Page 3 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
Bishop blinked, taken aback. “Oh,” they chirped, mouth squirming. “Right, yeah. I’ll do that.”
Colin Hart opened the front door. He felt heavy for a moment. Watched. Uninvited. On his way back from the car with his compact, rolling suitcase, he spotted a face in the reflection on the porch window—snarling muzzle, vivid eyes, pointed ears—and Bishop Martínez, blurred and pensive, seated on the couch beyond it.
Chapter two
Colinleftthebedroomdoor ajar as he unpacked. He tucked folded shirts into the empty dresser and draped tailored corduroy pants, pressed denim and neat trousers over individual hangers next to high-necked sweaters and button-down shirts. The first few nights in a new home were always a bit awkward—obviously—but he usually found himself overwhelmed by his hosts. Suffocated, really.Anything we can do? Can we help? Fix you somethin', maybe? Coffee? Tea?Always wringing hands; always war-torn and worried. Helicopter homeowners hoping for a miracle.
Thankfully, Bishop kept to their bedroom, fiddling with tile and cement. Loud whacks came and went. Curses, whimpers, heavy sighs. Afterward, the pipes groaned and howled, the shower ran, and Colin took his chance to wander the house on his own. He lingered on the stairs, shuffling his wool socks along each step, and felt for the empty-eyed ghost he’d spotted there before. The environment felt tainted. Tense, almost. Like something rancid had been overturned and left to fester. Even so, he noticed vanilla wafting from downstairs, spread by a candle aptly titled:Grandma’s Cookies. Colin brushed his covered thumb along the back of the couch, watching a divot cut through the fluffy throw blanket, and tipped his head toward the archway leading into the adjoining dining room.
Crowded houses rarely made themselves known to strangers. They waited, courting their regular occupiers with budding tension and tested boundaries. Colin hadn’t earned his place yet, but he typically didn’t have to: haunted places never failed to recognize haunted people.
“C’mon,” he mumbled, taking brisk steps into the kitchen.
No voice greeted him. No wolf-headed being appeared. No sound cut the quiet until the stairs coughed beneath quick, light steps. Colin pretended to admire the floating shelves, stocked with coffee mugs, decorative dishes, crystal glassware and squirrel-shaped salt and pepper shakers. Copper pots hung from hooks stamped into fresh navy paint and a cast iron skillet sat on the stove, purposefully placed, waiting for a forgotten meal.
“Oh—Jesus. Hi,” Bishop said, catching their breath. “You… damn, you scared me.”
Colin turned. His eyes clipped damp collarbones. He snapped his gaze to Bishop’s face, apple-red from a scalding shower.
“Apologies.” He cleared awkwardness from his throat. “You didn’t answer me before. Your hallucinations,” he prompted, tripping delicately over each syllable. “I understand your reluctance, but itisrequired information…” His lips pressed, half-way tomx. “Bishop,” he concluded.
Bishop scrubbed their palm over their short, buzzed hair, gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “I hear you. We’ll talk about it over dinner, yeah? I need to run out for some sealant. This bathroom is a bitch to get right, but I’m hoping to finish it by tomorrow night.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Colin said.
“Usually I cook, but there’s a really good Indian place next to the hardware shop. Fan of curry?”
“Chicken korma, please. Extra rice.”
Bishop’s brows slouched. A smile sprang to their face, unprompted. “Straight to the point, huh?”
Colin blushed terribly. He clasped his gloved hands. “It’s appreciated in my field.”
“So, I’ve gathered. How ‘bout tea?”
“Yes, I like tea.”
“With milk?”
“Yes—yeah, milk is fine.”
Bishop nodded, assessing Colin with an inquisitive once over. “Got it,” they said, laughing in their throat. “Anything else?”
“No, that’ll do. I have cash, I can—”
“My treat,” they said. “You good alone?”
Colin smiled, briefly. “Yeah, I’ll set up the surveillance gear while you’re gone.”
“Right, yeah. Forgot about that. Well, feel free to raid the fridge. There isn’t much, but…” They shrugged, twirling their keychain around their finger. “I’ll be back tonight.”
Bishop paused in the hallway and opened the closet, shrugging their arms into a well-worn flannel jacket with a sheepskin collar. After that, they walked through the front door, an engine stubbornly turned over in the driveway, and they were gone.
The house changed in their absence—inhaled and exhaled, rattled and shook.
“Oh, stop that,” Colin rasped, glancing from the swaying chandelier above the table to the locked slider straining to open. “If you don’t plan on showing yourself then behave, at least.”
Everything quieted. Spiraled like a tired child after a tantrum. He held his hand open, palm parallel to the ceiling, and waited for cool fingertips to grace his skin, breath to encase his knuckles, teeth to latch around his wrist. He frowned and heaved an irritated sigh. Whatever nested in the rafters and flowed freely through the floorboards refused to touch him.
