Page 11 of Spooked
She sighs loudly. “My aunt owns it, but I lived there with my Grammy. My mom took me there when she was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. When she died, Grammy looked after me fromwhen I was thirteen. I’ve got so many good memories of that place, I just want to see it again.”
“There’s not much to see,” I tell her. “Sure, there’s a bit of furniture still there, but that’s no use to anyone, and there were no personal effects that I could see. It’s just an empty rotting hulk that will fall down by itself if it’s left for much longer.”
Biting her lip, she looks from me to Bullet. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but something’s calling to me from there. Ineedto go. I know I’ve no right to demand the keys, but please, let me see where I grew up.” Turning to me, she adds, “I’ll be careful and heed your warnings.” Back to Bullet, she directs, “I’ll be happy to sign anything to give you indemnity should anything happen while I’m there. I’ll take full responsibility.”
Taking pity on her, Bullet looks at his screen, then turns it around. “Hound took photos while he was there. You can look through them with us. It might be enough to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Photos?” She brightens a little and sits forward. “I’d like to see them, please.”
Always the gentleman, well, with his wife and in business, perhaps not so much with some of the jobs he’s been called on to do for the club, Bullet complies. He comes around to the front of his desk, standing between us so he can view them at the same time. Leaning forward, he returns to the beginning, clicking fast through the first few pictures until he gets past the embarrassing ones and my attempts to open the gate. He pauses on the image of the house's exterior.
Her hand covers her mouth to smother a little gasp. “It’s been neglected,” she concurs. “But it’s still the place I grew up.”
Slowly, giving her time to savour each picture, he clicks through the shots. Her distress is palpable as she sees the inside of the house, obviously so changed from the happy days when she’d lived there.
As he goes through the copious photos I’d taken, she’s shaking her head. He clicks forward, she stills, points her finger at the screen, and demands, “Go back.”
Bullet returns to the previous picture. I lean forward to get a better look, trying to see what’s caught her attention.
Oh fuck. Oh my God. What the hell?That’s the master bedroom for sure, the only room in the house that was fully furnished but… the photographic evidence I’d taken shows that it’s not. There’s a four-poster bed, but it’s leaning precariously. There’s no mattress or curtains, and that dressing table that looked like it was just waiting for its mistress to sit and prepare herself for an evening out? Well, it’s lying, broken, and upended on the floor. Doors hang off the closet that looks like a breeze would blow it down.
But that’s not the worst thing. While the picture indeed shows evidence I’m losing my mind, there, at the back of the casual snap I took, there’s a shape of a woman, not quite solid, but undeniably present. I blink, then blink again.Christ. My TBI must be worse than I thought.My palms start sweating.Was I hallucinating then or now?
Before I can topple down into my own personal rabbit hole of hell, Maeve states firmly in a voice full of wonder, “That’s my Grammy.”
“Nonsense,” Bullet replies with more than a dose of common sense in his voice. “It’s a reflection of dust in the light coming in from between the blinds.”
The fact that she’s seeing what I am pulls me up, and I lean forward for a closer look. Something eclipsing my fear of a major TBI is that there might have been someone else in that house while I was there. As sergeant-at-arms, I should be aware of my surroundings at all times, and I thought I’d developed a sixth sense that would warn me if someone who shouldn’t be there was present.
“Is your Grammy still alive?” My question is driven by desperation.
Dashed when she turns her amazing emerald eyes on me, she says, “She died fifteen years ago.”
“A trick of the light,” Bullet repeats with emphasis, and chuckles. “Cameras don’t catch ghosts.”
Nor spirit furnishings it seems.I clench my fists.
Maeve sits upright, her spine straight, eyes flashing in challenge. “Whatever. In none of the photos do I see any hazard that I can’t be careful to avoid. I want to go there. Will you let me have the keys?”
Bullet shakes his head. “I’ve got to contact your aunt…”
So far, I’d thought Maeve to be a sweet woman. I’ve obviously underestimated her as her backbone seems to grow in front of my eyes, as she hisses, “My aunt’s got fuck all to do with this. That house is rightfully mine. She stole the inheritance from me.” As Bullet opens his mouth, she waves a hand and continues, “Oh, I can’t do anything about the will. Grammy died before she could alter it. But I do demand that I go visit that house one last time.” After pausing, she adds, “With or without the keys.” She shrugs. “As you say, it’s falling down. If I break down the front door, nobody would notice.”
Bullet, also taken by surprise at her vehemence, glances at me, a question in his eyes. Then to her, he asks, “I suppose there’s no point telling you you’d be trespassing?”
The rigidity of her posture confirms the warning won’t have the slightest effect. And, to be honest, even if the Satan’s Devils were inclined to call in the law, I doubt the police would take much notice of a house which has been abandoned for years and holds nothing of value. Hell, even a vandal would be hard-pressed to leave it in much worse a state than it already is.
“Ms Sullivan?—”
She stands. “I think our business is complete.”
Bullet swings around fast. “Wait.” She at least pauses, half turned toward the door. He breathes in deeply, then lets air out on a long exhale. “Can’t give you the keys. And while they are in our possession, we have responsibility for looking after the property, whatever state it’s in.” She bristles again, but he follows up fast. “Since I can’t stop you, I won’t let you go alone. If you’re that determined to see the place, Hound will take you.”
Her eyes alight with pleasure, while I need to suppress the immediate urge to vomit.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOUND
