“Yeah,” she said. “Y’all did a piece on that haunted doll museum up in Tennessee, right?”
I groaned, sinking further into the couch and holding my pizza like a shield. “Please don’t tell me you believe those dolls are actually haunted.”
Delilah didn’t even blink. “Oh, babe. They areabsolutelyhaunted.”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”
She reached out, plucked a candle from the shelf beside her, and lit it with a silver zippo lighter. “Dead serious. The one with the cracked porcelain face? Name’s Agatha. She gave me a nosebleed and made the lights in my car flicker for a week.”
I blinked. “Agatha.”
“Yeah. She doesn’t like skeptics.”
I tried not to laugh but failed. “That’s very convenient.”
“You don’t have to believe me,” she said, shrugging. “But I’d steer clear of mocking her too much. You know. Just in case.”
I took another bite of pizza and chewed slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
Delilah grinned. “Only a little. I do think you and your co-host tried too hard to explain everything. Like that bit about the motion sensors? Come on. Those dolls didn’t need batteries to move. They were fueled entirely by vengeance and spite.”
That made me laugh—really laugh—and Morgana responded by adjusting her weight like I was disturbing her royal slumber. “Okay, but for real,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Even if the placefeltcreepy, that’s all it was. Vibes. Ambiance. The power of suggestion.”
“Mm,” Delilah said, sipping her tea. “Or ghosts.”
“Or dry rot.”
She pointed her spoon at me like a wand. “You are so lucky I like you.”
I shook my head. “You don’t even know me.”
“It doesn’t take me long to get a read on people,” she said, then looked at my empty plate. “You ready for tea now, or do you want the tikka masala, too?”
I took a deep breath in and out…then I let a smile slip out. “I was actually hoping for a hotpocket.”
Delilah chuckled. “On it. And of course the requisite follow-up…you smoke?”
“Depends,” I said. “Is this a sting?”
“No, it’s clearly a séance,” she snorted—but she was already opening a drawer and pulling out a little wooden box. Inside were a few joints wrapped in what appeared to be rose petals, and a tiny glass jar with extra flower. She plucked out a joint, lit it, and took a long drag before holding it toward me.
I hesitated, then took it. “This isn’t gonna be like…laced with hallucinogens, right?”
Delilah exhaled slow, eyes half-lidded. “We don’t need hallucinogens to see weird shit around here.”
I took the joint and sat back, staring into the swirling shadows above the ceiling beams. “That’s the second vaguely threatening thing you’ve said tonight,” I murmured, bringing it to my lips.
Delilah laughed. “Don’t worry. Around here, weird doesn’t always mean bad.”
I inhaled, held it, exhaled slow. It was smooth—earthy and a little floral, with a hint of something sweet that tingled behind my teeth. Morgana purred louder, tail flicking lazily against my arm like she approved.
Outside, the laughter from Main Street had faded into a low hum, festival night settling into stillness. The windows glowed soft with reflected light from porch lanterns and crooked street lamps, and beyond that…nothing but trees and fog and the waiting hush of southern dark.
Inside, I was warm. I was fed.
I was stoned in a witch’s attic.
And, much to my surprise, I wasn’t waiting for the next disaster to strike. Just sitting there, passing a joint with a stranger who already felt like a friend, wondering how the hell I’d ended up in the middle of a southern gothic fever dream.
