Page 48 of Real Fake Hauntings

Two couples were making use of the tables, and the counter was empty at the moment. I checked the clock on the wall; it’d be still an hour or so before the Halloween crowd showed up.

Smiling at the customers, I motioned for Dru to join me behind the bead curtain. It was better if they didn’t hear her cuss at me when I told her I needed to leave again right away.

Before I had the chance to speak, Dru grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen.

“Where were you, and why does the shop smell of bleach?” Her eyes narrowed into dark, accusatory slits. “Did someone leave a pentagram?” She inhaled sharply at the obvious guilt on my face. “I warned you, Hope, I’d?—”

“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “No pentagrams, I swear.”

“Then what?”

I squirmed.

Her irises turned a little red, and a bit of horn peeked between her curls. “Hope? Why does the shop smell of bleach?”

For a moment I thought about lying, but that would’ve been unkind, especially as I’d kept Bagley’s existence a secret for so long. “I, uh…found Desmond Crane dead on the floor.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then walked out of the kitchen. “I’m out.”

“Wait,” I begged, running after her. “Don’t leave!”

Dru paused by the back door and glared. “Look, I can deal with the crappy pay”—I frowned at that—“the octopus ghost”—happy gurgling came from the kitchen’s direction—“and even the evil witch haunting the place, but I draw the line at dead bodies inside the shop.”

“I’ll pay you double overtime!” I exclaimed as she jerked the back door open.

She harrumphed and stalked across the backyard to the back gate. The clang of it closing behind her reverberated against my bones.

Feeling utterly dejected, I returned to the shop. Now what was I going to do? I couldn’t close the shop down—it’d be too suspicious, and there was nobody else who could run the shop on their own while I conducted my investigation.

The door opened, and I valiantly summoned a smile. It fought a brave battle and managed somewhat of a stance.

“Welco—”

Hutton entered the shop. He stopped suddenly and wrinkled his nose.

Oh, no.

He stomped his way up to the counter. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” I took out a muffin and offered it to him. “Halloween muffin?”

“I smell bleach and something funny underneath,” he said in a low, menacing voice. Curse my luck. Between his usual paranoia and all the paranormals disappearing in his forest, he was probably well aware of the many uses for bleach.

“Oh, that.” I waved a hand dismissively and laughed, not at all awkwardly. “I spilled a potion gone bad this morning.”

“Potions don’t smell like dead rats.”

“It had some of my blood in it. It must’ve decomposed a little.” I fought a shudder. Way to gross myself out.

He sniffed the air again, his gaze never leaving mine. “Nobody spills that much potion, and a few drops of decaying blood won’t smell that strongly.”

I put the muffin down and crossed my arms in defiance. “What do you want, anyway?”

Did he need more alpha potion already? His aura was as unhealthily clogging as yesterday.

With a last glare of warning that told me the matter was not finished, he asked, “Where’s your hat?”

“My hat?” I stared at him blankly. Oh! My hand went to the top of my head. “Didn’t have time this morning with all the, uh, spilled potion and all.”

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