I had to stop and think about that. “I’m not quite sure.”
“That’s a first.”
I frowned, not liking the clouded fog that came over me. My phone beeped that I had a missed call and voicemail. “Hopefully it’s a last. If you’ll excuse me.”
I rode the elevator down and headed out of the building as I listened to the voicemail.
“Ms. Slaughter, this is Mr. Gambit, your contractor at Slaughter House. Listen, some things have happened, and this isn’t going to work out. Your house is…I just can’t do the work. Please call me back when you get this.”
I stopped in my tracks and glanced at the phone. “Not another one. Please, not another one.”
I dialed the number back and got a voicemail. “Crap. I need to stop him.”
I hurried to my car and was pulling out my keys when I spotted Peter standing by my door. His arms were folded over his chest.
“You got time for some breakfast?” Peter asked.
“Afraid not,” I answered, stepping around him and unlocking the door. “I might be leaving town. I think the Slaughter House contractor is about to bail on me.”
“Really? Anything I can do to help?” Peter asked, resting his hand on my arm, stopping me from climbing inside.
“No, nothing you can do. I appreciate the offer, but it’s probably not a good idea anyway. I meant it when I said it was time to break up. I told you I can’t do serious.” I met his gaze.
“You’ll change your mind.” He nodded and walked off without a second look back.
2
Libby
The day long car ride to Mountain View took longer than I’d anticipated. The icy roads were riddled with accidents. A handful of newly departed ghosts wearing high school football team jerseys were on the side of the road, staring at their crumpled bus in shock. Poor teens. My heart shattered for their lost innocent souls.
I tried to stop to help ease their transition, but the police working the scene ushered me along.
Wheels thumped over the long dirty concrete drive, and bare trees filled the yard. Dead leaves created an unyielding path to the large house that I swore to have finished repairing and sold by now.
Slaughter House loomed in the distance like a foreboding memory trying to break free. I wouldn’t let it. Not now. Not when I was so close to cutting this place from my past. Unease fluttered in my stomach.
A chill skirted up my spine as I parked next to the contractor’s white van. Smoke plumed from the tailpipe, drifting up into the night air. The red parking lights cast a haze into the forming mist.
I got out and eased the car door shut, worried what or who the sound might wake up.
Standing next to my car, I ignored my need to flee. The house keys lay heavy in my grip. I wasn’t that scared little girl anymore, and yet, there was something so unforgiving within those walls that I could feel it deep down to my bones. The worn siding and windows were covered in dirt and in need of scrubbing. Leaves hung from the gutters. My gaze drifted to the second-floor window of my old bedroom. A little blond ghostly girl stood behind the grime of the window pane. Her blond hair hung in soft ringlets down to her shoulders. The pink dress with puffy sleeves looked to be from decades ago. Somehow deep inside, she seemed familiar even if I couldn’t pinpoint how. It wasn’t her appearance that surprised me. Most old houses were haunted, but it was the sadness clouding her angelic face that cut to the bone as she rested her tiny palm on the window.
Her gaze jolted to look behind her. Panic filled her eyes as she vanished out of sight when another apparition took her place.
This spirits in Slaughter House hadn’t moved on. Much like I couldn’t.
The tall ghost dressed in black overalls was staring down at me with narrowed dark eyes. His white hair contradicted his olive completion. The angle of his sharp jaw highlighted the anger on his face. He clenched both of his fists at his side.
He’d grown more menacing since the day I’d left and he looked none too happy that I was back. My heart quickened and it was as though I couldn’t look away. My feet were frozen to the spot. Raw panic flared through me turning my stomach into ice. The need to flee fought with my need to stay.
I knew that angry ghost. I remembered his face and the way his cold hands felt pressed against my back. The sheer panic that stole my breath as a little girl. It was hard to forget the face of the ghost that wanted me dead.
Fear wouldn’t send me running away. Staying at the Mountain View Inn wasn’t an option. This was my childhood home, and my reason for staying away had died six months ago.
My purpose for being here was clear. Fix up this god-forsaken home and then sell the bastard once and for all.
The dim yellow porch light flickered as if the house could sense my return home. The heavy wooden door was the last barrier and chance to change my mind. The freshly painted wood covered dark stains and years of secrets. I stepped up onto the porch and knocked. The partially opened door groaned wider, beckoning me inside.
"Hello," I called out and was met with heavy silence.
"Mr. Gambit. It's me, Libby. The front door was open." I crossed the threshold, shoving the massive door shut behind me. It clicked.
"Mr. Gambit?"
For someone that could predict things for other people, I didn’t know why I was having such a hard time seeing what was going to happen to this house. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t. I hated everything about this place. The contractor had said he was going to occupy one of the rooms while work was getting done. His presence would act as a deterrent for would-be thieves.
That was why his voicemail and text message this morning had been so out of the blue.
Mr. Gambit walked out of the kitchen, carrying his leather tool bag and a closed can of blue paint, which had some dried drippings on the side.
“Good, I’m glad you got my message. I can’t live here, and I’m damn sure not spending another night under this roof,” Mr. Gambit said with urgency in his voice. His frazzled brown curly hair looked as though he’d been running his fingers through the waves. His red bloodshot eyes explained enough. He might have been spending the night under this roof, but he hadn’t been sleeping.
The house was void of all furnishings except in the attic and basement. If Mr. Gambit had moved any personal furniture in to make his stay more comfortable, he’d moved it out just as fast. The nauseating sinking of despair filled my veins. If he left, that made six. Six contractors that refused to work on the premises. Did Mountain View even have more? Or was I going to need to pay extra to bring some to town? No, I needed to fix this fast.
“Mr. Gambit, what seems to be the problem?” I asked, already knowing the answer. Guilt stabbed my chest.
He walked right past me and yanked the door open. It moved with a groan as he left me no choice but to follow.
Another worker wearing the contractor’s logo stood at the back of the van. Mr. Gambit shoved the bag and paint can into his arms. “That’s the last of it.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
Mr. Gambit glanced up at the house once more. “You want to know the problem?” he asked as he turned his penetrating gaze on me. “The house wants to kill me.”
“You realize how crazy that sounds?” I asked. “The house can’t want anything.”
I realized the mistake as the words flew out of my mouth. Calling the contractor crazy had been how I lost the last contractor.
“I know what I heard.” Mr. Gambit pointed an accusatory finger at the door. “Footsteps, doors slamming, and threatening whispers in my ear to get out before I die.” He dropped his hands to his side. “I could have ignored all that…but those hands on my back that shoved me down the stairs…” He shook his head. “Nope, you don’t need a contractor, you need an exorcist, and you shouldn’t stay here either, if you know what’s good for you.”
He glanced once at the familiar house keys in his hands. “Consider our contract null and void. I’ve left your money on the kit
chen counter. Good luck.”
Mr. Gambit dropped the keys into my palm and hurried to the other side of the work van. The truck revved its engine, leaving dust plumes in its wake as it drove away.
“Just perfect,” I whispered, staring up at the house, clenching the keys tight in my fist. This was the sixth contractor in six months that had left me high and dry. I would never be able to sell the place if I couldn’t bring it up to code to pass an inspection.
The sharp talons from my past refused to set me free.
Maybe I was going about this all wrong. A contractor was one thing, but one that could handle ghosts was another. Maybe I could find a contractor that doubled as a ghost hunter. Someone like that wouldn’t mind living with the dead. I glanced back up at the house and yelled, “You scare the next one away, and I’m burning this house down to the ground. Just try me.”
My voice carried through the trees, and if the wind was just right, it might have been heard by the neighbors down the mountain.
The Slaughter name had a reputation, and it wasn’t a good one. The quicker I left this part of my life behind, the better off everyone would be. After the first contractor had left scared in the middle of the night, I’d disclosed that information to the others that came after in an attempt to weed out the scaredy cats. Apparently, I forgot to mentioned the stairs were a hotspot.
I smoothed the frizz in my hair and grabbed the bag from the trunk along with my sleeping bag and pillow. I walked up the dreaded steps, entering the empty space again.
The cold air caressed my cheek like a welcome home kiss.
The house felt different without furniture inside. Empty like a shell. Nowhere for any ghosts to hide.
But they were still here. I could feel it in my soul. The only question was, would they let me have one night of peaceful sleep before they tried to kill me again?
I took one last trip out to my car and grabbed the five-pound bag of salt, along with supplies for my morning drink.
Taking the things to the kitchen, I walked back into the den and lit candles around the four corners. A chill skirted my spine as I saged the entire area, starting to put my barriers into place. If they were going to come after me again, this time I’d be ready.
I spread a thick line of salt in front of all the doors and windows in the room before drawing a circle around my sleeping bag large enough for me to sleep.
Chirp.
I froze in place and waited for whatever surprise came next.
Chirp.
The tension in my shoulders deflated. I knew that familiar sound. It was just a smoke alarm somewhere nearby with a battery that was about to die. “Just perfect.”
This house had scared me as a little girl. Now it just pissed me off.
I lay down and slipped inside the sleeping bag, punching my pillow to make it just right. I closed my eyes to the sound of a little girl’s laughter until even that faded away. I was left to listen to every groan and creak, wishing exhaustion would pull me into sleep.
Sleep was little to none. Sometime in the middle of the night the smoke alarm finally gave out from going off every ten minutes and the sound changed to something so much worse.
Footsteps from someone or something pacing above, combined with the scratches from within the walls. If I stayed longer than a night, I’d need to buy some earplugs.
3
Hugh Bennett
I sat back with linked fingers resting on top of my head and my feet propped up on the empty scarred wooden desk. The flight log was sitting on top of the clipboard and flight manifest. This rusty old airplane hangar was in need of an upgrade, but spending money on that would have to wait. More important things needed my focus. The time was almost near to make my move. I’d waited decades for this, and no way was I about to let it slip through my fingers.
“It’s your move, Hugh,” Emmett said, pushing off the cooler he’d been using as a seat. He grabbed a soda out and sat back down before popping the top and taking a sip.
Out of all my Bennett siblings, Emmett was closest in age but opposite in every other way. Where I took my time debating things and thinking them through, Emmett was the type of person to jump in feet first. And most of the time, he came out smelling like roses. I still didn’t know how exactly he managed that, but it was our love for flying that made us close as brothers and business partners.
We all had abilities. With one look at any property I could feel the bones and structure to know if it was a sound investment. House flippers paid me handsomely for the service to check out places before they ever went to auction.
That job, coupled with my flying charter service, paid the bills, but neither field was where my twenty-year plan was taking me. No, my lifelong dream would be a reality and hopefully finalized in four months if everything went as planned.
“I’m meeting the contractor at the house. Mr. Gambit said he’d give me the heads-up before Palmer Realty puts it on the market. I’m hoping to make an offer the owner can’t refuse.”
“Contractors have come and gone for various reasons. Most importantly, they never stayed around long enough to get it to pass inspection.”
“It’s got good bones; it just needs some TLC.” I dropped my feet to the ground and hit the computer mouse again, bringing the aerial picture of Slaughter House back to life. Slaughter House was large enough. It had amenities we’d need. Turning it into a lodge would be easy enough.
“You think good bones is going to be enough to draw tourists into town?” our sister, Clara, asked from across the room.
She’d been quiet the entire time during my proposal until this point. Her quietness was never a good thing, not when she could already predict the outcome.
“A better question, you think we need to be drawing tourists into town after our family has spent decades running any newcomers out in an effort to hide our secret?”
“This town needs new blood. It’s been asleep for way too long. We can make it great again.”
“You sound like you should be running for office,” Emmett said, staring out the window into the hangar.
“We’re all grown now. We can handle our abilities without any hiccups. It’s time.”
“It’s not what we’re hiding that concerns me. It’s who you’d be inviting in.” Clara slid off the table and headed for the door. She pulled it open and glanced back once more. “We aren’t the only family that grew up drinking the funky Kool-Aid. Others like us are going to be attracted to this town like a baker testing his own sweets. Once you open the gates, there won’t be any kicking them out.”
Clara left her words of warning linger behind.
“You should reconsider,” Emmett said quietly from the window. “If Clara thinks it’s a bad idea, then it’s a bad idea.”
“She didn’t say that.” I stood, shoving the chair with my legs. “She said other people have abilities. So what? It doesn’t mean they’re bad. They could be just as innocent as us.”
I patted my brother on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll go take another look at the place, and if I do get to buy the property, then I’ll make sure to screen everyone that makes reservations. I’ve got this. When have you ever known me to fail?”
Emmett sighed and nodded toward the local couple headed into the hangar. “Never.” He glanced at me. “And that’s what scares me. You’re overdue.”
“Have a little faith.”
Emmett stepped around me. “I’m taking the couple two towns over. They want to go shopping, and well, we don’t have much of that here.”
“We need growth, but until then, I’m going up to Slaughter to take one more look around.”
I grabbed my truck keys and smiled at the couple in passing as I walked out onto the tarmac. Climbing into my truck, I let the warnings simmer in the back of my mind.
It was a twenty-minute drive up the mountain to Slaughter House. I’d only stopped long enough for gas and a box of donuts to bring Mr. Gambit and his crew.
An SUV was p
arked out front. The door was partially open, and not a single soul was in the yard.
I grabbed the donuts and shoved one into my mouth while jogging up onto the porch. Slaughter House wasn’t huge, and it wasn’t tiny. It was perfect for what I had in mind. The large wrap-around porch had the potential for guests to rest and relax while enjoying a cup of coffee or warm hot chocolate, hunkered under blankets, looking up at the stars.
All of the shutters needed a fresh coat of paint, and one hung askew. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed. Scaffolding was constructed on the side of the house for workers to reach the third-floor chimney. They’d made little progress.
I opened the door farther. “Mr. Gambit.”
My voice echoed through the empty corridor, bouncing off walls still in need of fresh paint.
No answer. I headed for the kitchen and had to do a double take as I passed the sitting room. A sleeping bag was in in the center of the room on the floor. A line of salt surrounded it. Each corner had a candle that was partially burned.
“Okay, then.”
Who was I to judge? Ghosts were real. Just ask my family. It was the only acceptable explanation if we didn’t count that my family was in need of straitjackets. I headed toward the kitchen.
“Mr. Gambit, if you need a bed or someplace to stay, why didn’t you just say?” I called out as I stepped into an empty kitchen where a blender with a green smoothie-like substance now sat in place of the coffee pot.
“Mr. Gambit?” I walked back into the entry and glanced up at the second-floor landing, wondering if Gambit’s wife had brought the healthy stuff. If so, I was not going to be her favorite person.
“He’s not here,” a woman said from behind me.
I spun toward the voice to find a can of pepper spray pointed toward my face. She was staring at me, as baffled about my presence as I was about hers.
“Who the hell are you?” The woman, wearing spandex shorts and a bra top, was covered in dirt and scratches, dripping in sweat. Her Caribbean-sea blue eyes were crisp and clear. Her scowl was less appealing.
Destined Chaos Page 2