Page 79 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“There’s a flat upstairs, isn’t there?” Augustine pressed. “You told me there wasn’t. You said it belonged to the office next door.” Her voice tightened. “But you lied to me.”

That did it. Something flickered across Mrs Clayton’s face, quick, but unmistakable, and the woman stood abruptly.

“Well,” she said, too brisk and light, already reaching for her handbag, “I can see you’re busy. I’ll be off. Probably for the best, hospital visiting hours, and all that—”

Augustine moved before she could think better of it, stepping into her path. “Please. Please tell me the truth. Tell me what’s going on.” The words came out softer than anything she’d said so far, despite being undercut by desperation. “I have to know.”

Mrs Clayton stopped, and her gaze dropped away from Augustine, her hands tightening around the handle of her bag. When she finally looked up again, something within her face had changed. She looked . . . almost sad. But underneath that, she also looked something much worse.

Frightened, Augustine realized. She’s frightened.

“I can’t,” Mrs Clayton said quietly. “I can’t.”

Augustine flinched. “No, Mrs C, you can—”

“No.” Mrs Clayton shook her head, her voice wavering slightly beneath its firm tone. “You don’t understand. I can’t. You . . . you have to figure it out on your own.” Her grip on the bag tightened further, knuckles paling. “I can’t do anything,” she added, almost to herself. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”

Augustine stilled. “Who?” she asked, her voice low now, controlled in a way that felt more dangerous than before. “Who did you promise?”

For just a second, Mrs Clayton hesitated, and in that second, Augustine knew: she wanted to tell her. She wanted to tell her . . . she just wasn’t sure she should.

“Please,” Augustine begged, seizing on this chance. “Please tell me.”

Mrs Clayton shook her head again, stepping back. “No,” she said. “No, I’ve already said too much.”

She moved to step around Augustine, but slower this time. Augustine, desperate, opened her mouth, determined to try just one more time.

“Mrs C, please—”

“You’re a good girl, you know,” Mrs Clayton suddenly said, interrupting her. “You really are. You’ve been good company for me. You’ve helped me when you could, too. God knows I had nothing to offer you, no way to say thanks . . .” She trailed off abruptly, that same earlier sadness crossing her face. “I made a promise, honey. I didn’t think it was right, what she did, but I was told it was for your own good and—”

“She?” Augustine cut in. “Who? What did she make you promise?”

Mrs Clayton looked at her properly then. “I can’t tell you. But I can tell you this: stop looking for what’s hidden and start thinking about why it was hidden from you in the first place.”

Frustration flared. “That’s not an answer—”

“No,” Mrs Clayton agreed. “It isn’t.” She adjusted her handbag, composure returning in small, practiced pieces. Gazing around the shop, her eyes flicked to the bookcase. “This place was all tiles, when I worked here,” she suddenly remarked. “That’s why, when the fire happened, it was so bad. The tiles were made of vinyl and the fumes became poisonous and I—”

She stopped.

She didn’t seem to be in the room any more. Her expression shifted, fear flickering across her face, sharp and sudden, chased quickly by something heavier. Sadness. The kind that settled deep, like it had nowhere else to go.

Augustine’s voice softened instinctively. “There was a fire?”

The older woman blinked, like she’d been pulled back from somewhere far away. Then, just as quickly, she shook herself. Her shoulders straightened, while her expression smoothed over into something brisk and dismissive.

“Yes,” she said lightly, too lightly, “but that’s not my point. My point is that when I was here, the walls were covered with toxic tiling, and it was still better than this wallpaper.” She sniffed faintly, glancing around with clear disapproval. “I don’t like it.”

Augustine shook her head. “You . . . you don’t like my wallpaper?”

Mrs Clayton met her gaze and held it for longer than necessary. Long enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

“No,” she replied, “you should take it down.”

Augustine’s breath slowed as she turned, her eyes moving over the walls, the soft, innocuous pattern she’d loved and chosen when she’d opened three years earlier. It was wallpaper, she thought. Just wallpaper.

Except . . . except Mrs Clayton didn’t give hints. She always spoke bluntly, telling people exactly what she thought.