They were approaching the house, and Cilla wasn’t sure if she was glad to see her Aunt’s car was absent or not. There was a good probability her aunt might make some comment which could be construed as embarrassing. It was a regular thing. Cilla had shed most of those fears during high school when it seemed inevitable that she be the subject of some ridicule. Did it matter that the person she was introducing her family to was Paxton? She wasn’t sure. But with her aunt gone, she would be free to talk with Paxton in relative privacy. That might help him open up a little about his manuscript.
“Here it is,” she said, swinging the gate to the front yard wide. The little path to the front porch was littered with leaves, and the air here held the scent of burning. She felt the briefest tug of nostalgia, thinking about the easy days in high school when she would sit out in the evenings, drinking hot coco and thinking of a bright future.
Fargo cast her a quick glance as he rushed toward the front door, and Cilla shrugged. No one planned to be a paranormal investigator. She didn’t think any little girl put it on their list along with a ballerina and a princess. For now, the house looked peaceful, and she felt no glimmers of visitors of the spiritual kind.
“I’m going to make some coffee,” Cilla started, making her way toward the back of the house where the kitchen lay, the heart of the house. “Would you like some?”
“That sounds lovely,” Paxton replied, and Cilla smiled at his turn of phrase.
“Where are you from, exactly?” she asked, hearing the lilt in his voice.
“The UK,” he answered promptly. “I’m no Londoner. My family had an estate in the country. Sounds rather grand. The place is falling down around us. But it is home.”
“Do you go there often?”
“Home.” He paused. “I do. Sometimes. I haven’t been back as often since Mum’s funeral.”
Cilla heard the note of regret and turned to face him. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Sorry? For what?”
“For whatever has made you so sad,” she replied simply.
She didn’t have any goodies to go with the coffee, and she feared her Aunt’s loaf of freshly baked bread might not be what it appeared. It had an odd green tint to it, and she decided she didn’t want to risk poisoning her guest.
She presented him with coffee, hot and black as he preferred, and deliberately didn’t offer the tea. Her aunt’s mixtures of tea leaves were another thing that couldn’t always be judged on face value. If her aunt had been home, she would have allowed her to brew whatever she liked.
Fargo had disappeared into the living room after getting a treat. He seemed content to lay in his bed that was strategically positioned so that he could see both the kitchen and the living room.
Paxton was a good conversationalist when it came to small talk. He asked about the home, how long they had owned it, when it had been built. He asked about the garden out back, the things they grew, the work it took to keep the yield going into the cooler weather.
Cilla found herself telling him about growing up in the community, about her aunt and uncle, and a little about Smith. She didn’t let the spiritual creep into the conversation though, and the holes in her narrative were rather glaring.
It would have been so much easier if Paxton was honest with her. She didn’t believe for a moment that he was there to write a story about a haunted house. She wasn’t sure why he had injected himself into their lives, but until she knew the reason, she felt like she needed caution while dealing with him. If only she had a way of figuring out his motives.
The idea struck her so swiftly and so strongly as she was standing at the table, before she had a chance to fully process her sudden impulse, she turned toward the door.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said, more of an order than a request.
“Alright then,” Paxton replied, slowly rising to his feet. “Did you have a plan as to where you wanted to go?” He cocked a dark eyebrow, his ridiculously long lashes making his blue eyes look black.
“There’s a little park nearby. Sometimes I go there to clear my mind.” She was moving towards the door and had already grabbed the house key from the hook. Fargo came hopefully to her side, and she automatically clipped on his leash. He was her ally in this. He had been with her for most of her park visits and he knew, could sense, what she felt as easily as she.
Paxton looked puzzled, but he dropped his hat on his head and shrugged on the jacket he had shed earlier. Cilla waited for him to step out on the front porch and relocked the door. The neighborhood was safe, and she generally wouldn’t have thought twice about leaving the door unlocked. But since this morning, things were different. She was different. And she wasn’t leaving anyone’s safety up for grabs.
They walked in silence to the park, the leaves scattering and crackling under their feet. Cilla had walked the path a thousand times, but it was the first time she had been accompanied by anyone besides Fargo.
Nerves prickled, her mind rushing fast. It was something her aunt had said. She needed to talk to the witness of the crime. She needed to hear of the murder from the only person who knew the whole story. She needed to talk to Brandon, or at least his spirit.
But first, she needed to know if she could trust Paxton. Her response to his touch had been disturbing, to put it mildly. She needed to know why, and if he wasn’t going to tell her, she had another idea, a secret weapon.
The wooden bench, now faded and grey with age, had been erected as part of the park years before Cilla had ever moved into her Aunt and Uncle’s home. The treed space was a small part of a plan to enhance the property value of the neighborhood by making some landscaping improvements. Cilla wasn’t sure what it was about the space that cleared her head and sharpened her senses. Perhaps it was the proximity to the wild woods that butted up to the little neighborhood. She just knew that there was something special about the place.
“Sit,” she ordered Paxton, and she eased back on the bench. She tilted her head back, letting the slight breeze caress her face, and closed her eyes. She could already sense it, the coming. She felt Paxton sit on the bench next to her, his body held slightly rigid. She wondered if he felt it to, the thrumming of the air, the electricity of it.
She sat in silence for several long minutes until she could taste the prickling on her tongue, like a metallic spark. She reached out a hand blindly, and Paxton took it. Her fingers locked around his, and she was rocked with sensations. It was there. A connection like strung wire, a flare of power and knowing. She felt him flinch and tightened her grip, refusing to let him draw back. Behind the red haze of her closed lids she saw a little girl of no more than five in a blue dress with tiny white flowers weaving in the fabric. She was standing on the porch of an enormous stone home, a mansion in truth, her hair as pale as moonlight, her lips pursed, sharp chin prominent as she took her stance. Stubborn girl. Loved girl.
Cilla saw her again, a blink and she was a teenager, all arms and long legs and sheet of golden hair. Her eyes were haunted, large and shadowed. She suffered.
Paxton’s hand jerked in hers, but she held. The girl again, tears tracking down her cheeks, one hand out. From her vantage point, Cilla felt herself approaching the girl, first walking, and then running, but as she approached, she saw the front door of the house slowly open, and in the shadowed interior there was a shape.
And Cilla’s attention was torn, ripped from the scene. Her eyes blinked open, all at once, here and there. She was looking straight ahead from her seat in the park, the dark woods crowded around her, overlapping lines and shadows. A small shape was weaving between the trees, and Fargo, his leash trailing, had stood and was meeting the figure at the edge of the green. His tail was wagging, his body showing the joy in the welcome.
The girl stopped, the pale oval of her face reflecting the dying sun like a pearl, the braids of her hair dusty ropes that slid over slender shoulders. Her soft blue jeans and white shirt were a faded blur of color, but the backpack was as brig
htly pink and gaudy as it had been when Cilla had first seen her on the bus.
This was not the girl in the vision, but a ghost that belonged to Cilla and Fargo alone.
The spirit of Brandi Mae leaned over to greet the dog, a small smile on lips, her eyes going to where Cilla sat frozen on the bench. She didn’t speak. Not in the traditional sense. Her lips were sealed, her expression pale and composed. She tilted her head, her face, frozen forever with the soft roundness of childhood, nodding in Cilla’s direction.
“Do I trust him? Do I trust him?” Cilla breathed the question, her ears filled with the wind and the song of the spirits rising.
Brandi Mae raised pale grey eyes to Cilla’s and nodded slowly. She gazed earnestly at Cilla, forever a twelve-year-old girl wise beyond her years.
“Thank you,” Cilla mouthed.
She saw Brandi Mae’s figure turn slightly as her attention was drawn to where Paxton sat still as stone next to Cilla. She seemed interested, drawn to the newcomer, and Cilla had the distinct impression that Paxton could see Brandi Mae. There was a moment of utter stillness, and then the figure seemed to flicker, one moment there, the next gone.
The air seemed to lighten, new warmth flowing with the wind, scattering burnished leaves around their feet as Fargo turned back, leaving the space where the figure had stood to return to Cilla’s side.
Cilla turned and looked toward Paxton. Her hand was still on his, but she loosened her fingers.
Paxton’s eyes were two shades darker, his lips pinched, his jaw twitching. He dropped his gaze to stare blinding toward the ground, one hand going up to cup his forehead. He heaved a sigh on a shudder. He didn’t let go of Cilla’s grasp.
Chapter Sixteen
Paxton had been restrained during their walk back to Cilla’s house from the park. Cilla felt a reluctant sympathy for him. She suspected that he had much more knowledge of the metaphysical and the paranormal than he had let on. But seeing Brandi Mae had unnerved him. And she wasn’t certain what he had encountered in the moments when she had her other vision. The blond girl at the mansion. Who was she? Cilla knew she was someone significant in Paxton’s life. She couldn’t explain how she knew it, just that she did. And the house she had seen? The open door with the sinister figure? Was this something from Paxton’s memory as well?
There were a number of details, questions, Cilla wanted to discuss. But now was not the moment. She felt like time was rushing by, and she needed to take action. She needed to contact Brandon’s spirit right now and worry about the rest at a later date.
In the fading twilight, Cilla slowed her stride. She glanced toward Paxton, his handsome profile a cut of dark stone against the pewter sky.
“We need to go back to the office building,” she declared without preamble.
Paxton glanced her way and then directed his gaze to the sidewalk beneath his feet.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to Brandon.”
He appeared to digest this outlandish claim without blinking.
“How are you going to do that?” he finally asked.
“The same way I communicate with the other spirits. I just want to reach out.”
“You’re sure he’s there?”
“Yes,” her statement was hushed but confident.
He said nothing as they approached the car, as Cilla popped the trunk and checked on their gear, and as Fargo leaped onto the seat in the back. It was only after they had driven for a few minutes that Paxton appeared comfortable enough to communicate.
“Who is she?” he asked first.
Cilla wasn’t exactly sure who he might have been referring to. The girl she had seen in her visions, the blond girl with the tragic eyes, seemed to belong more to him than her. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure what he had witnessed of Brandi Mae. His experiences might have been purely tactile.
“She?” Her voice was tentative.
“The girl. The girl in the woods. Who is she?” He sounded a little impatient, his expression sharp, but Cilla didn’t blame him. Talking about her visions had been rough for a long time. It wasn’t until she had established the business that she understood she could discuss it and be believed. If this was new to him, it was likely to be upsetting.
“What did you see?” She kept her voice mild and neutral.
She heard him heave a sigh and saw his hands clench and unclench in his lap.
“A young girl. She was standing in the trees. She had on, I don’t know, a shirt and pants, but there was a pink backpack. Her hair was in two plaits.” He paused. “She was looking right at us, but she knew you.”
“Her name is Brandi Mae,” Cilla replied honestly. “I knew her when I was a teenager.” She shook her head. “I didn’t even know her well. She went to the middle school, but she rode on my bus. I used to sit next to her sometimes.” She drew a deep breath. Brandi Mae had been more than a chance meeting. She had been much more than a fleeting companion. “I didn’t really even talk to her back then. I didn’t know much about her at all. But one day, I saw her out the window as I was walking down the aisle of the bus. She was standing on the sidewalk at my bus stop, like she was waiting for me. When I climbed down, she was gone.” Cilla tapped the steering wheel lightly with her fingers. “I was confused, but I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed she had just run off. By then, I had experienced paranormal phenomena, sounds and impressions, but I hadn’t seen many apparitions.” She glanced toward Paxton where he sat silently next to her. “When I went to school the next day, I found out some child at the middle school had had an extreme allergic reaction in the cafeteria. It was an overheated August day, and all the windows were open. A wasp got in. They didn’t catch it in time.”
“And then?” Paxton prodded.
“When I discovered it was Brandi Mae who died, well, at first I tried to deny what I saw. It wasn’t the first time I had seen or sensed spirits. But it was curious for me to see her so clearly. And then to see her so close to my home.” Cilla paused. “And after that, I would get glimpses of her periodically.” Cilla still marveled at the strangeness of it all. Her relationship with this particular spirit always disconcerted her, which was one reason she hadn’t admitted it to her parents or her aunt and uncle. There was something so personal in their communication. “After I graduated and started looking seriously into the paranormal investigations, I decided to try to find her. I followed my old school bus route, I researched her family, where they lived, where she was buried. But I couldn’t make her come to me.” Cilla thought grimly about how this exploration for Brandi Mae’s spirit had shaped the course of her life. “When I was eighteen, she saved my life. I’m sure of that. I was driving at dusk and it was during the fall. I was going around a turn, probably taking it a little too fast, and I saw a figure on the side of the road. I couldn’t see the details, but I noticed a flash of color, pink. She had the same backpack she invariably carried on the bus. I slowed down to a crawl, my heart pounding, struggling to figure out if I had seen a legitimate child or a ghost. It was chilly out, a little foggy, and I began to think I imagined it. Then I saw them. Right after that curve in the road, there were three deer standing in the middle of my lane. At the speed I had been traveling before I saw the figure, I would have spotted the animals just in time to steer around them, struggling to avoid them. I’m sure with the damp road and my own inexperience, I would have lost control of the car.” She glanced at Paxton, where his face was framed against the window. Dusk was falling, and he looked almost ghostly himself. “There was a sheer wall of rock on one side of the road, and a ditch lined with trees on the other. There would have been nowhere to go. It gave me a shock. I pulled off in the closest driveway and walked back along the side of the road to get a better look. The deer had taken off, but I could hear the rustling of the trees. I knew they were there, but I was just as sure, the figure from the side of the road was gone.” She hesitated. “I know it sounds a little bizarre, but after that, she seemed more like a guardian ange
l than a ghost.” She peered at him, struggling in vain to read his face. “It was another year before I saw her again. I had moved in with my aunt and uncle after my parents relocated to Florida. I was restless, just trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I began coming to the park just to think or read. One afternoon, I brought Fargo with me. He had taken many walks with me, and he normally liked seeing other people, but on this day, he seemed to get really excited. He was pacing around, and by then I knew the signs. Fargo could invariably identify a spirit before me, and I could tell he could sense something.” She peeked in her rear-view mirror at the dog’s panting face. “After a few minutes, I heard the whispering voice. It’s like,” words failed her, and she shrugged. “It’s not actually a sound so much as a vibration. But I knew it was coming. When I saw her, I was astounded. She looked like she always had. Pink backpack and all.” She laughed without humor. “I didn’t know why she was there, but I sensed she wanted to communicate with me.” She took the turn off the main road. “After that, we had an understanding.” It was too much to explain.
“Is she always there?”
Cilla shrugged. “When I go to the park, I don’t consistently see her. I can’t anticipate her. But occasionally she just appears to me, especially if I am particularly upset or tense. She seems to read me, and she struggles to communicate with me. Not with words, you know, but with ideas. I know her spirit looks twelve, but she seems much older.” She took a corner, recognizing they were approaching the office building where Brandon was killed. “The point is, she knows things. She has knowledge she shouldn’t, and she helps me.”
Paxton was studying the dark rectangle through the windshield with an indecipherable expression on his elegant face.
“What about you? Did you hear anything?” Cilla had to ask, had to see how much he was like her.
Paxton shook his head. “No. I just saw,” his statement seemed to trail off. “I just saw her figure materialize out of nothing. I,” he seemed to be searching for words. “I didn’t know what I was seeing. Perhaps I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing.” He glanced in her direction as she slowed the car, “but it was plenty.” He hesitated a beat, looking back toward the darkened office. “Is that what you think will happen now? Do you assume we’ll see Brandon?”
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