Page 289 of Sigils & Spells

I shut the door and carried my bag with the locks in one hand and my phone with 9-1-1 at the ready in the other. I walked through the living room, back to the office, around to the dining room, through the kitchen, up the creaking stairs, and looked in every open door because every door was open. No one was here.

Someone had been here. Someone had been here, and they had taken off all the furniture covers. They had dusted and vacuumed. As I moved through, taking stock of more things, I realized they had mopped. I looked at the bags of groceries and said, “Well, either this is the night they kill me, or this is the night I fall in love because this place is spotless.”

The door near the kitchen creaked. I knew what was back there in that corner. The door to the basement. The only place I had not gone in this little check out the house journey. I looked at the bags, at that door, at the bags and said, “I have ice cream in the bags. If you kill me now, it will melt, and you will have that mess to clean up. If you let me put all this away, well, I guess you will have ice cream to celebrate my murder with later.”

I heard laughter in my head again. That was a Texan. It was cut short, so I decided I may just be trying to make myself hear things now. Since no one came up to murder me, I put the groceries away and then opened the first lock package. Since it was in that hard, ridiculous plastic, the damn thing sliced my finger and I let out a stream of curses as I moved to the sink and put it under some running water.

I looked up. The window above the sink was perfect for looking out and into the front yard. I flinched when I saw him. I spun around, but no one was there. “Who’s here? Who are you?”

It suddenly smelled like cigarette smoke in the kitchen. I sniffed the air, but couldn’t see or feel anything. I gulped. I pulled a paper towel and wrapped the finger. It was like a paper-cut but a little worse since it was plastic. It stopped bleeding and I returned to my task.

The plastic was gone. The directions were there next to the materials, including a screwdriver and plyers I hadn’t gathered to begin with.

“I’m crazy,” I admitted. “I’m losing it.”

“Maybe you’re just ready to find it, Darlin’.” That accent made me a bit bold.

“Right. Like you haven’t already found a server named Susie.” I huffed and puffed as I carried my supplies to the front door. That lock was already missing. “Okay. I see. You want to be sure I know that this isn’t going to stop you from being here.”

“It’s my home.” I was sure that was Tex.

“It’s my home!” I shouted. I didn’t care who he was. This was my home.

“Everyone knows that.” A lady walking her dog stopped and looked at me like I was nuts. “You already crazy?”

I was flabbergasted by the question. She nodded and waved me off like I was a lost cause and kept on walking. I stepped out and noticed she lived two doors down from me. I might go talk to her. She stopped midway up her walk and looked at me. I smiled. She flipped me off!

Maybe I wouldnotgo talk to her.

I walked back to the door and proceeded to figure out how to install a lock. I had a graduate degree in literature with a minor in journalism and no matter how many times I tried to get this damn thing to work, it would not.

I stepped inside, slammed the door, and the lock fell out and clanged on the floor. I sucked in a staggering breath and let out a decent scream.

When that was done, I let my tensed fingers ease from their fisted position, my shoulders rolled into a relaxed posture, and then I opened my eyes. I blinked. I looked at them and they looked at me. I looked around, and as I tried to convince myself I was not straight up off the rails, I noticed the photos on the bookshelves. I didn’t say anything, but I did look at the three men as I made my way to the shelf.

I looked at the photo of a man in a uniform. I asked it, not them, “Finley Carter?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Oh, that was the first voice in my head, but that was not in my head. It was coming in through my ears like any other sound.

“So, you must be—” I picked up the picture of the handsome cowboy in the hat, boots, holding onto the horse next to him like he was in love with it.

“They call me—”

“Tex,” we said that together. I continued, “Yes. You have quite the reputation.”

He didn’t say anything and when I looked over, he just winked. I picked up the last photo of a tall, lean, beautiful young man in a tuxedo next to a piano, smiling like he was on stage at an award show. He said, “Andy.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from New York.” I looked over at him.

He shook his head and said, “Brooklyn, but I was educated in private schools. Your accent isn’t exactly Alabama either, yet that is where you’re from, right?”

I felt my mouth drop open with the shock.

He sighed as if bored with me and said, “I’m just going to eat her. This is—”

“You. Will. Not.” An arm swung out and Finley stopped Andy’s forward motion. “Go back to the basement or go hunting. You can’t kill her.” He looked at me and then said, “Not right away anyhow.”

“Gee, thanks.” I placed the photo back and asked, “What are you, exactly? Because according to that picture you should be dead.” I pointed at Finley. He was gorgeous and no where near thirty much less ninety.

---