Page 52 of Ghostlighted
Pure, unadulterated rage.
“If I go through those gates, Maz, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“What? Why?”
He shook his head, his cardigan bunched in his clenched fists. “Something in there is pissing me off for no reason at all. It’s… It’s fraying my control, nipping at the edge of my consciousness. I have to go home before I do something I’ll regret. Before I hurt somebody. Before I hurtyou.”
“Okay. Okay. It’s fine.” When I’d spoken to Marguerite Windflower—aka Peg—she’d told me that Thaddeus Richdale had done something that actively repelled spirits. I didn’t think it wouldenragethem, or that it could still be in effect. “I’ll drive you back.”
He choked on a laugh. “You don’t have to drive me, Maz. Getting home is never a problem. I’ll see you tonight.”
“I, um, have a date to pick Ricky up tonight.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you both.” He took another deep breath. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Then he was gone.
“Well, crap.” I put the car in Drive and passed through the gates again. “And like hell will I not worry about you, Avi.”
I now had a new goal. Somewhere in the piles of Richdale family detritus, there had to be a clue about what Thaddeus had done to drive ghosts away. I’d find it, and once I did, I’d rip it out by its roots.
Avi didn’t deserve to live right across the freaking road from something that threatened him like this. Also, if this mysterious whatever-it-was was keeping other ghosts away, then it definitely had to go, not only for the sake of the town, but again for Avi.
Because if there wasn’t some supernatural blockage in place preventing it, there was one spirit who’d do everything in his phantasmagorical power to get back to Ghost, and it wasn’t Thaddeus or Jonah Richdale.
It was Oren Buckley.
Chapter Eighteen
My car was the only one in the lot, so the rest of the staff must have taken advantage of Saul’s offer of an extra day off after the event. However, I had a key to the side door that led to the hallway with the servants’ staircase that Saul and I always used to get up to the second floor. His office and the document room where I worked weren’t on the regular tour path. We never heard any commotion from the gift shop or ran into parties as they wandered through the Manor, so why did the place feel extra silent and deserted this morning?
Maybe because I didn’t expect to be alone.
I practically crept down the passage to the document room, and once I was there, I couldn’t focus. I wanted to find the thing—whatever it was—that was affecting Avi, but I didn’t know where to start. As ashamed as I was to admit it, I’d never taken the official tour of the Manor, and I couldn’t remedy that fact today.
It didn’t feel right to poke around the place on my own. I doubt Saul would have objected if I’d asked, but I hadn’t asked, so that option was off the table. I couldn’t even reference Frances Richdale’s journal because Saul had sent it to a bookbinder to have it professionally disassembled, the pagesphotographed in high resolution, and then rebound so we could sell hardcover facsimiles in the Manor gift shop and an ebook version online.
I’d been surprised about the digital option.
“We have an online store?” I’d asked Saul.
“We do. Mostly for ticket sales and tour reservations.” He sighed. “I’ve always intended to do more with it, but somehow all my time gets taken up with fundraising, so…” He spread his hands in awhat-can-you-dogesture. Then his lips curled up in a smile and his brown eyes sparkled. “I don’t suppose you’d consider adding internet content creation to your document sorting tasks. I could ask Taryn to amend the contract to account for it.”
I waved that away. “The contract is more than generous, and we’d talked about putting together a book about the family based on their papers, so I don’t think this counts as scope creep.”
Saul had been adamant. “Web content wasn’t part of the original deal. I’ll let Taryn know.”
I’d promptly forgotten about it following Carson’s arrest and discovering that Avi was Jake freaking Fields, my favorite thriller writer. Maybe now would be a good time to make a list of possible blog post topics. I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the stacks of crates I hadn’t even peeked in yet.
“There’s certainly enough potential source material,” I muttered. As a hoarder, Thaddeus Richdale was no slouch.
I closed my eyes, spun around twice, and, while I recovered my balance, flung out an arm, finger extended. When I opened my eyes, I was pointing at a battered cardboard box partially hidden in a totally unnecessary and peculiarly shaped niche.
“All right, little box. You weren’t even on my radar, but let’s see what you’ve got to tell me.”
I hauled it over to the table I used for sorting contents as I unpacked each container, coughing at the cloud of dust that puffed out when I set it down. I don’t know what I was hoping for—maybe crumbling parchment with jagged letters in ink the color of dried blood that saidBeware the cursed monkey’s paw!
Hey, what can I say? It’s a classic.
