Page 84 of Looking for Love in All the Haunted Places
Someone knocked on her bedroom door.
She whirled around, heart in her throat.
A voice called out, “Lucky?”
She clutched the windowsill so hard her fingers began to hurt. Carefully, slowly, eyes peeled for any sign of danger, she grabbedher phone and began to record. Because she knew that voice. Fear existed within her like flour inside of a sifter—solid until she forced it through. Was she truly afraid or just startled?
Heart rate—accelerated.
Breathing—heavier than normal.
Stomach—queasy with nerves.
Hands—a slight tremor.
Willpower—steady as a rock.
Not calm, but ready. The doorknob felt warm in her hand as she turned it. Hennessee’s peppermint scent beckoned her into the hall.
A woman stood on the other side. Tall with light brown skin and giant dark eyes. Her hair extended around her like a curly halo straight from the heavens. She didn’t smile because she rarely ever did when she looked at Lucky.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Lucky.” Not a hint of affection. Not even a scrape of it. Shit.
“You’re not real.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows raised in question. “You could be wrong but that never occurs to you, does it? Stop being rude. Why are you always hiding in your room?”
“I’ll come out.”
Hennessee House’s specter of Lucky’s mom stepped back to give her space.
The house had turned all the lights on. Lucky almost laughed. It must not have wanted her to miss a single detail of its work. The hair, her face, her voice—it’d even gotten the small triangle-shaped mole on the front of her mom’s wrist right.
Her gaze flicked between the phone screen and the specter asshe willed herself to internalize the truth. No matter what happened, no matter what it said, it wasn’t real. That wasn’t her mom. On the screen, a blurry white smear appeared in her place.
As if reading her mind, it said, “You don’t need that. Put it away. Now.”
“No. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Who in the hell are you talking to like that?”
Lucky nearly flinched. That tone made her feel twelve again, trying to disappear after giving a bad translation to one of her mom’s friends.You speak when spoken to, do you hear me?
Hennessee was so good, she instinctively knew which bad memories the house had chosen to sustain the specter:Her dead husband had left her with a weird-ass daughter who wouldn’t stop racking up medical debt. A useless daughter who couldn’t even be a good psychic to help them cover the bills. What a life. At least her son was normal.
“You’re not my mom.”
“Always thinking you know everything.” It smiled. “What if I die? Who would want to take care of a self-righteous brat like you?”
“You’re not dead. Reggie would’ve called for that.”
“Would he? Are you sure? Maybe he’s too busy with a baby now. Maybe you’re an aunt and you didn’t even know it.”
“That’s not true.”
“A little boy. Reggie Junior. Ten little perfect toes and fingers, fat little legs, and chubby cheeks. He might have your eyes—Hart eyes. Just like Reggie. Just like your dad.”
