Murder House

by Jordan Castillo Price

  He locked his knees and did his best to stand firm.

  “I can help you find the veil,” I told the roiling figure—but then I realized I might be promising something I was unable to deliver. With all those living creatures tied into her apparition, there was no single cord. When I tried to find the one that belonged specifically to Amelia, the whole thing lit up like a spiderweb catching a sunbeam, a web made from hundreds of tiny, interwoven strands, all of them going in different directions.

  The pile reshuffled, and the figure raised an arm and pointed toward Hale’s townhouse.

  Bly groaned and teetered. I yanked him away from the hole in the floor so he didn’t break his neck.

  “I talked to Hale,” I insisted. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with it. I’ve seen the ME’s report. You had a coronary, pure and simple. There’s no way to mimic that.” Not with a re-labeled bottle of detergent, anyhow.

  The longer I spoke—the longer Amelia Griggs stayed present among us—the more agitated the rats became. They churned harder, dangling, falling, scrambling back on. Someone squeaked as they took a tiny, sharp toenail to the eye, and the figure grew less and less humanoid.

  Bly’s light beam darted through the rafters.

  “Vic…what if she’s not pointing at Hale?”

  The rats froze for a second, a few dropping off, then resumed their frantic scrambling, way more unnerving for the eerie pause. The rat-arm pointed even more emphatically. Beside me, Bly gathered himself, tensing all over, then forced himself to shuffle into the attic a few steps deeper.

  He went farther than I’d ever managed, mainly to give the rat pile a wide berth, and shone his flashlight where the makeshift hand was trying to point. There was insulation there between the rafters, fiberglass batting backed with brown kraft paper, and the rats had had a field day nesting in it. The paper was in tatters, and puffs of yellow batting stuck out. As Bly lit the wall, we took in the extent of the damage…until he took one more step in, and the angle of his flashlight shifted…to reveal the damage wasn’t random after all.

  There among the shredded paper and fiberglass fluff, I picked out the word HELP. My heart began to pound and I triple checked to reassure myself I wasn’t making it up. And then I saw the word below it: THEM.

  Help them.

  I swallowed hard, pitched my voice casual, and said, “So. How many rats do you think we can smuggle out in our coveralls?”

  “What?” Bly said. When I pointed at the wall, he did a double-take and groaned. “Sorry, man—ain’t gonna happen. Even if I could bring myself to touch ’em, there’s no way we’re getting past the human barricade downstairs.”

  “Can’t you put your foot down and insist? Don’t you outrank everyone here?”

  “It’s not that simple. I’m the lead on the assignment in general, but Agent Hinds is the lead security tactician.”

  “But you still call the shots, don’t you?”

  “I do, but if he thinks we’re in danger, he can veto.”

  Maybe if we just asked him nicely….

  Yeah. He’d respond really well to that. First he’d give me the look he usually reserved for when I forgot my desktop password. Then he’d make a go-ahead gesture and the goons would open fire on the colony.

  “We have to save the rats,” I whispered urgently, sucking down white light for all I was worth. “Otherwise, the spirit might jump.”

  Bly swiped at the perspiration clinging to his facial stubble. It clattered off in tiny hailstones as the rats cycled through in roiling waves, climbing, falling, climbing again. “We could try going over his head to Laura—but as much as she loves animals, she hates ghosts more. Can you really take that chance?” He gestured toward my Super Salter. “Take out the ghost, and the rats won’t matter.”

  Was I strong enough to force the Rat Queen to cross into the great beyond? I wouldn’t know, not until I pulled the trigger and either succeeded, or spectacularly failed. Weirdly enough, though, my reluctance wasn’t about whether I could salt her, but whether I should.

  If I made the wrong call, if I botched this mission, I’d be back to salting repeaters and writing reports. And maybe that was something I could live with…except I knew what it would do to Jacob. There was no way he’d be able to resist doing my dirty work forever. And there was no way he’d do it without getting caught. It wasn’t just my future riding on this. It was both of ours.

  My pits were soaked and my finger was slick on the trigger, but my breath came out in a whirling cloud of vapor that danced in the glaring lights.

  “Take the shot,” Bly whispered.

  Amelia’s apparition pulsed with life—the life of dozens of rats—and the image seemed to clasp its hands in supplication.

  Help them.

  Jodi’s training came back to me. Square up the target. Take a breath. Exhale. But instead of squeezing the trigger, I let the Super Salter fall to my side. “I can’t. I just…I can’t.”

  I caught Bly sizing up the gun as if he was wondering if maybe he could. But it was the mother of all specialty weapons, and Dr. K had designed it specifically for me….

  “Sometimes we’ve gotta do things we don’t want to do,” Bly said.

  Dr. K in his windowless warren of a lab. The lab that stretched several city blocks, beneath the railroad tracks and the Dan Ryan. The lab that could easily absorb a few hundred rats into its menagerie of ant farms and microbe colonies and psychically-influenced plants.

  Bly said, “Sometimes there are no good choices, and we’re stuck picking the one that sucks the least.”

  Dr. K…who might actually override Laura’s hypersensitized fear of all things dead. Because if there’s anything we as a culture hold up to try and illuminate the darkness, it’s science.

  “You can’t save everyone,” Bly said urgently. “Or every…thing.”

  “Hold that thought.” I pulled out my phone. “Video-call Dr. K.” A camera icon appeared on the screen, replaced by his ruddy, smiling face in five seconds flat.

  “Agent Bayne! What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

  “How’d you like to get your hands on a few dozen rats who’ve been controlled by a nonliving entity?” His preferred phrase, not mine.

  “I would give them a wonderful home.”

  “Could you promise not to vivisect them?”

  “Such a dark sense of humor.” He gave an avuncular laugh, which I totally didn’t buy. He was a friendly enough guy, don’t get me wrong, but he came up in Soviet Russia where the ends justified the means. “You know rats only live a couple of years, don’t you? Even in captivity.”

  “Then you won’t have long to wait before you slice up their brains. Promise—or they all end up in the incinerator.”

  “Of course. There will be plenty to study in their behavior alone.”

  With one eye on the vaguely humanoid rat pile, I said, “No funny business—I’ll be checking up on them.”

  “I look forward to seeing more of you.”

  I still wasn’t totally convinced he wouldn’t prefer to see me strapped down to a table. But according to the tradecraft, you took your allies where you could get them.

  I pocketed the phone and said to the squirming rat pile, “I don’t know much you heard, but here’s the deal. Your rats live out the rest of their lives well cared for. They might have to work for their suppers, but I’m guessing they’re used to that.”

  The colony churned, and for a panicked moment, I thought maybe all this effort had been for nothing, and all I’d have to show for my weeks of undercover work were an old man who’d played me good and a pile of dead rats. But then I saw that as the rats dropped off, one by one, they scurried back into their habitat instead of climbing back up the mountain. They started dropping off faster, a few at a time now, hitting the floorboards in a hailstorm of tiny thumps. In less than a minute, the pile was dispersed, leaving behind nothing but a woman’s shadow playing through the rafters in the shuddering beam of Bly�
��s flashlight. She held up a hand in farewell…and was gone.

  33

  I let out a trembling sigh. At the end of the exhalation, my breath was no longer steaming, and thawing sweat prickled my beard.

  “All clear?” Bly asked.

  “All clear.”

  He couldn’t get out of that rat-filled attic fast enough. “All clear,” he shouted down the trap door, “stand down!” In the closet below us, someone’s FPMP-issued phone rang.

  As I made my way down the folding stairs on rubbery knees, I caught half a conversation that reassured me Dr. K was successful in getting a reprieve on the rat colony’s death sentence. Were the rats psychic? Doubtful. To date, scientific tests had been inconclusive, but there was long-standing anecdotal evidence that animals in general could sense the subtle bodies. My guess was that Amelia had possessed more than just an affinity for animals—that she could communicate with them on an extrasensory level…even from beyond the grave. But I’d let Dr. K spend time coming to that conclusion himself if it bought her beloved rats a humane retirement.

  Soon, another team showed up—this one with slightly different traps. I was wired and tired, trembling with adrenaline come-down and lack of sleep. The townhouse looked foreign with all the serious agents in tactical gear teeming through it like a colony of big, two-legged rats. I’d tapped some notes into my phone while they were fresh in my mind, but my narrative looked worse than the dumbest episode of Liquid Sight, even to me. Good thing Carl would help me phrase it in such a way as to sound remotely plausible.

  My eyes were gritty with the sleep I didn’t get, and my neck was sore. Vaguely, I supposed I should go look for my bag of socks and underwear. But I was hard-pressed to even sip my coffee without dumping it in my lap.

  Threads of conversation carried—the walls truly were paper thin—and the agents had never seen anything like it. A 50-pound bag of rodent block was shredded in the corner of the attic, mostly consumed, and the condensation overflow in the HVAC system was chewed through and dripping. The team also wasn’t sure the rats had all been recovered, since the colony had definitely breached the walls. But Bly reassured me that the traps they were leaving for the stragglers were humane.

  As I sat tight and considered all the hubbub, it occurred to me that this might be the last I saw of the townhouse. It wasn’t a sentimental thought. More like leaving a motel room and wondering if you’ve left something important behind. But other than my phone and laptop—and the underwear, if you’re to believe Bly—nothing was really mine. It was all just set dressing, except for the empty dragon vase on the mantle. And maybe it was petty of me to think, but it would serve Hale right if he never got it back.

  A figure in tactical stepped between me and the vase, all business as usual. Carl said, “Rats are contained. Do you need to do a final ritual?”

  “It’s over.” I shook my head. “It’s done.”

  I thought that would be it, but he stared at me for an extra moment, that inscrutable look of his that always made me wonder if he’d rather be wrangling Richie. Yes, I was the world’s least convincing stay-at-home writer. And, yes, I was the one who’d insisted up and down that the house wasn’t haunted. Frankly, there was no criticism he could level that I wouldn’t completely agree with. But what he said was, “The attic space wasn’t accounted for in the square footage. It wasn’t considered a livable area. Like I said, Griggs modified it herself—I couldn’t have known.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just so we have an understanding.”

  Huh. Badass tactical specialist Carl Hinds—chagrined? Imagine that.

  Agents in tactical gear trooped down the stairs, covered cages in hand. Carl watched them leave, then said, “Unless there’s anything else, this assignment is complete. I’ll expect you at the office at 0800 hours Monday morning to debrief me for your report. Go get some rest.”

  I was so turned around I had no idea how many days off that even meant, and was too tired to bother asking the phone. I’d figure it out soon enough. I took one final look, and found the place even more stilted and foreign. Like when the cameras back up enough to reveal the edges of a movie set—the illusion of reality had dropped away, revealing it as nothing more than a facsimile of a home.

  Bly approached with a bag of socks and underwear in his hand. “I’m heading back to HQ to drop off the car.” He lowered his voice. “And to make sure Laura doesn’t have the house fire-bombed to make sure the haunting’s gone.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Before you put this case to rest, if there’s anything you see in my records I might need to know—”

  “I told you, there’s nothing.”

  “Have you even looked?”

  Bly gave the plastic bag he was holding an aggravated thwack. “And have you ever stopped to think how good you have it right now? You get to go home to a life most people only dream about. Are you really gonna screw that up by dwelling on how you got there?”

  I decided to let it drop…for now. While part of me suspected Bly knew something and just didn’t want to tell me, the other part had to wonder if maybe he was right.

  I had an Uber called and Jacob’s number unblocked before I was halfway to the front door. Screw the underwear and socks. I owned plenty of socks. All I wanted to do was get my ass home and—

  I hauled open the door just as Terri-Anne stepped up onto the front stoop. “Vic? What’s going on?”

  The van. The team. The tactical gear. The cages.

  Shit.

  “Exterminator,” I told her.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Apparently, the place is infested.”

  “Oh my god.” She craned her neck, and despite my best effort to block her view, peered inside. “Is that…your realtor?”

  I turned, dreading what she might be seeing at that very moment. But Carl was just standing there in the living room, texting on his phone…in black tactical gear, sure, but at least he wasn’t bludgeoning a random telekinetic ninja with a top-secret experimental bazooka.

  Terri-Anne gasped. “You’re not moving permanently, are you?”

  I looked into her earnest face. Unshed tears were already threatening her mascara.

  Well, crap. I’d thought the hard part of the assignment was over.

  It was tough, but I cobbled together something about a home warranty and topped it off with a promise to keep in touch. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to follow through—but if it was any consolation, at least I didn’t leave her wondering why her new neighbor suddenly disappeared without a trace. My ride was there before I could blow my cover story by screwing up some fundamental detail, and with a quick, awkward hug, I left her standing on the salt-crusted sidewalk, blinking back tears.

  Funny how often I’d found the opportunity to experience ambivalence after having the emotion described to me by a hardcore empath. While I could hardly wait to get back to my real life, I’d be lying if I said there was nothing I’d miss about my temporary life. As the car pulled away, I fingered Madison’s friendship bracelet wistfully and wondered how anyone ever managed to come out of an undercover gig intact.

  34

  I hate to think how fast Jacob must’ve been driving that he pulled up not five minutes after the Uber dropped me off. Good thing—since I wasn’t even in possession of my own house keys, I was stuck shivering in the doorway in my skinny jeans and garish parka. I was so cold I actually regretted leaving the douchey baseball cap behind.

  He strode up the sidewalk the first few steps, then broke into a run. And before I knew it, so did I. We collided halfway to the door, him in his black wool overcoat and me in my insufferable hipster chic, grappling like each of us was worried the other might somehow get away.

  His goatee ruffled my beard in a startling way, but his mouth was the same. Full and lavish, and stunningly sure. My kisses must’ve tasted like old coffee and older adrenaline, but Jacob devoured them like a starving man. He felt big and solid in a way I couldn’t compare with the guy
who’d most recently been receiving my PDAs. I hadn’t let myself melt into Bly the way I was doing now with Jacob. I’d never savored the way I could drape myself over his sturdiness and fit together our every last divot and bulge.

  And when Jacob threaded his fingers through my hair, it was nothing like Bly’s artificial tenderness. He grabbed me so fiercely it hurt…and it was perfect.

  Off in the distance, a car alarm bleated. I laughed into Jacob’s mouth and broke the kiss.

  Somehow we banged through the front door and into the vestibule. I’d figured I would remember the cannery by sight, or maybe the expansive feel of its wide open space and high ceilings. But it was the smell I noticed first—the century-old brick, the scarred wooden floors, the lingering trace of burnt sage and a hint of last night’s dinner. It smelled like home. It smelled like us.

  I took a deep breath, my first one in weeks. On the sideboard where we normally dumped our keys was a cup of coffee. My cup—not Jacob’s. I glanced inside. Not quite a science experiment, but a leathery skin of congealed creamer had formed on top. Before I could ride Jacob about the housework, he backed me into the wall and buried his face in the crook of my shoulder. His tongue skimmed the side of my neck. I squirmed.

  The stupid jeans were way too tight. I unbuttoned the fly, and Jacob knocked my hands out of the way. Good luck getting me out of these things, I thought. He struggled for a few seconds, then grumbled his displeasure and rucked up my slouchy sweater instead. When he went down on one knee to lavish kisses on my stomach, I grabbed his head, for reassurance, I guess. His hair felt a little longer on top, but the shape of his skull was comfortingly familiar.

  He was kneading my ass now, hard, through the jeans. “Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to do this here.” Jacob looked alarmed, as if I had some horrible bombshell to drop, so I quickly clarified with, “Let’s go upstairs.”

  As I made my way through the first floor—nowhere near as messy as I’d feared, given the cup in the vestibule—I touched all its surfaces to reassure myself of their textures. My fingers skimmed brick and wood. No flimsy plasterboard or shitty veneer. Everything was sturdy and real, just like Jacob. Upstairs, I was surprised by our bedroom, the weird little afterthought of a loft where the rooms were minuscule and the stamped tin ceiling surprisingly overscale and ornate. The furniture barely fit in the room, and it was 99% bed. It was like the inverse of the townhouse’s narrow footprint and oversized master bedroom.