by Angie Fox
I didn’t believe him for a second. “Okay, then.” It would only be for one night. I’d just have to finish quickly, before Frankie and—heaven help me—his gang got any big ideas.
It didn’t relieve my worry when Frankie spent the afternoon out by the backyard shed, ushering in heaven knew how many gangsters and thugs. And I really didn’t like how he was already waiting in the passenger seat of my car when it was time to leave.
Darkness had fallen, and a chorus of crickets and bullfrogs lent their voices to the balmy night.
“This will not be fun for you,” I said, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“All right,” he acknowledged, with a slight grin.
Lucy curled in a carrier in the backseat, as far as she could get from the mobster. She’d stuffed her blanket over the opening, as if she could block him out entirely.
She was a smart skunk.
The land yacht lurched as I took a hard turn on Gladiola Street and I felt every inch of the worn shocks. My grandmother had bought this car new, and while I was glad to have inherited it, along with my house, it was clear the sputtering relic had seen better days. Perhaps Frankie had been right about working for spending money. But I wasn’t going to take money from an animal shelter. If anything, once I had something in the bank, I should start donating.
We passed the old cemetery with its wrought-iron gate, and I couldn’t help but glance toward the silent stones, gray in the moonlight, trying to catch a glimpse of a ghost.
“You don’t have my power yet,” Frankie mused, trailing an arm out the closed car window, letting the breeze pass straight through him.
The DeWitt property stood about a half mile farther down the road, on a wide bend of the river that cut through the west side of town. The water flowed slower there and it had been a busy river crossing back in the day.
“What happened at that dock that interests you so much?” I asked.
Frankie surveyed me with hooded eyes. “It was a good place to run whiskey down the river,” he said simply. Prohibition had seemed so long ago, until I met Frankie.
We pulled into the gravel drive and my headlights caught the remains of a dock at the back of the property. Windows blazed in a simple stone house to the right. It had to be a hundred years old. Outdoor bulbs illuminated a long cinderblock building attached off the back. It appeared newer and sported a dozen covered dog runs.
“I’ve always wanted to see what they did to this place,” I said, grabbing my purse.
About twenty years ago, Edna DeWitt had left her life savings and this property to start the Sugarland Animal Sanctuary. I’d never been by. Lucy had found me on her own.
I opened the door to retrieve my skunk from the backseat as Frankie’s power settled over me. It shouldn’t have startled me, but it did—the suddenness of the prickling energy as it pierced my muscles and bones, settling deep inside.
“Thanks,” I said, adjusting. I let my gaze travel over the house. When I had Frankie’s power, I saw things as the dominant ghost on the property did. I was both disappointed and relieved to see that the house appeared the same.
Frankie glided away, toward the dock, where a ghostly boat bobbed gently, glowing silver against the darkness of the water.
“Frankie?” I called after him.
“Quiet,” his voice hissed in my ear.
“He’d better not be getting into trouble,” I murmured, gathering Lucy from her cage. She felt warm from being curled up on her blanket. I held her close, grabbed her harness from the backseat, and headed for the old house.
A weathered porch light illuminated a wood door that had been painted white and sported the red and black paw and heart logo of the Sugarland Animal Sanctuary. I turned the knob and ventured inside.
“Bree?”
She didn’t answer.
A small waiting room greeted me. Benches hugged the simple white walls next to racks with brochures for various animal groups. Above hung corkboards full of photos of happy adopted pets and their families. But over that, I saw the ghostly plane in shades of gray and black.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I said to my skunk. And myself.
Yes, this place was clearly haunted, but I could assume—for now—that the ghosts meant me no harm.
A semitransparent gray stone mantel stood against the wall, with a fire blazing in the hearth and a pot of stew hanging above it. I smelled the rich broth, with a hint of garlic and sage. A pair of ghostly cats lounged by the fire, under an empty rocking chair.
“Well, hey, fellas,” I said, glad for the distraction. Hoping, perhaps, for a bit of friendly company.
They stared straight past me.
Perhaps Lucy and I were invisible to them. More likely, their feline natures didn’t inspire them to greet us at the moment. But we’d give them the benefit of the doubt.
I stroked Lucy, who didn’t seem to be bothered by the cats. I’d only encountered one ghostly animal before, a horse I’d met on my first adventure. Her deceased owner had let me feed her carrots.
A low chuckle floated toward me and I stiffened as a figure glided through the wall near the fireplace. Her long hair floated out behind her, and cunning eyes assessed me. She appeared to be in her nineties and acted like she owned the place.
“Mrs. DeWitt,” I said, taking a chance.
“Another one skulking in after dark,” she observed, sizing me up. “We see your kind a lot—people sneaking in to dump off their animals.”
“I would never do that,” I said, hugging Lucy tighter. “I’m here to help stop the nightly animal escapes. Do you know anything about them?”
She stared at me. “Some animals go to the light. Others…stay,” she added as the cats from the fireplace curled around the bare, bony legs sticking out from under her dressing gown. “They don’t want to leave you.”
I was trying to decide what to make of that when Bree bustled through the door, carrying two manila folders with a cell phone on top. “Verity! I thought I heard you talking out here.” She stopped in her tracks. “Wait.” She searched around her. “Did you see a ghost?”
“Mrs. DeWitt was kind enough to greet me,” I said, searching for the former owner of the house. She’d faded. But her cats stalked in circles, watching me.
Bree’s breath caught. “I thought she might be here.” She glanced around the waiting room, as if the ghost would pop out at her. “Sometimes, when I’m in the back alone, I feel as if someone is watching me. Others have too. We call her Edna.”
“I think she likes to keep an eye on the place,” I said.
Bree nodded. “When we get new animals, ones that are lost or lonely, we do all we can to comfort them. But sometimes, they’ll look at the old rocking chair in the common room, and they’ll calm down. I’ve even caught the cats playing with someone I can’t see.”
“She cares,” I said. That much was clear. “But is she letting them out of their cages at night?” I asked, testing the ghost.
“I don’t think so,” Bree said, assuming I’d posed the question to her. “Edna has been with us since the shelter opened. The trouble we’re having is new.”
“Show me.”
She led me through the door at the back. “We divided the main living area into the waiting room you just saw and this common area where guests can spend time with the animals.”
We passed the physical version of the ghostly rocking chair I’d seen in the foyer. “This is hers,” I said, running a hand over the armrest.
Bree paused, her brows drawn together. “How did you know?”
I merely smiled.
Bree led me to the small-animal section in the back, where half a dozen kitties snoozed in their cages. A few lifted their heads at our approach, curious. “We’ve had problems in here,” she said, pausing when I stopped in front of an empty cage. “You don’t need to worry about that one. Kermit the rabbit was adopted out this afternoon.” She led me to a pair of cages on the opposite wall from the cats. “We
have a guinea pig named Ninja and five mice—all brothers—if you know anyone who wants them as pets.”
“Tempting fate a bit, aren’t you?” I asked, half joking. Ninja, the black and brown guinea pig, sniffed the bars and seemed content enough. Two of the white mice even had their backs to the cats as they ran madly on their wheel.
“We’re pressed for space,” Bree said. “Our vet recommended this setup. It was never a problem until…”
Until someone began opening the cages.
“Show me where you were when it happened,” I told her.
She nodded and opened a door at the back.
We stepped outside for a moment, under a covered walkway. My eyes had barely adjusted to the dark when we entered the cement-block building I’d seen earlier. We were greeted by a cacophony of dog barks and Lucy startled.
“It’s okay,” I said, stroking her. “They’re just saying hello.”
We stood at the beginning of a long hallway with fenced-in play yards to the right, eight in all. Most had dog noses pressed against them. I reached through the nearest one and stroked the wet, quivering nose of the small gray mutt who leapt for joy in between pets. She wriggled under my hand, licking me as I tried to stroke her head, her shoulders, whatever I could reach.
“That’s Glenda,” Bree said. “I was sleeping here,” she added, standing halfway down the hallway, “when Glenda’s cage just opened.”
“Was she scared?” I asked, taking a break from the Glenda lovefest to check the latch. It appeared sturdy.
“Glenda was overjoyed,” Bree said, “as were Marvin and Shep—both bassets—and Boomer. We’re not sure what he is.” Her voice caught. “Then I heard a crash in the small-animal room. I rushed in to find Ninja the guinea pig running from Stripe the cat and then Glenda followed me and brought in the hounds.”
“Calm down.” She sounded overwhelmed again. “We’ll fix it.”
The latch was the kind that lifted. I tested it. It wasn’t heavy, but it also wasn’t something that could be knocked loose.
Bree joined me, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Something’s in here.”
“Not yet.” But I had a feeling there would be.
“Why don’t you and Lucy watch over the main shelter?” I asked, easing my skunk into Bree’s arms. Lucy grunted and bonked her head against Bree’s upper chest. That was skunk for pet me now.
A portion of Bree’s tension lifted as she stroked Lucy’s fur. “Be careful. Call me if you need me.”
“Go,” I told her. I’d done this before.
“Thank you,” she said, before leaving me in the dog house.
Chapter 3
Yes, I probably should have sat in a quiet corner until the dogs calmed down, or at least not encouraged them. But I found them too sweet to resist. One by one, I entered their kennels and visited with each of them. The dogs loved the attention, the belly rubs, the games of take-away with balls, ropes, plastic bones, the hem of my sundress, and whatever else we could find.
By the time I’d made it down to Boomer, the mystery mutt, I almost forgot what I’d come to the shelter to do.
And so it came to be that Boomer lay on his back, with me snuggled next to him on the concrete floor of his pen, his tummy thrust out while I gave him rubs. “You’ve got to be part German shepherd,” I cooed. “They’re very brave. No doubt you have some terrier in you as well.” He had that barrel chest. “Terriers are good at sniffing and they never give up, even when things are hard.”
Boomer lolled his head back, basking in the praise. And the petting.
Then the lights flickered.
My body stiffened and my hand stilled.
Boomer wriggled impatiently. He thrust his belly against my palm even as I withdrew it. The energy in the air sharpened and pushed against the power I’d borrowed from my ghost friend.
I glanced down at my watch. It was just after midnight and I was willing to bet someone or something had joined us.
The air hung silent as I listened for any sign of the ghost.
A single footstep echoed on the floor. The hair on my arms prickled and I willed myself to breathe steadily, to remain still.
If that were Bree, she would have called to me. At the very least, she would have opened the door. This was definitely a spirit.
I waited, unwilling to give away my location or any hint of my ability.
Not yet.
If a ghost had indeed manifested, this was my chance to observe it in action.
The lights flickered and then went out.
I shivered in the darkness.
Relax. It’s just a spirit.
One that might or might not be friendly.
A weak, high voice floated in the air. “Baaaaey…”
My throat went dry. Breathe in, breathe out.
A footstep echoed. Then another as the visitor drew closer to me.
“Baaailey…”
The latch on the dog pen next to me jiggled. The spirit was just outside Marvin’s cage—one of the basset hounds. Marvin woofed, his collar jingling. Boomer joined in, his entire butt wagging. I used the distraction to ease out of his cage and into the haunted hallway.
The ghost was so close I could have touched him.
The spirit was that of a young boy. He leaned over Marvin, with his back turned to me, seemingly unaware of my presence. The boy wore blue jeans and a T-shirt with the number 11 ironed onto the back. I watched as he reached between the wires of the dog pen instead of straight through. Marvin tried desperately to lick him, but the dog’s muzzle passed straight through the boy’s hand.
The boy giggled. “That’s wet,” he said, his voice stronger than before.
He appeared in black and white, but his form was more solid than Frankie’s. This spirit hadn’t been on the other side for very long.
And while any ghost—even a child—could be quite dangerous, I decided to take a chance.
“Hello,” I said, hoping I didn’t startle him. “Are you the one letting the dogs out?”
He turned toward me, and when I saw his face, I gasped.
I knew him.
“You’re Parker McKenzie. Age nine.” He’d disappeared nearly a decade ago on the way home from school. Police had found no trace of him. His parents, his church, everyone in Sugarland had hoped against hope that we’d see him again someday.
And now I had.
He had that same uncombed little-boy hair. He wore the same T-shirt he’d been wearing when he disappeared, the one from all the news reports. It was gray, with the Sugarland Tornadoes soccer team logo emblazoned on the front.
He didn’t seem to mind my presence or notice my shock. “Have you seen my dog?” he asked.
A dog? Little Parker might have been kidnapped. Murdered. Stolen away and buried in an unmarked grave. And he was worried about a dog?
I took a deep breath and let it out. Stay calm.
His poor parents would never see him again, never speak to him like this. They’d never hear his voice or learn what had happened. Maybe I could.
But ghosts could be skittish. We needed to take it slow if I wanted Parker to trust me, and this dog was obviously important to him.
“My name is Verity. I’d like to help. What does your dog look like?” I asked, as if this were a conversation between two people in a park or on a street corner.
“He’s about this high,” Parker said, holding a hand down to his knees, his image growing stronger as he thought about the animal he loved. “Bailey is part pug dog, part other dog. But she looks like a pug.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. I knew the importance of having someone to love and care for.
“Now is Bailey—” there was no delicate way to put it “—alive?”
“She died last week,” Parker said, giddy. “I felt it happen. I can’t wait to hold her again and play with her, but I can’t find her anywhere.”
“So you lost your ghost dog,” I said, glad to have an answer, although not quite sure w
hat to do about that one.
“We got her here when I was in kindergarten,” the boy said proudly. “My parents wanted a big dog, but Bailey followed me all around and she wanted me. I found her here, so I thought she might come back,” Parker concluded.
The image of the child glowed softly in the moonlight. “I’d be glad to help you find Bailey. She sounds like a great dog.” And if I had to guess, I’d say Parker was looking in the wrong spot. Ghosts tended to return to the places where they were happiest. While Parker had been happy to find his dog here, Bailey had probably been happy to leave. Still, it was as good a place as any to start. “Let’s look around,” I suggested.
“Okay!” he said, flipping open Marvin’s cage. “This dog can help!”
“No, he can’t,” I said, rushing to close the door as Marvin pushed on the other side. While I did that, Parker opened Shep’s cage. “Stop it!” I called.
But it was as if Parker didn’t hear a word I said. He zoomed back toward the shelter, opening Glenda’s cage along the way.
“Sorry,” he called after he’d done it.
Heavens. “Wait for me by the door!” I called while Shep danced in circles and Glenda jumped on me. I hefted Shep up and deposited him in his cage and then did the same to Glenda. Her tail wagged nonstop even after I locked her back up.
“Hurry up!” Parker said, passing straight through the door toward the main shelter. “Have you seen the cats?”
“Don’t let anybody else out,” I called.
“Aww…” Parker’s voice echoed down the hall.
I chased after him. “I mean it.” He had the attention span and the energy of…well, a nine-year-old.
I didn’t see Parker outside. He’d made it to the other part of the shelter ahead of me.
I arrived in the cat room just in time to see a gray tabby hiss at the ghost. Several others stared. But there was no Bailey. And Parker hadn’t let any cats out.
“Good boy,” I said, still a bit breathless.
We checked the shelter’s kitchen and the office. Parker and I entered the visiting area and found Lucy sniffing the leash that Bree held out to her.