Nathan managed a wan smile. “You’d be doing me a favor. The sooner I can get away, the happier I’ll be. Every time I drive in, I see that balcony, and I—” His voice hitched. “I keep asking myself why she went out there. I know she loved the view, and she must have woken up and seen the moon and wanted a betterlook.” He shook his head. “I meant to fix that balcony. We did the others, but she said ours could wait, and now…”
The man laid a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Let me talk to my real estate agent and I’ll get an offer drawn up, see if I can’t take this place off your hands.”
“Thank you.”
Nathanclosed the door and took a deep breath. He was making good use of those community theater skills, but he really hoped he didn’t have to keep this up much longer.
He headed into the office, giving it yet another once-over, making sure he’d gotten rid of all the evidence. He’d already checked, twice, but he couldn’t be too careful.
There wasn’t much to hide. The old woman had been an actor friend of one of his theater buddies, and even if she came forward, what of it? Tanya wanted a haunted house and he’d hired her to indulge his wife’s fancy.
Adding the woman’s photo to the article had been simple Photoshop work, the files—paper and electronic—long gone now. The workmen really had been scared off by the haunting, which he’d orchestrated. The only person who knew about his “episodes” was Tanya. And he’d been very careful with the balcony, loosening the nails just enough that her weight would rip them from the rotting wood.
Killing Tanya hadn’t been his original intention. But when she’d refused to leave, he’d been almost relieved. As if he didn’t mind having to fall back on the more permanent solution, get the insurance money as well as the inheritance, go back home, hook up with Denise again—if she’d still have him—and open thekind of business he wanted. There’d been no chance of that while Tanya was alive. Her money. Her rules. Always.
He opened the basement door, stepped down and almost went flying, his foot sending a hammer clunking down a few stairs. He retrieved it, wondering how it got there, then shoved it into his back pocket and?—
The ring of the phone stopped his descent. He headed back up to answer it.
“Restrictions?”Nathan bellowed into the phone. “What do you mean restrictions? How long?—?”
He paused.
“A year? I have tolivehere a year?”
Pause.
“Look, can’t there be an exception under the circumstances? My wife died in this house. I need to get out of here.”
Tanyastepped up behind Nathan and watched the hair on his neck rise. He rubbed it down and absently looked over his shoulder, then returned to his conversation. She moved back, caught a glimpse of the hammer in his pocket and sighed. So much for that idea. But she had plenty more, and it didn’t sound like Nathan was leaving anytime soon.
She slid up behind him, arms going around his waist, smiling as he jumped and looked around.
Her house might not have been haunted before. But it was now.
Nos Galan Gaeaf
Adre, adre, am y cynta’, Hwch Ddu Gwta a gipio’r ola’
Home, home, on the double, The tailless black sow shall snatch the last.
Cainsville, October 31, 1979
Seanna Walsh was not pretty. Not bright. Not charming or witty. Not good or kind. Yet Lance couldn’t get her out of his head. She’d wormed her way in, that insidious thought he couldn’t escape. He had to, though. Had to pry her out before he went mad. Which meant she needed to die on Nos Galan Gaeaf.
Lance would not actually kill her. That is, he would not wrap his hands around her scrawny neck, nor fire a bullet through her flat chest, nor slit her pale throat and watch her strange blue eyes bug as her lifeblood soaked the ground. He thought about that. He thought about all of it, late at night, replaying the fantasies until he lay shivering and sweat-soaked. But then he imagined the reality of it, and the fantasy became a nightmare,handcuffs clamping around his wrists, his mother sobbing, his father staring, wordless for perhaps the first time in his life.
No. Lance would not kill Seanna Walsh himself. But he would bring about her death on Nos Galan Gaeaf…by removing her stone from the bonfire.
Whenthe morning of Nos Galan Gaeaf arrived, Lance asked the gargoyles if he should give Seanna one last chance. He counted them on his way to the school bus stop. If they came up with an even number, that would mean yes. Yes, he should give Seanna another chance.
Of course, it was easy to game the system. He walked the long way to the bus stop knowing that route would give him five gargoyles, meaning no, he did not need to give her another chance. He just had to get the right answer. Like he had to check the door four times after he locked it, to be absolutely sure his father wouldn’t come home and find it open. Check the door four times. Check the gas stove six. Check the lights twice.
Even numbers were good omens. They were safe. The number of times to check depended on the severity of the transgression if he made a mistake. Leave on a light, and he’d only get a snarl from his father. An unlocked door would lead to a smack. Leave the gas on? Lance didn’t even want to think what would happen if he did that.
Check, check, and check again, so his whirling mind could rest easy. The same went for any question of importance. It had to be checked against the gargoyles.
In cases like this, Lance would walk a route where he knew how many gargoyles he should see. Yet that was no guarantee in Cainsville, where he could walk past the bank four days in arow and clearly see the gargoyle perched there…and the next day there would be no sign of it. Two days later it would reappear, sneering at him as if to say it’d been there all along and he was a fool if he thought otherwise.
