Read Online Unclean Spirits by M. L. N. Hanover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. L. N. Hanover
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woman that called. The one with the dog.”
I looked down at the phone. The icon for voice mail was still there.
“What if she’s with the Invisible College?” I said.
“I’ll take one of the shotguns,” Aubrey said, and something in his voice was light, even though I knew he was serious. I thumbed through the logs, found the most recent missed call, and selected the menu option that returned it. Aubrey sat next to me. The branches of the cherry tree shifted in the breeze.
“Hello?” a woman said. I thought the voice was the same, but it seemed tighter.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Jayné Heller. I think you called my uncle Eric?”
“Oh, thank God,” the woman said. She sounded like she was crying. “Oh, thank God.”
I’D EXPECTED
at the soonest, we’d arrange to meet the woman and her dog sometime in the morning. But ten minutes after I ended the call, Aubrey and I were in his minivan headed north for Boulder.
“It used to be left-wing hippie central, kind of the way Colorado Springs is the home port of all the right-wing nut jobs,” Aubrey said. “There were a lot of people dabbling in alternative spiritualities and magic and drugs and things. These days, it’s mostly people who feel like they’re saving the planet because they’re buying groceries from Whole Foods.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Did she tell you anything about what was going on?”
“Just that her dog wanted her to call us,” I said. “I think it has to do with her boyfriend too, but I’m not sure.”
“She was pretty upset, sounds like.”
“Yeah,” I said. Ahead of us, taillights tracked off into the darkness, lines of red in the black. “Yeah, she was pretty messed up. I don’t know what we’re doing, though. I don’t know anything about what Eric used to do.”
“I know enough to start,” Aubrey said. “Hopefully it’ll be simple.”
We turned onto Highway 36, and then sooner than I’dexpected, we were pulling onto the South Boulder Road exit. A knot was tying itself in my belly, embarrassment and fear.
I was embarrassed because I was about to go talk to a stranger—a desperate one—about supernatural ghosties slipping into her dog’s mind, and only half of me thought it was possible. The fear was because the other half thought it was.
Candace Dorn’s house was a pretty bungalow with a wide porch, complete with swing. A huge tree commanded the yard, choking out all competition. Even the grass looked thin and unlikely where the tree’s shadow would have fallen in daylight. All the lights were on, the windows blazing, like the woman was trying to push back night itself. Aubrey killed the engine, then reached into the backseat for the leather satchel he’d packed before we left. I grabbed my backpack.
One of the shotguns was back there too. He didn’t take it out, and as we headed up the root-cracked concrete walk to the house, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved at that or worried.
The woman who answered the door reminded me of my high school art teacher. She had dark, curly hair and skin that had tanned too many times, now permanently dark and leathery. She had a dieter’s figure and a pianist’s hands. Something in the way she held herself caught my attention, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Candace Dorn? I’m Jayné,” I said. “This is Aubrey. He’s here to help.”
“Please come in,” she said, standing back. I wonderedwhether she’d have done the same thing if we’d had a shotgun. Something made me think she would. “Thank you for coming out. I don’t…I just don’t know what to do. I don’t believe any of this is really happening.”
“Can you tell us what exactly is going on?” Aubrey asked.
The house had hardwood floors and pale patterned rugs. Tin Mexican wall sconces threw white light up the walls, and clunky, colorful paintings struggled to give individuality to furniture that all came from IKEA. I noticed that there was a wicker basket by the
I looked down at the phone. The icon for voice mail was still there.
“What if she’s with the Invisible College?” I said.
“I’ll take one of the shotguns,” Aubrey said, and something in his voice was light, even though I knew he was serious. I thumbed through the logs, found the most recent missed call, and selected the menu option that returned it. Aubrey sat next to me. The branches of the cherry tree shifted in the breeze.
“Hello?” a woman said. I thought the voice was the same, but it seemed tighter.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Jayné Heller. I think you called my uncle Eric?”
“Oh, thank God,” the woman said. She sounded like she was crying. “Oh, thank God.”
I’D EXPECTED
at the soonest, we’d arrange to meet the woman and her dog sometime in the morning. But ten minutes after I ended the call, Aubrey and I were in his minivan headed north for Boulder.
“It used to be left-wing hippie central, kind of the way Colorado Springs is the home port of all the right-wing nut jobs,” Aubrey said. “There were a lot of people dabbling in alternative spiritualities and magic and drugs and things. These days, it’s mostly people who feel like they’re saving the planet because they’re buying groceries from Whole Foods.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Did she tell you anything about what was going on?”
“Just that her dog wanted her to call us,” I said. “I think it has to do with her boyfriend too, but I’m not sure.”
“She was pretty upset, sounds like.”
“Yeah,” I said. Ahead of us, taillights tracked off into the darkness, lines of red in the black. “Yeah, she was pretty messed up. I don’t know what we’re doing, though. I don’t know anything about what Eric used to do.”
“I know enough to start,” Aubrey said. “Hopefully it’ll be simple.”
We turned onto Highway 36, and then sooner than I’dexpected, we were pulling onto the South Boulder Road exit. A knot was tying itself in my belly, embarrassment and fear.
I was embarrassed because I was about to go talk to a stranger—a desperate one—about supernatural ghosties slipping into her dog’s mind, and only half of me thought it was possible. The fear was because the other half thought it was.
Candace Dorn’s house was a pretty bungalow with a wide porch, complete with swing. A huge tree commanded the yard, choking out all competition. Even the grass looked thin and unlikely where the tree’s shadow would have fallen in daylight. All the lights were on, the windows blazing, like the woman was trying to push back night itself. Aubrey killed the engine, then reached into the backseat for the leather satchel he’d packed before we left. I grabbed my backpack.
One of the shotguns was back there too. He didn’t take it out, and as we headed up the root-cracked concrete walk to the house, I wasn’t sure if I was relieved at that or worried.
The woman who answered the door reminded me of my high school art teacher. She had dark, curly hair and skin that had tanned too many times, now permanently dark and leathery. She had a dieter’s figure and a pianist’s hands. Something in the way she held herself caught my attention, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Candace Dorn? I’m Jayné,” I said. “This is Aubrey. He’s here to help.”
“Please come in,” she said, standing back. I wonderedwhether she’d have done the same thing if we’d had a shotgun. Something made me think she would. “Thank you for coming out. I don’t…I just don’t know what to do. I don’t believe any of this is really happening.”
“Can you tell us what exactly is going on?” Aubrey asked.
The house had hardwood floors and pale patterned rugs. Tin Mexican wall sconces threw white light up the walls, and clunky, colorful paintings struggled to give individuality to furniture that all came from IKEA. I noticed that there was a wicker basket by the
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