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[personal profile] keire_ke

June 2007

William is tidy and much less scruffy looking when he appears on their doorstep with a thick file in his hand a little less than two months after his very grim exit. “Good morning,” he tells Jacob, nodding his head. “May I come in?”

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant change,” Deborah says, her arms crossed on her chest. “What happened to breaking and entering, did they pass a law against it when I wasn’t paying attention?”

“Very funny, Mrs Lake,” the hunter says as he walks into the living room. He sets down the duffle bag and starts spreading the contents of the file on the table. “Could I bother you for some tea, perhaps?”

“Sure.” When Deborah gets back with cups and pots, William has most of the table occupied by charts and articles. “So what brings you to our humble abode?”

“Nothing you will like, I fear,” William says. “I researched the town, and the house,” he starts, gesturing to the selection of papers on the table. “Over a hundred people have died in mysterious circumstances since it was founded.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, there appear to be hundreds of potential ghosts. Steve McAdams, fell out of the window in the local school building. Five people followed in his footsteps. Amy Gilespie was found dead before a mirror in her apartment, I won’t bore you with details.”

“I will ask again, what does it mean?”

“A little patience, Mrs Lake,” William says, and the scar on his face curves to allow for a wide smile. “Allow me to sell the story.”

“Alright, go on.”

“Now, I did a cursory sweep for most the cases, because you never know. Since not one looked even remotely similar to what you witnessed, I didn’t expect much to turn up.” nevertheless, the amount of clippings and printouts William is displaying on the table is frightening.

“Did it?” Jacob asks picking up a copy. Someone has been killed in a freak accident, by a falling car. He furrows his brows. He remembers that, vaguely, from when he was a teen.

“No, and you might be relieved to note that I found nothing solid to base a case on.”

“That’s supposed to relieve us?” Deborah asks.

“It means you don’t live in a haunted town. I would find that comforting.”

“When you put it that way… So, there are no ghosts in Pontiac?”

“None malicious ones, at least. It is virtually impossible to track down ghosts without a deadly intent, as they tend not to leave a trail.”

“What does that mean?” Jacob asks.

“It means, Mr Lake, that usually ghosts are only noticeable when people go missing, or are found dead for no good reason.”

“There’s a good reason to be found dead?”

“I meant that as in inexplicable. Usually there is a cause, a crime scene, something that makes sense, on psychological grounds.”

“And if there’s none, it means there is no ghost to blame?”

“Usually no.”

“So, what is it that brings you here, exactly?”

“The house was a little more problematic,” William says. “The previous occupants had curious hobbies, ones that could leave a mark on the place. This matters, because if a place is tainted somehow, the ghosts and other creatures are drawn to it.”

“By curious hobbies you mean what?”

“In 1976, Mrs Frommich won the local lottery. In 1980 Mr Frommich won a car. In 1983, Emmett Frommich won a sports scholarship to the University of Chicago, after the quarterback broke his leg in three places on a skiing trip.”

“What does that prove? People get lucky sometimes.”

“Sometimes, yes. Not always. I haven’t been able to find a single instance of bad luck the Frommiches had during the time they lived here.”

“Some people are just lucky,” Deborah says sourly. “You cannot suspect them for having too much good luck.”

“In my line of work too lucky is never a good thing.”

“No offence then, but your line of work sucks.”

“Never said it didn’t.” William shuffles through the paper and comes up with a list. “This is a list of every case of surprisingly good fortune the Frommiches enjoyed over the years. You may look through it at your leisure. I’m not saying that it is complete, of course, this is just what I managed to pull from the local papers and such.”

Jacob picks up the paper and gives it a cursory read. “This doesn’t seem too excessive,” he says. It isn’t. All the instances of luck William presented are run of the mill and everyday. Though he has to admit the list is mighty impressive, if only for its length. There are over twenty items, and not a single one would cause a raised an eyebrow on its own. Altogether, however, it seems that when it comes to the Frommiches the laws of probability are taking a prolonged vacation. “They won the lottery twice.” He reads a little more. “Ten grand altogether. And the car. But I don’t see how can it have anything to do with us. All of these occurred over twenty years.”

“Still, that is plenty for one family, wouldn’t you say? That much luck in one place suggests the Frommiches had some sort of lucky charm going on.”

“It happens. It isn’t so suspicious,” Deborah says into her teacup.

“Except that supernatural luck has a tendency to fold back on itself and take back its due,” William says.

“You think the Frommiches used up our good karma?”

“It’s not quite that simple. It is possible that they could have conducted some sort of rituals in the house that left it tainted with a supernatural mark, one that leaves it open for other creatures.”

“Is that possible?” Jacob asks leaning forward.

“Honey, we live in a world with ghosts and chupacabras. What isn’t possible?”

“I hear Big Foot is not real,” William says taking a sip of his tea and Deborah just stares at him.

“That’s a shame, Big Foot I’d love to see.”

“You jest,” William says without looking at Deborah.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” she says. Jacob knows she’s not.

“You said the Frommiches have moved to Miami, correct?”

“As far as I know. They might well be on bald mountain by now.”

Jacob sighs and smiles at William apologetically. “Normally she isn’t this contrary,” he hastens to explain. “It’s just the whole ghostbusters thing was more my idea more than hers, and well.”

William stares at him, as if he were trying to look into the depths of his soul and gauge his sincerity somewhat. “I understand,” he says eventually. “My sons are convinced I belong in a mental asylum. I try and maintain some form of contact, but it’s not easy talking to people who are set on having you committed.”

“Oh,” Deborah says. There is an awkward pause during which Deborah does her best to force the slightly patronizing look off her face and assume an expression of sympathy. She succeeds with the sympathy, because that one is easy when one is a parent and children are the issue. Jacob feels an ache in his chest when he imagines Rachel disbelieving him to such a degree. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I chose what I did, with all assorted privileges.” He stares at the wall, suddenly wistful. “They are good people, don’t get me wrong. I did good raising them, at least that’s what I try to tell myself every time I call and hear the endless pleas to return home and into a straight jacket.”

Jacob doesn’t say a word, but he knows just how that feels. Sometimes Deborah gets that look in her eyes, the analytical, cool look, that means she would love to study his mind to see what makes him tick. She is allowing this, Jacob is certain, only because it gives her the chance to see what makes him accept the unacceptable as true and pursue it with single-mindedness worthy of a religious fanatic. If worst comes to worst, Deborah will get a book out of it. Jacob has no doubts it will be wildly successful – My Husband Believes in Fairies, A Study Of Madness. Jacob chokes on his tea and spends the next five minutes being rescued from drowning by well meaning walloping on the back. “Ouch,” he says, his eyes watering, as the chocking finally subsides and he is able to draw a breath.

“Want to share what was that about, or do I chalk it up to the mystery karma floating around the place?” Deborah asks taking his cup away.

“Could be karma,” Jacob agrees readily, not quite willing to admit what he was thinking, in case Deborah takes it seriously. Gentle jabs and irony he can handle, serious study would be a lot harder to dismiss as marital concern.

“So, back to the poor Frommiches,” Deborah says. “What is it exactly that we accuse them of?”

“Witchcraft,” William says calmly.

“Witchcraft,” Deborah repeats turning to Jacob, her eyebrows raised. “Not just ghosts and chupacabras and demons then, there are also witches.”

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Mrs Lake. And philosophers went far with increasing the numbers. I have here a couple of books I managed to find on the subject,” William says reaching into his bag. The tomes he recovers are thick and much heavier than their volume would suggest.

“Are we supposed to read those?” Deborah asks doubtfully opening the first one. “Because my Latin isn’t what it used to be.”

“I brought them in case you were curious,” he said, shrugging. “I have an idea where should we start looking.”

“Great. What are we looking for?”

“Signs.” William stands up and wanders about the room. “Did your old house have a basement?”

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure, why not? I don’t think the house’s been rebuilt yet. Though I have to say if the Frommiches left something there, they must have hidden it well. I spent a lot of time in there and I can’t recall a single sacrificial altar,” Deborah says, mouthing words as her fingers trace them on the vellum.

Deborah and Jacob accompany William to their previous house, both curious, for different reasons, what could be hidden in the debris. “Come to think of it, why hasn’t it been rebuilt yet?” Deborah asks when they approach. Work is being done, but it seems to progress at a snail’s pace. So far the builders have managed to erect a structure and cover it with rudimentary walls, without much care for the aesthetics.

“No one wanted to live here, I guess,” Jacob whispers. He can’t blame them.

The door is locked. William looks around and to Jacob’s surprise pulls out a set of lock picks from his pocket. “What are you doing?” he hisses, looking around wildly.

“Opening the door,” William says just as the simple lock clicks and the door swing open. “No one lives here, right?”

“It was locked!”

“It’s Saturday and no one lives here, you said so yourself.”

Jacob closes his mouth and follows the other two into the gloomy interior. He stops a couple feet in and stares around. The ambience of the hall hits him like a ton of bricks. If he closes his eyes he can picture it perfectly, the pale walls, several pictures Deborah brought from her college dorm, the small antique table which used to belong to his grandmother and here served as a place to keep their keys and stuff that was important enough to keep it within reach but not enough to handle immediately. There were still flakes of the old paint littering the floor. Jacob takes a step forward and in his mind’s eye traces his old home. There used to be a crayon line, starting from the coat rack, drawn by the hand of a mischievous three-year-old. The hall was quite bright, as it opened into the living room, whose huge windows admitted all the sunlight in the world. Anne glued pieces of painted glass to the windows, a garland of flowers, so that the sun left a blazing colorful trail on the furniture and the walls. Jacob swallows painfully. It’s been a year. He really should be over it.

He feels Deborah’s fingers tightening on his biceps and he knows she is thinking the same thing. How can all of that – the painted glass, the wallpaper marred by crayon, the sunlight – vanish in a single night? Nothing is left of the home this used to be.

“Where is the basement?” William asks. His voice booms in the otherwise quiet room and Jacob is startled out of his reverie.

“In the kitchen,” he whispers, because it would be sacrilege to talk out loud in here. William gives him a strange look but seems to acknowledge the solemnity of the moment because he doesn’t raise his voice again.

“Should I leave you alone?” he asks even as turns towards what used to be the kitchen.

“No, we’re fine,” Deborah says. Jacob can only nod and follow.

Thankfully, the profound sense of loss Jacob felt so keenly upstairs isn’t present in the basement. He never spent much time in there, for one, and for another the basement survived fairly unscathed, considering the ruin that became of the rest of the house. “Hey, I bet this would still work,” Deborah says, dipping her fingertips in the dust atop the old washing machine.

Jacob tries to remember how come it was still there. Surely they would have taken everything that could be salvaged?

Luckily, that is the moment when William mutters a quiet “ah-ha!” and bends to the floor. He is using a long knife to push up a crate, which covers a drain. Inside there is a small box which he triumphantly pulls to the surface. Deborah’s face is unreadable as she leans over his shoulder to peek inside.

“That’s it?” she asks, disappointed. Jacob comes over to look and sure, it isn’t much, but what is there is not the usual content of basement drain. “What is it?” he asks.

“It’s a hex bag,” William announces.

“I’m assuming there is significance to it?”

“Quite. This is the proof someone in this house has dabbled in the occult. I’ll have to look it up, to be certain of the specifics,” William says slowly. “Huh.”

“Good? Bad?”

“It’s nothing special,” he says finally. He is rummaging through the small pouch. “Run of the mill. Protection. Luck. As far as I can tell it’s nothing vicious, nothing even remotely suggesting they wished to infringe on the happiness of others.”

“So what you’re saying is?”

“It’s odd,” William says and his face is troubled. He spends most of the evening poring over his books and Jacob notes that he barely consults a dictionary as he does. The box and the items contained therein are spread on the table separately, and for the first time Jacob can get a good look. There are mostly dried herbs, a copper coin, tarnished with time. “That’s mandrake,” William says. He is pointing at the pieces in turn. “Meadowsweet and mint. All three are used for protection. Copper coin for wealth.” He closes the book and leans back against the couch. “Best part is it takes little actual knowledge to put these together. It’s a very simple protection, hardly requiring an experienced witch.”

“But that’s good, right?” Jacob asks. “There was no curse on the house.”

“Good and bad, you might say.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The hex bag is simple and protective. It means that the Frommiches were good people, who had just enough faith to help the luck along, but not enough to attempt proper witchcraft.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“It would protect the house from most unwelcome guests,” William says reluctantly. “I don’t think a malevolent spirit could enter, not unless it was already there.”

“So you’re saying something was in the house, was in there all this time?”

“That’s an option.”

“Could we have brought it here?” Jacob asks and he is panicked.

“Calm down,” William says. He stands up and hovers until Jacob starts breathing at his usual pace. “The protection doesn’t mean nothing could enter.”

“But you said-”

“I said most,” William clarifies. “Not all.”

“Out with it,” Deborah says. Jacob starts because he didn’t realize she was there, listening.

“The thing which caused the fire in your home might have been a demon.”

“A demon?” Deborah and Jacob say simultaneously.

“There are very few spirits who would be strong enough to disregard a protection spell, even one as small as this. All of them would be malevolent.”

“Because burning the house down as a friendly supernatural hello,” Deborah says, rolling her eyes.

“You lived,” William tells her. “You and your husband had time to escape, with your child. A malevolent spirit, especially one whose goal was revenge would have killed you all.”

“As opposed to murdering a five-year-old boy?”

“I can’t explain it,” William says. “I’m sorry.”

“That what good are you?” Deborah hisses. She turns around and leaves the room.

“I’m sorry,” William says after a few moments of silence. “I know it is difficult for you.”

“We’ll be okay,” Jacob says, his voice quiet. “We will. Somehow.”

The hunter seems to understand the tacit need for him to suddenly be elsewhere. He sweeps all his papers into his bag and is gone before Jacob can ask him to stay. It made no difference, because he doesn’t even try. As soon as the door closes he is looking for Deborah. She is in their bedroom, lying with her face pressed against her pillow. Her shoulders are shaking and Jacob hesitates before touching her. The capoiera was no joke, and if he wasn’t cautious he was going to end up with his arm broken. Jacob weighs the possible hurt of a broken bone against the misery evident in Deborah’s taunt back and he reaches out.

“Honey?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay to you?”

“Does anyone ever ask that question when things look okay?”

Deborah snorts and starts laughing. “Not fair,” she mutters. “You aren’t supposed to make me laugh.”

“What else would I do?”

“Dinner would be nice.”

Jacob sighs. “Done. As long as you don’t mind pasta.”

“Have I ever?”

“There is a first time for everything.”

“Shut up,” Deborah mutters and rolls over. Jacob presses a kiss to the nape of her neck and leaves the room. Rachel is sleeping in her cot, surrounded by building blocks. Jacob’s brows furrow and he wonders what are they doing there. Rachel loves building blocks, but he can imagine cuddling them would be uncomfortable. He tugs the piece she’s suckling on out of her hands and puts it along with the others in the basket. He leaves the nursery and Rachel doesn’t so much as stir.




March 2008

William doesn’t show up at their house for a little less than a year, though Jacob sees him around town from time to time, usually while he shops and once or twice through the window of the launderette. He attends mass every Sunday, but other than a polite nod he makes no move to acknowledge their acquaintance. He spends a lot of his time in the church, conversing with Father Matthews.

When he shows up eventually it is to share the news that he has no news.

“That’s certainly newsworthy,” Deborah says setting a cup of tea before him.

“Thank you.” He brings the cup to his lips and hesitates. “It wasn’t an isolated incident,” he admits.

“I’m sorry?”

“I talked to other hunters. Apparently there have been cases such as yours, all over the country.”

Deborah sits down next to Jacob, intent and quiet. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” William admits. “The most anyone could tell me was that it was a demon that’s responsible and that there are others hunting it. With the demons released last year, however, there’s only so much anyone can do.”

“So we know it was a demon,” Deborah says. “You’re saying there were others?”

“Yes. Several others all around the U.S.”

“What did the demon want?”

“No one knows.”

“Well,” Deborah says and Jacob sighs. The sarcasm is making a return, which is good, as it’s been way too long.

“But, I have come here with an idea,” William announces before Deborah’s mouth can open again.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Go on a hunt with me,” he says. Deborah stares at him, her eyes round and disbelieving.

“What?”

“You heard me. You don’t believe me, I know there is no way I could make you believe, other than show you an actual restless spirit, out for blood. So I’m offering to do just that.”

“And where, pray tell, will you find a spirit?”

“Sandwich, Illinois,” William says, triumphantly.

“Sandwich,” Deborah deadpans.

“Yes. Someone just hanged himself in the Opera House.”

“We care about this, because?”

“Because this is the fourth person to be found hanging in the building over the past hundred years.”

“Again, what do I care?”

“You don’t think it’s the least bit suspicious?”

“Not particularly, no. People commit suicide all the time.”

“Deborah, you’ve been busy making comments behind my back, and I don’t really mind, but I need you both to trust me a little. You need to believe that what I do isn’t a product of an unstable mind or schizophrenia. Which means, you need proof. I can think of nothing better than an honest to God hunt.”

“What would this entail?” Jacob asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

“I did preliminary research. The victims were all men in their fifties, one of them the mayor, one a police officer, two were doctors.”

“What does that prove? Four men over a hundred years, that’s really not that much.”

“That four men who had nothing to complain about in their livelihoods committed suicide in the Opera House. Which is also the town hall, but that’s not the point.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Which is why we have to go to Sandwich,” William says. “Most of the research has to be done traditionally and in person, as not everything is on the Internet.”

Deborah spends some time staring at him, not quite buying what he’s selling. “You’re serious,” she says eventually.

“Of course.”

Deborah looks at Jacob, who is wearing a similar expression of surprise and uncertainty on his face. “We work for a living,” she said turning to William.

“Sandwich is only a couple hours out, if we go on Friday evening there is a good chance we’ll be back by Sunday afternoon.”

Jacob hopes, fervently she’ll say yes. He doesn’t need convincing himself, and if Deborah were perfectly honest Jacob is sure she would be forced to admit she believes, too. It would be nice to make her admit it, all the same.

“Fine,” Deborah says and Jacob cheers. Internally, because he knows Deborah wouldn’t appreciate the plotting behind her back.

“Splendid. Pack and we can go.”

“Whoa, there. It’s not that simple. We have a baby in the house.”

“Right, I forgot. Sorry.”

“We can leave her with your parents,” Jacob suggests.

“They’re beginning to feel like babysitters,” Deborah mutters.

“Mine are in Miami,” Jacob reminds her.

“I know, I know. You’re right.”

Saturday morning they pack up and leave a pouting Rachel in Deborah’s mother’s arms. “You’ll be back on Sunday?” she asks, cuddling the girl to her. Rachel looks up and gurgles a word that possibly is supposed to be “grandma”, but doesn’t quite arrive there. It might be that the cookie in her mouth prevents the verbal effort from succeeding.

“Yes, we will,” Deborah says, and Jacobs nods. Ghosts or no ghosts, they can’t afford to skip work.

They follow William’s beat up Toyota to the city of Sandwich, Illinois. He doesn’t bother with the hotels and other such nonsense, but heads straight to the public library. “What is it that we’re looking for?” Deborah asks before they approach the scary old lady manning the front desk. She gives them a formidable glare, like the guardian of the precious temple of knowledge in which people rarely worship anymore. Jacob is willing to bet this here is the last crusader against the digital gods of the Internet.

“Good evening,” William says, ignoring Deborah’s question. “Can you direct us to the newspaper archive?” Jacob watches this quite bemused. William cleaned up for the occasion and found a smart shirt and slacks. He almost looks like a respectable citizen, or would have, had the image of him toting a gun wasn’t so fresh in Jacob’s mind. “Thank you.”

“This,” William says when they are alone and surrounded by miles of shelves of dusty old papers, “Is where the magic happens,” he announces.

“You don’t say?” Deborah looks around, careful not to touch anything. The dust is not so much a problem for this library as it is an old friend, invited to stay. It provides a veritable account of when was the archive last visited, better almost than the official records, because dusty shelves do not lie.

“This might take a while,” Jacob agrees.

“We’re looking for obituaries,” William says briskly pulling down the first batch of newspapers. “Or news reports. Specifically those relating to people dying in the Opera House in freak accidents.”

“Meaning suicide.”

“That may very well be the case, yes.”

“Alright,” Deborah sighs and pulls down a folder of yellowed pages. “This had better be worth it.”

They spend the Saturday reading through the old papers. By the time they get hungry Jacob is certain he will take the chair with him when he stands, because no way it hasn’t grown into his spine. On the plus side, if he can call it that, he has found a wide selection of interesting deaths, which occurred in or around the Opera House. He is glad he doesn’t work in Sandwich. Obviously insurance companies should give the place a wide berth.

“That makes five, the oldest on the 4th of December 1900 until May 30th, 1930,” Deborah says getting up. “Before that, nothing for about ten years.”

“What happened before that?”

“The Opera House was built, obviously.”

“They aren’t all hangings, either,” William notes, frowning. “What did you find?” he asks Jacob.

“Three people died in the past forty years,” Jacob reports stiffly. His back hurts and his legs won’t stop twitching. “One suicide, one heart attack and a murder.”

“Murder?”

“That’s what the paper says.”

“This is not good,” William admits. “I found two more.”

“So ten altogether,” Deborah says holding up her hand. “Except it’s over the course of over a century, so it’s not that much.”

“Not enough for people to notice, especially if they all look like accidents.” William leans back. “Let’s get lunch,” he suggests.

Jacob doesn’t protest the idea, but spends the next hour picking on a Greek salad, while Deborah and William indulge in steaks with French-fries on the side.

“So what now,Van Helsing?” Deborah asks.

William ignores the jibe. “What’s the oldest death we found?” he asks instead.

“4th of December 1900. The lead singer hanged himself after the show flopped.”

“Nothing before that?”

“Not that I could find,” Deborah replies.

“Hah.”

“What does that mean?” Jacob wants to know, curious despite himself.

“That we most likely have our killer,” William says triumphantly and waves the waitress over.

“I wanted to be a cop when I was in high school,” Deborah confessed suddenly. “It seemed like such a cool thing, running around, touting a gun. The uniform is nothing to scoff at, either.”

“What stopped you?”

“Jacob, mostly.”

“I did no such thing!”

“I meant that figuratively,” Deborah soothed, petting his hand. She smiled at him, but the words still stung.

“What do we do now?” Jacob asked turning to William.

“Tonight we should get into the Opera building, confirm that it’s the guy we think it is. Then we burn the bones.”

“Wait, hold up. Burn the bones? How do we do that?”

“Well, we need to recover the corpse, first of all, obviously.”

Jacob stares at the wall ahead of him. Recover the corpse. If that means what he thinks it means… “You mean we have to dig up an actual grave?” he asks, though he really doesn’t have to.

“I’m afraid so.”

“But that’s- illegal,” he finishes lamely, even though the legality is the least of his worries. Far more pressing is the vision of a rotting body in a coffin, eaten away by insects and fungi… Suddenly the tomatoes and lettuces look a lot less appealing than they did moments before and Jacob feels irritated more than anything else. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping his fork onto the plate. “I have no idea what’s wrong with me.”

“I’m not exactly comfortable with desecrating a grave,” Deborah hisses under her breath. The waitress is on the other side of the establishment and the only other patrons are sitting by the window on the other side, but the words aren’t easy to even think, let alone voice.

“I know how you feel,” William says and Jacobs sincerely doubts it, “But there’s really no other option. Sometimes ghosts can leave of their own volition, or are forced to leave, but that’s always uncertain. It helps if you don’t think of it as desecration.”

“Yes, rename it, please.” Jacob lifts a cube of feta cheese to his mouth.

“Now that you put it like that, there’s really nothing I can say,” William shrugs. “It’s regrettable, but it’s a necessity. As I said, think of it as putting a spirit to rest rather than dishonoring human remains.”

Jacob has a decent imagination and a good visual memory to go with it. The former is working to his disadvantage these days. “Why is that I can watch Bones with no problems at all but I throw up whenever I see a dead cow,” he asks his salad, closing his eyes so he doesn’t see the sympathy on Deborah’s face.

No way he’ll be able to go anywhere near a grave with the intention of uncovering it, he thinks, willing the mental pictures away.

“Bones isn’t real, honey,” Deborah tells him.

“I know that.”

“And it makes all the difference.”

William watches the two of them curiously. “Bones? I thought you work in insurance.”

“It’s a TV show,” Deborah explains, bemused. “People die in ghastly ways and the heroine solves the crime by staring at the skeleton.”

“I don’t watch TV,” William says.

“So what do you do, knit?”

“I read. There is an infinite amount of types of monsters, not all easily identifiable. It pays to know folklore and mythologies.”

“It’s a hobby, I guess,” Deborah says and grins. Jacob just sits there and ponders the possibilities of getting out of this with his stomach still in his abdominal cavity. The chances are smaller and smaller, he thinks as William takes the time to talk about all the ways this hunt could go wrong. He goes all out when they arrive at a motel, falling just short of making a PowerPoint presentation, but his talk is all too visual to Jacob’s eyes anyway. The amount of things to watch out for is awfully long, to Jacob’s ears.

“Lastly, this ghost is pretty old,” Jacob hears. “Which gives it experience.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

“We’ll go in around midnight,” William says. “I took a glance earlier, they have little by way of a security system, save for the guard, and he’s mostly patrolling the offices. We should be safe.”

“Should be?”

“I mean from the legal forces.”

Jacob could live without the clarification. His heart is so high up his digestive tract he can taste it in his mouth when they finally leave the motel. Deborah looks a little apprehensive but nowhere near the level of panic he is at. The town is quiet and doesn’t seem to care that a trio of random people seems intent on breaking into their landmark. Jacob finds that extremely unsettling. Not as unsettling that they are in the Opera House, hunting for the phantom though. He wonders if this is the twilight zone yet. Theatres have something creepy about them at all times, but wandering about this place in the middle of the night with nary a light is something else entirely.

Jacobs shudders as William skillfully opens the door to the auditorium and in they walk, in the hushed silence native to church halls. He keeps his eyes on the stage, or at least the direction he assumes is the stage, because the empty chairs on either side are too much of a fodder for imagination. William leads them onto the stage and through the gap in the curtains.

“What are we doing here?” Deborah whispers.

“We are going to summon the ghost,” William says.

“Sure, why not. I’m all for moving plates and such.”

“If I’m right and this is a ghost, we should see much more than moving plates,” William says.

“Splendid.”

William starts rummaging through his bag. First thing he does is pulling up a container of salt and making a rough circle, three yards in diameter, in the middle of the empty floor. Then he sets about preparing what looks like a makeshift altar, with the photo of the first victim of the Opera House deaths.

“What’s the salt for?” Deborah asks.

“For trapping the spirit,” William says, not looking up from his task. “Ghosts cannot cross a salt line.”

“Anything we should be doing?” Deborah asks.

“No. Stay where you are,” William says and starts chanting. At first nothing happens. There is silence and the sound of air moving, oddly complemented by William’s melodic recitation of Latin. Then Jacob feels the chill. It seeps into him from all around, mindless of his clothes, chilling him to the bone. He sees his breath; a puff of grey mist against the blackness surrounding them feels like the only real thing for a second. Then he finds he cannot breathe. There are fingers around his neck, ice cold and strong. Jacob feels a tiny gasp emerge and he is clawing at his own neck, trying to relieve the pressure and feeling the horror when he finds nothing to fight against.

“Jacob!” he hears Deborah’s voice and strains to look at her. She is fine, though her eyes are wide as saucers, staring at him and whoever it is that decided Jacob needs strangling.

“Fuck!” It takes a moment and then William is there with an iron rod. He brings it down hard and so close to Jacob’s head he closes his eyes anticipating the blow. All he feels, however, is a gust of wind against his back.

“What was that?” he whizzes, his palm against his neck.

“That,” William says hauling him up and pulling him into the salt circle, “Was Francois Lloyd.”

“The lead performer,” Deborah whispers. She is standing on Jacob’s other side, holding his arm in a tight grip. “The one who died in 1900.”

“Precisely. He seems a lot more angry than I expected,” William says.

“You don’t say,” Jacob manages just as the ghost appears before them again.

He is – or was – a slender man in his forties. His skin is pale, but that could just be the lighting. He is wearing a costume, or half of one at least. The other half has been burned by the fire that took most of his chest and left arm. Jacob averts his eyes but it is too late – the image of the charred flesh is burned into his retinas already.

“He doesn’t look like the photo,” Deborah realizes and Jacob is this close to cheering in a sarcastic manner. He doesn’t because the effort to hold the bile south of his esophagus is taking up most of his conscious mind.

“He doesn’t?” William asks, surprised.

“No. He’s similar, but it’s not him.”

“Splendid,” William says. “Fantastic.”

“What do we do now?” she asks, and Jacob is wildly jealous and bitter at the same time. He didn’t spend half a year denying the possibility of existence of the thing before them, why is Deborah staring it in the face with no obvious discomfort when he is holding down his dinner with both hands?

“We need to find out who he is,” William says, his voice tight. “After we get out.”

“How do we do that?” Deborah asks. “Won’t he follow?”

“I don’t think he can leave the Opera House,” William says. “Spirits are usually bound to a place.”

“We are far from the door.”

“There’re three of us. Even a ghost can’t be in two places at once.”

“Good for us.”

“Can it kill us?”

“It went for Jacob, first,” William says, and his voice is quiet.

“So he was standing closest to where it appeared, it doesn’t mean anything.”

William doesn’t answer but from his silence Jacob infers it means something and quite a big something at that. “You go first and take this.” William hands her the rod and hauls Jacob up once more. “It’s iron. Iron dispels most evil creatures.”

Deborah says nothing. She grips it and steps out of the salt circle, looking around carefully. William follows and Jacob allows himself to be dragged. His eyes are mostly closed, because if he has to see the man who looks like he should be writhing on the ground in an extreme amount of pain he will throw up, and he is certain that might prove to be a problem. William kicks the salt around, as much as possible, and they make their way back onstage and out of the Opera House without incident, unless the fact that the ghost appears once more, going for Jacob’s throat, counts as an incident.

Jacob feels betrayed when it becomes apparent that it doesn’t.

“This feels kind of good,” Deborah says, swinging the iron bar through the ghost’s head.

“It’s less fun when it goes for your throat,” William admits and Jacob wants to hug him, “But yes, it does feel good.”

Back at the motel Jacob makes a beeline for the bathroom. The vomit seems nicely settled in his stomach though and won’t come out, leaving Jacob with a sense of vague sickness that wouldn’t be dispelled. “I’ve never once thought I’d want to throw up,” Jacob says to the white fixtures in the room as he rinses his mouth. When he returns to the room Deborah is sitting on the king-sized bed looking through her notes. She is chewing on the pen, her hair is tousled and has a look of excitement about her, one that Jacob isn’t sure he can forgive. He was being strangled not half an hour ago.

“How are you feeling?” Jacob asks, feeling uncharitable for hoping she’d say she felt bad. Judging by the smile on her face it’s not going to happen.

“A little weirded out, actually,” she says. “William says we need to do some more digging.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. I’m sure the ghost wasn’t our guy, so he says we must have missed something.” She looks at him and the smile immediately vanishes. “Hey,” she says standing up and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Jacob says. “I think I’d be happy if I never saw a ghost again.”

“Most people who’d seen one would say that. I know I would.”

“You took it pretty well though.”

“I’m still waiting for the shock to hit me,” Deborah grins wildly and Jacob can see plain as day, she is lying. Lying to make him feel better, but lying nonetheless.

“What are we going to do?” he asks then, resting his head against her shoulder. Deborah holds him close and steers them towards the bed.

“Well, tomorrow you’ll wait here and,” she says sweetly, kissing his cheek. “I’ll go and help with the grave desecration, once we find out who our ghost is.”

“I don’t want to just wait,” he says. That ghost is scary he wants to add. It was strangling him and if he were alone… He doesn’t want to be alone.

“Honey, it’ll be okay. You saw it didn’t even look at me; obviously it fancies men.”

“Thanks for that.”

“You know you won’t be okay with digging up a grave,” Deborah says. Jacob feels like arguing, because he hasn’t actually done that before and old bones can’t be as bad as a walking corpse. All the same, he knows it won’t be comfortable.

“I’ll worry about you,” he says.

“I won’t be going alone.”

William chooses this moment to knock on the door. “Hey,” he says extending his arm. He is holding a bag of rock salt.

“What are we supposed to do with it?” Deborah asks.

“The ghost might be bound to the Opera House, but it could leave, once it’s chosen a victim. Make a salt line on every window and every door. And keep the iron at hand.”

Deborah is past the point of shrugging and commenting under her breath. She takes the bag and spends ten minutes arranging the salt lines to her liking. Jacob sits on the bed, watching dumbly as she pours the final line on the bathroom window. “I think that’s all,” she says wiping her brow.

Jacob is lost for words. He allows Deborah to push him into the bathroom and then pull him out, into bed, where he lies for most of the night staring at the ceiling. Way to be the most useless person in all of existence, he thinks with distaste. Even ghosts want him dead. Deborah snores on his shoulder, her fingers wrapped around the iron bar as though it were a security blanket. Comforted by the weight of the arm across his chest, Jacob falls asleep eventually, dreaming of salt and Opera divas, who sing their final notes as they take a swan dive into the fire.

Next morning they are in the library again, sifting through the same newspapers with fresh insight. Jacob reads through the Sunday edition, a tad disturbed to find himself in the press, if only by proxy. “They said someone noticed our presence in the Opera,” he says quietly spreading the paper on the table. William scans the article and shrugs. “They’re going to attribute it to teenagers,” he says.

Since the headline reads “Séance in the Town Hall,” Jacob is willing he is correct. They have subs for lunch then return to sifting through a century’s worth of newspapers, searching for the culprit.

“I think I got it,” Deborah says finally, a short while before library is due to close. “Brad Lloyd. Killed during the construction of the building.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“There’s a photo. He’s the brother of the lead singer.” Deborah’s brows furrow. “Apparently there was some sort of a misunderstanding between the two of them and for a time Francois was suspected of murder.”

“Which might explain why Brad killed him,” William said. “Good job.”

“But why did he kill all the rest? Why does he want to kill Jacob?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” William shrugs and starts piling the papers. “Now we just have to locate his grave.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“No, it’s just the digging up part that’s bothersome,” William said.

“I can imagine.”

“It’s Sunday,” Jacob says.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday,” Deborah says. “Damn, I forgot. We need to get Rachel tonight.”

“We didn’t go to church,” he says. “And yeah, there’s Rachel.”

“I forgot,” Deborah says. She starts picking up her things.

“No, it’s okay,” Jacob says. “I can go and pick up Rachel. You can come back later.”

“Would you?” Deborah asks. “Thanks.”

“You know we can’t get to the cemetery until about midnight.”

“So?”

“You’ll be late for work.”

“Damn, forgot, again.” Deborah picks up her phone and starts punching keys. “Hey, Maria. Listen, something came up. Can you cover my morning patients? No, not Leon, cancel him, tell him I will call back. Yeah, thanks. No, I will be back tomorrow. Yeah. Thanks, I’ll make it up to you.”

“That sounded a lot simpler than it should.”

“I don’t shirk often,” Deborah says, shrugging.

Jacob smiles weakly and gets up. “I’ll take the car,” he says. He leaves the library with his head full and his mind empty. The drive is uneventful. Deborah’s parents welcome him into the house, offer him tea and fresh cookies. Jacob is not hungry, but the cookies are disappearing at a steady pace and he is certain Rachel is not the one who is eating them. Jacob finds another cookie between his teeth and he chews. The cookies are good. There are chocolate chips in them and the tea is flavored with bergamot. It is soothing, as much as Rachel’s slight weight in his lap.

“Where’s Deborah?” Danielle asks, setting yet another plate of cookies before him.

“She had to stay a little longer,” he answers and takes a cookie. They turn out to have almond crust. “She didn’t have patients tomorrow morning, and I have to be at work, so…”

“We’re a little worried about you, Jacob,” Danielle says and Tom grunts something from the other side of the room. “You seem a little off.”

“It’s nothing,” he hastens to assure his in-laws. “It’s just that I’m a little stressed out.”

Rachel gurgles and he looks down. “Daddy sad,” she says, patting his nose.

“I’m fine, sweetie.”

At least that’s what he thinks throughout the night. He doesn’t sleep. He lies still in the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if his head is right. A rosary is in his fingers, the beads sliding through with practiced ease. “Hail Mary full of grace,” he whispers into the silence. “Please look after Deborah. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary,” he whispers and though he stares at the ceiling of his own bedroom and he knows it is warm, he shudders. “…Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of death.”

It’s cold. His breath is a stark white against the darkness, and Jacob feels the chill in his bones. He should be, but isn’t surprised when he sees the Lloyd ghost standing before his bed. Somehow it looks worse when confronted with the familiarity and comfort of Jacob’s bedroom. It is staring at Jacob and he can do nothing but stare back, in horrified fascination. The spirit’s face is burnt too, as if the flames were licking him up, devouring him from the bottom up. One of his feet is nothing but charred bone, held together by sheer will. “You killed your own son,” the ghost says, and his voice is more of a vibration that bores into the mind than actual words. Jacob shudders and draws a breath.

“I couldn’t save him,” he says.

“You watched him die,” Brad Lloyd says, and his lips move though half his face is charred and burnt.

“I couldn’t do anything!” Jacob protests, the anguish choking the breath out of him. There was nothing he could do, nothing he had time for.

“You killed him,” the ghost says and steps closer. His hand is extending, skin boiled and broken, revealing the muscles and tendons beneath and Jacob clutches his rosary tighter.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” he whispers closing his eyes. He cannot move. He is worthless. He allowed his son to die a horrible, fiery death. He doesn’t deserve to stare at the sun, he doesn’t deserve to breathe the fresh air. He should die, because nothing short of death would be penance enough for the death of his child. Jacob stands and looks the ghost in the face. There are knives in the kitchen, his mind supplies. There is Deborah’s gun in the closet. There is water in the pipes. There is gas in the oven. There are the stairs.

“You killed your son,” the ghost says again, and Jacob feels the rosary fall from his fingers. He looks the spirit in the face and nods. He takes a step forward and closes his eyes, knowing he will be led where he needs to go. He feels a touch of ice-cold fingers against his wrists and he takes another step.

And then, with no warning, the chill is gone. Jacob opens his eyes and watches the spirit burn, casting neither light, nor warmth onto the room. He just writhes as he burns and within seconds he is gone, dust spilling into the air and vanishing before it reaches the carpet.

Jacob breathes out and hangs his head. Belatedly the thought filters into his mind that Deborah and William must have burned the body just now. Following that there’s the insistent idea that he was staring his death in the face, moment ago. He was actually holding hands with his death, death that was going to lead him to the closet and make him swallow the muzzle of the gun Deborah bought. “That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs. But somehow he knows that’s exactly what it was. He would have died, if Deborah and William were moments too late.

Jacob turns the thought around in his head. Himself, dead. Technically at his own hand, too. Killed by a gun whose presence in the house he vehemently protested. If that’s not irony, he thinks, he doesn’t know what is. He falls back onto the bed and laughs himself to sleep, though when he wakes in the early morning his face is wet with tears he doesn’t remember shedding.

The alarm clock is insistent and doesn’t take ignoring it kindly. Jacob wakes up lying across the bed with no covers in sight and despite the ambient temperature of the room he is cold. He showers quickly, then goes to wake up Rachel. He has work and Mrs Mone will be expecting the child soon. Rachel is already awake and smiling at him, bright as the light of day. She has his eyes, everyone says. Jacob believes them, because everyone they know cannot be wrong, not really, but to him Rachel’s face is a reflection of Deborah’s and Anne’s. The stubborn pout twisting her features when she doesn’t want something is the exact same expression Deborah’s baby pictures display.

“Awake already?” he asks, lifting Rachel out of the cot.

“Pretty light,” she says and grins at him. Jacob dresses her and brushes her hair. He is at a loss as to what the ribbon she is handing him is for; he is vaguely aware it’s supposed to go in her hair, but how and where exactly is lost on him. Perhaps Mrs Mone will know.

“Debbie isn’t back yet,” he mutters walking downstairs. There’s no sign of anyone having been in the house during the night. He is worried, even though he shouldn’t be, as he saw the ghost die, again, but his mobile phone quells his fears. There’s a text message waiting for him – “everything’s good, we burned the corpse in his grave,” which is a little more imagery than he needs, but he is grateful for the reassurance all the same.

“See,” he says holding up the phone to show Rachel. “You mommy just killed a mean ghost.” Rachel reaches out, her intention to show her approval by inserting the device into her mouth clear, but Jacob doesn’t let her have the chance. “No slobbering on the electrical equipment, you know that.”

“Daddy,” she whines and Jacob hands her a piece of toast to chop on instead.

They eat their breakfast and quarter of an hour after that Jacob stops his car in front of Mrs Mone’s house. The old lady is waiting and in no time Jacob is waving Rachel goodbye. He’s at work early and since the season is slow in damages and claims, he is on his way to pick up Rachel well ahead of schedule. Halfway home he remembers they have nothing to make dinner with, so he makes a sharp turn and parks at a supermarket first. Deborah, if she went to work, would be too tired to cook.

He picks up Rachel and when he gets home Deborah is snoring on the couch in the living room. She’s wearing a blouse and a necklace and her least favorite skirt. She must have gone to work immediately after returning from Sandwich. Jacob leaves Rachel playing in her pen as he goes to unpack the groceries and make dinner. He chops whatever vegetables he finds are edible at the moment and drops them into a pan, to sizzle on the hot oil. The pasta is simmering on the stove, close to being ready, when he wakes Deborah up.

“Hey,” he says, his voice quiet and with a note of something much like uncertainty. “Are you okay?”

Deborah blinks and her eyes slowly come into focus. “Hey,” she answers, whispering. “How was your day?”

“Boring. No one broke anything recently.”

“Mine too.” Deborah yawns. “Good thing, I was so tired.”

“How did it go last night?” Jacob asks, without real desire to know the answer. He knows they succeeded, or he wouldn’t be asking.

“Oh, it was a high,” Deborah says and she is so bright and excited, it’s painful to watch. “I stayed awake this long on adrenaline alone.” Jacob forces a smile onto his face. “We actually uncovered the grave, can you imagine? It was fantastic. Well, no. It was disrespectful and a crime. But still, being in a cemetery in the middle of the night, that part was spectacular,” she says almost wistfully as she shimmies out of her pantyhose.

“Sounds exciting,” Jacob manages.

“Yeah. Good thing you didn’t stay, the corpse was pretty gross. You’d expect clean bones, right? After more than a century, it’d be fair. It wasn’t clean, let me tell you that.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“Sorry.” Deborah grins and pulls him closer. “Let’s have sex.”

“What, now?”

“You have something better to do?”

“There’s dinner…”

“Screw dinner. Wait, no. Don’t. I’m hungry.”

“It’s cooking,” Jacob says. “I made pasta.”

“You’re a godsend, honey.”

“So, food?”

“I don’t know, the choice is tough,” Deborah says and smiles, tongue peeking out from behind her teeth. Jacob bends his head and kisses her.

“I bet,” he says straightening. “Rachel is playing in her pen.”

“Okay, I’ll get the baby. Spoilsport.”

“Am not.”

They have dinner. It is silent and uncomfortable, the good kind of uncomfortable. Deborah keeps sending Jacob smoldering glances over her food, which she inhales rather than consumes. He isn’t surprised when she does the same thing to him, minutes after dinner is done and Rachel is in her playpen. Deborah is scary and possessive, holding his head as she kisses him aggressively. Jacob has a fleeting thought of how he never figured desiccated corpses would be such an aphrodisiac, but then again, what does he know? He abandons that train of thought before it takes him places he doesn’t want to go, and starts unbuttoning her blouse instead. Her hands leave his face then, ripping the buttons out of the holes, her hands dipping under his shirt.

“Should I be worried you find corpses this sexy?” Jacob rasps when Deborah pushes him against the couch and falls on top of him.

“Are you a corpse?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Then obviously I still prefer the living.”

“Thank you, that’s comforting.” He throws his head back and moans when she hitches the skirt up around her waist and straddles him. She’s not wearing any underwear.

“You missed me,” she whispers bending to claim his mouth. “Admit it.”

“Never denied it,” Jacob replies as she guides his erection into her and pauses, resting her clammy forehead on his collarbone.

“I missed you,” she whispers and starts kissing his skin, wherever she can reach. “I missed you.”

Jacob tries not to make too much of it, but his mind is treacherously taking him in that direction anyway. She had someone else at hand, and really, corpses shouldn’t be that appealing, adrenaline be damned. The thought is ugly and it scares him. He doesn’t want to think it, dear Lord, he doesn’t. He loves Deborah and he trusts her.

He loves her more than anything.

He does.

He pulls her head towards his, so that he can kiss her as he comes, his eyes closed and a stab of fear in his heart. They are okay, aren’t they?

Deborah is breathing against his chest and every breath is tinged with laughter. She is happy and safe and Jacob feels like a moron. He sits up carefully tipping her back against the couch and does his best to give her an orgasm of the century.

Deborah falls asleep after that, snoring peacefully, but Jacob finds sleep out of reach. He stares at the ceiling, helpless and wondering how the world spins. Something must have tilted on its axis, because he has trouble telling where he stands, which rarely happens. He might not be a rocket scientist, but he was always certain of where his place in the universe was. Not so much now, to his chagrin. Now the world spins and his head is spinning along with the globe, making the view seem so much more blurred.

Tuesday morning is rushed and panicked and altogether does nothing to slow the rapid pace, which Jacob feels dragging him along. They overslept, Deborah due to exhaustion, Jacob because he’d failed to set the alarm clock. He had trouble falling asleep and the assumption that he will stay awake until morning was obviously a mistake.

“I’m going to be late,” Deborah calls as she runs past the kitchen grabbing an apple and handing Rachel a cup of juice. “Can you drop Rachel off? I cannot be late, Leon’s appointment is this morning.”

“Sure,” Jacob replies, but she is already out the door. He hears her car start and leave the driveway. He shares a look with Rachel and they both smile. “We don’t have that much time either,” he tells the baby poking her nose. “So you are not to make a mess, okay?”

“Daddy!” Rachel says, waving her arms in glee. “Food!”

“Correct. You are still not to make a mess.”

She laughs and it is only his hurried reaction that prevents the juice from being spilt all over the floor. “How did you learn to open the cup?” he asks, dumfounded. It shouldn’t be possible for a child her age. He has no time to muse, however. Jacob mops up the few drops that escaped the red cup and hurries out the door, all but throwing Rachel into the arms of Mrs Mone.

He makes it to work with ten seconds to spare, which goes largely unnoticed. “Good morning, Mr Lake,” Nancy says, beaming.

“Hello Nancy. Is there anything for me?”

“Nothing big,” she says, nevertheless handing over a few files.

Jacob reads through them carefully. Nothing big indeed, but enough detail to keep his attention for the better part of the day. A Mr Thomas Edwardson had a minor car accident. His arm wasbroken. It’s so perfectly mundane and set at the usual spin of the world, Jacob gratefully sinks into the frame of mind necessary to process the details and confirm that this indeed sounds plausible and doesn’t require further attention.

There are advantages to having a desk job, namely that he can get off at five p.m. and go home. He is strangely reluctant to do so this afternoon, knowing that home is spinning out of his control and into the realm of supernatural phenomena he is not ready, or just unwilling, to face. It takes Nancy to break him out of his funk and send him on his way. On some level he is aware he is stalling, and that he doesn’t want to go home; this is the same level that acknowledges that reading the insurance claims is mind numbing. He clings to the side that suggests these are real people counting on the money, because it makes him feel better about not wanting to go home and talk to Deborah.

“Mr Lake?” Nancy asks, head poking over his desk.

“Yes?”

“It’s almost six. Aren’t you going home?”

“Yes, thank you, Nancy. I lost track of time.” He collects his things and drives home. It scares him that he drives so slow, people actually honk at him.


“Hey honey, busy day?” Deborah asks. She is wearing a washed out pair of jeans and a snug shirt, one that he vaguely remembers from their honeymoon. It is soft and comfortable and she likes to wear it about the house even though her figure has changed since then and the buttons strain to keep the material together.

“Yeah, I lost track of time,” Jacob says, undoing his tie. “I kept reading the same thing over and over.”

“Poor baby,” Deborah laughs.

“How did it go with the ghost?” Jacob asks, more than certain he doesn’t want to know.

“That was amazing,” Deborah says throwing herself into a chair. “We actually got to hit this ghost, hit him like it was there. It was gross, I’ll grant you that. But amazing.”

“Hitting a ghost was amazing?”

“It was real. It’s like – I know these things are real, I can see them well enough. I can see what they can do. But they are not tangible real. They seem to be more there when I know I can touch them, not just see them.”

“They are real enough to me,” Jacob says turning his head.

“I’m sorry, honey.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, shrugging. I just don’t stomach these things, he wants to add, but doesn’t. Being afraid is one thing. He knows Deborah is afraid, hell, William is scared he saw that much. But neither of them looked like they were about to collapse when a ghost starts charging. Jacob never thought of himself as cowardly, but obviously now’s the time to start. Deborah is looking at him, thoughtful and searching and he groans. “Please stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Don’t analyze me. I’m not your patient.”

“You’re not a coward,” she says and he sputters.

“What?” Of all the things to say, this was one of the few he didn’t expect.

“You’re not.”

“I damn near fainted in the opera.”

“But you went, that counts for something.”

“Yeah. I bet.”

“All I’m saying is, you’re not a coward just because you find things that look like walking corpses gross.”

“You don’t.”

“I never said I didn’t, I’m just better at handling them. Besides, some people cut bodies open for a living.”

“You don’t,” Jacob repeats stubbornly.

“There is an ounce of medicine in psychology, you know. And I was this close to going to med school anyway.”

“What stopped you?”

“Workload,” Deborah said, shrugging. “Psychology seemed easier. I don’t regret it, seeing how Anne works herself to the bone now.”

“The saving people thing didn’t seem like an incentive enough?”

“Yeah, it was, for a while. But hey, we can’t all be heroes.” Despite the words there is a hint of wistfulness in her voice, one so faint that Jacob isn’t sure if he isn’t imagining it.

The question spills out of his lips before he can thing about it. “Is that why you swallowed up this hunting thing?”

Deborah laughs. “What? That hardly counts as saving people, honestly. It’s an adrenaline rush more than anything. How many people can say they’ve actually seen a ghost?”

“People were dying because of that ghost,” Jacob points out, cautiously tiptoeing around the fact that he almost died too. “And now they won’t anymore.”

Deborah looks at him, and her eyes are wide, as though the thought’s never crossed her mind. Jacob shakes his head. “Never mind,” he says and kisses her languid and deep.



Part Five :: Master Post :: Part Seven

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