lately you’re my best friend?”

  She hugged me back. “You smell like icing and barf.”

  “I need real food. I ate my weight in processed sugar.”

  “Take a shower,” Jazmin said, pulling a fresh towel from the linen closet for me. “I’ll make dinner. And put a bandage over that cut on your face, Rambo. I’ve got enough of your DNA on my things.”

  The steamy shower cleared my mind and settled my stomach. By the time I emerged from the bathroom and saw the mess of junk food I’d left on Jazmin’s couch, I was sober enough to be embarrassed by my overreaction. As I cleaned up the Pop Tart wrappers, Jazmin loaded two cereal bowls with zucchini noodles and mushroom Bolognese and poured white wine for us both. She shoved aside my laptop—the screen of which displayed Evan’s dumb face as he exposed me to the entire world as a sham—to make room for the meal on the coffee table.

  “You haven’t been watching that all day, have you?” she asked.

  “No. I was switching between that and Charmed.”

  Jazmin handed me one of the bowls. “This isn’t the end of the world, you know.”

  “Isn’t it?” I said. “Jazmin, I’m almost thirty with no job, no home, and no prospects. At least Madame Lucia was fun to play and the advertising revenue paid my rent. What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Create a new character,” she suggested. “You’re a talented actress, no matter how much you put yourself down. People watched your videos for you, not because of the gimmick. Let’s be honest, who believed that stuff was real anyway?”

  “Plenty of people!”

  “All I’m saying is you have options,” Jazmin went on, spinning zucchini noodles around her fork. “That video’s doing well for a reason—”

  My phone rang in the middle of her sentence.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Unknown number.”

  “It’s probably a solicitor.”

  I answered the call anyway and pressed the speakerphone button. “Hello?”

  It was a man’s voice, terse but polite. “Yes, hi, is this Madame Lucia?”

  This was my private number, not the one I used for my online psychic business. I exchanged a glance with Jazmin, who shrugged.

  “Yes, this is she,” I said. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My name is Oliver Watson,” the man said. “And I think my daughter’s possessed.”

  2

  “Your daughter’s possessed?” I repeated. This was a new one. People called exorcists and clergymen for possessions, not the hokey spiritualist with the fake eyelashes and ridiculous accent. “What makes you think so?”

  Jazmin nudged me and mouthed, “What are you doing?”

  I waved her to be quiet. “Mr. Watson?”

  “It’s Oliver, please,” he said. “And yes, I know it sounds insane. I feel absurd calling you, but I don’t know what to do. I wanted to take her to a doctor or a therapist, but she won’t let me. She’s hearing voices, saying my resort is haunted.”

  “Do you believe her?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “She’s a kid. She’s twelve. It’s either a cry for help or a plea for attention. Either way, it’s my responsibility to take care of it. Anyway, I snooped through her computer for hints, and I discovered she watches your web show.”

  I smacked my palm against my forehead. Jazmin dragged my hand away and trapped it between hers. “Oliver,” I said. “Did you happen to see the latest episode of my web show?”

  “No, my apologies, but I don’t make a habit of watching psychics on YouTube. Why?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Listen, I would love to help, but possessions aren’t my thing. Not to mention, I prefer for my callers to be eighteen years or older. I suppose with your consent, we can arrange a video conference for sometime next week. My sessions—”

  “No, no,” Oliver interrupted. “I’m not looking for my daughter to be featured on your show. That’s not what I want.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “Then why are you calling me?”

  “I would like you to come to my resort to work with my daughter in person,” he replied. “She admires you. She’ll listen to you. I would like you to spend time with her as she goes about her day. Get to know her. If she really is hearing ghosts, then you’re the one person who will be able to help her. If she isn’t, and she suffers from schizophrenia or something similar, I imagine you should be able to inform me of that.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “I can pay you generously,” he added. “I’m the owner of the King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort in Crimson Basin. It’s a popular tourist destination. Not to be crude, but I have money. You can come here and stay at the resort for free. I’ll give you our best suite, a weekly allowance, ski passes, and whatever else you want.”

  “I’m sure your resort is very nice,” I said, “but I don’t work with people in person. I’m a call-in spiritualist. That’s all.”

  “Please.” The word dripped with desperation like sap from a tree. “I can’t think of anything else to do for her. If you come stay for a week or two and you help her in any way at all, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars afterward.”

  My jaw unhinged. “Ten thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, if you stay with her for at least a week.”

  Jazmin shook her head, mouthing the word “no” over and over again.

  “Oliver, can I put you on hold for a second?” I asked. “I need to consult with my associate.”

  “Of course.”

  I hit the mute button on the phone and said to Jazmin, “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “No,” she repeated out loud. “I’m sorry, Lucia, but this is way too sketchy. Some guy calls your private number out of the blue to request Madame Lucia come to his ski resort and meet his haunted daughter in person. If you go, you’re walking right into a con. He’s got something up his sleeve.”

  “How do you know?” I said. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe his daughter really needs my help.”

  “Need I remind you that you’re not a real psychic?” Jazmin pointed out. “What happens when you get there and you can’t do anything for the kid? Oliver’s going to figure out you’re not legitimate pretty quickly.”

  “It’s not Oliver I have to convince,” I said. “It’s the daughter. How hard could it be? Kids are easy. They’ll believe anything. All I have to is babysit her for a week, and then I walk away with ten grand. That’s enough for a down payment on a new apartment.”

  “It’s more than babysitting,” Jazmin said. “You don’t know anything about this kid. No parent describes their daughter as possessed unless she’s actually disturbed. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I reminded her. My finger hovered over the unmute button on the phone screen. “Now that I think about it, this might be the perfect way to revamp the web series after yesterday’s disastrous video. Can you imagine? A creepy kid and a haunted ski lodge? It’s something right out of The Shining.”

  “And you’re Jack Torrance?”

  “No, I’m Dick Hallorann.”

  “He dies too.”

  “Not in the book.”

  “Does it really make a difference?” Jazmin said. “You haven’t actually got the shine. Seriously, Lucia. Think about this.”

  “I have,” I said. “And I want to do it.”

  “Wait—”

  I pressed the unmute button. “Oliver? I’ve considered your proposal, and I’ve decided to accept it. When would you like me to arrive?”

  A sigh of relief whooshed through the
phone. “Thank you so much. I would like to get started as soon as possible. Can you get here by tomorrow?”

  Jazmin gave me one last look of worried disapproval as I said, “I sure can.”

  Crimson Basin was about a four-hour drive from Jazmin’s apartment, out of the city and into the mountains. I packed for two weeks, unsure of how long I’d be spending at King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort. My first suitcase was so full of fluffy parkas and heavy sweaters—I tended to run cold—I couldn’t zip it shut, even with Jazmin sitting on top of it. She loaned me a second luggage piece, which I filled with additional layers of woolly socks and long underwear. Since I didn’t have a car of my own, Jazmin took the day off work to drive me into the Basin, her rearview mirror blocked by my multitude of luggage. The farther we drove from the city, the colder it got, and Jazmin’s Land Rover chugged out dry heat from the vents to warm our fingers and toes and parch our nostrils. Frost gathered at the corners of the windows. If I squinted, I could see the crisscrossed intricacies of little snowflakes.

  “Thanks again for driving me,” I said to Jazmin for the tenth time as we zigzagged up a winding road through a thick forest. “You didn’t have to. I could have taken a taxi.”

  “You know how I feel about taxis,” she said. “Besides, the fare for a four-hour taxi ride would cost you Oliver’s entire ten grand offer.”

  “Yeah, but most friends wouldn’t take off work for this kind of thing.” I traced silly faces into the condensation on the window. “Not just for driving me either. You never had to help me with Madame Lucia’s Parlour, but you did anyway. All the filming and set decoration. The tricks we rigged together. You actually have a respectable job, but you spend your free time doing silly crap with me.”

  “Why are you making it sound like I don’t enjoy those things?” she asked. “You’re my best friend, Lucia. I like spending time with you. And that ‘respectable job’ makes me sit at a computer in a cubicle all day. It pays, but it’s boring. Madame Lucia’s Parlour is way more fun.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” she said. “If I could stay with you this week, I would. Who else is going to be your handy dandy camerawoman?”

  “I brought the DSLR and the handheld gimbal. I can record vlogs on my own. I also thought I might do some found footage stuff. Speaking of which—” I reached into the camera bag beneath my feet and tugged out the camera. Switching it on, I recorded a nice shot of the mountains as we drove to higher and higher elevations. Snowflakes drifted through the frame, making for a picture-perfect shot. “This is great stuff for a montage, don’t you think?”

  “You have a better eye for that sort of thing than I do,” Jazmin said. “You should be careful with that camera though. Does Oliver know you plan on recording?”

  “I asked him for permission to film in the lodge,” I said. “He agreed, so I’m taking that to mean I can shoot whatever I want.”

  “And what about Madame Lucia? You’re not dressed for the part.”

  “I packed the kimono, but I can’t wear it every day.” I was dressed in jeans, a cozy olive-green, mock neck sweater, and my winter boots. Though I did arrange my hair in Madame Lucia’s mohawk braid so as to not lose the entire effect. “I’ll just tell Oliver my online persona is suited specifically for mediumship sessions. Working with his daughter is a different type of job.”

  The road took us across a narrow bridge over a frozen river. Jazmin held the steering wheel at ten and two as the tires navigated the slippery, ice-covered path.

  “What do you know about the kid?” she asked. “Anything new?”

  “Her name is Riley, she’s twelve years old, and she hears whispers,” I recited. Oliver filled me in on some of the details last night, but he preferred to tell me the rest in person. “According to Oliver, she’s always been strange.”

  “And that doesn’t worry you?”

  “My mother has called me worse things than strange.”

  “Your mother blames you for things that were never your fault,” Jazmin reminded me. “It doesn’t say anything about your character.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “That’s why I’m reserving judgement for Riley until I meet her. For all I know, she’s a normal kid about to go through puberty. Everyone gets weird when the hormones hit.”

  “I suppose you’re right—whoa.”

  “What?”

  “Look.”

  As the Land Rover emerged from the forest, the land opened up in front of us. Crimson Basin was an enormous white blanket embroidered with a fine stitching of trees, chair lifts, and intricate lines carved through the snow by skiers and snowboarders. The mountain was divided into two halves. King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort was nestled in the snow at the base of the left side. The gray stones and gabled octagonal roof of the main building lent the lodge a distinct historical vibe, boasting earlier origins and a “we were here first” entitlement to the slopes. In comparison, the resort on the right side of the mountain was all modern angles and glass windows perfect for scoping out the day’s skiing conditions without setting foot outside. Each resort had their own chairlift to tote tourists up the mountain. They ran parallel to each other, as if the mechanisms raced to reach the top first, but the King and Queens lift wasn’t running that morning, and the left side of the mountain was barren of skiers and snowboarders.

  “Are you getting weird vibes from this place?” Jazmin asked as she signaled her intention to get into the left lane at the fork in the road. It was peak skiing season, and the traffic to the mountain was brutal, but the Land Rover was the only car that turned toward King and Queens instead of the other resort. We whizzed by the stagnant line of cars waiting to turn right and got a glimpse of the modern resort’s welcome sign.

  “White Oak Ski and Spa Resort,” I read off. “It looks brand new. Maybe they were offering a special to get people to stay there.”

  “If you say so. God, does this place look bigger up close?”

  We cruised into the empty lot of King and Queens and parked in the shadow of the main building. The stone entryway loomed over everything, turning the white snow dark. The resort stretched so far in each direction that I couldn’t see either end of the building. A single cop car was parked out front with the words “Crimson Basin Police Department: to honor, protect, and serve” printed in blocky blue letters on its side. Other than a King and Queens courtesy shuttle and a couple of cheap sedans in the employee lot, the Land Rover was alone. The place was deserted.

  “Is it closed?” I wondered as we stepped out of the car. I kept the camera on, holding the gimbal in one hand as I shouldered one of my bags with the other. Jazmin unloaded the trunk and rolled both suitcases behind her as we approached the front door. When it opened by itself, we faltered. Jazmin bumped into me from behind. I stepped to the side and gestured for her to walk in first, but she shook her head.

  “Are you ladies coming in?” A concierge emerged. He was nineteen or twenty, probably a college student working part-time over his winter break. His collared shirt ran too large on his shoulders, and his swoopy bangs were in need of a trim. His gold name tag said Trey. Clearly, he’d been the one to open the door in the first place. “I can help you with your luggage.”

  “That’d be great,” Jazmin said, recovering first from our bout of silliness.

  Trey hurried out, his loafers slipping across the icy sidewalk, and took my suitcases from Jazmin. He looked straight into the camera as we followed him inside. “You must be Madame Lucia,” he said, unfazed as I swung the camera around the vast lobby. Kids these days were accustomed to having every facet of their lives examined by a lens. “I can check you in.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You can call me Lucia.”

  Trey rested the luggage against the front desk and typed my information into the resort’s computer. “Actually, I’m obligated to call you Miss Star.” He cleared his throat, readying himself for a spiel. “Welcome to King and Queens Ski Lodge and Resort, Miss Star. We have you in
room twenty-thirteen, which is one of our deluxe suite packages—”

  As he babbled on about the luxury details of my stay, I panned the camera across the lobby. Double staircases framed a massive, wood-burning fireplace, in front of which were several regal leather armchairs for guests to warm up in after a day on the slopes. A trio of glass elevators waited in the center of the lobby, though all three were motionless at the moment. The stairs led into the octagonal portion of the building. From what I could see, that area was a restaurant and lounge. On one side, a mezzanine overlooked the tables and chairs. On the other, a floor-to-ceiling window afforded diners an unobstructed view of the mountain.

  “Here’s your key card,” Trey said, nudging me with the square of plastic to get my attention. “And a spare for your friend.”

  “I’m not staying,” Jazmin said. “I have to get back to work.”

  Trey, like any other twenty-year-old boy in Jazmin’s goddess-like presence, gave a goofy grin as he looked her up and down. “That’s a shame.”

  “Trey, where is everyone?” I asked, gazing around the empty lobby. “This place is deserted.”

  Trey sorted through the other rooms’ keycards. “Uh, it’s been kind of slow here lately—”

  “Why?”

  “Well—”

  Two men burst out of an office behind the front desk. The first was a guy in his early forties with electric blue eyes and slicked back salt-and-pepper hair. He wore black jeans and a long-sleeved cobalt thermal that made his eyes even more intense. A leather holster crisscrossed his broad shoulders, tucking a gun and a pair of handcuffs almost out of sight. On his belt was a shiny gold badge. He carried a leather jacket over one arm, but when he tried to swing it around to pull it on, the second man grasped the sleeves and yanked it from his grip.