Chapter Two
I’m in a dimly lit musty room, the earthen scent filling my nostrils. Iron sconces along the wall hold candles that throw long shadows across the rough-hewn beams of the ceiling .
In the middle of the dirt-covered floor, a young girl kneels. She can’t be more than sixteen. The cloth of her simple grey dress is clutched in her fist and blonde hair pokes messily from beneath her white bonnet. Three men tower over her, their faces shrouded by their black wide-brimmed hats .
Her cry rips through the air .
‘Be still,’ the first man says, almost gently. ‘We know what you are.’
The girl’s wail quietens to a whimper. ‘I am nothing, sir. I swear it.’
‘Liar,’ the second man growls. His voice is deeper and filled with contempt. ‘You are an abomination.’
The girl wails again, furiously shaking her head .
‘An abomination which must be struck from this earth,’ the third man adds. He says it so calmly, matter-of-factly, that a shiver runs the length of my spine .
‘No, sir. No.’ She looks up at him, pleading .
He reaches out and touches her cheek, and for a moment I think her entreaties have swayed him. But then a glint of candle-light bounces off a silver dagger, its blade decorated with a strange engraving, its heavy wooden hilt gripped tight in his fist .
I gasp and cry ‘Stop!’, sure of what will happen next. But no one turns, because no one hears me .
The girl calls out too, her eyes widening in terror. ‘Please!’
But the man lifts his arm high in the air and swoops the weapon down .
She screams as the knife plunges into her breast, her hands pawing at the wound, her dress quickly turning scarlet as her life spills out of her, soaking the material and spreading over the floor .
I want to go to her, but my feet won’t move. I’m frozen and mute. All I can do is watch in horror as the girl’s cries slowly become a gurgle .
One last pleading sob slips past her lips, then, with a soft exhale, she slumps to the ground, her terrified eyes now glassy and lifeless .
The men step forward and huddle over the girl’s crumpled form, their heads bowing as they mutter a chant I cannot hear. Then the room darkens, and the men vanish. In the silence that follows, I hear a voice .
‘Holly. Let us in.’
The dream rattles me. I’m used to nightmares, they come with the job – battling ghosts does not bring a peaceful night’s sleep. But something about this one feels different. Like I was there, but not there. A silent audience, bearing witness to something so grisly and real…
I pull on my boots and tie the laces as I try to shake off the dream, but I can’t get the image of the girl out of my mind, nor the voice, and the way it said my name. Holly. Let us in . A disembodied voice that somehow knows me personally? Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.
I rub at my head, still tender from colliding with Mrs Tyler’s wall.
And all the muscles that ached last night ache twice as much today.
I’m so tired, I could fall asleep standing up.
And if that’s not enough to make me edgy, I’m due to meet Callum.
Butterflies swarm my stomach as I close my apartment door.
I tug my leather jacket closer to shut out the fall chill as I march along the leaf-strewn sidewalk, it’s golden litter grubby from the city grime swishing around my boots. I need to figure out exactly what I’m going to say to him.
Hi, Callum . Casual, with a smile. Callum .
Surly, with a frown. Hello, Callum . Cool and professional.
That’s it. This is about a job; the best way to handle it is to be cool and professional, to be at my desk looking busy and one hundred per cent composed when he arrives. Hello Callum, please take a seat .
But he’s early. As I round the corner to my office, he’s already there, leaning against the wall. Well, shit.
He’s scrolling through his phone with one hand while balancing a cardboard tray holding two large coffees in the other.
His sunglasses are pushed back over his light brown hair, which he still wears short, and the sun shimmers on the pale skin of his cheeks.
I don’t know what I was expecting but he looks the same, dressed head to toe in black, right down to his motorcycle boots – the ones he always wears even though he doesn’t ride a motorcycle – and totally at ease.
That was something I always admired in him; he exudes easiness.
Always open, cheerful and relaxed. Three things I’m not.
He suddenly shifts his stance, pushing off the wall and rolling his shoulders, and I dart into the closest doorway before he can spot me.
I scrunch my eyes closed. This is not a good start.
I considered cancelling my meeting with Callum around three hundred and eighty-two times this morning.
Back and forth, back and forth. I just don’t know if it’s a smart move to put myself through this.
I guess I could still text him and pull out.
Or I could just hide in this doorway until he’s gone.
But what if he walks past? That would be awkward.
I tsk at myself. I’m being ridiculous again, and cancelling on him last minute is not who I am and not who I intend to be, no matter the circumstances. We’re only discussing a case. Besides, I face ghosts for a living, I can face Callum Jefferies.
With a deep, steadying breath, I square my shoulders, set my jaw, step onto the pavement and call his name.
Callum glances up, and the most spectacular smile lights up his face.
My butterflies flap wildly.
‘Here she is. My favourite ghostbuster,’ he says, slipping his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
My butterflies turn into angry bats. ‘Don’t call me that. You know I don’t like it.’
‘Sorry. Let me start that again. Hi, Holly.’ He gives me a cheery wave teamed with an even broader smile.
‘Hello, Callum.’ My cheeks prickle with warmth.
‘I see you’re still wearing your ruby slippers.’ He nods to my cherry-red Doc Marten boots. ‘I always loved the way they perfectly matched your hair. You cut it shorter. It suits you.’
My hair used to fall past my shoulders, but now I have a choppy bob that sits just below my ears.
‘I cut it a while ago.’ I fuss with my windswept bangs, then lift my gaze to meet his eyes. Big mistake. They’re greener than I remember them – vibrant, and strikingly bright, with gold flecks that circle the pupils.
When I first met Callum two years ago, his eyes were the first thing I noticed about him. Not just their extraordinary colour, but their kindness, and the way they danced with humour and mischief. A perfect reflection of who he was. Who I thought he was.
I wiggle past him, easily ducking under his arm, and unlock my office door.
I inherited my office from my grandmother.
She was my mom’s mom and her name was Jenny.
Grandma Jenny was a fortune teller. The kind that dot the streets of downtown New York; neon signs in their windows.
Growing up, I didn’t have a lot to do with her.
My family didn’t like how she made a living, believing she took money from ‘desperate fools happy to believe her lies’.
But they were wrong about her. My grandmother’s abilities were genuine.
I was so grateful when I discovered that truth, because that meant I wasn’t the only freak in my family.
Grandma Jenny’s store resembled something from the movies, with crystal balls, runes and smudging wands, and colourful beaded scarves draped over lamps.
She always said, ‘Might as well give them bang for their buck.’ When my grandmother suddenly died, her store became mine.
The first thing I did was get rid of the kitschy fortune-teller vibe.
The people who come to see me are often traumatised.
Being haunted can do that to a person. I wanted to make sure my office was calm and peaceful – everything hauntings aren’t.
The only thing I kept, besides a few books and a well-worn set of tarot cards, was a red and gold wing-backed chair.
I call it my throne. It’s my little piece of Grandma Jenny.
My gaze follows Callum as he wanders around my office, picking things up and breezily commenting on them.
He examines one of my grandmother’s books on near death experiences, excitedly telling me he also owns a copy and smiling in a way that makes my stupid stomach flutter.
Was he always this tall? Has he been working out?
‘Large and strong enough for you?’ he asks.
I jolt. ‘W-what?’
‘The coffee. Large latte, extra strong. That’s still your order, right?’
‘Oh, yeah. It’s perfect. Really, really… great.’ I trail off, cringing as I take a quick sip.
‘Good,’ he says, apparently oblivious to my awkwardness. He drops into the chair opposite me. ‘This was your grandmother’s place, right?’
I nod. ‘She left me this and her condo when she died. Well, she left the condo to me and my sister. I’m saving up to buy Maggie out. But the store she left to me.’
‘I like it. It’s got a nice feel. Peaceful. Though you could use a plant or two. I know this great place in Chelsea if you ever—’
‘I’m not good with plants,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m not good with anything living.’
He chuckles. ‘Yeah. I remember.’
I can’t stifle my gasp at the sting in his flippant comment.
‘Shit,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean that how it came out.’ He leans in. ‘I only meant that you’re great with the dead. With ghosts. You’re great at what you do.’
‘Right. Okay.’ I turn away to cover my hurt, open my desk drawer and rummage for some painkillers. I toss back two with another mouthful of coffee.
‘Headache?’ he asks.
‘I had a job last night that turned a bit ugly, then I didn’t sleep very well. Weird dream. It was as if…’ I shudder as the voice rings out in my mind again. Holly. Let us in .
‘Was it a nightmare?’
‘There was a fair bit of blood, so yeah, you could say that.’
‘I get it. Goes with the job, right? Some of my dreams, man. All I can say is I’m glad they’re not my reality.’