I hurry in to find him staring at an empty wall.
“Saw something?” I say.
He nods.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Just movement.”
“Yep, that’s what I saw earlier. I’d blame rats, but unless they’re at least three feet tall and walking on their hind legs . . .”
He nods absently, his attention still on the empty space. Then he eases back.
“It was tall enough to be in my line of sight, which means not a rat, but otherwise . . .” He swings the beam over the space, which is definitely empty, an exterior wall with no doors and a half-broken window.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say. “I think we’re both tired and jumpy. We agree this room is clear?”
He passes his beam over everything, ‘everything’ comprising of that broken dinette set. The next room is the front hall. The only object there is the faded photograph of a dilapidated barn Yep, photographers love rural decay, and apparently people love it in their homes. Not sure why, when they could drive down the road and see the same sight.
I examine the photograph well enough to confirm it’s not cursed. Then we move into the living room. When something skitters across the floor, Connolly’s arm slams out to hold me back. I bend to see a field mouse huddled under a broken end table.
“Aww,” I say. “Isn’t it cute?”
“Careful. It could be rabid.”
I choke on a laugh. “You are such a city boy, Connolly. Mice don’t transmit rabies. Now, if you see a raccoon or a skunk, I’ll keep my distance, but I’m fine with mice. Growing up in an old house means spending the winter politely escorting them out the door.”
I look around. There’s a sofa that’s in decent shape, plus two end tables and a chair pulled in from the dinette.
“Party central,” I say.
Connolly struggles not to shudder.
“Yep, it isn’t the penthouse suite,” I say.
“While I would point out I never rented the penthouse—or any hotel room—for a party, I would also need to admit that I never actually hosted such a party. Possibly also . . .” He coughs. “Never attended one.”
“Because you were all about the debutante balls.”
“I think you’re joking, but in the event you are not, no, while we don’t have debutante balls, strictly speaking, there are similar events, and they are as tedious as one might imagine. No, my social life was quite full in college. Between trivia night and karaoke night and, my personal favorite, chess night, I was very busy.”
He pauses a beat before saying, “That was a joke, Kennedy.”
“Naturally. You wouldn’t be caught dead at karaoke night.”
He sighs and shakes his head. “The point is that while my idea of a party may differ from yours, I understand that we can’t all rent the penthouse—or even the Motel 8—for our parties, and therefore, I offer no judgment.”
“It’s the Motel 6 or the Super 8. They’re different chains. And, no, before you make any assumptions, I never partied anyplace like this either. We had bush parties. Or, yes, sometimes the Motel 6.”
As we talk, I circle the room. There are two more old pictures, one a painting and one a photograph, again more pastoral themes. Neither is cursed. That’s the end of the main level—kitchen, living room, dining room. Connolly keeps poking around for more, because clearly there must be more. Where’s the library? The formal parlor? Even a main-floor bathroom?
When he throws open a door, he gives a small noise of victory . . . until his gaze drops to the stairs descending into darkness.
“Yeah, that’s the basement,” I say. “And I’m not going down unless absolutely necessary. That is a horror movie waiting to happen.” I turn. “There’s still the—”
Something runs past the kitchen doorway. I race into the living room as the figure dashes through the other doorway.
“Hey!” I call.
Connolly grabs me before I can keep running.
“Someone’s here,” I say. “That was definitely human shaped.”
He keeps his hand on my arm. I resist the urge to brush him off. He’s right—I can’t run after a stranger in an empty house.
We proceed with caution to the front door. From there, we can see both the living room and the dining room. Both are empty.
“Circular,” I mutter. “The main level forms a circle. The only way we’re catching up is to separate and cut them off.”
“Which we are not doing.”
I hesitate.
“Kennedy . . .”
“Not doing. Right. Got it.”
“Because of the separating part.”
I give him a look. “I know, okay? I just—”
His hand clamps my arm, and I spin.
“Hey!” I snap.
I stop as I follow his gaze. He’s looking up the stairs . . . and someone’s looking down.
Chapter Nine
Nine
There’s a figure at the top of the stairs. A little girl in a dress.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“Is that . . .?” he whispers.
“It’s the curse,” I say. “That’s how they describe her. A little girl in a dress.”
“Not a ghost,” he says.
“No,” I say. “Just an illusion.”
I know that, but it doesn’t keep the hairs from prickling on the back of my neck. The girl wavers like a ghost, the wall visible through her semi-translucent form. She stares straight into my eyes, and I know that’s the illusion at work, but I still need to plant my feet to keep from retreating. Those eyes are empty. Literally empty, nothing but black holes fixed on me.
“She can’t hurt us,” I say.
Connolly gives a strained chuckle. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself, on auto-repeat, for the last sixty seconds. It doesn’t change the fact that the absolute last thing I want to do is what we need to do.”
“Go up those stairs.”
He grips the bannister and lifts one foot. Then he glances back. “Not volunteering to go first this time, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Another smile, his eyes meeting mine, the warmth of them chasing away the chill from the ghostly girl’s gaze.
He starts up the stairs, and she stays there. She seems to be watching me, peeking around Connolly as I climb, but I know that in his mind, she’s watching him.
Such a clever little curse. I don’t think I fully appreciated that until now. How much work would go into weaving such a thing? I know a few “boo!” curses—standard jinxes where you pick up an object and a sudden apparition or voice makes you drop it fast. This is another level altogether. The difference between building a snowman and chiseling out a marble statue.
“The craftsmanship—”
The girl leaps into the air and rockets toward us.
We both fall back, Connolly staggering against me, only our grips on the railing keeping him from slamming into me and sending us both tumbling down.
I right myself as he catches my arm.
“Got it, thanks,” I say. “So, forget that whole thing about her not being able to hurt us.”