“Are things not going well for the Courier Journal?”
“You could say that.” She took her foot off the accelerator and let the Golf coast to a stop in the middle of the street. “And there’s one other thing.”
With a strange feeling in her heart, she looked up at the dilapidated entrance to the Brownswick School for Girls.
“Oh?” As Syn noticed where she was staring, he sat forward in his seat. “And what’s this?”
Jo tried to find the right words, but there were none. At least none that could guarantee him not to jump to conclusions about her mental health.
“I . . . ah, I’ve got a hobby, I guess you’d call it. I investigate supernatural things in Caldwell.”
When he just nodded calmly, she thought of his cosmetically altered teeth.
“But you maybe get it, right?” she said with hope.
“Does this place have something to do with your hobby?”
Jo let her eyes roam over the off-kilter wrought iron gates and the broken-toothed fencing that stretched in both directions, separating the shaggy grounds from the sidewalk, the road, the tended-to environs of the rest of the area.
“My mother went to school here. Back when it was a going concern.”
“Are you looking to speak with her ghost? Has she passed?”
“She was never really there in the first place.” Jo shook herself back to attention. “Sorry, I mean, she’s alive. She and my father still live in the house I grew up in.”
“Do you see them often?”
“No. We don’t have anything in common except for the first eighteen years of my life. They’re very nineteen fifties, if you know what I mean—traditional sex roles, old money, stiff upper lip. It was like growing up in a Spencer Tracy–Katharine Hepburn movie, except my parents weren’t actually in love, and I’m not sure they even like each other.”
Jo hit the gas, as if she could drive herself out of where her thoughts went. It didn’t work.
As they passed under the archway, she pictured the campus and buildings not as they were, everything ill kept and decaying, but as they had been, with rolling lawns, brick buildings with bright white trim, and trees that were picked and pruned, not left to nature’s seasons. It was not hard to imagine the students in their Sloane Ranger attire, pearls paired with muck boots as they went to ride their thoroughbreds at the stables.
“My mother is still all about the sweater sets. You know, shoes always match the bag with Sally Field-in-Steel Magnolias hair.”
“What’s that?”
“Sprayed into a football helmet.” As she followed the lane that rolled up a rise, she thought of her old roommate, Dougie, because it was so much easier than dwelling on her mother’s buttoned-up version of femininity. “Anyway, she’s not why we’re here.”
At the top of the hill, Jo stopped the car again, and this time, she shut off the engine. Turning to Syn, she said, “Look, I’ll be honest. I’ve been worried about myself for the last few months. I’ve had all kinds of weird symptoms, the worst of which being these headaches I keep getting, especially as memory problems seem to go with the pain. Like, all of a sudden, I’ll just . . . not be able to remember where I’ve been or what I’ve done.”
She looked out through the front windshield. “And there’s been other strange things that have been happening. For example, I’ve got this blog, and it keeps getting taken down. I don’t know why and I don’t know who’s doing it. But I have the rough drafts of all the posts and my research on the subjects. Tonight, because I couldn’t settle myself, I started going through my files, and I found an email Dougie, my former roommate, sent me at my old work. It was about him and this video about something that occurred on this campus . . . in the clearing down there. A dragon with purple scales. I have these vague memories of talking about it with Bill, my friend at the paper. So I thought maybe if I came back here, something would jog my memory. I mean, Dougie’s a druggie—hey, that rhymes—so he thinks he sees a lot of strange things. Like, during no-shave November last year, he was convinced one of our roommates was Abraham Lincoln. But he’s not good enough at editing videos to put dragons in them, you know? He certainly managed to misplace the original file and any copies of it, though. Like, where did it go? Where has all of it gone for me?”
Shrugging, she popped open her door, and as she stood up, she felt foolish.
“Or I don’t know.” She looked around the brush and the darkened windows of the building she’d stopped by. “Maybe this is all just the product of an anxious mind.”
Syn got out and came around the car. “Well, whatever it is, we’ll go together.”
As he offered her his hand, she hesitated. And then she took his palm.
“Come on,” he murmured, “let’s see what comes up for you.”
Jo smiled a little. And then she nodded, the pair of them starting off through the brambles, explorers of a landscape that felt utterly foreign and vaguely hostile.
Jo was not surprised as her headache came back and settled in.
But she was surprised about how much it meant to have this man by her side.
As Mel stopped in front of what obviously was the entry to her place, she unlocked a dead bolt and there was a hollow echo in some kind of big interior space. Butch didn’t focus on either. He was too busy wondering about the damn door. The thing seemed to be made of the same cast iron panels that were used on Navy ship hulls, the bolt heads fat as a man’s knuckles, the horizontal and vertical reinforcements making him wonder just what the hell was on the other side.
And he frowned as she put her shoulder into the bulk to open the way in.
“You want some help with that?” he asked.
“I’ve got it.”
When she continued to struggle, he put his palm on the cold metal and pushed. The hinges, which were as big as his damn forearm, squeaked and groaned, and all that was revealed as the thing broke away from its reinforced jambs was a whole lot of pitch black. Like she lived in outer space.
Glancing over his shoulder, some instinct made him note the details of the basement hall—not that there was much to memorize, just blank walls, a low ceiling, and a black-and-white linoleum floor. Serviceable fixtures mounted at regular intervals were stocked with the new kind of lightbulbs that threw dull, listless light.
The building they were in had been a surprise. It was mostly commercial space, with this cellar underground just a bunch of storage areas with corporate names in plastic plates next to each unit. And P.S., none of the other doors were like Mel’s Game of Thrones prop.
“At least I know you’re safe here,” he said dryly.
“It is my sanctuary.”
On that note, she walked into the interior, her body swallowed down by the darkness’s gullet. Just as he was getting worried about her, there was a flicking sound, and then light bathed an interior that had a totally open floor plan.
Mel motioned with her hand. “Come in, please.”
Butch stepped over the threshold. “Holy . . . shit.”
The door closed of its own volition with a banging sound, and he almost jumped—but that would have been a pussy move. And then he was distracted by the crib. The walls and floor of the three thousand or so square feet were painted black, and four concrete pylons kept the ceiling from caving in, making him feel like he’d shrunk and was standing under a coffee table. A sitting area was delineated by a large area rug, with a sofa, three chairs, and a coffee table—in all white leather— arranged on it like a glamorous Hollywood meeting was about to happen. There was also a king-sized bed over against one wall, with black satin sheets and a throw blanket of some fur-like persuasion slipping off one corner of the mattress. The bathroom was likewise fully in view, a Victorian claw-foot tub set next to a sink and a toilet, all of which were white. Oh, and the galley kitchen was directly across the way, the refrigerator, stove, and sink running down the wall and fronted by a barrier of white countertop.