“What? Date him?” I gnaw my lip, wondering how toexplain. I answer as simply as I can, “Because he was good at what I wanted from him. And I knew I wouldn’t get attached.”
Kit’s quiet for a moment before asking, “Isn’t the point of datingtoget attached? I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve done it, so maybe I’m off base.”
“Sure. Generally. But why would I want to get attached to someone if they’re just going to leave? Nothing and no one is permanent.”
He softly counters, “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, I do. If you don’t fall in love, your heart can’t get broken.” I clear my throat, changing the subject. I tap my window, looking before us. “Is this it?”
Gravel crunches under the tires as Kit slows the car to a stop at the end of the road. The headlights shine on a wood-paneled building surrounded by trees, with square windows and a crooked front door. The red trim around the windows and door is peeling, and the glass on a few of the windows is broken or cracked.
Kit dressed my body in a standard ghost hunting outfit: jeans, a T-shirt, a jacket, and my fingerless gloves, which I appreciate. I half-expected him to put me back in that miniskirt and insist we go braless again. I have my cameras and tripods, which is normally all I need, however, Kit insisted we bring salt and holy water as well. “I should also stay away from the stuff, but better safe than sorry,” he said as he dug the salt out of my pantry earlier that evening. He didn’t tell me where or when he acquired the holy water.
Kit cranks off the ignition of my car, running his thumb over the metal of the key after it’s removed. When he opens the cardoor, I can hear water rushing. I can’t see it, but I know there is a waterwheel attached to the back of the building, the river the mill is built on turning it, offering power that is no longer needed. Kit stomps through the weeds surrounding us as he makes his way to the front door. It’s secured by a thick padlock on a metal hinge that looks forty years newer than the rest of the building. Great. I scan the building to see if there are any open windows. None that I can tell beyond the broken ones out of our reach, but Kit needs to move his head some more so I can get a better look.
However, this turns out to not be a problem, because Kit reaches out and yanks down on the lock, breaking it easily and pulling the hinge off with it, like they were made of clay.
My jaw drops. “How did you do that?”
“Simplest answer is magic.”
“Magic is never a simple answer.”
Kit doesn’t dispute this as he pushes the door open with a loud screech. The floorboards creak under his feet as he takes cautious steps inside, closing the door gently behind us. “Where do you want the cameras?” he whispers inside my head, as though the ghosts would be able to hear him if he spoke normally. Who knows? Maybe they can.
“Hmm,” I muse as I survey the space. “Rotate for me. Slowly.”
Kit does as I ask, spinning in an unhurried circle so I can get an idea of the entire space. The floors, walls, ceilings, and support beams are all made of wood. There are a couple of large wooden boxes built into the building that I assume were usedto hold grain, and multiple barrels, upright and overturned, scattered through the space. To the right, a wooden ladder leads to a floor or attic above, and on the left is a large broken-down tubular contraption that I assume was the grinder for the grain. The metal wheel once attached to it has fallen off or been removed, but I can make out where the waterwheel must have once been used to turn it.
I choose a spot in the back corner that should be able to get most of the room in the shot. Kit takes the tripod over to the corner and sets it up. He places one camera atop, hits a few buttons, and starts to grumble.
“What?” I prod.
“How do you get this on night mode?”
“Flip the gray button.”
“What gray button?”
“The one literally under your thumb.”
He groans and says, “You do it. Honestly, you should have control right now anyway.”
I’m hurled back into my body, stumbling from the shock.
“What the fuck,” I mumble, hand to my skull in a sore attempt to keep my spinning mind steady.
“Try to talk to me inside your head,” Kit says.
I shudder. Nowthatis disturbing. When I hear his voice inside my head when I am also inside my head, it doesn’t feel wrong. But a voice that is not mine lurking around my mind feelswrong.
I try to lift my right hand to turn the camera on night mode but find I can’t move it. I gnaw my lip, trying to remain calm.
In my mind, I think, “Kit, I can’t move my right arm.”
“I have to keep control of a part of you. Otherwise, you may accidentally boot me out.”
“I’m right-handed, though.”
