Chapter Nine
Callum is lying on his bed with his laptop by his side and his eyes closed. I start to tiptoe from the room when he calls out, ‘Hey, you’re back.’
‘I wasn’t sure if you were sleeping,’ I say. ‘How are you feeling? Were you awake long enough to do any research, or have you snoozed the day away?’
He pushes himself up with a wince. ‘I feel fine, and I’d like to point out that you’re the one who told me I needed rest. But I did a little of both. I multitasked.’
‘Find anything interesting?’
‘I’ve mostly been reading up on the history of the area. I did find that the current Western house was built on the same spot as the house that burned down. The exact same spot.’
‘I have the plans for both.’ I go to my room and come back with everything I got that day. ‘Ola copied these for me.’ I shift his laptop and perch on the edge of his mattress. ‘This is the original house. These plans are just a replica though; the originals got destroyed in a fire in 1659.’
‘I read about that fire. They lost a good chunk of the town.’
‘Mm, and a lot of the town records. Here are the plans of the current house. Ola said the master blueprints are in the town archives if we need to access them.’
‘I can get Jason to do that if needed. Told you there was a reason he should come out here.’
‘She also told me no one liked the Westerns.’
‘What, ever?’
I shrug. ‘Sounded like it. And I got these.’ I show him the two laminated maps of the town. ‘By the way, Ola would appreciate it if you visited her next time. I got the feeling I was a disappointment. She thinks you were flirting with her.’
He points at himself with a silent, Me?
I ignore him. ‘But everything else you asked for might take a couple of days, so it looks like we’re not going anywhere soon.’
‘Sad you can’t get this over and done with and get out of here as quickly as possible?’
His gaze is on me, piercing scrutiny. I shift awkwardly on his bed.
‘No. I didn’t mean that. You’re putting words in my mouth.’ He keeps staring, so I quickly add, ‘By the way, Edward Western was in town yesterday morning.’
‘But why wouldn’t Rosing tell us that?’
‘Exactly.’
He frowns, then looks at the replica plans of the original house. ‘This might be your murder cellar.’ He points to a small square at the back of building.
‘Maybe,’ I say noncommittally.
He pulls the second set of house plans onto his lap. ‘Weird. It’s not shown on the plans of the current house. I wonder if they filled it in when they rebuilt? We can get Jase to have a look and see what he thinks.’
There’s that creeping dread again. I don’t want there to be a cellar. I don’t want the dreams to be real.
‘I got this book too,’ I say shaking off the troubled feeling. ‘It’s by a local, lots of ghost stories and legends. You never know, there might be something in there. I also got this…’ I pull out the magnet. ‘A present for you as requested.’ His brows flick up as I press it into his palm.
He looks at it for a long moment.
‘Holly, are you calling me your boo?’
My cheeks flush. I should have seen that one coming, ‘Of course I’m not. It’s gag gift, Callum.’
‘Right. Well, thank you.’ He puts it on his bedside table. ‘By the way, I told the manager you saw their ghost. He said a couple of the other guests asked him about it this morning. Seriously though, don’t obliterate it, okay? It’s well-loved here.’
I frown. A well-loved ghost? Now I’ve heard everything.
Callum swings his legs off the bed, grunting in the process.
‘Where are you going? I have more to tell you.’
‘Let me wash up first,’ he says. He looks tired and grumpy; there’s no trace of his normal excited enthusiasm, no trace of that glow he always has.
‘Are you in pain? Because you seem a bit—’
‘Cabin fever. I’ll be fine after a shower.’ Then he disappears into the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him.
While Callum cleans up, I read up on the ghost who haunts the bed and breakfast. His name was George Baker, a man who worked at Maddison House until he died on the job at eighty-nine, and apparently he still hasn’t retired.
George did the early morning wake-up calls, so now his spirit knocks on people’s doors at all hours.
He’s also known to lurk in the guest lounge, which is probably why the manager always keeps the fire burning in there.
A ghostly presence often leaves a chill in the air.
I look down the page to a smiling photo of George – it’s definitely the dead guy from the hall.
I reach out and sense his presence right away, the buzzing trail that he’s left behind.
Why didn’t I notice it when we first arrived? Focus, Holly, focus!
I never bother talking to ghosts unless I’m swearing at them, because they don’t react to anything I say. Except that nun, who might have got upset when I said fuck, and now George, who’s smiling and waving at me like we’re besties. Oh, what the hell. I close my eyes.
‘Listen, George,’ I whisper. ‘Apparently, they’re fond of you here. But if you wake me up again, I’m going to have to deal with you, and you won’t like it.’
‘I’m going to make an appointment to visit the Witch Study Center, find out more about the family’s involvement in the trials.
’ I’ve just told Callum that the Westerns were connected to the East Mill witch trials, and he’s weirdly unenthusiastic.
‘What do you think?’ I say, as I look up the Witch Study Center website.
‘Oh, sure. Sounds good.’ He seems distracted.
I frown and scooch around. He’s sitting on his bed staring down at me, chewing his lip.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What?’ he says. ‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘Exactly. You’re not doing anything. You’re not looking anything up, you’re hardly saying anything. What’s going on?’
He glances down, his teeth still grating back and forth across his bottom lip. Then he sighs, a little shaky and a lot dramatic. I stiffen. I shouldn’t have asked.
‘I’m so happy you agreed to work this case with me, Holly. I’m glad you’re here and that we’re doing this together.’
He’s not looking at me. He’s looking down, scratching at the fabric of his sweatpants. I wipe my clammy palms on my jeans.
‘Which is why I wasn’t going to bring this up,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to ruin everything, but…’ He wiggles forward on the bed. I wiggle backwards across floor. ‘I’ve had a whole day on my own to think about this, and if I don’t say something now, I know it’s going to eat at me.’
My heart quickens. ‘Okay,’ I say, even though it’s not okay. So not okay.
He nods, more to himself than to me. ‘I thought you were going to say something at breakfast this morning. I thought you wanted to talk about what happened with us. It’s just…’ He looks at me now, and I swear the green of his eyes deepens. ‘You know what I’m going to ask you, right?’
I know exactly what he’s going to ask me, and I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
Two years ago
I swear I can still feel the touch of Callum’s lips soft on my cheek.
I’m buzzing from everything he said last night, with the idea that he actually likes me like that .
What’s happening between us seems to be heading somewhere good, somewhere I was hoping it would.
I feel this promise of possibility fluttering inside me and it’s making me giddy.
I have a meeting with a new client in the West Village, not far from the studios where Callum records his podcast, so I’ve decided to be brave, grab us both a coffee and stop by and see him.
I find him in an edit suite with his new producer, Peter.
The guy worked on one of the big ghost hunting shows on cable and Callum’s excited to have him on board.
He’s hoping he can tap into Peter’s experience and grow his podcast and his YouTube channel, maybe even use his contacts for something bigger.
I hover in the doorway on my tiptoes, not wanting to interrupt, peering over Callum’s broad shoulders at what they’re watching.
I’m surprised to see it’s footage of me Callum shot the week before during an exorcism I performed.
Latin is streaming from my mouth. The lighting is less than flattering.
I look like a character in a low-budget thriller, holding a flashlight under my chin.
Peter pauses the video and zooms in on my face – my mouth wide open, my eyes nothing but pits of shadow. He starts to laugh, and I watch in horror as Callum laughs with him.
‘These psychics are all the same,’ Peter says, once his laughter has subsided.
‘Such fakers. None of them can provide a shred of evidence that they can actually do what they say they do. Communing with the spirits doesn’t show up on EMF machines?
Surprise, surprise.’ He laughs sarcastically.
‘The audience loves the tech, Callum. Show them the Structured Light Sensor camera, the night vision goggles. You need to be focusing on the science and not this… woo woo bullshit. Who is this girl anyway?’
Callum shrugs and says, ‘Just someone a friend brought in. We don’t have to use the footage for the show.’
‘Maybe you should tell your friend to stop dumping freaks like this on you.’ Peter nods at my frozen face and starts laughing again.
Callum shuts off the video. He’s bright red, as if he’s embarrassed to be associated with me. ‘Right, yeah sure. No more freaks.’
I swear my heart stops as the years of torment that word has caused me come flooding back. Freak . Callum just called me a… freak. I spin around, drop the coffees in the trash and walk out the door.
With a deep breath I steel myself, look up and meet Callum’s eyes.
He swallows nervously.