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Authors: juliet blackwell
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easier.” She gestured to the only personal picture I had seen in the house, pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. It had a number and address scrawled underneath it in a loopy hand. Katenka gazed at the photo for a long moment, then sighed again. “She never answer the phone, so I walk over there. She lives in house with golden lions outside. You like lions?”
“Sure.”
“I think maybe we need lions here. As people walk up, on either side of door. Very elegant.”
“I . . . um.” This was the hard part for me: letting people have their own taste. “Why don’t we finish up with all the painting details, and see what you think then?”
She shrugged. “Friday, four o clock?”
“Sounds good,” I said, then hesitated. “Katenka, are you all right?”
She seemed particularly listless, but it was hard to tell with Katenka. She had such a serious, tragic way about her at the best of times. Perhaps if I ever saw her happy, I could better note the contrast.
Just then there was a knocking sound directly above us. And a faint, eerie mewing in the walls. Dog came running down the stairs, barking. I grabbed him by the collar and shushed him.
“I am so tired of this,” said Katenka.
“Is that . . . a cat?”
“I told you, I think there is a cat here, perhaps from before. Or is cat ghost.”
“I’ll check it out. There might be an access point along the foundation.”
“Okay,” she said, moving toward the basement door. “I go take a nap before Quinn gets up.”
After going over the final paint decisions with Raul and the painting crew, I checked my watch: noon.
Time to see a lady about a ghost.
Chapter Seven
T he first time I met Brittany Humm I disliked her on sight, and it still took me a moment to get over myself. Brittany was my high-school nightmare come to sparkling life: Vivacious and outgoing, she was also slender and blond, several years younger than I, and sported an ostentatious diamond engagement ring.
But the truth was, she was a lovely person. Even if she did get a little too excited about ghosts.
“This is great! I wondered when you’d have another experience!” she gushed as she dipped only the tips of her fork’s tines in the cup of Caesar salad dressing on the side, then nibbled on a leaf of romaine.
“Problem is, this time it’s no one I could possibly have known.” I dug into my full-fat version of the salad, complete with anchovies. “I’m afraid my clients are on the verge of shutting down the project if I don’t find a way to stop the activity.”
“Lingering spirits don’t like having their surroundings disturbed.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Brittany laughed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re hard to please? At first you hated the idea of seeing ghosts—”
“I just want to be left alone. Is that so much to ask?”
“And then you get impatient, waiting to see them again.”
“It just seemed sort of . . . odd that I realized I could see ghosts, but then nothing came of it. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“And now that you’ve seen another apparition, you’re unhappy about that, as well.”
“This one’s not like the last one. This one gives me the willies.”
I wouldn’t say I liked seeing spirits, but once I got over the fear that I was losing my mind, there was a certain allure. Who among us hasn’t wondered whether there is, in fact, life after death? As a former anthropologist, I know there is no known culture without some concept of the beyond— and the belief that under the right circumstances, a spirit might return to earthly life for a day . . . or forever. Prior to my supernatural experience, though, I had rather enjoyed not thinking much about an afterlife; there was comfort in agnosticism. Thinking about the beyond made me wonder whether I was doing such a bang-up job with my current shot at life. I was pushing forty, and though I enjoyed my work, I had been in a bad mood since my marriage started circling the drain.
“Sure.”
“I think maybe we need lions here. As people walk up, on either side of door. Very elegant.”
“I . . . um.” This was the hard part for me: letting people have their own taste. “Why don’t we finish up with all the painting details, and see what you think then?”
She shrugged. “Friday, four o clock?”
“Sounds good,” I said, then hesitated. “Katenka, are you all right?”
She seemed particularly listless, but it was hard to tell with Katenka. She had such a serious, tragic way about her at the best of times. Perhaps if I ever saw her happy, I could better note the contrast.
Just then there was a knocking sound directly above us. And a faint, eerie mewing in the walls. Dog came running down the stairs, barking. I grabbed him by the collar and shushed him.
“I am so tired of this,” said Katenka.
“Is that . . . a cat?”
“I told you, I think there is a cat here, perhaps from before. Or is cat ghost.”
“I’ll check it out. There might be an access point along the foundation.”
“Okay,” she said, moving toward the basement door. “I go take a nap before Quinn gets up.”
After going over the final paint decisions with Raul and the painting crew, I checked my watch: noon.
Time to see a lady about a ghost.
Chapter Seven
T he first time I met Brittany Humm I disliked her on sight, and it still took me a moment to get over myself. Brittany was my high-school nightmare come to sparkling life: Vivacious and outgoing, she was also slender and blond, several years younger than I, and sported an ostentatious diamond engagement ring.
But the truth was, she was a lovely person. Even if she did get a little too excited about ghosts.
“This is great! I wondered when you’d have another experience!” she gushed as she dipped only the tips of her fork’s tines in the cup of Caesar salad dressing on the side, then nibbled on a leaf of romaine.
“Problem is, this time it’s no one I could possibly have known.” I dug into my full-fat version of the salad, complete with anchovies. “I’m afraid my clients are on the verge of shutting down the project if I don’t find a way to stop the activity.”
“Lingering spirits don’t like having their surroundings disturbed.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Brittany laughed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re hard to please? At first you hated the idea of seeing ghosts—”
“I just want to be left alone. Is that so much to ask?”
“And then you get impatient, waiting to see them again.”
“It just seemed sort of . . . odd that I realized I could see ghosts, but then nothing came of it. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“And now that you’ve seen another apparition, you’re unhappy about that, as well.”
“This one’s not like the last one. This one gives me the willies.”
I wouldn’t say I liked seeing spirits, but once I got over the fear that I was losing my mind, there was a certain allure. Who among us hasn’t wondered whether there is, in fact, life after death? As a former anthropologist, I know there is no known culture without some concept of the beyond— and the belief that under the right circumstances, a spirit might return to earthly life for a day . . . or forever. Prior to my supernatural experience, though, I had rather enjoyed not thinking much about an afterlife; there was comfort in agnosticism. Thinking about the beyond made me wonder whether I was doing such a bang-up job with my current shot at life. I was pushing forty, and though I enjoyed my work, I had been in a bad mood since my marriage started circling the drain.
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