Dos Hombres Cantina was dark and atmospheric. Candles in glass jars illuminated the tiny round tables in the dining area, and the enticing aromas of salsa and frying meat hung heavy in the air. A long mahogany bar took up one side of the building, and perky, college-age waitresses in red and yellow aprons scurried about, carrying serving trays filled with pitchers of margaritas and draft beer.
Deegie sailed past the bar, deliberately ignoring the lecherous grin of a crusty-looking old gent perched on a stool at the very end. “Let’s sit back there,” she said to Zach, pointing to the sparsely populated dining room. “Fewer creepies back there, if you catch my drift. Well, besides me, of course.” She shook her head, making her silver skull earrings jingle, then laughed nervously at her own silliness.
She settled herself at the tiny table, adjusting her skirt, stowing her purse, and hoping Zach wouldn’t go beyond small talk. The last thing she wanted to do was fend off the advances of a wannabe suitor while she was still recovering from the mess with Spencer.
One of the perky waitresses jiggled up to their table, order pad in hand, and she greeted Zach with an overly enthusiastic “Zach! Omigawd! Hiiii!” To Deegie she only offered a perfunctory “Hi,” and a considerably toned-down smile.
After the waitress took their order and bounced away, Deegie raised an eyebrow and gave Zach a knowing smirk. “So you’re a regular here, I see.”
Zach’s blush was almost as red as his beard. “Oh yeah, I come here on payday sometimes. I don’t know her, though. I mean I know her, but I don’t know her. Just from here, you know?”
Amused by Zach’s charming awkwardness, Deegie stopped her gentle teasing and took another look around at the restaurant’s décor: colorful, primitive paintings on the faux adobe walls; authentic, beaded sombreros over their table; artificial cacti in red clay pots.
And the scroungy-looking guy at the end of the bar, still staring intently at her.
She glared back at him, her face deliberately grim, then returned her attention to Zach. “Interesting gentleman,” she said. “Is he a regular too?”
“Oh, him.” Zach looked at the man without being obvious about it. “Yeah, he’s here a lot. He’s one of our local characters. People call him Shit Storm Murphy. I don’t know what his real name is, though. Got a little taste for the sauce, if you know what I mean.”
“So I see.”
“He’s a little off, but he’s harmless. Likes to get drunk and tell tall tales, but nobody really believes them.”
“He likes to stare, that’s for sure.”
“Can’t say I blame him.” Zach said.
Miss Perky reappeared with their food, saving Deegie the trouble of coming up with a reply. The order of nachos came on a plate the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter and took up most of the table. Once the delectable aroma hit her nose, Deegie realized she was famished and dug in immediately, further delaying any more conversation. She felt the licentious gaze of Shit Storm Murphy creep over her body on one side, and Zach’s nervous, bashful energy on the other. She kept her eyes on the olives, melted cheese, and sour cream, and wished she’d ordered a margarita instead of an iced tea.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Murphy heave his considerable bulk off his bar stool and begin weaving his way on unsteady legs towards their table. “Great,” she muttered around a mouthful of tortilla chips. “Here he comes.”
Zach’s expression was pained as the colorful drunk shambled up to them. “Hey Murph. Can we talk later, bud? Kinda having dinner with my friend here.”
“Yer friend, eh?” Murphy’s voice was rough and burbling from long years of alcohol and tobacco abuse, and he was redolent with the odors of stale beer and unwashed armpits. “I know her too!”
“No you don’t!” Deegie snapped, and she covered her nose with her hand and looked pleadingly at Zach.
Murphy’s riotous laughter stopped conversation at the bar; patrons turned on their stools to see what the matter was. “Sure I do! You’re the gal who bought the old place at the end of Fox Lane! I was takin’ a little snooze in the trees, and I seen ya movin’ in!” He slapped his thighs and cackled laughter. “Hey, dintcha used to live over on High Street once? Huh? You did, dintcha! See you got ya a new beau!”
“Oh shit,” said Deegie.
“Murph, come on now ...” said Zach.
Murphy lowered his voice to a more conversational level. “Aw, don’t worry, Miss. I won’t hurt ya.” He paused, as if trying to convince himself of this. “I’ll let ya be. Say, you do know what went on up there way back when, don’t ya? Up at yer new place?”
Zach leaned into Shit Storm Murphy’s stink cloud and lowered his voice. “Look, Murph. You need to be nice tonight. I mean it. This is a very nice lady here, and she’s a good friend of mine.”
“No, wait.” Deegie shook her head and patted Zach’s arm. Having a ghost in the house was something she was looking forward to. Murphy’s tale of way back when might just give her a little more information on how that ghost came to be there in the first place. Besides, in spite of the discomfort he was causing her nose, she sensed no ill will from him.
“It’s okay, Zach,” she said. “Who knows, a little history on my old place might be interesting.
She looked up at Murphy. “Go ahead and tell me—quickly—then you have to go back to the bar and let us eat, deal?” (Deegie’s appetite had dulled considerably, but she certainly didn’t want this guy hanging out at their table).
“Yes ma’am.” Murphy grinned and picked at the seat of his overalls, and he slid his bleary eyes from Deegie to Zach and back again before beginning his tale. “Seems there was some odd doings in that house back in the nineteen twenty-odds. Two brothers. Folks back then say them boys actually conjured up a livin’ demon. At least that’s what my daddy used to tell me. Some folks say you can still hear that accursed thing screamin’ in the woods in the middle of the night.” He peered at Deegie from beneath bushy grey brows. “You just take care in there, missy. My daddy tole me some gawd-awful stuff went on up in that house.”
“Really? Like what?” Deegie put down her half-eaten chip and leaned forward.
“Well, them two brothers was found dead right there in the livin’ room by the fireplace. Seems they just couldn’t live with what they done, callin’ up the devil and all. Boom! They blew their own fool heads off!” He scratched his grizzled beard and looked perplexed then. “Or maybe it was hangin’. Yeah, that’s it. They done hung themselves. Sometimes I forget. Like to drink, ya know.”
“Great.” Deegie dropped her chip back onto the plate and rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the heads up.” Zach was right. This guy was full of sauce and full of crap. There was a presence in the house, sure, but the ghost and her cats were far from evil.
“I haven’t heard anything about that house, and I’ve lived here all my life,” Zach said. “It’s just an old house that’s been sitting there longer than any of us have been around, Murph. Are you sure you weren’t just dreaming that up to scare Deegie?”
“Nope! Wouldn’t do that! I remember everything my uncle told me, and that’s a fact!”
“Uncle? Wait, I thought it was your dad who told you.” Deegie drew herself back into her chair as far as she could. “Never mind. Thanks for the entertainment, Mr. Shit Storm. You can go back to your beer now.”
Murphy offered a sheepish grin. “I just thought you ought to know,” he said, and reached out for her shoulder with a grubby paw.
In one swift, instinctive motion, Deegie brought her hand up and snapped her fingers. A spark of pale blue lit up the dark table like a mini-flashbulb, and Murphy jumped back with a yelp.
“Damn static ‘lectricity!” he sputtered. “Dang, girl, you wearin’ wool or something? You ‘bout blew me outta my shoes!”
“Sorry.” Deegie didn’t mean it, of course; she wasn’t sorry at all. Brief pain flickered in her head, reminding her of her disability, but small energy expenditures weren’t too bad. She was good for another small zap or two before the real pain set in. Her hand stayed poised in front of her on the table, middle finger to thumb, ready to deliver another painful zap should he be bold enough to touch her again. Go ahead, you nasty old thing, she thought, touch me again and see what happens.
Murphy shuffled back to the bar, only to be patiently escorted out by the bartender. He went willingly enough, waving to the other patrons, and declaring his undying love for all who witnessed his inebriated antics. The Shit Storm Murphy Show was over for the day.
Deegie ran quick fingers through her thick black curls and scowled as Murphy was led away.
“Wow that was some shock! Are you wearing wool or something?” Zach gaped at her from across the pile of nachos.
“Oh, no, no, I—it’s my hair. It gets all full of static in the fall. It’s the curls or something, I don’t know.” She shrugged as if she were puzzled herself, and changed the subject. “Hey, our munchies are getting cold! Let’s dig in!” She scooped up chips and melted cheese with an enthusiasm she hoped was convincing; the last thing she wanted to do right now was eat.
“Aw, hey, Deeg, I’m real sorry about this,” Zach lowered his voice and poked at an olive slice. “I completely forgot about Murph. I hope he didn’t ruin everything. I mean, that story didn’t freak you out or anything, did it?”
Relief flooded her chest, and she let her shoulders drop. He was more concerned with their disrupted non-date than he was with the accidental display of magic that had just taken place right in front of him. “No. I’m fine. People embellish stories to fit their own need, or they just make them up altogether. Happens all the time. I’m fine, Zach.”
“Well ... okay then. Hey, it’s still early; we could go get a coffee or something after we finish here. Hammond’s is just right around the corner. Great coffee, tempting desserts, just like the commercial says.”
Deegie feigned skepticism. “No pumpkin spice or candy cane sprinkles, I hope? No chatty drunken bums?”
“Nope. Just plain old coffee. Or tea if you want; they have that too. So, is that a yes?”
“Throw in a slice of pie, and you’ve got a deal.”
Over peach pie and strong coffee, Zach gleaned a few more details about the enigmatic Deegie Tibbs from The Silent Cat: she was an only child, she practiced aromatherapy, she liked to go camping by herself, she once had a boa constrictor named Silent Sam, and she wanted to open a refuge for homeless cats.
“I think the backyard of my new place would be a perfect cat hang-out if I had it fenced in. And there are plenty of rooms I could use for indoor kitties, too. It’s going to rock, you’ll see.” She cut into a peach slice with the side of her fork and briefly debated whether or not to tell him about the ghost.
“You really are serious about living there, aren’t you?” Zach pushed aside his empty plate and leaned forward on his elbows. “Spooky old houses and rumors of demonology don’t freak you out?”
“Don’t forget creepy drunk guys hiding in the woods watching me move in!” Deegie added with a wink. “But no, it doesn’t freak me out, not really. It’s just an old house, and old houses almost always have some sort of urban legend attached to them. I’m guessing nobody’s lived there for quite some time.”
“That place had been empty since I was a kid. Someone would come and check on it from time to time, but no one ever moved in.”
“Well, the neighborhood will get used to me sooner or later,” Deegie said. “Because that house is perfect for me, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Later, when he brought her back to the Bus and her cozy, tree-lined alley behind The Silent Cat, Zach tried once more to offer Deegie the use of his guest room. She declined, gently, and pointed to the windows of the Bus, where Bast peered out from behind the purple tie-dyed curtains. “I have to feed that little guy,” she said. “And I’ll be fine, so don’t worry.”
“Alright, then. See you in the morning, as usual?”
“Yup.” She considered kissing his cheek, dismissed the thought, then let herself out of the Jeep. “And thanks again for the nachos.”
***
Deegie paid to have the house painted; that task was far too daunting for one person. While the four-man crew busied themselves with tarps, ladders, scaffolds, and five-gallon buckets of white paint, Deegie retreated to the neglected and overgrown backyard. She could already imagine a nice vegetable and herb garden here, and there was room for a gazebo as well. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself completely at ease in her newly landscaped backyard, perhaps lying in a gently swaying hammock while spring breezes brushed cool unseen fingers through her unruly black hair. She ripped the tags from a new pair of leather gloves and put them on, not quite sure where to begin. Zach had lent her some gardening implements from his own tool shed: a heavy set of pruners, a hack saw, a shovel and hoe. She’d challenged herself to get at least half of the backyard clear of weeds and brambles by lunch time, and she decided to start at the far corner and make her way back to the house.
After an hour or so, Deegie wondered what she’d gotten herself into. She was sweating profusely despite the coolness of the day, her cheeks were beginning to tingle with the first signs of sunburn, and her forearms were laddered and crisscrossed with angry red scratches from thorns and sharp twigs. She sat back on her heels, gulping thirstily from a thermos of iced tea she’d brought with her, and wondered what on earth Bast was up to.
Earlier, the black kitten had been lounging in the shade of the pink marble bird-bath, watching Deegie intently with his sleepy golden eyes. Now he crept across the dry, yellowed grass with infinite slowness, the way cats do when they are stalking something. He stopped about a foot from an overgrown box hedge and hunkered down on his belly. Only the tip of his tail moved now; it flicked up and down, rattling dried leaves together with a stealthy crinkle. A bird, or perhaps a small animal, is hiding out in that bush, Deegie thought.
Just as she was about to scold Bast for threatening an innocent creature, something that looked very much like a tattered puff of gray smoke drifted out of the hedge at ground level, then wafted its way over to Bast. Deegie frowned and shaded her eyes with her hand, then took off her sunglasses and scrubbed them with the edge of her AC/DC T-shirt. She put them back on and still saw the anomaly, more clearly now in fact. It was a small cloud of diaphanous ... stuff ... about the size of a football, and as she watched, part of it stretched out from itself and waved back and forth, looking for all the world like a cat’s fluffy tail. Four legs began to take shape, cat’s legs, she was sure of it, then a triangular feline head, complete with a sweet little face and upright, pointy ears. Its paws were soundless as the spirit cat closed the distance between itself and Bast, who lifted a forepaw, as if in greeting, then began to purr. The two of them touched their noses together, as cats will do when they are friendly with one another, then the ghostly cat turned away from Bast and dashed full speed across the yard. Then, before the wondering eyes of the cat and his human, it faded into nothingness.
Deegie sat spellbound for a long moment, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and her rapt smile still frozen in place. Bast returned to his spot by the bird bath, licked his paws as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, then curled into himself to resume his nap. Deegie got up and hurried across the lawn, then knelt next to the hedge into which the ghost cat had appeared. Next to it was a wild tangle of weeds, brambles, leaves, and garden debris, and when she looked closer, she saw small, irregularly shaped objects sticking out of the soft black earth. Unmindful of the sharp thorns, she began clearing away the debris, and a few moments later she sat back on the long-dead grass, looking at her discovery. She didn’t even feel the scratches on her arms.
She had uncovered miniature headstones, more than a dozen of them, some made of wood, some of stone, and all carefully lettered with the names of pets: Muffin, Fancy, Rusty, Squeak, and others, some barely legible. Deegie had discovered a long-forgotten pet cemetery in her backyard. There were dates on some of the stones, one dating back to 1905, three years after the house had been built. The witch was touched beyond belief by the loving manner in which the previous occupants had laid their beloved animal companions to rest, and she vowed to preserve and care for this little cemetery in the best way she knew how. This was a good omen for sure; this was the perfect place for a cat sanctuary, and as far as she was concerned, it was just one more reason to love this old house.
***
With the last of her savings, Deegie purchased used furniture from a thrift shop, including a wonderful velvet patchwork couch of all colors. In the living room, now tucked behind the couch, were two oil paintings, one of a colonial-looking man in navy blue, and one of a red-haired woman in pink. While they weren’t professional, she’d taken an instant liking to them and bought them as well, thinking they would look right at home in the entryway. She bought a new stove and refrigerator on sale at Taylor’s Appliance on Morris Street and filled the refrigerator with enough food for a week.
The electricity had been turned on, but the heating oil tank, which was supposed to have been filled today, was still bone-dry, which meant no heat tonight, except for a small, elderly space heater. The pipes hadn’t been used in decades, and the faucets produced only a slow trickle of odd-smelling, root-beer-colored water. One more thing that would have to wait until tomorrow. Thank goodness she’d had the presence of mind to purchase two cases of bottled water that day.
Deegie sat cross-legged on her mattress on the floor—she had been far too exhausted to assemble the bed frame—and she sipped a cup of lukewarm cocoa while going over what remained of her to-do list. She had not seen or sensed the ghost since moving in, but that didn’t surprise her; ghosts had a way of laying low while the living moved in and got settled. The spectral being that sang to her hadn’t gone far. Bast lay curled beside her, nose to tail, purring as usual. Bast always purred, whether he had reason to or not. Her hand reached out for his little black body, and she buried her fingers in his fur. At least he would be warm tonight. She pulled a sweatshirt on over her pink penguin pajamas and kept a wary eye on the old-fashioned electrical outlet as she turned up the space heater a notch. The building inspector had declared the wiring perfectly safe, but she always half-expected a shower of blue sparks and immediate electrocution every time she plugged something in. The heater’s hum went up an octave, and the coils glowed a brighter orange.
Deegie rubbed her hands together in front of the increased heat, then returned her attention to her list. There were only a few items left on it, and she was quite pleased with herself for managing to have such a productive day. One of the items that still needed to be checked off was number four: Find the key to the basement. The realtor had told her that the key, a charmingly old-fashioned one, could be found hanging on an equally charming old-fashioned nail located next to the kitchen door. Alas, the nail was there, but the key was not, and that bothered Deegie a great deal. The basement was the only area of the house that she hadn’t explored. The attic had been no big deal, mostly cobwebs and dust, but there was something about not seeing the basement that nagged at her.
She gulped down the last of her cocoa and decided to search the kitchen one more time before attempting to sleep. That damn key had to be around here somewhere. She got up from her mattress, leaving her curled-up kitty sound asleep on her pillow, and shuffled into the kitchen, her bunny slippers slippy-slapping across the hardwood floor. The key was nowhere to be found, not on any nail, not in any drawer, not anywhere. What she did find was a screwdriver, along with a butter knife and an old knitting needle. One way or another, she was getting into that blasted basement tonight.
She was surprised by how easily she was able to pick the old lock; it had only taken a minute or two. She pushed on the thick wooden door, and the hinges shrieked and groaned theatrically as it opened. A veil of ancient cobwebs stretched across the entryway, and after knocking them down with a broom, Deegie stepped over the threshold. She only saw the first four steps of the basement staircase; the rest disappeared into inky blackness. An antique push-button light switch was on the wall to her right, and she laughed in surprise when it actually worked. The room below her was illuminated by a sickly yellow light, and, still holding onto her web-whacking broom, Deegie descended the creaky wooden staircase.
The light down here wasn’t much, just a couple of forty-watt bulbs hanging by raw, dangerous-looking wires. The corners of the basement were still in deep pockets of shadow, and it didn’t take much imagination to conjure up images of raggedy, bulging-eyed basement creatures, things that hadn’t seen light in years. A stack of moldering cardboard boxes leaned precariously next to a jumble of ancient, broken furniture that smelled of cat pee and stale cigarette smoke. A long wooden table sat at the far end of the basement, and Deegie saw that it held row upon row of what appeared to be canning jars, each with a paper label. The table and its jars were covered with a layer of dust and grime so thick that Deegie’s hands immediately turned a sooty black the minute she picked up the first jar and began to look it over. The label was yellowed and peeling, but there was just enough light for her to read what it said: Golden Chain. The jar was empty, but she could see some sort of milky white residue at the bottom. Strange. Golden Chain was once used in ancient medicines and magical spells. It was highly poisonous.
The next jar was labeled Roots of Both Hellebores, another poisonous magical ingredient no one used anymore. Deegie frowned, wondering just what she’d discovered here in the freezing cold basement of her old house. Any magical practitioner worth their salt knew better than to mess with this stuff. Anyone practicing white magic, that is.
I think that old drunk was telling the truth! She remembered the pages of her father’s Book of Shadows, which she’d accidently found one day as a child and read in secret every chance she got. Poisonous herbs and roots were always used in spells for summoning demons.
She put down Roots of Both Hellebores and reached for another jar at random. This one was even filthier than the others, and it bore no label. When she gave it a gentle shake, something rattled and clinked against the glass. The lid was rusted tight; she was unable to wrench it open, but when she stood directly under one of the hanging light bulbs and wiped away some of the grime, she was able to see what was inside.
Five severed human fingers, withered, gray, and nearly fleshless, lay in a cluster at the bottom of the jar.
Deegie nearly dropped the jar and its gruesome contents in her haste to return it to its spot on the table. What kind of weirdo kept dried severed fingers in a jar? Not surprisingly, the basement was now the last place on earth she wanted to be. She backed away from the table, casting her eyes around the dim basement. The shadows loomed in long-forgotten corners, as if they were indignant about having their space invaded by this ordinary human who eschewed severed fingers and the Roots of Both Hellebores.
At the top of the stairs, Tiger Spirit roared, sounding agitated again, and Deegie took the stairs two at a time, her pumping legs a blur of motion. Once at the top, she slapped at the light switch until the basement went dark again, then slammed the door as hard as she could.