Haunted

by Irene Preston

  He crossed to the door the other man had come through. It opened into a dining room. His mother’s voice cataloged the furnishings: Regency table and chairs, matching credenza with a large fish statue, and cream porcelain displayed in a glass-doored armoire. Classic, comfortable, and trashed. Clots of ceiling plaster obscured the chandelier, covered every flat surface, and mixed with mud on the wool floral rug. Cleaning up was going to take work.

  The next door opened into a posh living room, the furniture the same vintage as the dining room and just as ruined. Underneath the muck, he saw the hand of someone with distinctive taste. Two men living together. Gay? Maybe, though one of his mother’s interior designers would have played with the furniture styles or mixed in some incongruous modern art. These rooms were more restrained.

  He’d checked out the kitchen on his way in, so the only other room on the main floor turned out to be sort of a media room, with two oversized, leather-covered couches and a flat-screen TV on the wall. A well-worn wing chair sat next to an end table stacked with water-logged books. Everything had been chosen more for comfort than flash, and under different circumstances, Noel could have crashed on one of those couches and flipped on the TV.

  The only jarring note was a small picture hanging right above the light switch. The gilt frame encased a graphic, bloody heart wrapped in a band of thorns and surrounded by a halo of gold. Catholics. Noel had been raised a Performance Anglican with good California-Agnostic values, but no one got far in NOLA without tripping over the Church of Rome.

  Which pretty much ruled against this Thaddeus Dupont and Sarasija Mishra being boyfriends. Anybody Catholic enough to hang the bleeding heart of Jesus next to their big screen wouldn’t be out and proud.

  But this observation did underline his initial question. Who was Sarasija Mishra, and how had he happened to be at the scene of an explosion right before his house burned down? Hoping he’d find something pertinent, he headed for the stairs.

  On the second step, the quiet wrapped around his head like a boa constrictor, muffling the distant sounds of traffic, of life. On the fifth step, the air heated, and under the stench of old smoke, he smelled…gasoline.

  On the eighth step, two from the top, the quiet gave way to an insidious crackling, and he almost turned back. “This is stupid,” he murmured. “The fire is out.”

  And on the top step, a wave of flame swept around him.

  “Shit.” He stumbled down the steps. Midway between floors, he stopped. Quiet pressed against his ears, and the air was clear of any smoke. No more flames. No more gasoline. Just heat, enough to draw beads of sweat down his temples and between his shoulder blades.

  No. His mind rebelled, a fierce protest against the input from his senses. In the aftermath of that defiance, his will flagged, sucked down by exhaustion. He took another step, half-ready to head for the nearest bar, where there was a gin and tonic with his name on it.

  Again a refusal, but this was accompanied by a surge of determination. There’s no fire, dumbass. He stormed back up, fighting through coils of smoke and the rising heat. Shadows flickered on the walls, sparks flew through the air, and smoke seeped from under the nearest door.

  He reached for the knob, the crackling in his head louder than any thought. The knob glowed, red hot. He stretched. He straightened. He…

  …couldn’t do it.

  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he glared at the door. He should dial 9-1-1. He should. The smell of gasoline swamped everything else. This was so fucked up. He didn’t reach for his phone, because—all evidence to the contrary—he didn’t believe the fire was real.

  He kicked the door, once, hard enough to rattle the hinges. Nothing changed. The knob, the smoke, the malevolent crackling; the party continued.

  “I told you to leave.”

  The voice sounded in his ear, so close a soft burst of air brushed his cheek. The bottom dropped out of his determination, replaced by plain, stark terror.

  He pounded down the stairs, barely slowing till he had the kitchen door closed—with him on the outside. He fell back against the house, breathing hard. He didn’t need to walk around the house to know he wouldn’t see any smoke, but he did it anyway. Then he made a second pass, this time looking for the neighbor.

  The vaguely familiar neighbor, who’d known Noel was alone in the house, and who could have set up the hoax to scare him off. Because if it wasn’t a hoax, then the alternatives were ugly. Either Noel was losing his mind, or…yeah. No other rational explanation, really. Yeah, they needed to have a little talk, and not just because of the sweet way the mysterious neighbor filled out his jeans.

  Chapter Three

  Noel

  Chandler: Are you in your office?

  Noel sent the text off to Bergeron, expecting to catch a load of shit for reaching the main office of Hughes Wallace before anyone else. Getting up early had nothing to do with it being Valentine’s Day and his utter certainty that Stephen would be sucking cock while Noel was drinking himself to sleep. Again.

  Focus, Chandler. Stephen was somebody else’s problem, and he’d be somebody else’s problem even if Noel still had a Los Feliz zip code.

  On his desk, he’d placed the two folders side by side. One held the police report and various data associated with the Mandeville explosion, and the other had corresponding documentation regarding the First Street fire.

  Bergeron: Yup.

  Snorting with frustration, Noel sent off a more specific set of instructions.

  Chandler: Get your ass in here. I want you to see this.

  Moments later, Bergeron leaned against the partition that separated his cubicle from its neighbors. His skin was such a deep brown, it made his white button-down shirt glow. “You rang?”

  Noel gave him the eye roll his sarcasm deserved. “So I went out to that house on First Street yesterday.”

  “Seriously? I thought you were chained to a barstool.”

  “Shut it.” Noel flipped open the First Street file. “The fire investigator’s preliminary report says the house is owned by an organization called”—he scanned the sheet—“Custodia Dominicanum, with a guy named Thaddeus Dupont listed as the primary resident. The man called Sara is also named on the report, though neither of them called in the fire. That was”—he ran his finger down the page—“Adam Morales.” Noel tapped the pile of papers. “Now why does that sound familiar?”

  “Adam Morales? You mean like that guy on Haunts and Hoaxes?” Bergeron was straight-up laughing at him. “You watch cable, or are you too drunk to remember?”

  Noel aimed a finger gun at his friend. “You talk too much. You know that?”

  “And you drink too much. Maybe that’s why we get along.” Bergeron’s smile glowed as bright as his shirt.

  “Maybe.” Noel massaged his temple. After leaving the First Street house, he’d had a good long heart-to-heart with a bottle and still felt like shit. And in the end, he still didn’t have the balls to process the fire that wasn’t. Focus, dammit. “So if I google ‘Adam Morales,’ will he actually show up, or are you just talking shit?”

  A slight shrug, a broader smile. “Try it.”

  Noel typed the name into his browser search bar. The first result was from Wikipedia. The same link appeared in the right sidebar, along with a picture. Broad face. Dark curls. The beard had been trimmed.

  “Bet his jeans fit nice too,” Noel murmured, memories clicking into place. He’d spent an excruciatingly long stakeout in a gym where the staff had a taste for trash TV. Haunts and Hoaxes had been on their short list.

  Bergeron’s laugh was infectious. “What?”

  “When I got there yesterday, I tripped over a lurker. Told me he was the neighbor.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  Noel pointed at his laptop screen. “That.”

  “No shit? That’s crazy.”

  “Yeah.” He couldn’t admit it, but connecting the neighbor with a cable show about paranormal hoaxes was almost a relief. Ass
hole probably got the whole thing on tape.

  “You gonna go talk to him?”

  Noel gave Bergeron a sharp nod. “Hell yes, my guy. Hell to the yes.”

  ~⚜~

  Adam

  The thing no one told you about house fires was how they smelled. Yeah. Smoke. Pretty obvious. Except when most people think fire smell, they think campfire or chimney or maybe a pile of burning leaves. A burning house doesn’t smell anything like that. It stinks. Even here in the Garden District, where most of the homes had been built before a lot of manmade materials were involved, the stench was overwhelming.

  Adam picked up the little silk bag from his desk where it had lived since he liberated it from the neighbor’s place the day before. The movement caused the fresh scent of the herbs inside to fill the air. Here in his apartment, the fragrance seemed ordinary enough. Trying not to gag while standing in the dingy ruins of his neighbor’s burnt-out house, the sudden change in olfactory input had seemed a hell of a lot more unnerving.

  He had found the sachet by almost stepping on it in the hall. Only the fact that he’d seen an intruder and the bag was the type of thing that might hold a small piece of jewelry made him pick it up. He’d been trying to breathe through his mouth, which was almost worse, because then the smell came with a taste, but as soon as he touched that bag, the flavor of burnt everything had disappeared, and he could breathe again.

  Damn straight he had kept it on him. No way had the bag set the fire, so Scruffy didn’t need to know anything about it.

  Adam had seen a lot of charm bags over the past few years, everything from burlap to leather to fancy hand-stitched things embroidered with all kinds of arcane symbols. None of them had been demonstrably effective until the plain drawstring bag on the floor in his neighbor’s house. Or that was how it had seemed, anyway. By the time he’d gotten back to his desk, he’d calmed down enough to understand that his brain probably just latched on to anything better than the godawful burnt-everything smell.

  And it was interesting. Adam had opened the bag to find not only dried and crushed herbs, but a Mardi Gras doubloon from Krewe of Thaumaturges and a white ribbon braided with what looked like a few strands of long, brunette hair.

  Adam’s gaze drifted back out the window. His garage apartment offered a clear view over the privacy fence, but most of the surrounding scenery, including the Anne Rice house down the block, was obscured by lush landscaping. Thanks to the last storm knocking down some substantial branches from the oak tree in the corner, he could see right into the backyard of the next house over, though.

  Surprise, surprise. The unassuming Spanish Colonial was turning out to be way more interesting than its famous neighbor. He’d never figured fire scenes would attract so many visitors, but the place had been hopping yesterday. Today, it was quieter than the cemetery down the street, an actual tourist destination and theoretically the setting for his next ghost story.

  He poked the gris-gris and enjoyed another whiff of the fresh, herby scent. Wouldn’t it be interesting if his neighbors were into some kind of witchcraft or voodoo or something? An exposé on the real witches next door to the Mayfair Witch House would get awesome ratings. If he saw anybody else over there, he should try to start a dialogue.

  Adam closed his laptop, which partially blocked the view. Wasn’t like he had retained any of the blog post he was reading anyway. He refused to admit he was watching to see if a particular person made another appearance.

  Arson and Special Claims. Whatever that meant. Mostly it meant Adam ought to steer clear of Mr. Noel Chandler. Scruffy was obviously more trouble than he was worth, no matter what those bedroom eyes promised.

  He bounced the little charm bag lightly from hand to hand and let the soothing herb scent wash over him. Going back over to the neighbor’s place where the insurance guy, not to mention the owners, might turn up was a really bad idea. But he’d been sitting down in New Orleans, ostensibly one of the most haunted cities in the country, for weeks. He wasn’t interested in rehashing the same legends found in every haunted guide to the city unless there was a new twist, and he was stalled on the rumors over in Lafayette Cemetery #1 that had brought him here. Besides Noel, who didn’t count, the bag of herbs was the most interesting thing New Orleans had offered up yet.

  A knocking sound startled him out of his ruminations.

  It took him a second to realize the knocking came from his door.

  No one knocked on his door. No one knew he was here. He basically lived in some rich lady’s backyard. Who would wander back here?

  The knocking came again, more insistent, and a light finally dawned. Had to be something to do with the fire. He’d given his name and contact information when he called it in. Maybe he needed to make a statement or something.

  He opened a desk drawer and dropped the gris-gris into it. Then took a quick survey around the apartment. No underwear draped over a lampshade or anything. He was still in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt well past the time most people were at work, but that couldn’t be helped.

  The next knock shook the doorframe a half second before he got there. “All right already,” he grumbled as he turned the knob. “Maybe call n—” The door crashed open with a hard shove from the other side.

  Adam jumped back reflexively, completely unprepared as the one person he’d spent the morning swearing to avoid strolled into his apartment.

  Chapter Four

  Adam

  “Hey! What the fuck, asshole?”

  Scruffy, of course, was completely dressed. And yeah, even through his shock, Adam acknowledged the incongruity of the guy in his pajamas who hadn’t shaved in two weeks calling the guy in the designer suit scruffy.

  Except Adam didn’t try to look like he’d just rolled out of bed after a good fuck. If he put on a suit, he looked nice, dammit. He combed his hair in a way that didn’t make it look as though someone had just been running their fingers through it. He looked professional. God knew that was a challenge with the unmanageable curls his mother’s genes had stuck him with.

  Noel stood in the middle of the tiny apartment. After one slow turn to get an eyeful of the whole Adam Morales New Orleans Experience, he settled into a bored slouch. “Hi, Adam. Nice place.”

  Christ almighty. The bored act didn’t it make to Noel’s eyes. His gaze landed on Adam, laser hot and angry. Adam was mortified to hear an actual squeak come out of his mouth.

  He realized his hands had flown up in a vaguely defensive gesture. With an effort, he forced them back down and grasped for his on-air personality. He stood up straight, pretended he was the one wearing the suit instead of Noel, and he had just come from hair and makeup. He stared right into the camera and let Professor Adam Morales answer. “Mr.…Chandler, was it? What are you doing here? Is it about the fire?”

  Noel stared at him for a minute without answering. Then he blinked and dialed the laser eyes back to stun. “I didn’t realize you were the neighbor who called in the fire,” he said mildly. “So yes, I have a few questions.”

  “Oh.” Adam thought guiltily of the black pouch he had stashed in the drawer. “I mean, of course. Anything to help.”

  Noel turned and headed straight for the desk. After a brief moment of panic while Adam thought alternately about confessing everything or fleeing out the still-open door, he realized Noel hadn’t read his mind. He just wanted a look out the window. The soot-stained back of 1237 First Street sat in black disgrace, a sullied shadow of its former grace.

  Adam closed the door and went to stand next to Noel so he was close enough to watch his face. Not close enough to…shit…anywhere in the apartment was too close. He edged back and cleared his throat. “I was at my desk when I saw the smoke pouring out the upstairs window. I called 9-1-1 right away.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There was an ambulance. The papers didn’t have any details. Did everyone make it out?”

  “Guy who started it is in the hospital.” Noel sounded distracted.


  “Really? It really was arson? What are you investigating if you know how it started?”

  “How well do you know Sarasija Mishra?”

  Danger. “Just in passing.” If Sarasija was the hot South Asian kid and in passing meant catching a glimpse of him in his backyard a few times. “I’m only here temporarily. For work.”

  “Work, huh?”

  Normally Adam wasn’t comfortable being recognized off-camera, but sometimes it could be handy. “Maybe you’ve heard of me? I’ve written a couple of books and I, uh, I do a show?”

  Noel spun around. The lasers were back on kill and the smile that accompanied them was just as deadly. “Oh, I know who you are, Professor.”

  Adam took a step back. “Not a fan, then?”

  Noel advanced on him. “Tell me how you did it.”

  “Did what?” Shit. He should have denied all knowledge of Sarasija Mishra. “I didn’t do anything. I was up here in my apartment.”

  “Sure you were.”

  “You said you knew how the fire started. I didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But you were sure as hell involved in what went down yesterday.”

  “Yesterday I went over to chase off an intruder. Then you showed up and I left. End of story.” This couldn’t possibly be about a bag of herbs.

  “The fuck you left. What about the freaky shit that happened?”

  Or maybe it was. Adam opened his mouth, ready to come clean about the petty theft, but Noel wasn’t finished. “Are you fucking stalking me? If you filmed anything without my consent, my lawyers will eat you alive.”

  Noel was still coming at him. And Holy Mother, if sleepy Noel was a walking wet dream, pissed-off Noel was scorching. Hot as hell. Also intimidating. Adam kept backing up until he fetched up against the door, breathing heavily and unable to break eye contact with the furious man advancing on him.

  “You’re crazy,” Adam managed. “I didn’t film anything. How would I even know you were going to show up over there? You think I burned down a house just to get you inside it?”