Chapter 8 #3
By the time everyone is clapping and Loretta is back at the podium thanking Theo for the engaging talk, my notes app is flooded with information I need to research to poke holes in his theories.
Mom and I stand at the same time, but before we can leave the pew, Theo is vaulting off the stage, calling my name.
In that moment, my mother decides to audition for the role of the absolute worst by whispering that she’ll meet me at the car. Then she’s gone, like her feet suddenly sprouted wings. If this were Survivor, I’d be immediately voting her off the island.
I face Theo. “That was…enlightening.” Even with the sarcasm in my voice, that has to be nicer than bonkers.
His eyes crinkle in amusement, but he remains quiet.
I press the bridge of my glasses further up my nose.
I can feel myself starting to sweat. Because of course.
My sweat glands are as traitorous as my mother and my eyeballs earlier when they refused to stop staring at this guy.
Why does sweat always have to happen in the worst places?
Why can’t it be my kneecap, not my nose and temples?
My musings on the most convenient locations for perspiration then trigger thoughts of how I’m visibly sweating and how everyone thinks plus-size people who sweat are gross.
As if no one else perspires when they’re nervous.
Why aren’t our bodies allowed to react the same way to outside stimuli as everyone else’s simply because we’re bigger?
I’m not saying another word until he does. I don’t care how badly my brain spirals out. I have said enough tonight. I spoke in front of a crowd(ish). Twice. I never do that.
Like he can hear me, Theo clears his throat. “Thanks for your questions.”
“A good researcher should always be ready to be challenged,” I gibe.
“So you’re going to be my devil’s advocate?
” He leans a hip against one side of the pew and crosses his arms over his chest. With his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tattoo is fully visible.
Just below his elbow is a stylized image of a ghost—a long, draping sheet, with two black eyes at the head.
The ghost’s skeletal hand is holding a lantern that gives off a bright glow of light, and its sheet flows long past the end of its “body.” Below the folds of fabric, in delicate calligraphy, is written Gone doesn’t mean lost.
The words tug at my heart. Out of habit, my fingers drift to the hem of my T-shirt sleeve, brushing over my own tattoo.
It takes me a second to realize he’s still waiting for me to respond.
I square my shoulders and find my very sorry supply of sass.
“Absolutely. At least as long as you’re on this mission to convince the world my house is haunted.
” I straighten my glasses again. “It’s hard enough being the new girl without also being the haunted-house girl. ”
“If you’d let me come investigate, I could put this theory to rest,” he insists.
“You don’t need me. You have free access to your evil well.”
He blows out a frustrated breath. I purse my lips to keep a straight face, even though I’m practically giddy at the idea of finally getting under his skin.
“The well isn’t evil.” He drags a hand through his hair and his face scrunches, like he’s collecting his thoughts. “As I said during my presentation, I think there was something supernatural in it.”
I shrug. That seems like the same thing to me.
“Harlow’s Rest,” he goes on, “is smack in the middle of the Bridgewater Triangle—which is well known as an area of intense paranormal activity. So I think it is perfectly plausible that something supernatural got trapped in the well and that it corrupted Mercy when she and Harmony started hanging around that part of the woods. I’m still trying to figure out exactly how she died, but I’m certain that Mercy’s spirit, turned malicious by whatever was in the well, murdered the rest of her family.
And continues to haunt the homestead to this day.
I can only prove that, though, if I can get into the house. ”
Perfectly plausible. I’m trying really hard not to laugh, but everything he said is the exact opposite of plausible.
It’s make-believe and stories and hearsay.
He didn’t give us any actual proof during the presentation and he’s not doing any better now.
I shake my head at him. “Your EMF reader is going to pick up nothing but wayward squirrels and spiderwebs. Because that’s about all we’ve got in there. ”
“Are you renovating?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Obviously. The place is barely livable. Why? Do you need to perform an exorcism before we reglaze the tub?”
He rolls his eyes, but I can see him fighting off a laugh. “My dad’s a contractor. We could help. You know, if you get in over your heads or anything.”
“What? So you can ghostbust my house and post it on the internet? No thanks.” I take a step back. This conversation needs to end while I still have something resembling the upper hand. “My mom’s waiting for me, so I should go.” I’m already turning away as I say, “See you around.”
I don’t let Theo respond before I’m run-walking my way toward the door.