Page 30 of The Roommate Lie

We’re all headed in different directions, as if we’ve silently agreed to divide and conquer, and Muriel beams at me from across the attic. At least, I think she does. Her catcher’s mask makes it hard to tell. “Thank you, dear.”

“It’s a wonderful location for a bed-and-breakfast. You must be a real hit with tourists.”

I’m not just saying that because I’m terrified and trying to distract myself. Muriel’s house is the most beautiful Victorian mansion I’ve ever seen, a blush-pink wonder with white trim and more bay windows than I ever could’ve imagined. When I saw it from the sidewalk for the first time, I gasped. The spindlework accents, the tower, the full wraparound porch—if it wasn’t haunted, this place would be a dream come true. Not as perfect as Charlie’s schoolhouse, but close.

Over on the other side of the attic, Muriel smiles at me again before going full historian. And nothing could’ve made me happier.

“That’s so sweet of you to say. The Harris House has been in my family for generations. It was built in 1896 using a kit from Sears and Roebuck. Can you believe they used to sell kits for houses like these?”

I can’t.

Cobwebs stick to my baseball mitt as I ease around a stack of luggage, but I swoon anyway.

“A few minor repairs had to be done after the flood in 1938, but most of the house is exactly as it was from the beginning. Even the stained glass windows.”

Double swoon.

Charlie peers around an artificial Christmas tree a few feet away. “Are we taking the tour or hunting a squirrel?”

“We can do both!”

My voice is way too cheerful, like I’m a walking smiley face emoji that’s also an atomic weapon. I get ready to say more, something upbeat and full of exclamation points. But my foot brushes a soft lump on the ground, and I stifle an atomic gasp.

Ghosts.

Death.

Despair.

An icy hand winds around my ankle—or maybe it’s just an old tablecloth that my sneaker has gotten tangled in. Breathing a sigh of relief, I lean down to free myself as Muriel lectures Charlie.

“Women are natural multitaskers. And there’s always time for a little history…even while we’re fighting for our lives.”

Excuse me?

Nobody mentioned anything about fighting for our lives. “I thought you said the ghost squirrel was friendly?”

“Most of the time, dear. Nothing’s ever guaranteed.”

Shiver after shiver rolls through me, and I’m going to need a new word for goose bumps. Something larger and more intense—vulture bumps?—because this sensation cascading down my arms isn’t normal.

Before I can recover, Muriel jumps back into her history lesson. Killing me with words. “The Harris House has been voted one of the most haunted destinations in America for the past forty years. A wide array of ghosts call these hallowed halls home.”

This is not the history tour I signed up for. Charlie tries to get us back on track, but Muriel ignores him. Darting around the nearest tower of boxes, she swishes her tennis racket like it’s a deadly weapon.

“In fact, this attic is one of the most haunted areas of the entire house. It’s said that on full-moon nights, you can still hear Old Man Harris as he?—”

“Muriel, let’s save the ghost tour for later—after we take care of the squirrel. One scary thing at a time.”

Charlie’s voice is a life raft. I don’t know I’m hyperventilating until he speaks, his steady response washing over me. My baseball-mitt hand is clutched to my chest like I’m having a cardiac event, and I try to relax, taking a deep breath.

It doesn’t help. There aren’t enough deep breaths in the world to make this attic less terrifying. Charlie can see the panic in my eyes, even behind my catcher’s mask, and he weaves toward me. I hurry to meet him halfway, ready to use that man as my own personal ghost shield.

Hunting demon rodents alone is highly overrated.

I don’t make it far. I bump into an antique baby carriage as I round the closest pile of boxes, and my heart nearly beats out of my chest.Has that carriage been here the entire time?

Probably.

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