Haw-haw-haw.
I chafed my arms hard enough to make the candles flicker and pulled down white light. No app can compare to the sheer adrenaline rush of a ghostly presence. My crown chakra pulsated in time with the headache now throbbing behind my eye, and the room went sparkly around the edges. But there was no ghost. No laughter. Nothing but me on high alert.
I was buzzing so hard, it was a wonder the luminol didn’t light up for me again. As I scanned the wall anyway, despite common sense and the laws of physics, my gaze fell on the closet door. First thought, I’d noticed it was new but never wondered why it had been replaced, figuring it was some normal reason like wear and tear, and not stab marks or bullet holes.
Second thought…the door wasn’t totally shut. It stuck out a fraction of an inch. Like it didn’t latch because someone had closed it in a hurry, or…?
Breathing shallow, as if the act of inhaling might draw attention to me, I crept forward, easing my weight from heel to toe, heel to toe. No creaks from the floorboards. Nothing to give me away. When I reached the closet, I slid a baggie of salt from my pocket, fiddled uselessly with the zip-lock for a tense second, then ripped open the bottom with my teeth. Sharp saltiness puckered my tongue, but I quelled the urge to spit. Bag tilted to contain as much spillage as possible, I steeled myself, doubled down on my white light, and tore open the closet door.
“Gaaah!”
I dunno who screamed louder.
Me?
Or Boswell.
We both jumped half out of our skins—and we each sprayed the other with the contents of whatever we were holding. Which meant he got salted…and I found myself covered in flecks of dubious green plant matter.
“You—” Boswell sputtered, trying to shake salt out of his hair. With it all standing on end, he looked even more unhinged. “You can’t just barge in here! This is my apartment!”
“Wasyour apartment.” I brushed myself off with more force than necessary. Green bits scattered across the hardwood. “What, you can’t smoke your weed on the porch like a normal person?”
“That’s not marijuana. It’s catnip. I was hoping to find my cat…no thanks to you. I’ll bet you scared him away.”
“That’s your cat outside—the gray tabby? Why’d you leave it behind?”
Boswell gave a long-suffering sigh. “He, notit. His name is Simon. And of course I tried to bring him with me. What do you take me for?” He probably didn’t want me to answer that. “But moving day came and went and Simon was nowhere to be found. I think someone else around here might be feeding him. At least, I hope so. Simon is a very good boy. And better company than most people.”
“If you’re so worried about him, why didn’t you keep him inside?”
“Believe me, I tried. But Simon is a free spirit. He shouldn’t be bound by the laws of an inferior species. Besides, there’s no pets allowed in this building—strictly enforced. So when you get my security deposit back, make sure you don’t mention anything about him.”
I was about to tell Boswell exactly where he could shove his security deposit, but decided it might be the only leverage I had, so I’d better not squander it. “You’re not gonna find your cat in the closet,” I said. “In fact, this whole area is under investigation. So unless you want to shed fresh DNA all over it—”
Before I could threaten him with legal ramifications, my skin prickled as a shadowy figure darted between us. My candles were lit and I was still full of white light energy from all my prep work, so I got a really good look at the repeater.
She was screaming. With a split lip and twin tracks of mascara running down her cheeks. Just a quick glimpse. Butit was enough to know that someone had beaten this woman before she died.
Boswell fell back with a shudder, then took in the guttering candles in the corners of the room. “What is all this? Are you some kind of sorcerer?”
“There’s no such thing.” I peered into the closet. The repeater was gone. “I’m a medium. A psych.” And so was Boswell, if he’d just seen that entity. But I figured we weren’t in the right time or place for me to tell him about the extrasensory birds and bees.
Boswell backed away from the closet. The soles of his shoes scraped salt. “I’ve never met a psychic. Not that I ever believed. You’d be surprised how gullible people are. They’ll believe any kind of crackpot claim.”
You don’t say.
“All of the so-called psychics I’ve met are actually making logical assumptions about what you’re thinking or feeling and chalking up their impressions to ESP. And all the mediums on TV are just telling grieving families what they wanna hear to get more ratings.”
How could I agree so absolutely with someone who toted around with their own urine? I sure hoped that wasn’t where I’d eventually end up.
“Mediums are few and far between,” I said. “And ghosts don’t go out of their way to make it easy for us. But we do exist.” Since we’d both just seen something, I figured I should broach the topic of him coming down to HQ to see if he was part of the exclusive club. But before I could, we heard it again. The chillinghaw-haw-haw.
I flinched and sucked down white light, angry with myself for letting down my defenses, even for half a second, in an apartment that was clearly haunted.
“I heard that, too,” Boswell said. All the more reason he should be tested. “Don’t worry, it’s just the downstairs bird.”
“The what?”
