Chapter 14
When it came to healing herself, or at least to stopping the bite from making her completely a portal to the ethereal, Hazel had started with the basics.
Every night she took a bath, mixing the water with salt and every purifying herb she could think of.
She focused her daily meditations on the physical world and her place in it. Summer’s charm never left her neck.
By her second week at the cottage, she still had no idea whether any or all of those approaches had helped.
The wound didn’t look any worse, but there was no expected prognosis to tell her whether that was normal or whether she’d have exploded with eldritch light already if not for the charm and the baths, and the biggest actual change Hazel noticed was that she pretty much always smelled faintly like lemongrass and pine.
Summer’s emails said he hadn’t been able to find any clues.
Mrs. Trenton’s letter from Maine said her research had turned up short.
That left Hazel staring at badly formatted occult websites, always limiting her time so that her ethereal leakage didn’t break her laptop, and digging through books.
She was glaring down at a paragraph about blood—she didn’t object in theory, but the writer was using such florid prose to justify the concept that Hazel couldn’t tell how much they meant and from what—when the car pulled up to her driveway.
It didn’t turn down the drive, which raised Hazel’s hackles right off. Somebody who thought they had the right to be there would have driven up to the door. Parking just on the side of the road said the occupant was trying very hard to be on the right side of trespassing laws.
She closed her book, since she clearly wasn’t going to get more research done any time soon, and watched out the window as a skinny young person with a bad soul patch and a shaved head got out of the black Honda.
They didn’t have any obvious cameras, but they held up their cell phone and took a picture of the house.
Oh, goody.
“Hazel Lewis?” the new arrival called, startling several sparrows into flying up from the lawn. “Haaaazel Lewis?”
They sounded confident, though Hazel noticed that they hadn’t come up to her door.
She suspected shotguns and dogs had crossed their mind.
On her own land, she could probably have gotten away with using either, at least as a threat.
She’d never been a big fan of guns, but the idea had a certain appeal.
The person with the camera was too savvy to open themselves up to that kind of risk, though.
They simply stood by their car and started narrating, loudly, into their phone.
“Albert Gordon here, viewers. I’m standing by the house where so-called medium Hazel Lewis has retreated after holding a ‘séance’ with serial killer—”
“Afternoon,” Hazel said, stepping out of the house and starting to walk up the driveway. “I don’t believe I agreed to let you film my property.”
“I’m not on your property,” said Albert, not bothering to conceal his smugness, “and if your house is visible from the road, I have the right to film it. Are you Hazel Lewis?”
Hazel wasn’t sure whether he knew what he was talking about or was just bluffing her. She didn’t really want to test local law enforcement to find out. “You’re creating a disturbance, anyhow.”
“I wouldn’t need to if you’d answer a few simple questions. Assuming you’re Ms. Lewis, I mean.”
She hated giving in to this sleazy little twerp, even a little, but practicality won the day. “I am. And I’ll give you five minutes.”
Albert had a very punchable smile. “You call yourself a medium, don’t you?”
“In one of my professional capacities, yes. In my other, I call myself an accountant.”
“But you claim that you can talk to the dead.” The reporter emphasized the last four words, staring at her like she was a fake mermaid in a freak show.
Hazel folded her arms across her chest and stared right back. “Yes, under some circumstances.”
“What circumstances are those?”
“If they’re around. And if they want to talk. It’s a lot harder to stand in their driveways and scream for attention.”
Albert frowned. “I’m just doing my job, Ms. Lewis.”
“Oh, did your editor send you out to cover this angle of the case?”
“I don’t—I’m an independent investigator. People deserve the truth,” he added, spacing each word just a bit too far apart.
“And you deserve ad revenue.”
“What do your clients do if the dead don’t feel chatty?” Albert leaned forward. “They still pay you to hear that, right?”
“I ask compensation for time and travel expenses, like any other consultant. If a case doesn’t turn up any paranormal activity, it’s within about an hour’s drive, and it’s not particularly complicated, the client might be out twenty dollars. My hourly fee is on my website.”
“Did Clarence Chapman employ you as a medium?”
“He did.”
“And his house collapsed during the…process?”
“It did.”
A cool breeze picked up, ruffling Hazel’s hair. It just brought out goose bumps on Albert’s scalp.
“Do you know that Mr. Chapman’s been accused of killing at least fifteen people? And that the bodies were in his basement?”
“I know what’s on the news,” said Hazel, not sure how much of what Stephanie had told her was public. “And no, I didn’t have any idea about it at the time.”
“The dead didn’t show up to tell you about it?”
“No.”
“Why do you think that is, Ms. Lewis?”
“I haven’t spent a lot of time theorizing. I suspect most of them had moved on, and the ones that hadn’t were tethered elsewhere.”
“‘Tethered,’” repeated Albert, rolling the word around in his mouth. “What does that mean exactly? For the layperson.”
“I think most laypeople are smart enough to figure it out, but it means that any ghosts Chapman created may have lingered where he killed them, or with their loved ones, or otherwise been bound to an earthly tie that they found more important. If they were buried, they could be with their graves.” She thought of the hands pushing against the wallpaper.
“Or some were present, but I didn’t make contact before the house collapsed. ”
Albert raised his eyebrows, dark against his pallid skin. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t know a lot of things, Mr. Gordon. Even experts aren’t always sure about details, and in these matters there are no experts.” Hazel glanced down at her phone. “And I think your five minutes are up.”
She turned on her heel, but Albert caught her by her elbow, his hand like some boneless sea creature. “You owe everyone a better explanation—”
As Hazel spun back, temper snapping through her sense of prudence with the media, a third voice spoke up. “That seems like an awfully bad idea.”
* * *
Hazel and Albert snapped their attention to the new arrival, who was just coming down the road on the other side of Hazel’s house: a tall, slim figure with tawny hair that glinted gold in the sunlight.
They too stayed on the right side of public property, walking along beside the potholed stretch of pavement with care even while they kept talking.
“Sorry to interrupt, I don’t claim to be up to date on all the history here, but generally it’s not the done thing to grab a lady without permission. ”
They spoke with a deep voice, an accent Hazel couldn’t precisely place, though she thought it was from somewhere in the UK, and an almost apologetic tone that was still insistent.
It might have gotten Albert to drop her elbow, except that she’d already yanked it away when he’d turned to look at the newcomer.
“If you don’t mind,” said Albert, “I’m with the press.”
“I don’t mind at all,” the newcomer replied, with a smile that was daffy and charming at the same time. “You’re at liberty to be with the press if you’d like. I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”
Hazel bit back a giggle as Albert’s indignant look deflated into confusion. “What, are you her boyfriend?” he demanded.
“I’m sure I’d be honored, but we’ve never met before. I’ve family down the road.”
As tempted as she was to watch the proceedings, Hazel decided she’d better step back into the conversation. “And as I was saying,” she told Albert, “I’ve given you as many answers as you’re getting. I’m asking you politely to leave before I call the police.”
“I’m not on your property,” he repeated, scowling.
“Oh, is that you up there?” The newcomer gestured to Albert’s car. “I’d move if I were you.”
Albert swung around to glare. “Or what?”
“Or the postman’s probably going to hit you. He’s not a bad driver, you understand, but this road is very narrow, and he goes quickly at the end of his rounds. Not a small vehicle either.”
The presence of a witness had already changed Albert’s calculations, Hazel could tell, and, annoyingly, it probably helped that most people would have assumed the third party was male.
While the local police might have blown off a weird woman who’d just moved in, a local—even if clearly not a native son—might be a different story.
Albert huffed out a long breath through his teeth. “You’re keeping the public brainwashed and ignorant,” he told Hazel. “I hope you know that.”
“Gee,” she said. “I’d just planned to do laundry today.”
Albert didn’t answer. Hazel watched him stalk off, then turned to her rescuer when she heard the car door slam. “Thanks,” she said. “He wasn’t loud enough for this to be a noise complaint, I hope.”
“Nothing of the sort,” said the newcomer, giving her another easy smile. “I’m afraid I came to ask a favor and decided to intrude.”
“I’m glad you did. Probably kept me out of prison.”
“Happy to oblige.” They offered a hand. “Maxwell Redfern. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Hazel Lewis, she or her. Likewise.” She took Maxwell’s hand, finding his grip firm but not crushing, and his skin pleasantly warm against hers.
“She or—” Maxwell blinked, and Hazel stiffened, preparing for disappointment, but then enlightenment dawned, and they smiled again. “Oh! He or him. Sorry. Not quite up on the customs. Been a bit of a recluse in the last few years.”
“No problem.” Hazel didn’t audibly sigh in relief, and praised herself for her discipline. “You came to ask a favor, though?”
“Ah, yes. Well. I’m a bit of a bird-watcher—not the most dynamic hobby, I know, but my own—and my sister says your woods probably have the most variety around here.
Not inhabited for a while, you see. She may just have been trying to get me out of the house, and I completely understand if you’d rather not have a stranger lurking about. ”
Oh, I already have plenty of those, Hazel thought, and stifled another laugh.
She took another look at Maxwell, noting the specifics this time.
Behind old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes were large and dark green, with thick golden lashes.
His face was thin and his chin sharp, with a few lines that suggested he was within about five years of Hazel’s age.
The brown-and-white checked shirt and tan pants he’d worn seemed too nice for tramping around the woods, and he wasn’t wearing binoculars, but maybe he hadn’t wanted to assume permission.
He didn’t set off any alarm bells. That was no guarantee of safety—nice and normal caused many people’s last moments—but it was a start.
Besides, Hazel had barely ventured into the edge of the woods.
If Maxwell had sketchier intentions than bird-watching, he could have carried them out without her ever knowing.
Hazel realized she’d been examining him long enough for him to notice, though he politely wasn’t showing it if he’d realized.
“You don’t seem like much of a lurker,” she said quickly, feeling her cheeks heat up, “although I guess bird-watching probably requires at least a little. And you’re welcome in the woods. Just be careful. Go in the day too. I haven’t really been in there, and I don’t know what is.”
Maxwell cocked his head. “That has a nicely ominous sound to it.”
“Does it?” She laughed, trying to sound casual. “My bad. Mostly there are probably just a lot of places to break your ankle, and I can’t swear that, oh, rabid foxes don’t live there or the previous tenants didn’t leave fifty-year-old bear traps. You seem too nice for tetanus.”
“The lady flatters me.” He sketched a courtly bow. Impulsive as the gesture clearly was, he had a grace with his long arms and legs that made it look like he knew every motion in advance.
“I hate to tell you, but I say that to all the boys.” Hazel glanced in the direction Albert had gone. “Well. Most of them.”
Maxwell grimaced. “He really was an absolute peach of a man, wasn’t he? Makes me wish I’d gone in for shotguns and bulldogs, except I can’t aim and it seems a bit hard on the hounds.”
“Axe Body Spray probably isn’t good for them.
And you were plenty helpful. I didn’t really prepare for visitors, but I can offer a soda and chips on the porch—the house isn’t exactly…
” Hazel trailed off. She’d never established a cover story for not inviting people inside.
The idea of needing one would have seemed ridiculous half an hour before.
She could always fall back on being a woman alone with a stranger, of course. It was awkward, but anybody reasonable would understand, and she would have used that line with anybody else well in advance of offering them refreshments and company. Maxwell had been helpful, and she felt obligated.
And he’s not exactly hard on the eyes, said a treacherously honest internal voice.
Maxwell shook his head. “I’d best be getting along. Another time, maybe—and thank you.”
“Thank you. It was good to meet you, Mr. Redfern.”
“Max, please, and it was my pleasure,” he said with another bright smile, sounding completely sincere. “I’ll try not to look too sinister when I’m wandering about the place.”
He headed back up the road, turning once to wave goodbye. Hazel watched him go for longer than she should have, feeling disappointed and kicking herself for it.
No crushes. You don’t need the distraction—and he doesn’t need the risk.