Page 288 of Sigils & Spells

He toyed with the glass a few moments before saying, “Rumors. Just rumors of course, but…some of the young…ladies…of the town have claimed to see…past residents.”

“The dead guys?” I winced. Oh no. I did not want to think my dreams were a balding marathon running paranormal investigator, a fifty-year-old psychiatrist, or a scrawny weirdo Stephen King wanna-be writer. At least the journalist was hot and young. Which didn’t explain why he died. Though he more accurately went missing.

He laughed and shook his head no, then nodded, “Well, yes, but not the ones you think. Dr. Carter catered to a certain…patient. Young men who had been to war. Young men who had addictions. Young men who needed help in some way. Said she was inspired by the original owners of the house. Changed her last name from Stall to Carter within two months of moving in.”

I had not dug that far successfully. “Why would someone do that?”

He shrugged. “Well, some say it was to become part of the town. Some names carry weight because they are legacy in these parts. Some, like my grandma, say Dr. Carter was trying alternate forms of therapy in that house and wasn’t beyond…experimentation of the…woo-woo kind.”

He wiggled his fingers at me. “She was a witch?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think she was just looking for attention. The fact that her first two long-term patients seemed to…disappear is a source for talk.”

“Who were they?” I asked and tried not to let memories of that nightmare surface.

He shrugged. “Well, let’s see. My grandma said once she settled herself as the new Mrs. Carter, the good doctor focused on a variety of young men, but especially war veterans. Most seemed to stay a while then move on, but there was the guy from New York. When she first started, she was still young, you see. Probably about our age when she moved here. Bt according to my grandma, she used all that medical money on plastic surgery because she never seemed to age.”

That seemed about right. I knew women all my life fighting that battle. I was in the wrong profession for funding my youthful image.

He continued as I tried to remember all these details. “That guy had played piano and was a smoker, too.”

This meant nothing, still the thought sort of hit something in my head since I was thinking of long, smooth fingers.

“Then there was the Texan.” He rolled his eyes. “I think my grandma might have had an affair with him back in her day. You want to get her talking about your place? Ask about Tex.”

Our food was placed in front of us and the girl, the young girl who may or may not have dragged my mattress up to my bedroom, said, “All the women in town know the tales of Tex, Lyle.” She did a little wiggle and said, “Some better than others.”

Lyle shook his head as the girl walked away. He said, “See what I mean?”

“Just those two?” I asked. The Texan had hit that memory cord and it was strumming in my head. That accent. No way. No way were those dreams of old men. No fucking way. They didn’t feel like old men.

Lyle snorted a laugh and asked, “You think she needed more?”

I laughed and shook my head. “No. I mean, did she treat others?”

He nodded, around a bite of burger said, “Yeah, but she stopped bringing them into her home long-term. As she got older, she would go to an office. I think it’s a boutique now. She was bat shit crazy by then, but still had a degree and probably a license because who was going to question it in this town?” He finished his bite, took a drink, and then added, “You know they say when they found her in the garden, she hadn’t aged a day.”

“From which day? The day she arrived, the day she brought a client to live with her, or the day she started taking appointments in an office instead?” I asked.

“Touche.” He pointed. “I have no idea. It’s just what they say. I grew up with my parents and my mom moved away from here when she went to college and never looked back. I would come spend summers with my grandma, so I’m an outside insider as far as the townsfolk are concerned.”

I was an outside outsider, so I didn’t want to think about what the town folk were going to say about me.

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” I was exhausted from this discussion, and I still had to go shopping.

We talked about the local hardware store and the fact that Pete would probably give me a new resident discount. Since I would likely need to get more things, I bought the locks there rather than the supercenter. It meant making another stop, but I would need the discount and the supercenter would not have everything I needed long term to fix up that house and the hardware store might.

It was near dusk when I returned home. I grabbed the shopping bags, all of them, and struggled up the walk and to the door. I unlocked it, flipped on the lights, and stood there.

Stunned.

I gulped then called out, “Hello?”

No answer. I steeled my spine and said, “If you don’t belong here, you better go. I’m not afraid of fighting someone. I’m armed.”

With a bag of locks, which I planned to change immediately.

Silence. I put everything down except for two items.

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