Page 283 of Sigils & Spells

LIVING WITH MONSTERS

Cara North

CHAPTER1

“Thanks.”I reached for the keys. My real estate agent was a piece of work.

“You know—” she began as if all the signatures didn’t matter, and I still had time to change my mind about the place.

“I signed the documents. I know. I understand. I’m not worried about it.” I scoffed. Did I look like a child? I looked down at myself and considered maybe I did since I was in sweats, but I was about to get in my car and go clean a house that hadn’t had an occupant for over ten years, had been unoccupied for a good ten years before that, even the renter they had prior to attempting to sell it, died.

“Well. I guess you’re all set then.” She smirked and said, “Welcome to Winter.”

“Thanks.” I headed on out of there and then to my house.

I knew what everyone thought. They thought I was crazy to purchase a house that had a history of violence, but seriously, the last guy died of a heart attack. That happened right after he had a new mattress delivered. By all accounts, it looked like he tried to take the thing upstairs on his own and physically broke. He hadn’t even been on the property for twenty-four hours. How was a house responsible for his lack of cardiovascular ability and cheap nature not to pay the delivery people? I assumed he didn’t pay them. Why else wouldn’t they bring the mattress up to the room?

I considered what I had dug up on the place. In fact, the entire town had enough bizarre history to make it a tourist attraction for people who believed in ghosts, goblins, and all things that go bump in the night. My house was the focal point though, because people always died in it. Usually within a week of moving in. Well, with two exceptions, and hopefully, I would be the third.

First, was the family who owned it back in World War Two, a young couple at the start of their lives who met a tragic end amidst some scandal I could not get anything other than speculation on. The second was a psychiatrist who worked one-on-one with her patients in that home. It was the office space that drew me to this house. When I saw it, I felt this…connection. I could see myself in that chair, behind that desk, grading papers. Living.

Everyone else met a rather odd end. Dr. Carter, the woman they claimed was just as crazy as her patients, was in her seventies when she made a phone call and told the coroner’s office she was ready to be picked up. They found her in the garden out back. According to my agent, nothing has grown there since.

I shook my head. I mean, knowing you are ready to die and calling the local undertaker to come get you in an hour are totally different levels of awareness.

It was not lost on me that the subsequent owners had been men and I was sure, like me, they agreed that the property should be optioned to the historic association should something happen to them. I only agreed because, according to the tax records, the property was paid off, so the association only paid annual taxes on it.

The price was too high, so I pointed out that, despite the history, and the fact everyone died there, no one else was likely to make an offer for another ten years. This meant the association would need to start doing repairs if they planned to sell it to another buyer. Within a week, the price dropped, and I didn’t have to come up with the first and last month’s rent for an apartment in this town.

The owners between me and Dr. Carter were a psychiatrist, a writer, and an investigator of some sort. The renter had been a journalist. While the accounts said he was dead, his status was officially missing. I was not sure if any of them were able to sort through any of the home’s effects, but it came fully furnished. They warned me that was because no one would take anything from the house.

No one would deliver things and bring them in after the mattress incident, either. Maybe the guy wasn’t cheap. Maybe they refused before he died trying to get the mattress up the stairs. I couldn’t dwell on all the death when I was sure I needed to focus on all the dust.

I pulled my car along the sidewalk in front of my home and smiled. Sure, it was an old house. Kinda creepy. A historic site so I couldn’t do much about its appearance. A tourist site so I needed to be aware people would take pictures and come by at Halloween and such. I got out and pulled two of my bags from the back seat of my car. One benefit of a fully furnished house…I didn’t have anything other than myself, four bags of luggage, three medium size moving boxes, and two messenger bags filled with work stuff.

I pushed the key into the lock, felt the tumble as it turned, heard the hard click, and I sighed with satisfaction. I opened the door and said, “Hello, you beautiful home filled with awesome surprises!”

I pulled my luggage in and took a quick look around the living room. “Sexy. I like it. You’re all covered up.” I sneezed and laughed. “Okay, so there is a reason you are all covered up. No worries. I will take care of that soon enough.”

I shut the front door and locked it. I would get the rest of my stuff later. Right now, I needed to order some food. While the pizza was being delivered, I dragged my heavy bag up to the master bedroom. Apparently, the only other person around who wasn’t afraid of this house was my real estate agent’s grandson, Lyle. She mentioned he considered buying the house, and I was certain that is why the historic association had a change of heart.

I knew Lyle had to have been there because the king-size mattress was said to still be in the living room. It wasn’t.

Since I did not live in this state, I had to rely on the photos and the price to tell me all I needed to know about this place. Those photos told me I had a lot of work to do, and I could afford to buy it.

The bedroom door had one of those glass knobs on it that reminded me of old movies. All sparkly and like a giant diamond. It was firm, cool, and somehow heavy when I touched it. In addition to being interesting, it was not dusty. I turned the knob and opened the door. “Wow.”

This was a beautiful and clean bedroom. I pulled my bag to the dresser and tugged at the top drawer. It wasn’t empty. “Well, well.” I touched the silky fabric of the gown. Had she even worn this? I closed my eyes and wondered what kind of woman slept in a silky nightgown? I slept in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Put it on. The thought hit me, and I opened my eyes.

I removed my hand from that drawer and closed it. I looked at my bag and said, “You remember how Carmella would always complain about me talking to inanimate objects in our room?” I nodded as if it had responded. Then mocked her, “Courtney, stop talking to that. One of these days you’re going to be surprised at what talks back.”

I found that intriguing as a young girl. What would be the surprise? It was how I processed things. I was an auditory learner, and I understood everything better if I said it out loud, if I heard it. If only the woman knew how many conversations I had with imaginary friends. She might not have worried so much about me talking to my clothing. My bag did not reply like the gown had. phone buzzed and I smiled and said, “I love what this phone is saying right now. Pizza’s here!”

I bounded out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Sure, I was living on a tight budget, but this was planned thanks to the move. I lived in the dorm all through college and got a discount for housing in grad school. This was my home now. And no one could take that away from me. Ever.

I opened my front door and found the delivery guy at the gate. I smiled and said, “It’s not locked. I imagined you would—”

“I’m not going in that yard.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “I thought it was a prank, but here you are.”

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