A Babe in Ghostland

by Lisa Cach

  “It could have been a passive haunting. A recording.”

  “She stared right at me.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You sure it was your mom?” he asked after a minute.

  “I don’t know what other short, brown-haired woman would be lurking there.”

  “She didn’t look like you.”

  “No.”

  “Do you look more like your father?”

  “I don’t look much like either,” she said, and there was a secretive smile on her lips. “The eggs are getting cold.”

  He dug into breakfast.

  “What exactly is it that you do, anyway?” Megan asked after a bit. “You never did say, although I’ve guessed that it’s something to do with construction.”

  “I have a company that buys houses, renovates them inside a month, then sells them.”

  “You flip houses.”

  “Yes. Although it wasn’t something I intended to get into to this degree. Through college, I worked as a carpenter, then got a real estate license and became a broker. I did renovations on the side on houses I found cheap, then discovered it was a hell of a lot more satisfying to rebuild a house than to run around showing homes to buyers who made choices based on paint color and insisted on spa tubs in the master bath.”

  “The type of people who say they want their bedroom to feel like a hotel room.”

  “Exactly! Why the hell would anyone want to live in a hotel room?”

  She smiled over her tea. “I’m not sure our way is so much better. Just different.”

  He took another bite of toast, liking the sound of that “our.” Megan’s sensibilities were in sync with his, and it felt good to be with someone who spoke the same language of old buildings, someone who had the same appreciation for character and craftsmanship and thought the costs were worth it.

  “You’re lost in thought,” she said.

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  They talked about the house and the work that she and her mother had done on it. He noticed she’d avoided mentioning her father.

  “And your father?” he asked at one point.

  “Left when I was four. I barely remember him. He moved back east somewhere, and we lost contact. Mom thought it was for the best; they fought all the time, and he drank too much.”

  “I must have made you feel just great last night with my bleariness.”

  She shook her head and put her hand on his forearm. The unexpected contact sent a shock of warmth through him.

  “It was the Benadryl,” she said. “And that was my fault. I counted, and over the course of a long meal, you only had your Scotch and one and a half glasses of wine.”

  “You counted?”

  “I knew you intended to drive me home.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “You’re a funny one, Megan.”

  “I don’t think that’s particularly funny,” she said, sitting back and removing her hand.

  “No, I just mean, you’re surprisingly proper in some ways.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “Not at all. Because you’re also delightful company.”

  She blushed and turned her face away.

  He settled back into his chair, feeling strangely at peace. The kitchen was light and bright, and there was a homey feel to it that he hoped he’d be able to capture in the kitchen he was planning for his house.

  It was only while he was pouring his fourth cup of coffee that he thought to look at the time.

  “Ah, cr—”

  “What?”

  “The time! I was supposed to meet my crew two hours ago.” He dashed into the living room and dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. The ringer was off, and there were six messages. He made a couple of quick calls.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, coming back into the kitchen. Megan was still looking relaxed at the kitchen table, her mug of tea held in both hands.

  He wanted to stay. God help him, he wanted to take her hand and lead her up to her bedroom and show her a different way to say good morning.

  She said, “I’ve been thinking about your unreasonable insistence that I stay in that hell house while working with Ramsey on exorcising whatever wraiths are fouling the place.”

  “You make it sound so inviting.”

  “Believe me, I could make it sound worse. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided I’ll do it.”

  “You will?”

  “It’ll get me my furniture that much faster.”

  Ah, yes. How could he have forgotten the mercenary nature of all “sensitives”? “You’ll only get it if you win the bet.”

  “Oh, I’ll win it.”

  Her confidence gave him pause. Would she cheat? She seemed sincere, but no man was a good judge of character when a pretty face and a set of long legs were involved. Not for the first time, it crossed his mind that his “haunting” may have been set up somehow by Eric Ramsey, and all of this was an elaborate scheme to bilk him of thousands of dollars.

  If so, he intended to catch them in the act and see them thrown in jail for fraud.

  “I do have one condition to my staying at the house, though,” she said.

  “Yeah?” Here it comes. Hazard pay? An expense account?

  “If I ask you to, you’ll get me out of there.”

  “You can leave whenever you wish,” he said, surprised.

  She ran her finger over the edge of her mug. “I know. I’m just saying. If somehow I let you know that I need to be taken from there, I want you to do it.”

  “Of course. But what could—”

  “I don’t know,” she said, cutting him off. “But that feeling of being trapped when we drove in…I don’t know what that meant. Maybe I won’t be able to leave of my own volition.” She threw up her hands. “I guess what I’m asking for is your reassurance that you won’t sacrifice me for the sake of that house.”

  “God, Megan! How could you even think that?”

  The smile on her lips was bitter. “Not everyone behaves as one would wish.”

  Seven

  Megan steered her old Chevy Astro van into Case’s driveway and stopped, leaning forward over the steering wheel to stare up at the iron arch overhead with its coat of arms. She couldn’t see it clearly from this angle and couldn’t make sense of the lines and blobs of iron. There was a family motto above the crest, written in Latin.

  She looked ahead at the house, sitting in its clearing amid the chaos of the garden, trees grown up around on all sides and obscuring the stone wall she knew was there. It might almost have been a house in the middle of the countryside, so little could be seen of the neighborhood around or of the city of Seattle. If Case cut down the trees on the south and west sides, he would have a panoramic view of the city, Mount Rainier, Elliott Bay, and the Olympic Mountains.

  No wonder he was fighting so hard to claim the place as his own. There must be less than half a dozen houses in the city that had as much space, view, history, and character as this one.

  She braced herself for any psychic zings and drove through the arch.

  Nothing happened.

  Relieved, Megan released a pent-up breath and continued around the driveway. Case’s BMW was parked over near the Dumpster, but his pickup was gone.

  A small thread of anxiety pinged in Megan. Was he not there yet?

  When he’d left her house the other morning, they’d agreed that she would spend a few days putting things in order with the shop, then meet him at the house today at four p.m. That would allow plenty of time for her to settle in before darkness fell. Eric Ramsey would arrive with all his gear tomorrow.

  Megan was secretly glad she’d have tonight alone with Case, and not just because she loathed Ramsey. There was no denying that her body said yes yes yes to Case, even while her mind said no no no. He was bossy, blunt, and closed-minded, and yet she felt tingles all over her body when she stood close to him. She’d never been excited like that by her past boyfriends.


  They had been gentle men, with a deep spiritual side, and not much going on in the bedroom. Sometimes she felt as if she had to do all the work in bed, which left her feeling lonely and unfulfilled after sex.

  Maybe Tracie was right. She didn’t want to be bowed to by a man. She wanted to be taken.

  Just once. Maybe twice. If only to see what it was like.

  As she parked the van and went around to open the sliding door and haul out her stuff, she chided herself for letting the animal half of her sway her decision to stay at the house. She might think raunchy thoughts, but she’d never act on them. She’d never slept with a guy she didn’t love, and she could never love Case Lambert. She could never love anyone who didn’t understand her and believe in her.

  After unloading her bags, Megan stepped up to the front door and knocked. “Case? Hallooo! Case, are you there?”

  She didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one.

  A breeze picked up, and she felt the chill of a shadow passing through her. She shivered, suddenly feeling very alone on the doorstep.

  She turned around and shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand. She looked out at the tangle of the yard. It looked as if Case had beaten a path along the perimeter of the lot—investigating the stability of the stone wall, no doubt. She couldn’t tell how far the path went, but a bit of exploration was better than standing there waiting, letting her fears go to work on her.

  She was determined that she wasn’t going to let herself become panicked by anything. Whatever was going on in the house, those two old ladies had lived to ripe old ages, hadn’t they? There was no reason to think that whatever was there had the ability to harm her.

  Okay, not much of a theory, but it was all she had.

  She started down the rough path into the tangled yard, glad she was wearing jeans. Blackberries plucked at the denim, and nettles lashed at her legs. Mixed in with the tangle were massive rhododendrons and volunteer saplings from the fir and maples. It wasn’t long before the growth blocked out all view of the house, and Megan found herself in a leafy, vine-choked wilderness. It was slow going, the tall grass underfoot trampled partly flat but grabbing at her toes with each lifted step.

  She started to sweat. A bee found her and was intrigued, circling in annoying, buzzing sweeps. Something moved in the undergrowth to her left, and she jumped sideways into the blackberries.

  Curses flowed beneath her breath as she carefully unsnagged each thorn, the vines resenting her efforts and springing back at her, trying to catch her anew.

  A thorn caught her in the back of the hand, and she swore aloud. The adventure of the walk was wearing off. She figured she had to be at least halfway around the yard by now. Better to continue than to turn back.

  The path kept going, bending around trees and shrubs, the stone wall out of sight except for a few glimpses of vertical walls of ivy that she assumed covered it. She began to get the creepy sense that the path was never going to end, that somehow it would continue its snaking turns into eternity. Or worse yet, maybe something was leading her down this path as into the mouth of a trap. Maybe something was waiting for her, glad to have her alone, glad that she could not run with the brambles and grass catching at her every movement.

  A trickle of fear started in her chest, and she cursed again. She’d promised herself not to get freaked out!

  But the trickle was still there, and it seemed to be whispering to her, “Hurry, hurry, you’ve little time.”

  She hurried her steps, moving heedlessly now, the blackberries ripping at her legs. She felt the needle tips of their thorns piercing the skin of her thighs through her jeans.

  Through the leaves and shadows, she saw something gray and motionless, tall as a person.

  Startled, she stumbled away, her knees weak. Something grabbed her head from behind. She shrieked and jerked away, turning to see the bouncing branch of a maple tree.

  Panting, heart racing, she forced herself to stand still and get a grip.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw that the gray thing was still there. A sinking sensation went through her, a terrible sense of dread.

  She forced herself to turn her head.

  It came more clearly into view. A head, its features unintelligible. Shoulders. A body beneath, almost totally obscured by vegetation.

  Megan stared fully at it, her eyes trying to make sense of what she saw. It seemed to shimmer in her vision, perspective changing.

  And then she understood.

  A laugh burst forth, and she doubled over, hands on knees in relief.

  It was a statue: a stone statue of a woman, facing away from her. Algae and lichen obscured part of its dirty surface, camouflaging it among the overgrowth.

  If that wasn’t a lesson for her not to let herself get carried away with her own imagination, she didn’t know what was.

  With a firmer step, she continued down the path and soon found the growth thinning, and then the house came into view above the blackberries. A moment later, she came out behind the house near a big maple tree. She saw Case standing with hands on hips, staring at the tangle of yard.

  “Hi,” she called.

  He turned around. “There you are!” He walked toward her and took in her appearance. “Looks like the blackberries got the best of you.”

  “Not the leisurely amble I’d expected,” she admitted. “Did you know there’s a statue in there?”

  “It’s still there?” he asked in surprise.

  “You know about it?”

  “I’ll have to show you some pictures I found of the house at the turn of the century. There was a formal garden here, complete with reflecting pond and statue.”

  “I wonder if the pond is still here.”

  “At the rate work is progressing, I’ll probably get around to the yard in about six years. I’ll let you know.”

  “You made that path?”

  He nodded. “Just wanted to see what was out there. I see you have all your stuff. You ready to unpack at Case’s House of Horror?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He unlocked the door to the house and scooped up most of Megan’s things. She grabbed the few odd bits that were left and followed him inside.

  The house was as dim, dusty, and forlorn as it had been the day before, but familiarity made it easier to walk down the hall and follow Case up the main stairs. Sunlight streamed through the leaded glass windows, and once again Megan found herself awed. It was so spectacularly beyond her expectations of what a normal person’s home could be, it was hard to imagine living there herself.

  If not for his ghost problem, Megan doubted that Case would ever have given her the time of day. He was too busy with work and probably dated aggressive businesswomen who were just as busy themselves, with no time for serious entanglements. They probably took ski weekends together or went to Mariners games and then to a noisy pub with friends. Loud places, with beer and shouting. Places she would never go. Now that Case was living in this wreck, he probably slept with the women at their places.

  Her mood darkened as she followed him down the hall, contemplating his possible dating life. The two of them could never be a match. She liked quiet and thought staying home at night was a delight. She spent her weekends gardening and riding her bike all over the neighborhoods of Seattle, stopping at estate sales to peruse the contents, biking home again to fetch her van if anything looked worth buying.

  “I thought this might do for your room,” he said, pushing open a door at the opposite end of the house from where she’d seen the shadow in the hall.

  Megan stepped past him and into the chamber. It smelled of new paint, the walls an antique white. A full-size bed with a six-foot-tall headboard was set against one wall, a brand-new mattress on its slats, bedding folded neatly at its foot.

  Megan put her things down and went to the window. Curtains still with the creases from being in a package hung on an iron rod and outside was a view of trees.

  “I’m tempted to cut
the trees down now, before doing anything else,” Case said behind her. “It would make working here more cheerful.”

  “It wouldn’t feel so claustrophobic,” she agreed. “I wonder why they let them grow so tall?”

  “Too expensive to remove them, perhaps. Or maybe they just got used to them and had seen enough of the view over their lives. Maybe they preferred the privacy.”

  Megan shook her head. “Makes me wonder what oddness I’ll get up to in my old age, assuming I make it there.”

  “No reason to think you won’t, is there?”

  “You never know. You painted?”

  “I had a quick coat done on a couple of rooms, so there was someplace bright and clean and not so depressing. It’s temporary, as are the curtains. As is everything at this point.”

  He gestured to a bureau and a wardrobe against one wall. “Those have been cleaned out of bird nests, mice, and so on. There’s a toilet room across the hall and a bathroom next to it with hot running water. It must have been cheaper for the sisters to update this bath, two floors directly above the electric hot water heater, than the one at the other end.”

  “Does that copper boiler still work?”

  “God knows. I was afraid to try it without the fire department standing by.”

  “Where are you and Eric going to be sleeping?”

  “I’m through here,” he said, opening a door close to her bed that she had assumed went to a closet.

  “Connecting doors?”

  “I thought it might make you more comfortable if you knew someone was close by. I promise not to peep.”

  She smiled.

  “Eric’s room is on the ground floor. There’s better access to electricity down there for his equipment, and I figured you didn’t want him too near. Oh, and sorry I didn’t get the bed made up. Ran out of time. If you want to unpack and settle in, I’ll go unload the groceries and make dinner later. Although after our discussion last night, I’m afraid it’s not going to be up to your standards.”

  “Any dinner made for me by someone else is up to my standards. It’ll be a treat.”

  “I’d reserve judgment if I were you.” He grinned and headed for the door. “After you unpack, check out the library. There are some things in there that you might want to see.” He looked at her, a crease of worry forming on his brow. “Are you going to be okay up here on your own?”