not even Hairy, who was
nestled cozily in his bed in the living room.
The bang came again and Sadie narrowed her search to the kitchen, where she discovered
the back door swinging wildly back and forth in the gusty breeze and a large branch,
as thick as her thigh, half inside the house. The rain pelted her back deck and the
wind howled but she had no trees this size in her yard. She hoisted the limb and tossed
it off the deck, into the yard, and then slammed the door shut. The doorjamb was splintered
where the dead bolt had torn through the frame and the door flew open again. Necessity
being both the mother of invention and the parent of paranoia, Sadie pushed both a
kitchen chair and then the table up against the back door to secure it. Her large
new purse from Maeva had been knocked to the floor but remained unscathed. Sadie plopped
it back on the counter.
The lights flickered momentarily but the power remained on. Sadie set her house alarm
and padded barefoot down the hall to bed, but she was wide-awake and the wind howling
outside did little to help her sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling while overanalyzing
her earlier hot dream about Owen Sorkin. Finally she gave up trying to sleep and crossed
the hall to her den.
Sadie figured after a few rounds of computer solitaire her eyes would grow heavy,
but curiosity got the better of her and she began researching the Halladay Horror
home. Every article showed a close-up of the front of the house she’d been inside
earlier that evening. There were various photos of the mother, Della Prior, being
led away in handcuffs. Her crazed, wild eyes looked directly into the camera and made
Sadie shudder. How does a mother kill her own daughter?
Sadie glanced through the articles for pictures of Iris but there was only one blurry
shot of her, looking much younger and with a mass of curls covering most of her face.
As she read through the various reports, most of the journalists stated the same facts:
Della Prior was a single mom and a deeply religious woman. She worked nights as a
nurse and homeschooled her daughter. Neighbors described both mother and daughter
as quiet, and a neighbor was quoted as saying that Iris’s father, Eddie Prior, walked
out when the child was only a couple years old.
Sadie felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she should’ve at least tried to help Iris’s spirit
move on? She shook her head. Sadie didn’t like to deal with angry ghosts who threw
things. In her experience, that only led to trouble and she had more than enough other
problems right now. She clicked out of the newspaper sites and played a couple games
on the computer before heading back to bed.
It felt as though she’d just fallen back asleep when she was woken again, this time
by sound of her office phone ringing persistently in the den down the hall. When she
reached the phone, she quickly answered while glancing at the clock on her computer;
it was after nine. Time to sound business. She cleared her throat.
“Scene-2-Clean. How may I help you?”
“Is this Sadie Novak?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“My name is Gayla Woods. You met my partner, Owen Sorkin, last night at the house
we own on West Halladay Street.” Her words were simple but her tone was formal, causing
Sadie to sit up a little straighter.
“Yes, I remember.” Sadie couldn’t think of anything else to add so she waited for
Gayla to speak, which resulted in a somewhat uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.
“Anyway, as you may have deduced from meeting Owen, he’s not much of a believer in
the paranormal. As a matter of fact, he thinks the very idea that I hired Madam Maeva’s
company to deal with the goings-on at the house is a ridiculous expense.”
She chuckled but the laughter was forced. Gayla Woods sounded like a woman wound a
little too tight.
“If it’s a spiritual problem, you can’t go wrong hiring Madam
nestled cozily in his bed in the living room.
The bang came again and Sadie narrowed her search to the kitchen, where she discovered
the back door swinging wildly back and forth in the gusty breeze and a large branch,
as thick as her thigh, half inside the house. The rain pelted her back deck and the
wind howled but she had no trees this size in her yard. She hoisted the limb and tossed
it off the deck, into the yard, and then slammed the door shut. The doorjamb was splintered
where the dead bolt had torn through the frame and the door flew open again. Necessity
being both the mother of invention and the parent of paranoia, Sadie pushed both a
kitchen chair and then the table up against the back door to secure it. Her large
new purse from Maeva had been knocked to the floor but remained unscathed. Sadie plopped
it back on the counter.
The lights flickered momentarily but the power remained on. Sadie set her house alarm
and padded barefoot down the hall to bed, but she was wide-awake and the wind howling
outside did little to help her sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling while overanalyzing
her earlier hot dream about Owen Sorkin. Finally she gave up trying to sleep and crossed
the hall to her den.
Sadie figured after a few rounds of computer solitaire her eyes would grow heavy,
but curiosity got the better of her and she began researching the Halladay Horror
home. Every article showed a close-up of the front of the house she’d been inside
earlier that evening. There were various photos of the mother, Della Prior, being
led away in handcuffs. Her crazed, wild eyes looked directly into the camera and made
Sadie shudder. How does a mother kill her own daughter?
Sadie glanced through the articles for pictures of Iris but there was only one blurry
shot of her, looking much younger and with a mass of curls covering most of her face.
As she read through the various reports, most of the journalists stated the same facts:
Della Prior was a single mom and a deeply religious woman. She worked nights as a
nurse and homeschooled her daughter. Neighbors described both mother and daughter
as quiet, and a neighbor was quoted as saying that Iris’s father, Eddie Prior, walked
out when the child was only a couple years old.
Sadie felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe she should’ve at least tried to help Iris’s spirit
move on? She shook her head. Sadie didn’t like to deal with angry ghosts who threw
things. In her experience, that only led to trouble and she had more than enough other
problems right now. She clicked out of the newspaper sites and played a couple games
on the computer before heading back to bed.
It felt as though she’d just fallen back asleep when she was woken again, this time
by sound of her office phone ringing persistently in the den down the hall. When she
reached the phone, she quickly answered while glancing at the clock on her computer;
it was after nine. Time to sound business. She cleared her throat.
“Scene-2-Clean. How may I help you?”
“Is this Sadie Novak?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“My name is Gayla Woods. You met my partner, Owen Sorkin, last night at the house
we own on West Halladay Street.” Her words were simple but her tone was formal, causing
Sadie to sit up a little straighter.
“Yes, I remember.” Sadie couldn’t think of anything else to add so she waited for
Gayla to speak, which resulted in a somewhat uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.
“Anyway, as you may have deduced from meeting Owen, he’s not much of a believer in
the paranormal. As a matter of fact, he thinks the very idea that I hired Madam Maeva’s
company to deal with the goings-on at the house is a ridiculous expense.”
She chuckled but the laughter was forced. Gayla Woods sounded like a woman wound a
little too tight.
“If it’s a spiritual problem, you can’t go wrong hiring Madam
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