“Mrs. Meest? I’m Sorrel Redwood.”
Mrs. Meest’s honey-flecked brown gaze drifted from my boho skirt to my denim jacket and the silver chains around my neck, then to my silvery hair. Her eyes didn’t quite focus—as if her brain was trying to catch up. My hair used to be brown, but the spell that almost killed me had demanded a price.
“The troublesome noises? You called me last week to help out?” I shifted, cold sweat trickling down my back.
“Oh, yes, Miss Redwood. I didn’t think you’d be so young. Please, call me Brenda.” She stepped back, motioning me to enter.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Don’t worry, Brenda. I have years of experience.” Eight years of demon fighting, to be exact. I’d been four when I talked to my first spirit. When I discovered my ability to tap into the soul energy of my ancestors at sixteen, Mom taught me how to kick demons and spirits back to their planes.
“Mylittle problemappears to be in the living room.” She moved back to let me in.
I stepped over the threshold, tuning into the pulse of a hundred years of people and pets. Energy attaches easily to inanimate things. I couldn’t see faces, just impressions of highs and lows. The touch of lovers’ hands on the banister rising to the bedroom, bare feet sinking childish joy into the well-worn floorboards, the sparkle of sun against glass that held the attention of a beloved cat, and the tears shed against a doorframe after a profound loss. I brushed away the wetness burning in my eyes.
“It’s this way,” she said, leading me through a short hall to the front room.
I was vulnerable to the house’s feelings, but it was a gift to be able to experience those moments. The good news was whoever had been in this house hadn’t been murdered. I exhaled my relief.
My waxed linen bag bounced against my hip as the wood floor creaked under me. Today’s go-bag had pockets filled with metal powders, garden-grown and sustainably harvested herbs, and a backup grimoire. The original tome, passed down through my family, never left the planar pocket I’d created inside my oven.
Mrs. Meest’s dress swished around her ankles as she walked, flashing white socks and Birkenstocks.
“How does this work, exactly?” she asked, tucking her hand into a pocket.
“I’m here to help with whatever is bothering you. To do that, I need to know exactly what happened and where it happened.”
She gestured to a saffron velvet recliner facing the fireplace. “I was sitting in that chair when I heard the first voice.”
The living room had been modernized and painted stark white. The two facing couches matched the walls, but the chair was like an egg yolk in the otherwise all-white room. Even the brick fireplace had been painted white. Today’s suspects sat in a neat little row on the mantel: two porcelain dogs, an antique clock, and a half-drowned orchid tied up with a yellow ribbon. Its leaves flopped like it had given up on life. “Phalaenopsis don’t like too much water,” I said under my breath.
“What’s that, dear?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Maybe she was hard of hearing.
“Who gave you the orchid?” I asked a little louder.
“My dear friend, Verona. She picked me up last week before we went antiquing at the Alameda flea.”
“Verona Powers?” I had done a fast-luck money charm and three card readings for Verona a few months back. Good to know she was giving referrals.
Mrs. Meest nodded. Her peach-tinted lips widened into a smile. “We go monthly to the big market.”
“Did you find any treasures?” I asked. Spirit tethers are like threads or strings that hold otherworldlies to an inanimate. Fat ones usually meant the spirit had its claws in something big, like a house. The thin threads to lamps, clocks, or knickknacks were easy to break. Jewelry and books were the real pain. They’re personal, sticky, and more likely to tempt demons than harmless lingering ghosties.
“Oh, yes. It was a lovely day. I found the perfect match for my dear Albert.” She motioned to the porcelain dachshunds, her brown eyes returning to me as if I were another curious object.
“You mean the dog? Which one did you get at the flea?” I asked. One dachshund had lighter brown paint and a chip on one of its ears.
“The new Albert. He’s the one on the left.”
Bingo.
The new dog had meaning to her, which only made a tether more of a problem. Spirits don’t hang around by choice; they’re like people locked in a closet with no exit, frightened and confused. Sometimes they catch glimpses of the thing keeping them here—people brushing past, or me—none of which helps their panic.
Still, a dog ornament was exorcism light. I could wrap this up and still make it to my favorite juicery before the line was too long.
“What exactly happened?” If I submerged the figurine in water, it wouldn’t damage it. Adding dried asphodel should release the spirit. I examined every angle of the dog without touching it.
But I got nothing.
Brenda came up behind me, and I turned. She pointed a peach fingernail at the chair. “I was sitting there, and someone said, ‘Brenda.’ When I looked around, no one was there. I picked up my knitting, and the yarn was all knotted up.” She gestured at a basket with bamboo knitting needles and a white plastic folder sticking out of it. “I know this is going to sound odd, but when I tried to untangle the yarn, it wrapped around my fingers. I’m sure I must have imagined it.” Her bottom lip quivered.
