Chapter Twenty-Four
HAIRS brISTLED ON the back of my neck. Because the neighbor’s TV was off this time, and there was no laugh track playing.
But I’d heard that creepy laughter plain as can be.
Not just any laugh, but the exact same laugh that had been bugging me before.
Last time, even under the camouflage of canned laughter, it had struck me as weird.
And here it was again, isolated. Same pitch, same tone, same rhythm.
Haw-haw-haw.
I chafed my arms hard enough to make the candles flicker and pulled down white light.
No app can compare to the sheer adrenaline rush of a ghostly presence.
My crown chakra pulsated in time with the headache now throbbing behind my eye, and the room went sparkly around the edges.
But there was no ghost. No laughter. Nothing but me on high alert.
I was buzzing so hard, it was a wonder the luminol didn’t light up for me again.
As I scanned the wall anyway, despite common sense and the laws of physics, my gaze fell on the closet door.
First thought, I’d noticed it was new but never wondered why it had been replaced, figuring it was some normal reason like wear and tear, and not stab marks or bullet holes.
Second thought…the door wasn’t totally shut. It stuck out a fraction of an inch. Like it didn’t latch because someone had closed it in a hurry, or…?
Breathing shallow, as if the act of inhaling might draw attention to me, I crept forward, easing my weight from heel to toe, heel to toe.
No creaks from the floorboards. Nothing to give me away.
When I reached the closet, I slid a baggie of salt from my pocket, fiddled uselessly with the zip-lock for a tense second, then ripped open the bottom with my teeth.
Sharp saltiness puckered my tongue, but I quelled the urge to spit.
Bag tilted to contain as much spillage as possible, I steeled myself, doubled down on my white light, and tore open the closet door.
“Gaaah!”
I dunno who screamed louder.
Me?
Or Boswell.
We both jumped half out of our skins—and we each sprayed the other with the contents of whatever we were holding. Which meant he got salted…and I found myself covered in flecks of dubious green plant matter.
“You—” Boswell sputtered, trying to shake salt out of his hair. With it all standing on end, he looked even more unhinged. “You can’t just barge in here! This is my apartment!”
“Was your apartment.” I brushed myself off with more force than necessary. Green bits scattered across the hardwood. “What, you can’t smoke your weed on the porch like a normal person?”
“That’s not marijuana. It’s catnip. I was hoping to find my cat…no thanks to you. I’ll bet you scared him away.”
“That’s your cat outside—the gray tabby? Why’d you leave it behind?”
Boswell gave a long-suffering sigh. “He, not it. His name is Simon. And of course I tried to bring him with me. What do you take me for?” He probably didn’t want me to answer that.
“But moving day came and went and Simon was nowhere to be found. I think someone else around here might be feeding him. At least, I hope so. Simon is a very good boy. And better company than most people.”
“If you’re so worried about him, why didn’t you keep him inside?”
“Believe me, I tried. But Simon is a free spirit. He shouldn’t be bound by the laws of an inferior species. Besides, there’s no pets allowed in this building—strictly enforced. So when you get my security deposit back, make sure you don’t mention anything about him.”
I was about to tell Boswell exactly where he could shove his security deposit, but decided it might be the only leverage I had, so I’d better not squander it.
“You’re not gonna find your cat in the closet,” I said.
“In fact, this whole area is under investigation. So unless you want to shed fresh DNA all over it—”
Before I could threaten him with legal ramifications, my skin prickled as a shadowy figure darted between us. My candles were lit and I was still full of white light energy from all my prep work, so I got a really good look at the repeater.
She was screaming. With a split lip and twin tracks of mascara running down her cheeks. Just a quick glimpse. But it was enough to know that someone had beaten this woman before she died.
Boswell fell back with a shudder, then took in the guttering candles in the corners of the room. “What is all this? Are you some kind of sorcerer?”
“There’s no such thing.” I peered into the closet. The repeater was gone. “I’m a medium. A psych.” And so was Boswell, if he’d just seen that entity. But I figured we weren’t in the right time or place for me to tell him about the extrasensory birds and bees.
Boswell backed away from the closet. The soles of his shoes scraped salt. “I’ve never met a psychic. Not that I ever believed. You’d be surprised how gullible people are. They’ll believe any kind of crackpot claim.”
You don’t say.
“All of the so-called psychics I’ve met are actually making logical assumptions about what you’re thinking or feeling and chalking up their impressions to ESP. And all the mediums on TV are just telling grieving families what they wanna hear to get more ratings.”
How could I agree so absolutely with someone who toted around with their own urine? I sure hoped that wasn’t where I’d eventually end up.
“Mediums are few and far between,” I said.
“And ghosts don’t go out of their way to make it easy for us.
But we do exist.” Since we’d both just seen something, I figured I should broach the topic of him coming down to HQ to see if he was part of the exclusive club.
But before I could, we heard it again. The chilling haw-haw-haw.
I flinched and sucked down white light, angry with myself for letting down my defenses, even for half a second, in an apartment that was clearly haunted.
“I heard that, too,” Boswell said. All the more reason he should be tested. “Don’t worry, it’s just the downstairs bird.”
“The what?”
“The bird Murray thinks no one else knows about. No pets, remember? Not even birds. But I’ve overheard him talking to that thing—sound carries out on the back porch with the kitchen window open—and it seems like the only friend he’s got.
It would be a shame if the jerks in charge made him choose between his bird and his home.
But they’re just a bunch of soulless, capitalistic corporate drones, so you can’t expect them to show a guy an ounce of understanding.
Especially if you violate the letter of the law on the almighty lease agreement. ”
“That was no bird, Boswell—it was a human laugh.”
“It’s a myna bird, it can mimic things just like a parrot.
Now me, I’d rather have something that couldn’t repeat anything incriminating.
After all, who knows what the government will decide to subpoena?
Maybe I’d have a songbird. Or at least something nice to look at.
Then again, either way, you get the satisfaction of lining their cage with newspapers and watching them shit on all that propaganda the press is shilling these days—”
“Forget about the bird. What more can you tell me about the entity in this room?”
“The woman,” he said, as if daring me to downplay, minimize, or contradict him.
Instead, I nodded and said, “The woman.”
My agreement seemed to satisfy him. “I don’t know who she was.
The rental office won’t say who lived here before, so other than the junk mail, I’ve got nothing to go by.
And it’s not like I’m willing to leave an electronic breadcrumb trail by searching.
Oh, they say you’re protected by VPN...anyway, whoever the ghost woman was, she comes and goes.
Her presence was strong just then—I know you felt it too—so it’ll be a while before she shows up again. ”
Figuring I shouldn’t let the apartment burn down, I snuffed out my candles and eased my mental hold on my white balloon.
By the time I pinched out the fourth flame, the first candle had cooled enough to bag without dripping wax everywhere.
“You’re sure it’s a bird?” I said. Because Boswell was so busy worrying about umpteen common things, I could see him missing something that should actually alarm him.
“Sure I’m sure. Everyone thinks Murray is a misanthrope and a hoarder, and that’s why he won’t let anyone into his apartment. But the real reason is he’s worried they’ll take his bird away.”
Haw-haw-haw.
The floor was covered in catnip and salt, but there was nothing to be done for that before the cops stepped in, not unless Laura wanted to send in an emergency cleanup crew and call even more attention to the scene.
I couldn’t help but think I’d failed the victim, whoever she was.
But at least I could fulfill my original mission and get Boswell onboard with the FPMP.
“Here’s the thing,” I said. “If I’m a medium, and you and I both saw something in the bedroom, it stands to reason….”
Understanding dawned. Boswell stared at me for a long moment, then nodded solemnly. “You’re saying I’m psychic? That’s a tough pill to swallow, yes indeed. I’m a natural skeptic. I pride myself in sticking to the facts.”
“Obviously.”
“But it wouldn’t be the first time sensationalistic news propaganda held a grain of truth.”
“If you’re certified psychic—and I’m willing to sign off on my part of the assessment based on what I’ve already seen—the folks I work for can help you get a handle on your talent. Where you take it from there is up to you.”
Boswell considered this, then said, “Fair warning, I don’t sign any contracts without running them by a lawyer first. And not just any lawyer, either, but a guy who specializes in seeing through legalese and jargon.”
“Lawyer up.”
He nodded decisively. “Fine. I’ll peer beneath the surface and see how the government sausage is made.”
“Well, you know the way.” I pivoted toward the door.
“Not so fast—I’m not going anywhere without Simon.”
The cat?