In the end, water was just as dignified as a wrecking ball.
For some reason, that thought prompted her to try her dad again. He might answer, and she wanted to hear his voice.
He did answer. On the second ring.
“Dolly? Everything all right?”
“Yes and no,” she answered, almost unreasonably relieved to hear him. “The job is going all right, and we’re on track to have … well, almost everything wrapped up by the time you get here in the morning, but we can’t stay here anymore. We have to get a couple of hotel rooms tonight. Bobby and Gabe can bunk together, and I’ll get something with a pair of beds for me and Brad. I’ll find someplace cheap.”
She might have rambled further, but he asked, “Did something happen?”
“Lots of somethings have happened. I told you, it’s not safe here.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “I don’t understand … it’s not safe how? Is it the electrics, or mold, or…?”
“If it was that easy, I would’ve said so. Daddy, I told you already: We’re not alone.”
“You want me to spend a few hundred bucks on hotels because you’re afraid of ghosts?”
“This is more than a ghost; it’s something else. And between you and me…” She checked over each shoulder, but the guys were off working their respective jobs. “I’m afraid it’s going to hurt somebody.”
“Why?”
“It’s been messing with us. I don’t know how strong it is, and I don’t want to find out. If it’s just the money you’re worried about, then fuck it—I’ve got a credit card, and I’ll pay for it myself.”
His silence suggested she’d hit a nerve.
“Daddy? It’s only a couple hundred bucks—if that much. This ain’t Manhattan. I can take care of it.”
“You shouldn’t have to. And one way or another, if you pay for it—I’m paying for it. Now, tell me the truth, Dahl. Is the house a score or a bust?”
“From a money standpoint? It’s golden. We already have enough in the trucks to break you even, I bet. And we haven’t done hardly anything on the house itself. That’s just the chestnut and the goodies from the carriage house.”
“Jesus, I hope you’re right. This place has to keep us afloat. We need to bleed it dry, and take home every scrap, you understand?”
All too well. “When you get here, we’ll scrape this baby clean. It’ll probably take us from dawn to dusk, but we’ll get every last thing, dump it all at the shop, and sleep in our own beds. Once we get it all parted out and cataloged … we might not get a nickel for every penny, but we ought to double our money, easy.”
“I love the sound of it. And I appreciate all the hard work you’ve done on this one. It sounds like … I guess it hasn’t been easy.”
“Worst … job … ever.”
“Yeah, and it sounds like you’re saving some for me. How far behind schedule are you, really?”
She sighed, and thought about it. “Honestly, we could use another two days besides this one. We haven’t been able to yank all the boards off the barn, and we can’t pull the floors yet, because we’re moving the trucks out to the main road.”
“Why the hell would you do that?”
“It’s been raining for days. The Withrow property is a swamp. If we don’t move the trucks now, we’ll never get them out of here without a tow. If it dries out tomorrow, we’ll bring them back. If it doesn’t, you can use the forklift to tote stuff between the house and the road.”
“So it’s not the ghosts what slowed you down?”
“The ghosts are only a problem at night. Um … mostly. During the day, we’ve kept busy as planned. We’ve been working around the weather, trying to prioritize, but there’s only so much we can do while the bottom’s falling out. I’m sorry, but the worst of it will be waiting for you.”
“When I get there, you really think we can catch up?”
She hesitated. “Probably? I think, in a perfect world, yes. If not, we’ll return on Friday to bat cleanup on the details. It all depends on the weather, and whether or not you want to drive back down, or help me pay for another night in the hotel.”
“Rock and a hard place.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and from here on out, everything will go smoother than whale shit through an ice floe.”
“Here’s hoping.”
The line went quiet. It was time to wrap up, and they both knew it.
Dahlia took the lead. “Anyway, Daddy … we’re getting a hotel tonight, but don’t worry about the money. The house is a treasure chest, and we’re going to raid the shit out of it. Even if we don’t grab every board and tile on the way out the door, Barry won’t have to kill you or anything.”
“He’ll think about it.”
“I’ll protect you,” she promised. “Just get here good and early, and we’ll do our best. You’re going to love this place. Except for the poltergeists.”
“I liked it better when you called them ghosts.”
“To be fair, I think it’s just the one poltergeist. But one is too many, so…”
“So … I’ll be there in the morning.”
They hung up. Dahlia felt both better—because there was an end in sight, and worse—because the stakes were so very high, and there was still so much to be done.
Forty thousand dollars, that’s what Chuck had paid for the rights—almost twice what she made in a year. She could’ve laughed. Well, if it all went tits up, she could always ditch her new apartment and move back home. Wouldn’t that be grand? Divorced, pushing forty, and living at home with her Daddy. Form an orderly queue to the left, gents.
Downstairs, Brad had returned to banging around in the kitchen. It sounded like he was packing up the nonessentials. In another fifteen minutes, Bobby and Gabe returned—soaked but successful. “The trucks are out past the gateposts,” Gabe announced. “There’s lots of space for cars to pass around them, but we didn’t see a single one the whole time we parked and locked them.”
Dahlia came downstairs to join them. “Way to go, guys. Now will y’all two please get started on the fireplaces? If we get them both out easy, that’s half of dad’s investment back right there. I’ll drag down what’s savable from upstairs in the bedrooms, and Hazel’s room. Everything I can carry.”
“Is any of that furniture worth taking?” Bobby asked.
“Most of it’s late Deco or early Nouveau—and it’s all in good shape.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a probably. It’s a definitely on Hazel’s vanity, though. I think I recognized the manufacturer; or there might be a label inside, we’ll see.”
“What’s Brad doing?” Gabe wanted to know.
“He’s breaking down the kitchen. When he’s finished packing our stuff and checking for hidden treasure, he can help me carry the big things down.” It was momentum, the way she rolled downhill into business mode. The work was something solid and predictable. It was manageable. All she had to do was manage it. “Okay. Fireplaces. This one is a lot smaller than the one in the living area, so take it out first—and do it as fast as you safely can. I’ll start piling furniture into the sitting room, and then I’ll fill up the space behind you.”
“Then what?” asked Gabe, who was already rifling through a tool bag.
“Then … lunch—at least, I hope you’ll be finished with this one by then. The stone is going to take you longer than you think, trust me on that. But once you’ve got both surrounds free and taped up in the padding, move on to the other fireplaces. Their mantels are rosewood, and some of those tiles are in real good shape. People will eat them up.”
“After that?” It was Bobby’s turn to ask for direction.
“After that, the stained glass, and the gothic windows—except for the rooms where we’ve stacked tomorrow’s load—and the doors and the hardware and the built-ins, and the stair rails, and … Jesus H. Christ, we have a lot of work to do.”
But it was doable. When in doubt, concentrate on
the job.
Abigail couldn’t chase them all at once, not while they were working in different rooms and hustling in different directions. Hazel had said she wasn’t so strong during the day, so maybe the worst of it was over for now.
Even if it wasn’t, there was nothing else to be done about it.
All Dahlia could do was forget the ghosts, or ignore the hell out of them. Remember the payday. Remember Daddy up in Nashville, and the store, and the stock that was getting stale. Forget the eyeless thing in the attic. Forget the woman-shaped shadow in the bathrooms. Remember to be careful with the corner blocks, because those nice ones with the carved patterns are worth more than the simple bull’s-eye models.
Her fear and worry didn’t magically go away, but she packed them away in a box, taped it up, and put it in the corner. It was just one more thing she could unpack and process when she got back home. It wouldn’t do anyone any good right now. It was only in the way.
So remember the tiles, and stack them up neat. If you break them, set them aside, but don’t toss ’em. Go for the built-ins if you think you can pull them out of the wall in only a piece or two. Leave them if they have Phillips-head screws. It means they’re newer than the 1930s, and they won’t be worth the trouble.
Forget the mirrors. Forget the broken glass. Forget the sounds of doors opening and closing when nobody’s there.
Remember the cameras—the digital ones have movie mode. You can set them where people are working, like Brad suggested. He aimed one right at himself, like it was casting a spell that would protect him from all evil. For his sake, Dahlia hoped he was right.
If you don’t catch anything, you work in peace. If you catch something, you’re not crazy, and you’re famous on cable TV.
* * *
Over the next few hours, they made a dent in the list, but didn’t break through it.
Lunch was a hasty affair, cleaning up the last of the lunch meat and cheese, powering through cans of Chef Boyardee, and scarfing down Little Debbies. Better to eat it than to toss it all—or load it up and take it back to Nashville. Maybe if they were feeling especially celebratory or desperate, they’d go get supper someplace before they checked into a hotel.
As lunch wound down, Bobby opened the fridge to reveal a couple of six-packs. “Better finish these up, too.”
Dahlia put out her hands and made grabby fingers at the beer. “Ordinarily, I’d yell at you about drinking on the job, but if ever a job required a drink, this is it. Give me one. Hell, give me two—and I’ll take one upstairs.”
The bottles clinked against each other as she climbed to the second floor. She’d already removed the three small stained glass windows and covered the exposed openings with plastic, though she’d need help with the large one downstairs. She’d gotten the cute pre-war medicine cabinet from the hallway bathroom, but she was leaving the claw-foot tub; it was a five-footer, and you could get those damn near anywhere. She’d toted all the light furniture downstairs and the keep-worthy heavier items, with Brad’s help. There was nothing left up there but the big stuff in Hazel’s room, which she’d been saving for last.
Brad finished the contents of his beer and set the empty bottle on the floor. “You want a hand with that vanity?”
“Not yet. Give me a few minutes to go through the contents. Could you bring me a box?”
“How big?”
“Big enough to hold a bunch of shit, but not too big for me to carry. Bring me a couple of them, actually. I’d appreciate it.”
Only a few of the flat-packed cardboard boxes had made it out of the trucks dry, but they’d have to do. She had a fat roll of packing tape on a handled dispenser to assemble them, and she didn’t think Hazel had left so much behind that she’d need more than two boxes to hold it all.
Moths had gotten into the left set of vanity drawers. The grayish-brown fluff in the bottom one might’ve once been feathers from a fascinator, or wool gloves, or silk handkerchiefs … almost anything. Now it was moth shit. She dumped the drawers, one after another, into the plastic trash bag she’d brought for just such a purpose.
Brad soon returned with the flat-packed, corrugated cardboard boxes.
He assembled one for Dahlia while she worked her way through the other drawers, collecting the gloves and hats that remained. Why the moths hit one side and not the other, there was no telling. She picked up one of the dapper little hats and tried it on. It sat jauntily on her head, perched to the side. “I love your style,” she said to Hazel, in case the ghost was watching. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep one of these. And a clutch or two. Like I ever have any reason to carry a clutch.”
Times were changing. Maybe she’d go out of her way to find a clutchworthy occasion.
“A night out,” Brad suggested, tugging out another strip of tape and pressing it flat. “Everybody needs one, now and again.”
“Sure. A night out.”
The wardrobe backing was made of cedar, so the clothes there were in somewhat better shape. Much was gone, but everything that’d been touching the wood was as intact as you could expect, given how long it’d been hanging there.
Brad gasped and dropped the tape dispenser. “Holy shit! What was that?”
“What?” Dahlia turned around. The pushed-aside box with all her fear and worry in it … the one she’d left in a corner of her head … shook, and rattled, and wobbled for attention. She refused to look at it.
Brad fumbled to retrieve his camera from his shirt pocket, where the lens peeked out for recording’s sake. He aimed it at the mirror. He swept it around the room. He pointed it at the mirror again. “I saw something.”
“In here? It was probably just Hazel,” she said.
When nothing further happened, he sighed and put the camera phone back into his pocket. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now. I told you: The cameras are magic for keeping these things away.”
“Maybe Hazel just doesn’t like having her picture taken.”
“That’s fine with me. I don’t really want to see her. I don’t want to see any of them.”
He went back to the tape, running a long strip down the bottom edge of the cardboard. It spooled out with a ripping sound, then a loud snip when he cut it off. “Even if I can’t prove it, we’re working in a real-life haunted house. I don’t get why you aren’t freaking out and running.”
“You don’t think I’m freaking out?” She shook her head and tossed the contents of the last vanity drawer into the box. “If I wasn’t freaking out, we’d be here through Saturday picking up every toothpick, doorknob, and nail. We’d be staying in the house tonight, like brave but stupid sitting ducks. No, sweetheart—I am well and truly freaking out.”
“But you could leave. We could all leave.”
“You could leave,” she said flatly. “Pick up your shit and go, if you want—all it’ll cost you is your job. But if I pick up and leave, it’s not just my job; it’s the whole business out the window. We’re all out on our asses: me and Gabe and Bobby, and my dad. James, and Barry, and everybody else. So, yeah, I’m freaking out. I’m packing up early, and I’m calling my daddy to come help because I’m scared, and then I’m making a run for it. But right now, when there’s still daylight burning and work that needs doing … no. I’m not leaving.”
Brad fiddled with his tape dispenser, looking halfway sheepish and halfway hopeful. “I could go, couldn’t I?”
“If you’re that scared of a ghost in a bathroom, yes. Knock yourself out.”
For a minute, she thought he was going to leave a Brad-shaped hole in the door, especially when he said, “Maybe I am that scared.” But eventually he added, “You put it that way, it sounds like chickening out.” Before she could accuse him of exactly that, and demand that he cover up the soldier on his way home, he added, “But I’d have to get a cab, and rent a car, or something like that. And I like my job. Mostly. Except for the ghosts.”
“The first one’s always the hardest.” She closed one of the wardrobe’s do
ors and opened the other, to see if the moths had left anything good behind.
“What was your first worksite ghost?” he asked.
She paused, momentarily distracted by a long knit dress that was last worn circa 1960. She pulled it off the hanger and examined it. The fabric had stretched a little, but not too badly. She folded it gently and put it in the box.
“Dahlia?”
She cleared her throat. “It was a teenage boy. He’d killed himself in the basement of this old farmhouse, probably back in the 1950s. He was still down there, in spirit. He liked to unplug things, and short out the equipment when no one was looking.”
“Did you see him?”
“Only once. And once was enough.”
They worked together in silence for a few moments more. “Hey Dahlia? You don’t think there’s any chance that the … the thing up there, in the attic … the one that followed you into the hall … or the thing in the bathroom…”
“Same thing. It’s Abigail.”
“Are you sure she can’t hurt us?”
There were drawers inside the wardrobe, on the bottom level. She pulled one open, and thought about lying. “Just because she hasn’t hurt anyone yet, doesn’t mean she’s not capable of it. That’s why we’re leaving at sundown.”
“That’s the sanest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
She nearly smiled, but didn’t. “I’m not sure I can take that as a compliment, but you have to be practical about these things.”
“Practical about the undead?”
“What else would you suggest? When in trouble, when in doubt—run in circles, scream and shout? The fuck would that accomplish?”
“It beats pretending that everything’s fine, and nothing’s going on.”
Fast as lightning and twice as hot, she snapped, “I’m not pretending anything!” Her heart pounded and she clutched the fragile clothes, then unclenched her fists. It didn’t do much to calm her. She hadn’t packed up the fear quite well enough, and it was leaking back into her head, her hands, and her voice. “I’m just keeping my shit together, because someone has to! Jesus, Brad. You’re a Georgia boy, ghosts shouldn’t be news to you. All of us down here, we’re not just living on battlefields. We’re living on graveyards. Even the fake ones have bodies in them, don’t you know?”