Ghost Witching

by Ally Shields

She bent down to the window and met his eyes. “It’s OK, Josh. Really. Don’t worry. It has to happen. I may not consider this ghost business a gift, but I’d be foolish not to use it. I’ll be fine. You’ll be there to keep me grounded.”

  He gave her a slow smile. “You can count on it.”

  It was probably the best either of them could do at the moment.

  * * *

  Twilight was deepening the shadows shortly after nine when Maggie and Josh arrived at the Preston house. The moon penetrated the moist, clingy air with a dim glow. The two-story Victorian home sat in an area on the lower end of mid-priced property in the Garden District—one to two million. It was deserted and locked. Crime scene tape still stretched across the front porch. Josh pushed open the decorative wrought iron gate and took down one end of the yellow tape. He opened the front door with the keys from the case file, and Maggie turned off the security alarm.

  Once inside, they used their flashlights rather than turn on the overheads or lamps and draw unwelcome attention from neighbors. Josh swept his beam across the collection of vintage and high-priced reproduction furnishings in the living room and climbed the wide staircase to the second floor. Maggie moved to the right, using her Maglite to check the dining area, back to the kitchen, and over to the music room and study. When Josh called, “All clear,” as he descended the stairs, she met him in the hallway. Convinced they had the house to themselves—at least from the living—Maggie walked toward the ritual room.

  She hesitated in the hallway, collecting herself. It was still hard to believe she was searching for a ghost. Everything in her sensible, Midwestern upbringing told her ghosts weren’t real, despite the recent claims by her distant relatives regarding a heritage of otherworldly abilities. But last fall she’d seen a spirit or some type of being, even communicated with it in a fashion, enough to solve a murder and end a hit man’s career.

  She’d tried to prepare for this moment, a second sighting, by learning the rudiments of witchcraft that dealt with the Veil, gaining enough skill to keep the majority of spirits away, using wards, protective herbs and stones, and by focusing her thoughts. But the ghost of a murder victim with any connection to her—like if she visited his or her death scene—could get past her defenses at vulnerable moments.

  Ironically, it had been Josh, with no prior experience in the paranormal, who’d suggested Maggie might as well put the spirits to work for her by thinking of them as her exclusive brand of confidential informants. There was nothing more confidential than a ghost who can’t talk to the living.

  It wasn’t as if she had a choice. Even if Maggie left now, Preston would find her. So far the spirits hadn’t penetrated her apartment, and she wanted to keep it that way. She’d rather meet Valerie Preston on her own terms.

  Maggie glanced at Josh and squared her shoulders.

  The door was closed but not latched, and she pushed it open. Pitch dark. No dimly lit forms, glowing lights, or swirling shadows. “Wait here,” she said softly. Josh stayed in the doorway while she moved inside, keeping her Maglite angled toward the floor. “Mrs. Preston? Valerie?” she said softly. “If you can hear me, please show yourself. We’re here to help.”

  She waited. When nothing happened, she walked to the altar table, scraped some of the wax away from a wick, and lit one of the candles. She turned off her flashlight, picked up the candle, and turned slowly, watching for any shimmering movement in the air. Still nothing. Maggie frowned. She’d been so sure. It had been months since she’d sensed more than a fleeting ghostly presence, but this was the first case that met the criteria…as she understood them…that spirits hung around this world when they had unfinished business. Those who contacted her sought retribution against an unknown and/or unpunished killer.

  Maggie tried again, this time using the summons suggested by Selena, murmuring Preston’s full name three times. Still nothing.

  She shrugged at Josh leaning against the door frame. “It may not work the same way with all…um, spirits. Hurst may have been unusual, or my ability has faded and the sightings are gone just like the voices.”

  Josh straightened and stepped into the room, his voice matter-of-fact. “You don’t believe that.”

  “No, I guess not. I sense something is here. But sometimes I wish…” She stopped herself. Wishing changed nothing. “Selena and Dalia don’t have any ghost buddies, so they could be wrong about typical spirit behavior. What if showing up is just hit or miss?”

  Bobby Hurst, a two-bit drug dealer in this life, had been her only extended experience with a ghost. Her main sources of mystical knowledge were the shirttail cousins she’d never heard of until nine months ago. Both women were unique, to put the best light on it. They seemed solid on the spiritual lore, but neither of them possessed her affinity for ghosts. Sometimes that meant she got their best guess.

  Maggie compressed her lips in thought. Preston’s failure to appear was confusing…unless the poor woman was wandering around in a haze not understanding what had happened to her. Maggie’s cousins had described ghosts as child-like in many ways. And Hurst hadn’t appeared to her until he’d been dead a day or two. Perhaps it took that long to get your bearings.

  “Ghost buddies?” Josh picked up on her last comment with a low chuckle. “Is that what you call them now?”

  “Good as anything. But I guess she isn’t going to show herself. At least not tonight.”

  He moved toward her, his hand hovering briefly before settling on her shoulder. “Why don’t we get a beer and talk it over?”

  She gave a nod without thinking, tempted by the warmth of his touch, the awareness between them, to suggest they just go home…together. But she couldn’t do that. They had to draw a line somewhere, learn how to separate their work and personal lives. A hard thing to do when all she wanted was to turn into the circle of his arms. “A drink would be fine,” she murmured, stepping away.

  He dropped his hand, acknowledging the reminder she hadn’t put into words. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. They both knew he wasn’t referring to the murder.

  * * *

  After an hour at the cafe bar discussing how to get in and out of a locked house, Josh drove toward Maggie’s apartment to drop her off. She suddenly sat up straight. “Go past the Preston house, Josh.”

  “Did you figure out how the killer got in?”

  “No, I, ah…just do it.”

  He shot her a speculative glance but turned into the Garden District neighborhood of single-family homes built in the 1800s. Maggie leaned forward, peering out the window. “There. Sitting on the front porch. It’s Mrs. Preston.”

  Josh pulled to the curb and looked at her, his voice incredulous. “Have you become psychic too? How did you know?”

  “Nothing new. I just sensed a strong ghostly presence, like someone suddenly flipped on a light.” She reached for the door handle and paused. Now that the moment was here, she was reluctant to get out. Talking about her gift was one thing. Making contact with ghosts was…different. She kept her gaze on the woman sitting in one of the white rattan chairs.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Josh asked softly.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Considering how skittish Bobby Hurst was at our first contact, I should approach her alone.”

  “Are you sure she’s friendly?”

  Maggie glanced at him. “I hope so. I have to do this. It’s who I am now.” She eased out of the car and opened the front wrought iron gate, careful not to make sudden moves that might frighten the spirit away.

  Valerie Preston still appeared human. Except for a slight glimmer around her and occasional moments of fading, her figure was well-defined, her facial features recognizable. Um, maybe not the eyes with that vague, unnatural glow. Preston wore the same jeans, shirt, and blue tank top noted at the crime scene. As Maggie neared the steps, the woman rose abruptly and fisted her hands on her hips. Maggie stopped in surprise, goose bumps prickling her skin at the unexpected level of animation and th
e scowl on the victim’s face.

  Well, this was new. A ghost with an attitude.

  “I’m Detective York, NOPD homicide. We’re here to help you, Mrs. Preston. Uh, Valerie. May I call you Valerie?” When the figure just stared at her, Maggie continued. “My partner is in the car. I’d like for him to join us.”

  Maggie gaped when the figure shrugged. Hurst had never done that. Did Preston have greater control because she’d been a witch? Was every ghost going to be different? Great. How would she ever know what she was supposed to do?

  Maggie gestured for Josh to approach and heard the car door slam as he got out.

  “Where is she?” he whispered, stopping next to Maggie.

  She matched his tone. “Standing in front of the chair on the right. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Oh, goodie,” he murmured.

  Maggie stifled a laugh, wondering if Preston’s ghost had heard him. She raised her voice enough to guarantee it reached the porch. “This is Detective Brandt. We’re working together to find out what happened to you.”

  “Can she hear me?” Josh asked in a normal voice.

  “I doubt it.” Maggie watched the ghost’s eerie gaze move to her partner. “Oops, correct that. I guess she can.”

  “Does she…” He cleared his throat and started over, turning to address the porch this time. “Do you know who killed you? Um, other than the snake.” A bit awkward.

  Preston dropped her hands from her hips and waggled one back and forth in a classic maybe yes, maybe no gesture.

  “Well, which is it?” Maggie demanded. She’d never been good at guessing games like Charades.

  “What’s she doing?” Josh asked.

  “She’s being indecisive.” Maggie described Preston’s actions.

  “Hmm, I guess it’s up to us to figure out what she means.” He was quiet a moment as if absorbing it. “What if the killer was masked or disguised, and she didn’t see his face? She still might suspect someone.”

  Preston pointed a glowing finger at him, and Maggie gave a hushed oh. “You’re good at this. She’s indicating your guess was correct.”

  “Guess? That was good detective deduction. So how do we get the suspect’s name?”

  His voice held a hint of amusement, and how could Maggie blame him? From what he could see, they were talking to an empty porch and two rattan chairs.

  “Can’t you deduce that too?” she asked flippantly. “Since I couldn’t hear Hurst, he showed me things. But maybe this spirit can talk to me.” Maggie peered hopefully toward the porch. “Can you?”

  Preston said nothing. In fact, did nothing.

  “Maggie…” Brandt touched her arm. “We’re being watched. The curtain moved in the house next door.”

  “That would be Mrs. Goodbody. She must wonder what we’re doing out here. If we move onto the porch, the bay window will cut off her view.”

  As they reached the porch, Preston’s ghostly form backed away, keeping her distance. Maggie let out a breath of relief. Until that moment, she wasn’t sure how aggressive or careless Preston might be. Touching a ghostly spirit, making contact with that extreme chill of dimensional atmosphere, was not only uncomfortable but dangerous to people like Maggie with an affinity for the Veil. It placed a marker on her soul, and enough exposure could result in being pulled through the Veil prematurely, while she was still alive. She’d be stuck between dimensions for eternity. Or so her relatives said. She had no reason to doubt them.

  Maggie shivered just thinking about the possibility.

  Although she didn’t know how much exposure was too much, her relatives had assured her the three brief incidents with Hurst were minimal. Still, any amount of taint was bad…and cumulative. Dalia and Selena had confessed they didn’t know the limits. And Maggie didn’t want to learn them the hard way.

  Maggie glanced at Preston, who’d moved to the back of the porch. “How did the killer and the snake get inside the house with the doors locked? Can you show me?” A glow flared around Preston, and she walked through the closed front door. Maggie stared, momentarily speechless. Another first. Hurst had never responded that quickly. “Get out the key, Josh. She just went inside the house.”

  As soon as he opened the door, they slipped into the front room. But there was no sign of Preston. “Is she just gone, or trying to answer your question?” Josh asked.

  “The only way we’ll know for sure is to look around.”

  With Josh following her lead, Maggie moved through the house, front to back, peeked into the ritual room—nothing there—and stepped into the patio room beyond it. Just as the patrol officer had reported he’d found that morning, its two sets of double doors were secured by bolt bars…and the area was empty. She backtracked to the dining room, with its vintage table and sideboard, and on into the modernized kitchen that still retained the styling and flavor of the 1880s, including an antique pie safe.

  Valerie Preston materialized next to the back door.

  “Oh, she’s here.” Maggie took a startled half step backward before recovering. “But this back door was bolted too.”

  Josh half-crouched in front of the lock, shining his light over the surface. “I’ll have the lab out tomorrow to replace and take it in for inspection. If someone used picklocks or a bump key, we might not notice anything with the human eye. A microscope would pick up the tiny marks of mechanical manipulation.”

  “How are you going to justify focusing on this one lock in a house with hundreds, counting the window latches?”

  “The dog,” he said promptly. “The barking dog was in back. It’s logical to assume that’s where entry occurred. We’d notice right away if the patio bolt-bars had been compromised, so that leaves this one or the windows. This is the logical place to start.” He straightened with a smile. “I think I have a knack for making the abnormal sound perfectly normal.”

  “That’s good. If you keep hanging around me, you’ll need it.”

  “Oh, I’ll need it all right.” His steel-blue eyes sparkled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  * * *

  Late the following morning, Maggie was entering reports into her computer and waiting for the interview with Preston’s daughter. The phone rang, and she expected to hear the precinct’s Information Desk announcing Lorna Rafferty’s arrival. Instead, it was Mrs. Goodbody.

  “Are you all right? You sound out of breath,” Maggie said.

  “I’m just annoyed. This young man’s been snooping around Valerie’s house, peeking in the windows. I yelled at him to go away, but instead he came over here. I slammed the door and locked it, but he kept knocking, saying he was a reporter and wanted to talk with me.” Goodbody made a derisive sound in her throat. “As if that made it better. When he wouldn’t give up, I opened the door a tiny bit with the chain on and told him I was calling the police. He tried to stick his foot in the door and asked me all kinds of nasty questions.”

  Maggie stiffened in alarm. “Like what?”

  “Had I seen the body? Was it mutilated? Had she been…you know, molested?”

  What a creep. “I’m so sorry. Did you call 911?”

  “I was so mad I stomped on his foot with my walker until he pulled it out. Then I locked the door again and called you.”

  “Is he still there?” Maggie was already getting dispatch on another line.

  “Not after I yelled the police were on the way. He left in a hurry after that.” Goodbody’s voice filled with gleeful satisfaction.

  “Good for you. Now, give me his description, and I’ll send someone right over.” By the time Maggie relayed the info—slightly built young man in his late twenties, brown hair, freckles—to dispatch, Josh waved a hand to tell her their appointment had arrived. “Mrs. Goodbody, I have to go, but officers should be there soon. Don’t open the door until you see their badges through the peephole.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, dear. But I thought you should know.”

  Maggie hung up and drummed her fingers on the desk. This
sounded like the guy she and Josh saw yesterday morning across the street from the Preston house. The legitimate media was bad enough, but what Goodbody described was more like the scandal tabloids. They were impossible…and tenacious. But scaring old women was a new low. If the patrol officers found him, they’d warn him away from the crime scene and from bothering Goodbody again, but she’d check back later and make sure he stayed away.

  Shaking her head, she stood and strode down the hall to join Josh in the conference room. Lorna Rafferty looked around at the sound of the door opening, and the two women studied one another.

  Preston’s daughter had arrived in New Orleans late last night, well after midnight, and her weary features said she hadn’t slept well in whatever hotel she’d chosen. If the lab finished with the house today, she should be able to stay there tonight, depending on how superstitious she was. Some people avoided houses of the newly dead. Not a bad idea, considering what Maggie had learned about the reality of ghosts over the past year.

  Despite the dark circles and puffiness around Rafferty’s eyes, she was an attractive, self-possessed woman in her mid-thirties. Neatly dressed in a white blouse and designer jeans with her highlighted brown hair combed into a ponytail, she presented them a determined face. Her direct gaze never wavered as she stoically listened to the details of her mother’s death, including the latest results from the lab.

  “That’s unbelievable,” she finally said. “Why would someone kill my mother? And with a poisonous snake? It’s insane.”

  “We don’t have the answers yet,” Maggie said. “Did she have any connection with snakes or an acquaintance with someone who breeds or handles them?”

  “Lord, no.” Lorna shivered, demonstrating her first genuine reaction. “Our family isn’t outdoorsy at all. She is…was…terrified of snakes. She’d never bring one into the house or allow anyone else to do so. It’s unthinkable.”

  “Not even for her rituals?” Josh asked.

  Lorna’s mouth tightened, and then she leaned back. “I wondered when you’d bring up the back room. Mom was fascinated by the supernatural. She read stories about ghosts and vampires, all that paranormal stuff. But it was her friend Lizzie who introduced her to the coven. And Mom loved it…or the idea of it. It seemed like harmless playacting, a social thing. A bit unusual, but I didn’t take it seriously.” Her voice sharpened in alarm. “Did someone in the coven kill her?”