“We’re used to roughing it,” Shan said, hefting her backpack.
“Are you ghost hunters? Will you be doing EVPs?” It seemed like an odd logical leap until I remembered the reality shows devoted to that pursuit. Maybe it was mainstream enough these days that this became the natural assumption.
It seemed safer to play along. “Strictly on an amateur basis.”
He turned down a busy street with the confidence of one who had lived someplace his whole life. “Have you ever found anything spooky?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Shannon’s grin took the sting out of the rebuff.
“What’s the legend behind the ghost cottage?” I asked.
“You didn’t research it before coming all this way?” He sounded surprised.
A valid question, but I covered. “Of course. But I’d like to hear how local stories differ from what’s online.”
“Oh, good point. The story starts back in the early nineteen hundreds. The man who lived there was odd. Reclusive. People whispered all kinds of things about him . . . that he was a murderer, a wizard who practiced the dark arts.” The driver’s tone became self-deprecating, as if he was embarrassed to repeat such rubbish.
“What happened to him?” Shan asked.
“Nobody knows. He simply vanished one day. People say he disappeared on the day Aleister Crowley died, but I suspect they’ve embellished the story.”
I thought about that. The mysterious, vanishing mage must’ve had heirs. “Since then, what’s become of the property?”
“No relatives were found, so I hear. The land was auctioned, and it’s been bought and sold half a dozen times since. People can’t seem to live there. The last owner tried to renovate, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, but eventually she went back to Ireland in tears. Nobody from town will step foot inside the place, not to clean or keep watch, not for love or money.”
“That’s super creepy,” Shan said.
Belatedly, I realized he had been waiting for some response to his recitation. He nodded, as if gratified by Shan’s reaction. I didn’t know what to make of his account, but local lore wouldn’t stop me from seeing about Booke.
“I suppose the owner’s trying a turnkey business to recoup her investment?” He was definitely fishing, probably so he could report his findings at the pub later.
“Who could blame her?” I murmured with a friendly smile. “It can’t have been easy abandoning her dream of a bed-and-breakfast.”
“No, indeed,” the driver agreed.
Shannon and I made noncommittal noises, encouraging him to point out attractions that might be of interest, if we got a chance to explore the city at all. I didn’t think that was too likely, given my track record. The drive took us through town, which was probably charming, but I was too numb to appreciate such things—and out the other side, where the tighter streets gave way to country roads. Shannon watched the scenery with a permanent smile in place; like me, she had grown up in Kilmer, which meant she had never been anywhere. Chance had taken me to Europe once in celebration of solving a particularly difficult case, but that meant I saw echoes of him here. He haunted me.
The driver’s store of small talk dwindled the further we went from the city limits, and as we turned toward the countryside, he focused on driving. No more polite chat. He seemed tense too, as if he regretted agreeing to convey us out to the ghost cottage. I didn’t mind the silence, as it gave me a chance to evaluate what, if anything, I knew about Ian Booke. It wasn’t much. I didn’t have any idea of his age or appearance; at this point, I could only be sure that he was male and English. And he lived in a place the locals called the ghost cottage.
Which they believe to be vacant.
After half an hour in the car, the driver turned down a rocky, rutted lane, overgrown with tall grass. Seeing the route, I understood why he’d questioned our destination; it didn’t look like anyone had passed this way in a long time. With darkness falling, the terrain became even eerier. Trees gained claws, and the ripple of the wind through the leaves seemed ominous.
“A tad ramshackle” is quite the understatement.
Shan slipped her hand into mine as if she sensed my courage needed bolstering. I gripped tightly as Butch whined. This little dog had saved my bacon more than once . . . and if he sensed trouble, then it was definitely on the way. But then, I had known as much already from Booke’s tangible fear during our phone call; he wasn’t the sort of man who cried wolf. Whatever his personal problems, he’d never shared them before, never asked for help.
The road was barely passable for a normal vehicle, with steep drainage ditches on either side; it would be impossible to pass if another car met us head-on. The possibility of a collision sent a chill through me, burying my less mundane fears. Two pale, freckled hands gripped the steering wheel as the driver peered into the darkness, made more opaque by the brightness of our headlights. The shadows didn’t feel like they came from a normal sunset—no, it was more like we’d passed some barrier that kept the light at bay. Ahead lay a weathered stone bridge, worn from years of exposure to wind and rain; it didn’t look as if anybody maintained it.
Abruptly, the driver stopped the car. “This is as far as I’ll take you. If you peer hard, you can see the cottage from here.”
Yes, there it is.
As he’d said, I glimpsed our destination, nestled amid a thicket of thorns, across the dark arch of the bridge. I didn’t protest. His tone made it clear it would be a waste of breath. So I tipped him and slid out of the vehicle. My belly roiled, an echo of the upset from the train. The house did have a haunted, run-down air, justifying the stories that circulated about the place. Before we’d moved off more than two steps, the driver was already maneuvering the car in a slow five-point turn, being careful not to back into the ditch. I could pretend that was why he hadn’t wanted to come further—he didn’t want to get stuck—but that wasn’t the reason.
Shannon’s face was pale in the half-light, still unpainted from our hurried departure, and her cosmetic-free countenance offered stark contrast to the punky streaks in her black hair. “Shall we?” I asked her.
She squared her shoulders. “This idea seems worse all the time. But yeah,
obviously
. When have I ever let portents of doom discourage me?”
That time, my smile was real. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“Hey, you went to hell and back for me. The least I can do is check out a little ghost cottage.” In her tone, I heard awareness of what that rescue had cost me.
I didn’t want her to feel guilty, but a dark, uber-creepy road at night wasn’t the place for a heart-to-heart.
My head whirled with potential explanations. Maybe Booke was squatting here.
But no.
He’d told me once that he was
stuck
in Stoke; he couldn’t leave to help me even if he wanted to. Well, whatever the solution to this riddle, it lay inside the ivy-wreathed walls of the ghost cottage.
As we had been traveling a while, I set Butch down to do his business. “You can walk if you stay close.”
He responded with an affirmative yap. Since he held the title of world’s smartest Chihuahua, it was unlikely that he would go exploring in a place like this with night rolling in. I noted that Shan still hadn’t relinquished my hand, not that I blamed her. This place was spectacularly spooky. There were no normal night noises. No traffic. No signs of human habitation. Though it might be the time of year, I didn’t even hear birds or insects. It was like stepping into a dead realm, where you were cut off from all other life.
“This reminds me of Kilmer,” Shannon whispered.
Earlier in the week, I’d failed to access my mother’s magick, which meant I wasn’t a witch anymore, so it was no surprise when I couldn’t assess the place with my witch sight. That was the price ambitious witches paid; their power wasn’t compatible with the greedier pull of demon magick. I
might
be able to summon and bargain with demons, a power I didn’t want. I’d had enough of the creatures in Sheol, where I had learned they weren’t all good or evil, just like human beings. The realization weighed on me, but it didn’t make me want to get to know them better on the chance they were as honorable as Greydusk, the demon who helped me in the nether realm.
I sniffed the air. “I don’t detect the same hint of brimstone and decay, though.”
“I don’t think it’s demonic. It’s just . . . not right.” I could tell by her frustrated expression, that wasn’t what she wanted to say.
But I couldn’t pinpoint the precise word to describe what I was feeling either. It was a creeping sort of dread, like it could suck the life out of you, given sufficient time. If I let myself be dramatic, I’d call this limbo, a place where unmoored souls drifted in mournful silence. I didn’t articulate the idea out loud; there was no point. If the dead surrounded us, they’d make themselves known soon enough. Hell, they might announce themselves on Shan’s radio.
The mist deepened as I crept over the weed-choked stones. My shoes made little sound, just a rasp and scrape when I went from the rutted road to the bridge. I felt none too sure it would bear weight. I could imagine the masonry giving way, tumbling us down into the murky water below. Shan’s hand tightened on mine.
Somehow, we made it across the stonework onto the other side, where it felt colder. We shared a glance. Then Shan and I crossed the remaining distance to the front door. The ghost cottage radiated menace, as if the empty windowpanes were malevolent eyes; there were no lights inside. Cobwebs hung from the eaves, drifting in the chill breeze like the tattered pennants of a long-ago war. Here and there, bits of the outer wall had crumbled away, littering the yard like broken gravestones.
“I’ll lay odds if I turned on my radio, it would light up like the Fourth of July.”
I swallowed hard, unnerved by the prospect. Oh, I accepted the idea that the dead were all around us—and Shan could talk to them using said radio—but I had seldom sensed their presence so strongly. Her grip tightened on my hand as Butch nudged up against my shins, demanding to be picked up. Great, the atmosphere was affecting my dog too.
At least that means you’re not imagining it.
Obligingly, I scooped him up and tucked him into my purse, his safe space. He hid his head, like the bad stuff was about to commence
right now.
Shan spun in a slow circle, tracking the horizon, but there was only silence, and the thorn thicket, and then the darkness over distant fields dotted with quiet trees. The wind blew through the greenery surrounding us, and it whispered with a host of voices. Soft, sibilant, I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone raised the hair on the nape of my neck.
She stared at me, eyes wide. “
Tell
me you heard that. I’m too young to go batshit. I bet the asylums in the U.K. aren’t as posh as they could be.”
“I did,” I muttered. “And we’re not standing around to see what else happens. Time to get this party started.”
Six Impossible Things
I tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, as promised. It seemed hard to imagine that Booke actually
lived
here. The place was a ruin. Though the driver hadn’t said when the owner went back to Ireland, I could tell by the air of neglect that it had been years.
“He said it’s not as bad as it looks, inside.”
“It couldn’t be,” Shan muttered, “or we’d fall through the floor.”
Without further debate, I turned the handle, then nudged the door open. Old, unoiled hinges squeaked loud enough to announce our arrival. Peering through the door, I made out scuffed floors and rough walls, some with holes large enough for something scary to have crawled inside.
“This just gets better.” Shan stayed close as I eased over the threshold.
The moment we stepped in, heat sparked over my skin, like passing through a dense, hot fog. The temperature spike blanked my vision for a few seconds, and in that time I heard Butch howling, but I couldn’t see what was distressing him. Shannon held my hand tightly while we waited for the inexplicable blindness to pass. Eventually, the dog fell quiet, but I couldn’t be sure if that was good or bad. Finding him in my purse, I stroked his head to make sure he was all right; he stilled after a few seconds.
When my head cleared, the house was . . . different; it looked dated but cozy enough, full of esoteric tomes and a jumble of arcane implements, more or less, I realized, like the cottage Booke had showed me in one of our shared dreams. A calendar on the far wall showed December 1947. In a way, it was like time had stood still here, capturing a moment.
As the thought occurred to me, movement sounded down the hall. I tensed, taking half a step in front of Shannon. The gentleman who came into sight didn’t look dangerous, however. He was tall and thin with a shock of rumpled silver hair; his face was lean, pale from years of eschewing the sun, and he had gray eyes full of boundless sorrow. Artistic fingers showed their age in a slight thickening of the knuckles and a light dusting of liver spots. As I took stock of him, he extended a hand toward me for a polite greeting. On automatic, I accepted the gesture. Afterward I realized I knew this man. I’d seen his face in lucid dreams, but with thirty years pared away. He had shown me an echo of his youth—clever rather than handsome, but relatively unlined.
“Booke,” I said softly. It wasn’t a question.
“What happened? This better not be Sheol.” Shan knew as well as I that one didn’t pass into the demon realm without sacrificing a soul, so we couldn’t be there.
On the other hand, I did suspect we weren’t in England any longer.
At least, not exactly.
“I wasn’t certain I could get the spell to let you in. It’s been successful at keeping others out—and me in—for quite some while.” His weariness was apparent, and I smelled the magick on him, crackling ozone that raised the hair on my arms.
“You look tired,” I said.
He didn’t deny it. Instead, he gestured toward a grouping of chairs. “Won’t you both have a seat? I expect you have a number of concerns.”