“This is perfect.”
Six
The Davilla house must be dusted so that it does not fall ill. Rearrange the furniture, replace it as needed, to keep it happy and entertained. If neglected, the house will turn feral.
Local Legends and Superstitions,
Tempest Family Grimoire
I am retroactively disappointedthat none of the men I’ve dated have had the consideration to bring me to a haunted house.
Morgan is pleased. “Seemed like it might be up your alley.”
“It has a permanent address on my alley. Ilovecreepy places.”
He closes the trunk of his car, swinging a backpack over one shoulder. A flashlight, digital audio recorder, and headphones hang from various clips on his tool belt. He tosses me a flashlight.
I switch it on, experimenting with the different modes. “Fun! What’s the plan?”
“To make contact, hopefully.” A small pink ball bounces out of the pocket of his backpack, lighting up when it hits the grass. He scoops it.
“Is that a cat toy?”
“Yep. These thingsonlylight up when touched. We’ll put it on the floor and step away, and if it activates, we’ll know aghost is trying to communicate.” He peers at the house, running a hand through his windswept hair. Then he gives me a camera. “Would you mind recording this?”
I blink at it, still distracted by his hair. “Uh. Yeah, sure.”
“Fantastic. Start recording now, please, and keep filming even if it seems like nothing’s happening. I might be able to pick up interesting stuff in the background while I’m editing the video.”
“Will you post this online?”
“Not the footage itself, no. I’ll review it later, then discuss anything noteworthy in my next podcast episode. You can let me know when you’re available to guest chat, so we can discuss the experience together.”
I pointedly do not commit to that, and tap the record button.
The ground leading up to the house is uneven, reminding me of a crème brûlée after you’ve cracked the sugar crust with a spoon. I scan our environment through the flip screen on the camera: up close, the front of the house seems to be swollen, and whichever room is tacked to the right of the porch bulges out. I frown at the coloring in the screen, the way it makes the house look brown again, the grass not as vibrant, almost as if we’re walking across a late autumn scape. The sky is off-color in the camera, too, more like late afternoon than 8:25 p.m.
“Built in 1934,” Morgan utters into his Dictaphone, “by Frank Davilla. The Great Depression hit his family hard. Had two younger brothers who lived with him, his wife, and three kids. Was accused of inappropriate behavior toward a preacher’s wife, and the congregation shunned the whole family. Triedto drive them out of town. Mrs. Davilla, a pious lady and Sunday school teacher, was devastated to lose her community and tried to get them to forgive Frank so that she could return to the church. On March fifth, 1945, Frank’s wife and his two younger brothers were found dead in their beds. Frank and his children were never seen again.”
I study the house. “Are you hoping to find Frank?”
“Or anyone else still here. Maybe they’ll know why Mrs. Davilla, Nate, and Otto were murdered, and what happened to the missing family members.” He lays a paintbrush on the doorstep. “Feeding the house,” he explains. “Mrs. Davilla liked to paint.”
I don’t believe in ghosts, but as a writer of paranormal mysteries, this is fantastic field experience. And unorthodox for a date, which makes me all the happier.
I test the front door. The knob rattles loosely, unlocked and broken, but the door itself has engorged in the July heat and sticks to its frame. I press harder, hoping there aren’t any cops cruising nearby. Not that they’d have much reason to. This house is so notorious for its (alleged) malevolent spirits that even the most intrepid of teenagers dare not use its halls as a place to drink or make out.
“So, one sister who does candle magic. One sister who does flower magic.” He eyes me sidelong. “And what about you?”
“Lately? I read and sell books.” The door finally gives way. “When’s the last time you were here?”
“Never been inside. I’ve checked out the property, but you don’t go into a place like this without backup.”
“How long have you been into the paranormal?”
He sighs. “Not as long as you have. About two years.”
We’re in what appears to be a living room, and it definitely hasn’t been sitting empty for seventy-eight years. I expected cobwebs, dirt, and bugs. Peeling paint, strips of plaster hanging from the ceiling.
