“Try the most haunted hotel in the area,” Little Spencer retorts. He seems like the more dramatic one, speaking with extravagant hand gestures. “The paranormal activity there is off the charts. Doors opening, slamming. Unintelligible whispers. Creepy knocks. Guests are constantly spotting Mary hanging out in the stairwells.”
“Mary?” I echo, while Wyatt gives me a look that saysplease don’t indulge this.
“The showgirl who haunts the hotel. She wears a miniskirt and go-go boots,” Little Spencer says.
“And has no face,” Big Spencer pipes up.
“But we’re not here to rehash the same old nonsense that every other paranormal expert investigates,” Little Spencer informs me. “Like the Biltmore or the mansion on Fannette Island.” He adopts a jeering tone. “Ooooh, I smell cinnamon toast. Soooo cool.”
“What?” I’ve never been more confused in my life.
“The Fannette Island ghost was something of a breakfast connoisseur,” Big Spencer explains. “Her favorite breakfast was cinnamon toast, and all the park rangers claim they can smell cinnamon when they’re out there.”
I nod solemnly. “Got it. But you’re not here to chase dead showgirls or cinnamon ghosts.”
“Correct. We’re not interested in all the cases that have been done to death—no pun intended.” Little Spencer chortles before going gravely serious again. No pun intended. “One of the lesser-known sightings is of a woman named Darlie Gallagher. She drowned herself in the lake after her fiancé left her for her younger sister. Happened about fifty years ago.”
“But don’t worry,” Big Spencer assures us. “She’s not evil.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Wyatt says, and I hope they don’t realize he’s fucking with them.
“If anything, you’re lucky to have her,” Little Spencer confirms. “As far as ghosts go, Darlie is kind and generous. And sheloveslove. Which, frankly, shows a deep emotional maturity on her part that most humans can only dream of having. I mean, here she is, her heart shattered to pieces by her lover and her sister, yet she still believes in the power of love. Still desperate for others to experience it.”
Oh my God. I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this conversation.
“We’ve been here about a week. You know, checking out the sites, hitting up the local library,” Big Spencer tells us. “According to our research, Darlie usually appears during a full moon.”
“Is she a werewolf?” Wyatt asks, and I can see him trying not to laugh.
“No. But there was a full moon the night she drowned. And there was a full moon last night when we were cruising the lake.”
“Weheardher,” Little Spencer says triumphantly. “And, oh mywow, you guys. It was like…these screams were coming from deep beneath the water. High-pitched. Ringing with such anguish. Calling out for love.”
“Real longing,” Big Spencer agrees, nodding.
I bite my lip. Hard. Oh boy.
“Um, so… I hate to disappoint you,” I tell the Spencers. “But… I think that was me.”
Their expressions collapse. “What do you mean it was you?” Little Spencer demands.
“Yeah, so we”—I gesture between me and Wyatt—“sort of fell in the lake last night by accident—”
“By accident?” Wyatt cuts in.
“Well, he pushed me in,” I say sweetly. “And, well, I remember screaming pretty loudly, out of shock and because the water was stupidly cold, and then I got hypothermia—”
“She didn’t get hypothermia,” interjects Wyatt.
“Anyway, I’m sorry,” I finish. “No Darlie sighting last night. That was just me.”
“Well, shit,” Big Spencer says.
They sit there wallowing in their disappointment for a moment until Little Spencer brightens.
“You know what?” he says. “It’s cool. Totally fine. Just because it wasn’t her last night doesn’t mean she won’t show up tonight, right? Look how big the moon is. Totally still big enough for her to want to haunt people and infect them with her love bug.”
“I mean, I’d prefer she didn’t,” Wyatt hedges in.
