judging distances, then floated backward.
The headache eased.
“Thank you.” I continued to pace and tick off rules. “No coming into my bedroom unless it’s an emergency, and the bathroom is off-limits at all times, understand?”
He nodded. Yes.
“Try not to freak out the cats too much.”
He nodded again.
“Try not to freak me out too much.”
Dark eyebrows dipped and he moaned, then frowned.
“You can’t talk,” I said. “You can moan, hum, whistle, but not talk.”
Pointing at me, he lifted his shoulders into a questioning shrug.
“How do I know all this?” I asked, interpreting.
Yes.
“Experience.” I gave him a brief rundown on my abilities and the ghostpocalypse.
Frowning, he gestured to himself then to a clock.
“Why can I see you now? Before midnight?”
He nodded.
“I have no idea.” Throwing out the most random idea I could come up with, I hypothesized. “Maybe there is some sort of glitch in the ghostly portal for people who die an unnatural death hours before Halloween?”
If so, someone needed to fix that.
ASAP.
Pointing to himself again, he shrugged.
“What happens to you now?” I guessed.
Yes.
“Well, we need to figure out what’s keeping you here. Once we do, and your soul is at peace, then you can cross over. But we’re on the clock. You have only until eleven fifty-nine on November second.” I explained about the portal and panic slid into his eyes. “So the sooner we can resolve this matter the better.”
The hard part was usually understanding why a ghost was still around. When it came to Haywood, I thought it was fairly obvious.
“You didn’t see who hit you with that candlestick, did you?” I asked.
Shaking his head, he mimicked walking along, la-di-da. Then he suddenly crumpled to the floor.
I bet he had been excellent at charades.
“It was Patricia who had the candlestick in her hand while leaning over your body on the landing. Do you think she did it?”
Shrugging, he motioned like a cat clawing and hissed. “Hiiissss.”
That’s right. He’d said earlier that she hadn’t liked him. Cattiness, he’d said in describing her interactions with him.
Breaking into a smile, he hissed again as though exceedingly proud to be able to create the sound he’d intended. He hissed again and again.
Groaning, I said, “Please stop that. Remember the rule about freaking me out?”
He pouted.
“Can you think of any reason she’d want you dead?”
Me, I could see. Him? Not so much.
He floated left. He floated right. I realized it was his form of pacing. After a moment, he shrugged.
It would be nice to know what caused her to turn on him all those years ago . . . but whatever it was, it seemed unlikely she’d wait decades to seek revenge. “Can you think of a reason anyone would want you dead?”
His eyes lit and he nodded vigorously.
“You do? What?”
He moaned, then groaned in frustration. He pantomimed something square, then began wildly pointing around my living room. After a moment, he stopped and stared at me, beseeching me with his eyes to understand.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
He floated over to my antique desk and reached for a pencil only to find that he couldn’t pick it up.
Slumping, he looked like a deflated helium balloon before he suddenly perked up. He waved me toward the front door.
“You’ll show me?”
Yes.
“Out there?”
He nodded again.
I sat on the arm of the couch again. “No way.”
With eyes bugging, he held up his arms. A gesture for Why?
“There might be more ghosts out there.” Sure, it was only ten o’ clock, but I didn’t know for certain why I could see him , and I couldn’t take any chances that the ghosts had arrived early. “One is quite enough for me to handle.”
Pressing his lips together stubbornly, he waved again, beckoning.
He was so insistent that I could feel myself weakening. I suppose I could understand why he was being so adamant.
The headache eased.
“Thank you.” I continued to pace and tick off rules. “No coming into my bedroom unless it’s an emergency, and the bathroom is off-limits at all times, understand?”
He nodded. Yes.
“Try not to freak out the cats too much.”
He nodded again.
“Try not to freak me out too much.”
Dark eyebrows dipped and he moaned, then frowned.
“You can’t talk,” I said. “You can moan, hum, whistle, but not talk.”
Pointing at me, he lifted his shoulders into a questioning shrug.
“How do I know all this?” I asked, interpreting.
Yes.
“Experience.” I gave him a brief rundown on my abilities and the ghostpocalypse.
Frowning, he gestured to himself then to a clock.
“Why can I see you now? Before midnight?”
He nodded.
“I have no idea.” Throwing out the most random idea I could come up with, I hypothesized. “Maybe there is some sort of glitch in the ghostly portal for people who die an unnatural death hours before Halloween?”
If so, someone needed to fix that.
ASAP.
Pointing to himself again, he shrugged.
“What happens to you now?” I guessed.
Yes.
“Well, we need to figure out what’s keeping you here. Once we do, and your soul is at peace, then you can cross over. But we’re on the clock. You have only until eleven fifty-nine on November second.” I explained about the portal and panic slid into his eyes. “So the sooner we can resolve this matter the better.”
The hard part was usually understanding why a ghost was still around. When it came to Haywood, I thought it was fairly obvious.
“You didn’t see who hit you with that candlestick, did you?” I asked.
Shaking his head, he mimicked walking along, la-di-da. Then he suddenly crumpled to the floor.
I bet he had been excellent at charades.
“It was Patricia who had the candlestick in her hand while leaning over your body on the landing. Do you think she did it?”
Shrugging, he motioned like a cat clawing and hissed. “Hiiissss.”
That’s right. He’d said earlier that she hadn’t liked him. Cattiness, he’d said in describing her interactions with him.
Breaking into a smile, he hissed again as though exceedingly proud to be able to create the sound he’d intended. He hissed again and again.
Groaning, I said, “Please stop that. Remember the rule about freaking me out?”
He pouted.
“Can you think of any reason she’d want you dead?”
Me, I could see. Him? Not so much.
He floated left. He floated right. I realized it was his form of pacing. After a moment, he shrugged.
It would be nice to know what caused her to turn on him all those years ago . . . but whatever it was, it seemed unlikely she’d wait decades to seek revenge. “Can you think of a reason anyone would want you dead?”
His eyes lit and he nodded vigorously.
“You do? What?”
He moaned, then groaned in frustration. He pantomimed something square, then began wildly pointing around my living room. After a moment, he stopped and stared at me, beseeching me with his eyes to understand.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”
He floated over to my antique desk and reached for a pencil only to find that he couldn’t pick it up.
Slumping, he looked like a deflated helium balloon before he suddenly perked up. He waved me toward the front door.
“You’ll show me?”
Yes.
“Out there?”
He nodded again.
I sat on the arm of the couch again. “No way.”
With eyes bugging, he held up his arms. A gesture for Why?
“There might be more ghosts out there.” Sure, it was only ten o’ clock, but I didn’t know for certain why I could see him , and I couldn’t take any chances that the ghosts had arrived early. “One is quite enough for me to handle.”
Pressing his lips together stubbornly, he waved again, beckoning.
He was so insistent that I could feel myself weakening. I suppose I could understand why he was being so adamant.
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