Page 8 of His to Haunt

Wonder if she’s as puritanical as her name sounds. I think of her picture. Long brown hair. Bright cognac-colored eyes. Ivory skin with freckles on her nose.

Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Agreed.”

Zoe doesn’t know it, but I already know a great deal about the psychology graduate, Leena Sperling. I investigated her the same way I do everybody. Wonder how long it will take her to psychoanalyze a scumbag headcase like me? Will she learn to understand my dark ways? Highly doubtful.

“Well, and? Any news at the Lodge about—“

“Not sure,” I shrug, analyzing the slowly coloring circles on the text strip. “Devika and Templar don’t always know as much as you think, sis.”

“But it’s a betrayal. Rachel— “

“Is gone.” My jaw clenches, gaze fixated on the pattern of circles. Orange, orange, marbled black and white, orange. Result: Blood type O positive. I cap the blood sample, sliding it back into my pocket.

“Yeah, I know, Z. But—“

“We have bigger problems than Rachel’s sister. I’ll deal with her. I already removed certain items. She doesn’t have full access and will never know what she’s missing.”

She sighs. “Alright then. By the way, how have you been?”

“Same ‘ol,” I shrug. How’s New York?”

“Meh. Staying safe and getting what I need. Speaking of. Sent you a package. Lots of samples. Sometimes, I wonder if we would go through with it if we finally got a match. It will only change, well…everything.”

“We have no choice, Zoe. Got to go.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need help.”

“Same.”

Hanging up, I head home to find a strange, grey equinox parked crooked in my drive. I shut off my engine, dropping my head back against the seat with a sigh. Not in the mood for this shit.

Thunder cracks, the wind whipping. I check the weather app on my phone, confirming that the first atmospheric river storm of the season is hitting NoCal in about an hour. Restarting my engine, I pull around under the carport near the carriage house, glancing in my rearview at the car, contemplating the girl.

Leena Sperling.

Again, I recall the photograph hanging on the mirror in Rachel’s old room—her sister with the high-contrast face. Dark hair wrapping ivory skin wrapping amber eyes as liminal as the sunset, a blackening flame shrouding the secrets of day in the shadow of night.

I think Leena is not as innocent as she seems.

Beautiful. Possibly interesting. But not a Byron. That is something that she never will be. She has no idea about anything, and the thought of it needles at me like an invasive little thing sprouting uninvited.

I roil at the idea of having this tender rack of baby on my plate. Soon enough, fate will have its way with her, and she will scream, fuss, and cry. The best way to get rid of a baby is to starve or bleed it out.

Night Rider

Leena

The house creaks in the wind like a ravening beast, grey and slumbering on the edge of waking. It murmurs and groans as we investigate its dark recesses, finding its secrets.

We’ve brought in all the boxes from the car but can’t decide where to put the bedroom ones. Trying to find a room with functioning lighting that feels cleanish, not creepy, and somewhat bedroomy proves to be a challenge.

“This must be the other coffin elevator,” I say, approaching the trap door, a rectangular slab of metal embedded in the red carpet, which gives a new meaning to the term landlord special. The weird contraption is backdropped by a wall covered in worn, peeling-at-the-edges, striped, green-and-gold wallpaper, which accents the bright red carpet in a way that’s Christmasy in a depressing way.Tiny Timmeets Poe’sPremature Burial.

Tataphobia—the fear of being buried alive—comes to mind.

“There’s a button,” says Mom with that tone she gets when she’s reverting to Annie Danger mode, her younger self prone to making impulsive decisions.

“No, don’t push—” I screech, but it’s already too late. Like a curious teenager, her hand is already on the button, and instantly, the clanking door shoots into the air amidst collective gasps. Mom spits a nervous what-did-I-do laughter.

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