“Mackenzie.” Horace frowned. “Help me, and I will help you.”
His voice was louder inside my mind than outside it, and my head swam. The physical sensation of my fingernails digging into my palms was suddenly muted by the oppressive, powerful energy that rolled off Horace in unending waves. The pricks of pain were present but muffled, and that same feeling spread to my brain as well. My thoughts became sluggish. What was he saying? He was offering me information, but at a price.
“Do you understand my terms?” he asked.
“I think so.” The words were slow to work their way out of my mouth. Even my breathing felt hampered by his presence. “I’ll bring the jewelry box back here, and you’ll tell me who really killed Raziel Santos.”
“I’d be deeply indebted to you.”
“And if I refuse?”
He flickered again. “My incarceration here will continue ad infinitum, and you’ll never be able to clear your name.”
The pressure in the room increased. I wondered if this is how deep-sea divers felt—oppressed, suffocated, and desperate to be free. The air thickened around me. Penelope’s tasteful decor swirled. I had no time to wonder if his words were true or to reassure myself that there were other ways to prove my innocence. Time seemed to slip away from me along with my breath. He promised answers. He promised relief.
“I’ll find the box,” I gasped.
A grin spread across Horace’s face. “I’ll be watching.”
He vanished, and the pressure let up immediately. I tumbled off the couch and onto the faux fur rug, clutching my stomach and wheezing. I hadn’t felt this winded since running a mile and a half in high school, and if I closed my eyes for more than a blink, the darkness spun around me like I’d had too much to drink.
Striker jumped off the table and huddled beside my face, her body low to the floor. A deep rumble came from her chest, half purr, half growl. I realized she’d probably felt as squashed and suffocated as I had throughout Horace’s visitation, trapped on that coffee table and unable to move.
It took a long time to recover my breath, and still longer to light the sage and smudge the area to clear it of any remnants of the heaviness Horace had left behind when he’d disappeared. Circling the room and focusing on making space for positive energy helped me clear my mind and make sense of everything that’d just happened. Horace might not be a poltergeist, but he was a negative presence in this house. How long had Gabrielle had to deal with him while she’d lived here? Had he appeared at her séances? Had she ever tried to banish him? These were questions to which only she would know the answers, and I realized I had two important decisions to make.
Exhausted but in no mood to sleep in the bed Raziel had slept in or to rest in a space now firmly associated with a bully of a ghost, I gathered my things and retreated to the first floor of the inn. It was after midnight, but light spilled into the lobby from the kitchen. Penelope’s office door stood open, and I knocked at the doorframe again.
“Any luck?” she asked.
“Not with reaching Raziel.” I handed her back the key to the attic suite. “But there’s someone else up there, a spirit named Horace. He’s strong.” I bit my lip. “And he’s not happy. I’m worried he could harm your guests.”
Penelope’s eyes widened with alarm, and her face paled. “Can we get rid of him?”
“I’ll try.” That was the easier of the two decisions. Horace was desperate to move on to the next life, and just as anger fueled a poltergeist’s ability to affect the living world, his desperation appeared to have made Horace powerful enough to scare me.
Penelope looked as afraid as I felt, and she pressed the bronze key back into my hand. “I won’t put any guests in the attic until you give me the all-clear. It’s your jurisdiction now. Any time you think you can banish him, I want you to try.”
My trembling fingers curled around the key. I didn’t know if I was strong enough to force Horace out if he wasn’t willing to go. Not alone. And when I realized who I needed to call on for help, my second decision was made.
At my request, Penelope gave me a folded slip of paper with an address written on it. Then, with only the barest fumes of energy left to carry me home, I climbed into bed and shut off my alarms. I needed as much sleep as possible to face the tasks ahead.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, armed with another weak cup of instant coffee and a toaster pastry, I stared down at a blank sheet of notebook paper. My countertop was littered with a dozen crumpled attempts to write to Gabrielle, and more had been abandoned all over the apartment where Striker left them. She preferred live prey, but a fresh ball of paper was an acceptable substitute on rainy days like this one. And once she’d soaked the paper through with kitty saliva, it was “dead” and she needed a fresh one.
She sat on the stool next to me, assessing her prey. One of the rejected letters called to her, and she darted out a paw, hooking the ball with a single claw. She flung it onto the floor behind us and leapt after it with so much force that her barstool rocked back and forth, tapping against the cupboards. Leaving chaos in her wake, she tore after the ball of paper, batting it this way and that until it found the edge of the large square rug that covered most of our floor.
That’s when she took her game to Expert Mode. Sitting on the rug, she lifted a corner with one paw and batted the ball of paper beneath it with the other. Then, she shot under the bed. Her yellow eyes appeared seconds later, watching the lump she’d made in the rug for any sign of movement. Apparently, she saw something, because she exploded out from beneath the bed and dove under the carpet to retrieve her prize.
Not for the first time, I wished I was a cat. Striker was well-fed, spoiled rotten, and always entertained. She didn’t have any major decisions to make or people depending on her.
“Well, that’s not true,” I told her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
In response, she rolled over and cleaned her backside in a manner that somehow managed to be smug. She’d recovered better than I had from our encounter with Horace the night before. I felt a constant weight on my mind, the lingering remnants of his display of power.
With a sigh, I forced myself to turn my attention back to my notebook. I needed to tell Gabrielle what’d happened in the attic, because I needed to know more about Horace’s history. But I hadn’t written her before and, like the worst kind of friend, I was only reaching out now because I needed something. Guilt over the timing of my letter convinced me to write it by hand instead of typing out the letter on my laptop and borrowing Graham’s printer, and shame prevented me from having anything to show for the last half-hour of trying to get something on paper.
The hardest part was the beginning. My rejected efforts had included several unsatisfactory starts, like:
Dear Gabrielle,
On a scale of “Orange is the New Black” to “The Rock,” what’s jail like?
Or more contrite openings:
Dear Gabrielle,
Sorry I got you arrested. I was wondering if you’d do me a favor…
“This is stupid,” I muttered. There were no perfect words. No matter what I said, part of it would be wrong. And even if I didn’t think it was wrong, she could interpret the wrong mood or meaning. That was the trick of the written word. The important thing, I decided, was honesty.
Chewing the end of my pen, I tried again.
Dear Gabrielle,
I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to hear from me. If you tore up this letter as soon as you saw who it was from, I wouldn’t blame you. But I hope you read it.
I can’t imagine what things are like for you, but if you want to write me back and tell me, I’d like to hear about what’s going on.
I’m also hoping you can help me with something…
I detailed the events in the attic the night before, explaining that Horace had appeared to me twice now when I’d been trying to make contact with another spirit. I
described the way his energy had overpowered me as best I could and included the request he’d made that I retrieve the stolen jewelry box and return it to the Oracle Inn.
I’ll try to find it, I wrote. I’m honestly afraid of what will happen in that house if I can’t help him move on. Enough people have been hurt because of spirits I’ve left untended. I won’t be able to forgive myself if one of Penelope’s guests is injured… or worse.
Writing the words made my fears more real than I’d wanted, and I picked up the letter to crumple it up.
“Brrrllll,” Striker scolded me from the floor.
“What, don’t you want a fresh ball?”
She glared at me then went back to her bath.
Not wanting to start over yet again, I put the paper back down and finished the letter by asking Gabrielle if Horace had ever shown up while she was having one of her famous séances in the attic and if she had any advice for helping spirits move on to the other side. If Horace’s idea didn’t pan out, it’d be nice to have a backup plan in place. One way or another, I was determined to get him out of the inn.
As soon as I signed my name, I folded up the letter and stuffed it into an envelope. Then, to make sure I couldn’t talk myself out of sending it, I marched down to the foyer and slid it into the outgoing mail slot.
A wave of panic slammed into me the instant the envelope left my fingers. The letter was all wrong; I hadn’t been apologetic or kind enough. Or had I been too syrupy? So over-the-top she’d be insulted? I had to get into that box to retrieve the letter. Graham had to have a key somewhere in his apartment, or I could just wait here until the mail carrier came.
The knob on the front door rattled, making me jump. The mail lady! my brain shouted illogically. But it was only Kit, dripping with sweat through distinctly un-Kit-like clothes: jogging shorts, running shoes, and a neon yellow t-shirt.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You look like one of those dogs who just got caught eating the Thanksgiving turkey. Why do you have ‘guilty’ tattooed on your forehead?”
“You look like one of those people who runs for fun,” I retorted. “Who are you, and what have you done with Kit Dyedov?”
Not bothering to respond, she pushed past me to retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen sink, panting slightly between gulps as she drank.
“Seriously,” I said. “When did you take up running?”
“Today.”
“Okay…. Why?”
She shrugged. “Just felt like it.”
In all the time I’d known her, Kit had never once worked out. She claimed hauling equipment cases to and from her van was equivalent to lifting weights for half an hour a day, and her version of cardio was dashing around like a puppy when she was excited. Now she stood before me, the beads of perspiration on her forehead proof that she’d been pushing her body.
Before I could point out the obvious, that her sudden interest in fitness had developed just when she’d started seeing someone, she ducked into Amari’s apartment. She returned a minute later with a freshly washed face and slid onto a stool with a sigh, wrapping her hands around another glass of water.
I smirked. “Keeping your toiletries at her place, huh?”
“No.” She glared at me. “I just like her face wash better than mine, that’s all.”
“Right. Face wash she didn’t bother to take with her to Reno. I bet you fifty bucks if I go into her bathroom I’ll find your toothbrush.”
She leapt off her stool, intercepting me before I could make good on my threat. “Hey! Respect her personal space!”
“Don’t you mean your personal space?” I pushed her shoulder with a single finger. “Why don’t you just bite the bullet and move in there already?”
“I might. My lease is up next month. I’ll talk to Graham about switching when he gets back.”
“And Amari will take your old place, huh?”
“No.” Kit folded her arms. “She’d just stay with me downstairs.”
“O-ho! Look who’s combining apartments now!”
Kit rolled her eyes, but a red flush spread across her face. A murmured “shut up” was the best response she could muster, which counted as a victory for me. As I am a gracious winner, I didn’t twist the knife.
“Are you busy today?” I asked.
“I’ve got to make a few calls, fill in a couple gaps in our production schedule. Why?”
“How would you feel about a field trip?”
“Field trip?” She frowned. “I thought you’re not supposed to leave town.”
“It’s not far. And it’d be for work. They can’t stop me from doing my job.”
She grinned. “Atta girl. What do you have in mind?”
“Have you ever heard of Cambion’s Camp? I checked, and…” I trailed off as Kit started squealing.
She covered her mouth with two balled-up fists, and her eyes glowed like crystal balls. She reminded me of the kids in amusement park ads, right after their parents show them the tickets. “Cambion’s Camp?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” She shrieked, then clapped a hand over her mouth and took a deep breath through her fingers. When she’d recovered herself, she grabbed me by the shoulders. “Tell me everything!”
I caught her up on what’d happened during my attempt to reach Raziel, treading gently to avoid reminding her that Amari and I had colluded to keep the Soul Searchers from filming me while I reached out to him.
When I got to the part about the spirit from the cabin interrupting me again, Kit exploded. “Are you kidding me?”
“His name is Horace. He asked me to find a jewelry box he stole while he was alive.” I related the rest of Horace’s story, relieved to be telling it to someone I trusted instead of laying it out on a piece of paper I wasn’t confident the recipient would read. “He claims he saw who really killed Raziel. He’ll only tell me if I bring the box back to him.”
Kit’s excitement faded. “Wait, what? This ghost is, like, extorting you?”
I hesitated then nodded. “That’s how I see it too. I wrote to Gabrielle to see if she’s encountered him before, but in the meantime, I kind of want to see if we can find what he’s looking for. I feel like if I don’t do everything I can to clear my name…” I trailed off, unable to vocalize my fears of ending up in prison like Gabrielle. “Is that stupid?”
She stared at me for a few silent moments before answering. “No. You’re right, we have to do whatever we can to make sure you don’t take the fall for someone else. Count me in. I know Dad and Mark will be on board too.”
“Good. Since the cabin cleansing didn’t go the way we wanted, I thought we could use this for another episode.”
The grin returned to her face, and Kit whooped and punched the air. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to film something at Cambion’s Camp?”
“Why haven’t you?”
“Well, it’s not like the cabin. Nobody has ever reported a ghost sighting there, and Dad doesn’t like ‘fishing expeditions’ where investigators just go somewhere with a generic, spooky reputation and wait for something unexplainable to happen. He likes to look into a genuine claim of paranormal activity. But that’s kind of hard because nobody goes there. Like, ever.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes glowed. “Because everyone around here knows: Cambion’s Camp is cursed.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Kit and I easily persuaded the rest of our team that an excursion of Cambion’s Camp was worthy of filming. Mark’s freelancing schedule meant we had to squeeze the trip in that Saturday, and for two full days Kit roamed Primrose House restlessly, continuously making and re-making supply lists and hitting the grocery store again and again to buy enough “snacks for the road” to last us a week.
“It’s a three-hour drive,” I’d reminded her when she brought her fourth set of grocery bags into the house.
“Anything we don’t eat on the way, I’ll eat while I edit the footage.�
�
When Saturday finally arrived, Kit’s speed nearly matched Striker’s as she zoomed up and down the stairs to pack the van with our equipment, plus four large tote bags filled with fruit snacks and potato chips.
Striker climbed into one of the sacks, crushing a bag of Doritos.
“Sorry, sweetie.” I lifted her out of the bag, a simple task made difficult when ten razor-sharp claws hooked into the canvas. I eventually coaxed her claws out of the material and deposited her onto the floor, where she glared at me with narrowed, yellow eyes. “Stay here and protect the house from dragons.”
Before we left Donn’s Hill, Yuri insisted we film the account of my conversation with Horace where it had happened. Kit parked the van in an employee space behind the inn since all other spaces were once more taken up by news vehicles. True to Penelope’s prediction, the crews had returned as soon as the gruesome details of Raziel’s strangulation reached the press, and cameras swarmed the front lawn.
Inside, two Oracle Inn employees tried to stop us from going upstairs, telling us only guests were allowed farther than the lobby. They eyed Mark’s camera bag and folded their arms; I could tell it was a conversation they’d had to have a lot today.
“I’m a guest.” I flashed the key to the attic suite, and they let us climb the stairs.
We passed a crew from a security company who were installing surveillance cameras in the hallways and on the staircase. I glared at them, wishing they’d finished their work a week earlier so I wouldn’t have to be trading favors with a ghost to find out who’d killed Raziel.
On the second-floor landing, a skinny, intimidatingly tall guy about my age did a double-take upon seeing me, nudging the shorter, stouter man he was with and whispering in his ear. I avoided their gaze. They didn’t seem to recognize Yuri, which could only mean one thing. They weren’t fans of the show. They’d heard the other rumor Penelope had been worried about: the one about me killing Raziel. Their eyes bored into the back of my skull as we made our way up the final flight of stairs to the room where he’d died.
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