Chapter 7
“Eden, good.” Donny looks up from his newspaper, pulling his reading glasses down around his neck. “Please come in.”
I step into his office, glancing around as I take in all the…
mess. There are books and papers everywhere.
On shelves. On the floor. Teetering in tall stacks on the windowsill.
So many papers cover his desk and floor that only patches of wood are exposed, and the shelf behind him is full of trinkets.
I spot an antique mirror with cracked glass, a porcelain doll, and a collection of human teeth in a tiny jar.
“I’m sorry if Nico upset your dog,” Donny says, as I step through the minefield of miscellaneous office supplies.
“It’s not his fault.” He could have been nicer to me, but I’m not about to tell Donny anything Nico said. “Bob’s not a huge fan of new people.”
“They have that in common.”
I huff.
Donny examines me with all-knowing eyes. “Is Bob feeling all right? That’s quite an injury for such a small fellow.”
“The pain pills are helping, I think.” The fact that Donny cares enough to ask unwinds a knot in my chest. “Is it okay if he sniffs around in here? I can pick him up.”
“The tiny warrior is welcome to explore.”
Bob examines the pile of papers, his cone snagging on the corner of a piece of paper, which seems to piss him off.
Donny gestures at the chair across from him, taking a sip from a mug that reads WORLD’S OKAYEST GHOST HUNTER in blocky letters. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
I almost say no—why do I always default to ‘no’ whenever anyone asks if they can get me anything?—but maybe my body can sense I’m out of immediate danger now, because all the adrenaline is leaking out of me and I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open.
“Coffee sounds awesome,” I say, sinking into a very soft green armchair. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.”
He puts a Keurig pod into the machine on his bookshelf, and it lets out a protesting groan that makes Bob startle. Donny pats the machine like it’s his own cranky old dog as it gurgles to life.
“I really appreciate you giving me this opportunity,” I say, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my hands.
Donny glances up from the machine, the creases around his eyes softening. “I had a feeling you’d call. Once an entity realizes you can sense them, they tend to get quite curious.”
Curious is one word for stabbing your hand through someone’s chest cavity.
“Not all spirits are out to harm you,” he says.
“The reason spectral entities stay on Earth after death has been answered in different ways throughout history, but I’ve found most linger because of unfinished business, strong emotion, or trauma that anchors them here.
They can’t move on, and most people can’t see them.
So, when they encounter someone who can, some desire help. ”
The woman in the library didn’t attack me.
She just touched my cheek, like she was so desperate for someone to acknowledge she existed that the second she realized I could see her, she couldn’t help herself.
It must be so scary to watch the world move on without you while you’re screaming for someone, anyone, to notice you’re still there.
“One came into my car last night,” I say. “That one definitely wanted to hurt me.”
Donny’s mouth tightens. “You were attacked again?”
I tell him about the hand coming up through the floor, the fingers plunging into my stomach, and the salt ring I’d tried to make.
“Ah,” Donny says, nodding. “A salt circle needs to be grounded, touching the ground or floor. Without that connection, it’s just… decorative tubing.”
Of course it does. Why would ghost-proofing be as simple as a Home Depot run and some duct tape?
“Please don’t be discouraged,” Donny adds. “Frankly, I’m impressed with your resourcefulness. I’ll teach you everything you need to know about proper containment protocols. You won’t be going into the field until you’re ready.”
That makes me feel a little less stupid, but it’s hard to feel good about myself when I still haven’t showered after vomiting all night.
“I was throwing up weird slime,” I say.
“Ectoplasm,” Donny says, and the coffee maker finishes with a sputtering groan.
I stop myself from snorting with laughter inappropriate for the situation. “Like in Ghostbusters? That’s a real thing?”
“Very real, though less green than the films would have you believe. It’s a residue ghosts leave behind when they interact with the physical world. Considering you’re finished throwing up, most of it would have already purged from your system by now.”
Well, that’s disgusting. At least it’ll be gone soon.
“I couldn’t move when the ghost was looking at me,” I say. “Is that normal?”
“Eye contact creates a connection between you and the entity. They can use that connection to temporarily paralyze you, which is why we wear goggles. The lenses are designed to lessen the effect of eye contact while still allowing us to see entities enough to work.”
“So, they’re not just a fashion choice?”
“They do make quite a statement, don’t they?”
He angles a framed photo on his desk so I can see it. It’s of Donny and Nico, smiling at the camera with one arm around each other, brass goggles pushed up on their foreheads. Nico’s smile reaches ear-to-ear.
“Is…” I swallow hard. “Is there a big salt circle protecting the house, or something?”
“Among other things, yes. There’s a salt line buried underground, forming a perimeter around the house, and I have installed iron sheeting in the walls.
” Donny taps his knuckle against the wall behind his desk.
Instead of a hollow thud, it produces a metallic echo.
“I’ve modified this house to be safe from all unwanted visitors. ”
I stare at the wallpaper, trying to picture sheets of metal hiding behind those faded flowers. “That must have cost a fortune.”
“Worth every penny for peace of mind,” he says. “The iron fence you saw keeps most curious spirits at bay.”
I frown, because I’m struggling to figure out how a fence could keep a ghost out. Couldn’t a ghost float over it?
“Plus regular security cameras in case any threats of the normal variety decide to visit,” Donny continues. “If anything crosses the perimeter, an alarm will sound. We’ve even got protective sigils carved into the beams throughout the house.”
I was following everything until the last part. “Sigils?”
“Certain symbols help repel spirits,” Donny explains. “It may sound far-fetched, but collective belief can imbue the sigils with energy.”
“But just because you believe something doesn’t make it true,” I say. “I can believe I’m invisible all I want, but people will still see me sitting here.”
“Ah, but what if millions of people across centuries all believed the same thing?” Donny’s eyes light up behind his glasses.
“Faith, ritual, superstition—they all carry weight in the supernatural realm. These symbols have been used for protection for thousands of years. Collective human consciousness creates a kind of energetic fingerprint, and since entities are emotional constructs, they respond to that energy.”
I chew on that. On the one hand, it sounds insane, but forty-eight hours ago, I didn’t think ghosts were real, and now I’m standing in a house wrapped in iron, talking about sigils with some old guy I met in a parking lot.
“The human mind is capable of remarkable things when focused with intention. Sigils are tools to channel that focus.” He pauses, studying my face. “I know you haven’t felt safe in a long time, Eden, but you’re safe here.”
He sounds sincere, but I’ve been wrong about people before. All the foster parents I lived with acted like real professionals when I first met them, but so many of them changed once I was under their roof.
My mind flicks to Ray, who may be the only person in my life who cares about me, and the only person whose opinion I’d trust on this situation. But I couldn’t admit to him that I was living in my car. How could I tell him any of this?
I’ll have to trust my gut telling me Donny genuinely wants to help. But I’ll stay on guard.
My eyelids grow heavy. I take a big swig of coffee, hoping my body will remember that it’s not, in fact, nap time.
Donny settles back in his chair with careful movements that suggest his bones aren’t what they used to be. “This was the house I grew up in. I lived in Quantico for most of my adult life, but when I left the Bureau, I came home.”
Bureau. “As in, FBI?”
“I spent thirty-two years profiling killers for them.” He takes a sip from his mug, wincing as he swallows. “That’s why I recognized you. I consulted on your family’s case.”
My stomach pitches so painfully that I’m scared I might spew any remaining ectoplasm across Donny’s desk. If he saw through me so easily, did he do the same with Stanley Daniels? Does he know what makes Stanley Daniels tick?
I can feel that dangerous prickle behind my eyes, so I take another sip of coffee, letting the burn down my throat give me something else to focus on besides the ache that never goes away. “Did you always know ghosts were real?” I ask.
“I always believed they were,” Donny says. “But I only sensed them after I died. I was shot in the field.” Donny touches his chest, like the memory still aches. “I died on the operating table. They brought me back after two minutes.”
I wonder if he saw the same things I did—that nothingness that wasn’t quite empty, the feeling of being pulled toward something you couldn’t see but knew was waiting.