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Seeing the police in my living room is becoming far too common. I think I’m even beginning to recognize the generic patrolmen, and—what’s worse—I have a sneaking suspicion that they recognize me too.
At least it’s only one or two officers, although from how they’re acting I suspect that more will be stopping in soon. Because, no, it’s not sugar or salt in that baggie that fell out of the ugly doll’s cracked-open head. It’s cocaine.
Cocaine.
Stuffed inside the creepiest, ugliest doll known to man.
And I thought it was horrifying before.
“Oh, no, officer. Of course, not.” Dad shuffles awkwardly. “My daughter found it at a house she and her friends are cleaning.”
The officer—Raymond, his tag says—glances at me. He’s not the one I have seen before. He must be new. But that’s okay. He’ll learn my name soon enough.
Officer Baker, the other policeman hovering nearby, used to be new too. But I first met him during the ordeal with Jordin. Then I saw him again during the conflagration with the South Grove Crips last year. He knows me now, or at least he knows how much trouble I inadvertently cause.
I shift on the couch uncomfortably, the press of Aaron’s fingers in my shoulder barely registering through the tension.
“There’s a room in the basement,” I say. “It’s full of dolls just like this.”
I point to the mangled mess of porcelain on the coffee table.
The police had broken open the arms and legs too, and—lo and behold!—more cocaine. The doll was literally packed head to toe with the stuff.
Officer Raymond scowls. “What house is this?”
“It’s 1919 West Maple,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “It’s—well, it’s orange.”
The officer makes a note and glances at Officer Baker, nodding at him. Baker starts gathering up the doll pieces in an evidence bag.
“And you said this house was—donated?” Raymond curls his upper lip.
“To the Union Rescue Mission,” Dad says. “Our singles were using it as an opportunity for a summer ministry project. Cleaning it out. Fixing it up.”
Raymond pins me with a glare. “And you didn’t think a whole room full of dolls was suspicious?”
“There’s also a whole roomful of puppets, sheet music, and toilet rolls.” I shrug. “Creepy dolls just seemed par for the course.”
He lifted his pen off the notepad. “And why did you bring it home?”
A burning flush sets my face on fire. “To prove a point.”
“And that point was?”
I slumped my face into my hands. “That it wasn’t haunted.”
“Haunted?” Dad chokes.
Aaron sighs behind me.
I lean back against the couch. “A ghost hunter came in and told us the dolls were possessed. And I wanted to prove that they weren’t. So I brought it home.”
“A ghost hunter?” Raymond’s tone makes him sound like I just told him the sky is orange.
I shake my head. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” Baker laughs.
Raymond chuckles. “We’ll report this and send someone by to check it out.” He tucks his notebook back into his belt and offers a smile. “You know, I’ve heard your name around the department.”
Baker snickers as he finishes packing up the doll and seals the bag shut.
“You kind of attract trouble like this, don’t you?” Raymond raised his dark eyebrows.
Aaron snorts behind me. “She’s the only church secretary in the world who doubles as a danger magnet.”
I look up at him with a sad smile.
Raymond shakes my dad’s hand. “I expect the detective in charge will need to question all of you.” He smiles apologetically. “Not that any of us believe that you or your family is involved in the drug trade. But we will need to eliminate all of you officially.”
“Of course.” My dad sags slightly. “We’ll cooperate.”
Raymond nods at me. Baker flashes a smile. Then both officers are out the door walking toward their squad car.
Dad sinks into his armchair and lets his head crash against the back. “Patricia, I’m getting too old for this.”
I roll my eyes. “Why does everyone assume this is my fault?”
Aaron sets his other hand on my shoulder.
Vague shouting upstairs tells me that Gwen hasn’t gone to sleep yet. After the officers had arrived, Mom herded the grandkids upstairs, and my sisters and brothers-in-law followed. Not that they didn’t want to be helpful. But by now, all of them have recognized that the best person to help me out of my scrapes is my dad or Aaron. And, if it’s serious enough, both my dad and Aaron.
Notice, they’re both here right now.
Legitimately. How do I get into these things?
“They don’t actually think I brought it home because we’re getting into drug dealing,” I say. “Do they?”
Dad shrugs.
“Surely not.” I sit forward. “Dad, they can’t think—”
“I don’t know what they think, Trisha.” Dad sounds tired. “But I know what it looks like. It looks like intent to sell.”
“That’s absurd.” I rest my elbows on my thighs and hang my head.
The couch cushions sink lower as Aaron sits next to me and places a warm hand against the small of my back.
“You know, Trisha.” Dad’s chair creaks as he stands up. “If you needed a raise, you just needed to ask.”
I freeze.
If I needed a—what?
I jerk my head up to see my dad’s sparkling eyes and a gentle smirk twisting his lips.
“Oh, you.” I snarl at him and swat his stomach.
He cackles and bends down to kiss my brow. “Only you, Trisha Lee. Only you.” He pats the side of my face affectionately. “I’ll go inform the troops what’s happening.”
Dad turns to go but before he steps out of the den, he casts a weird look at Aaron. I don’t quite know how to translate it. The expression actually reminds me a little of Keith—the way Keith looks at Cecily. Like he wants to say something but doesn’t think it’s the right time yet. But why would Dad be looking at Aaron like that?
Gosh, guys are weird.
My heart stutters.
Keith.
I turn to Aaron as Dad steps away. “Aaron, Keith was going back to the house tonight.”
Aaron frowns. “Why?”
“He needed to get some of the household goods out of the basement, so I left it open.” I scowl. “Aaron, what if the police show up and find him there. What if he freaks out? What if they freak out?”
Aaron sighs. “Trisha.”
I stand up. “Come on. We need to go to the house.”
“Do we need to?”
“Okay, I want to.” I take his hand. “And if nothing else, we can lock the basement just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Aaron.” I pull his arm. “The basement is full of weird creepy cocaine-filled dolls, and I just told the police where they could find them. If the police show up and someone has broken into the house and taken them, it’ll look really bad.”
Aaron shakes his head as he stands up. “Trisha, why would anyone take them?”
“Aaron! Someone put them there.”
He runs his hands through his hair.
“Someone put them there, and someone is going to want them back.”
“Then why haven’t they gotten them yet?” Aaron grabs my shoulders. “Trish, there’s no need to go rushing back to the house tonight. I’ll bet the police aren’t even going tonight.”
“Please, Aaron?” I fist my fingers in his shirt. “I just—I feel like we need to be there. For Keith if for nothing else.”
“Can’t we just call him?”
“We can call him on the way.”
Aaron brushes his thumb along my jaw. “Okay, Trish.” His eyes look sad for a moment. “Let’s go.”
“Can you drive?”
“I’ll drive.”
~
Aaron’s old truck rattles up to the curb in front of 1919 West Maple, the orange monstrosity glaring at us like we owe it something. I tuck my cell phone back into my purse and shove it under the passenger seat of the truck.
“Keith’s truck isn’t here.” Aaron says. “And he’s never picked up?”
“No, and his voicemail isn’t set up either.”
I’ve been calling Keith since we pulled out of the driveway at home, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he’s ignoring calls tonight. Maybe he’s down in the basement with no signal. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe—
So many maybes, and none of them are helping.
If his truck isn’t here, then maybe he hasn’t arrived yet. Or maybe he’s already come and gone.
I slide to the sidewalk and slam my door shut, moving toward the house. The dark windows on the second story stare at me as though they’re watching me.
“Why is this house so creepy, Aaron?” I mutter, jogging up the steps.
He doesn’t answer.
The front door is locked, so that’s a good sign that Keith has either not been to the house yet or that he already got what he needed.
I unlock the door and push it open. The door creaks unhappily, and so do the floorboards as we step into the front room and grope for a light on the wall. Aaron finds the switch, and soft amber light floods over the first floor.
“I don’t think he’s here,” Aaron says.
“Me neither.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Basement.” I point to the dining room where the door to the basement is open slightly. “Let’s check to make sure he isn’t down there, and then we’ll lock it up. I just—I don’t want to take the risk of anyone upsetting anything else that’s down there.”
Aaron nods. “Once the police have checked the place over, we can go back to work down there.”
A loud thump upstairs shakes the house.
It’s so loud that even Aaron jumps. His hands find my waist, his fingers tense against my blouse.
“What was that?” I whisper.
We fall silent.
Voices.
Dragging sounds.
More voices.
My heart is in my throat. A chill creeps down my arms.
The next loud thump sounds distinctly like a heavy box dropping on the second floor.
“What on earth?” Aaron mutters.
“Aaron, what is it?”
“I—I don’t know.” He glances at the door to the upstairs.
“Rats?” I gasp.
“Big rats.”
Another thump makes the ceiling rattle.
Aaron’s eyebrows lever down over his eyes. “Trisha, have you been upstairs? Because I haven’t.”
“This morning.” I say, mouth dry. “I went upstairs this morning.”
“And?”
“And Keith had been working up there.”
More disembodied voices echo around us.
“He said there was nothing but trash.” My heart flutters in fear. “That the whole upstairs could be trashed.”
Aaron is scowling now. Deeply.
He moves past me and opens the door to the second floor. The door releases a loud groaning sound as though its hinges hadn’t been oiled for years. A final banging sound reverberates on the second floor just before the eerie voices fade to a whisper and then disappear altogether.
“Aaron.” I clutch at his arm.
“We need to check it out.”
“Aaron, I don’t like it.”
Slowly, Aaron walks up the steps. With each one of his big feet, the steps creak and complain. Trembling, I follow him, fingers wound so tightly in the back of his shirt I’ll probably leave permanent wrinkles.
The upstairs is as stiflingly hot as it had been in the morning, and it smelled of dust and plastic. If the yellowed areas of an antique photograph had a scent, that’s what the upstairs of the orange house smells like.
After the flurry of noise from earlier, the upstairs has suddenly become more silent than a graveyard.
Not even crickets.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like it at all.
Aaron reaches for a light switch, but the lights on the landing don’t turn on. The only light comes from the moon spilling across the carpet—and beneath the door at the far end of the hallway. Tawny light shimmers between the old wooden door and the threshold.
“Aaron.” I can’t breathe.
He walks toward it.
What if after all my denial and all my mocking, the house is actually haunted? What if I’ve been wrong? What if everything I knew about spirits and ghosts was false?
The house has been off from the moment we stepped inside weeks ago. I’ve heard voices here every day. I’ve felt eyes watching me, phantom fingers along my skin.
Have I been pretending? Have I known the truth and refused to accept it?
Aaron creeps toward the door, hand outstretched for the knob.
What if Grant Layton was right?
What if there’s something evil here? Something dark?
Human traffickers I can deal with. Gang members I can manage. But a ghost? Or a spirit? Or a devil? That’s over my pay grade. So if there’s something demonic in this room, I can’t let Aaron go inside. I grab his shirt and dig my heels into the carpet as he closes his fingers around the doorknob.
“Aaron, don’t.”
He glances back at me.
“Trisha.” He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Just don’t. Let’s—let’s wait.”
“For what?”
“The police. Someone. Let’s—wait.” Wait for daylight. Wait for the sunshine. Wait for someone else to open the door just in case there’s something evil behind it, because if it’s evil it will hurt them. If it’s evil, it will attack them. If it’s evil, it will hurt Aaron because Aaron is good.
Aaron shakes his head dismissively.
Oh, great, thanks. Thanks for listening, Aaron.
Aaron turns the door knob and pushes it open. Warm light spills from inside the room and blinds me for a moment. Aaron isn’t moving. He’s just standing there. So I peer around his shoulder into the room.
Boxes. Boxes on top of boxes. Tables, neat and orderly.
If there’s an evil spirit in the room, it’s amazingly organized.
“Okay,” Aaron starts to say.
The light flickers out, plunging us into darkness again. I stand in place, blinking at the headache building behind my eyeballs.
“Aaron,” I whisper.
Aaron shifts suddenly, gathering me against his back with one arm with a cry of alarm. His weight pins me against the opposite wall.
That’s when the screaming starts.
