Page 14 of How to Fake a Haunting

Half an hour later, Bea and I sat at the table, eating pasta and playing Favorite Thing, a spin on the game played by the characters in her favorite TV show.

“It’s your turn,” she said.

“I’ll go after you take another big bite,” I countered.

While she chewed, I stared at the six pillar candles in front of me.

Adelaide had bought them at Home Depot and placed them in a circle on the island.

Another six, identical candles remained in the bag to be brought home with her.

Leave these candles here, she’d said cryptically.

So Callum gets used to seeing them. She’d winked. For a later stage of the haunting.

“I finished the bite,” Beatrix said, bringing me back to the present.

“So you did. All right, then, on with the game. My favorite thing that happened today was when I was driving home from work. I was stuck in traffic, and I saw some clouds up ahead of me, and—”

“Remember the rules, Mommy!” Beatrix interrupted, unable to help herself. “It’s got to be funny and pretend.”

“I know, I know,” I said, laughing. “You didn’t let me finish.

Anyway, as I was driving, the clouds turned into a herd of white horses.

No, not horses, unicorns! They swooped down on fluffy hooves, hoisted my car onto their backs, and carried me over the traffic, all the way to my exit.

Then they placed me back on the road, whinnied, shot sparkles out of their horns, and returned to the sky.

” I smiled at her. “That was my favorite thing,” I concluded.

Beatrix squealed in approval, clapping her hands and giggling. I gestured at her plate, and she ventured another bite of pasta, though I could see her formulating the next installment of the game even as she chewed.

Before Bea could open her mouth, footsteps sounded on the stairs. I saw Callum as he passed through the hallway, but rather than come into the kitchen, he went to the foyer and opened the front door. Bea and I exchanged a look.

“Where’s Daddy going?”

“I think his food is here.” No one had knocked on the front door, but then, I hadn’t expected them to. I’d kept Bea in the playroom before dinner, giving Adelaide an opportunity to get out of the house and into the driveway without being seen.

Cal returned a moment later, a large paper bag in his arms. The bag was folded neatly at the top.

Had Adelaide intercepted the driver? And if so, how had she managed to keep the bag looking so pristine?

Are you really that surprised? For all her unorthodox ideas at work, she never approaches a project unprepared.

I squirmed, adjusting to the idea that my life had morphed into a three-ring circus, with Adelaide at the center.

I envisioned her in a gold-buttoned jacket, cracking the whip.

From the corner of my eye, I watched Callum remove the Styrofoam containers and packets of sauce from the bag. He rummaged in the drawer for a fork, and grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. Then, stacking everything precariously, he started back toward the hallway.

“Do you want to play Favorite Thing with us?” Beatrix asked him. There was equal parts excitement and trepidation in her voice.

Callum wavered, caught off guard. “Oh. Um. Okay, honey. Sure.” He lowered the stack onto the counter and pulled out a stool.

“Hooray! You go first, Daddy. Remember, it has to be funny and pretend.”

Callum opened the Styrofoam container. A mountain of fried rice, golden chicken, and unnaturally pink pork sent a fatty, fried aroma through the kitchen. I averted my eyes from the food and tried not to think about what might be in it.

“Okay,” Cal said, tearing into a packet of duck sauce and drizzling it over the chicken. “Let’s see.” It came out lezz-see. “My favorite thing today was seeing your face.” He shoveled a forkful of rice into his mouth.

Beatrix frowned. “That’s not funny or pretend,” she said.

Callum chewed, squinting at her criticism. “Oh. Right, sorry.”

“Come on, Cal,” I said. “Can’t you play the game right for her?”

He ripped a hunk of pork off the skewer. “Okay, so, my favorite thing was, um . . . at work, all the guys wanted to order lunch but I said, ‘Forget ordering lunch, let’s have the magical elves come in and make us something.’”

He took a second pork skewer from the container. I couldn’t help it; my eyes flicked toward his place setting. Had Adelaide done it, or did Callum’s meal consist only of the food he had ordered?

“What did the elves make for you?” Beatrix asked.

“Huh? Oh, well, uh, those crazy elves, they didn’t know what they were doing.

We couldn’t eat any of it. There were dogs in the hot dog buns .

. . golden retrievers, I think. Actual bear claws instead of bear claw pastries.

And real grasshoppers on the grasshopper pie.

Those little buggers started jumping everywhere. ”

“Gross,” Beatrix squealed, and looked at me, as if asking for permission to enjoy this. I smiled and nodded.

Callum reached for his fork, then reconsidered and went for another skewer.

Look at Bea, I told myself. Look at the refrigerator. Look anywhere but in that container.

I heard him take a bite, chew, bite, chew, then pause.

Beatrix fidgeted beside me. I forced myself to spin another forkful of pasta and raise it to my mouth, but I couldn’t eat it.

Callum was still frozen beside me. Slowly, I turned to look at him.

The skewer was in his hand, but his gaze was directed downward.

His eyes were full moons eclipsed with storm clouds of terror.

“Cal?” It took everything I had to keep my voice even. “What’s wrong?”

He let out a choking sound, then actually choked. A half second later, he was spitting into the Styrofoam, eyes watering. He jumped to his feet, sputtering and swearing, sweat beading at his hairline.

“Callum!”

“What’s wrong?” Beatrix’s voice was fearful.

I scooped Bea from the chair and set her down in the direction of the playroom.

“Go play, hon,” I said, and ushered her out of the kitchen with a pat to the bottom.

Bea scampered away, glancing over her shoulder with concern before disappearing between the French doors and pulling them shut behind her.

I turned back to Callum. He was retching, saliva hanging from his lips, his face so red it was nearly purple. Finally, he gave the Styrofoam container a violent shove and ran for the downstairs bathroom. A moment later, I heard him vomiting.

I grabbed the container of food and ran on silent feet for the living room, where I hoisted open the window.

I took Cal’s fork, still inserted beneath the mound of fried rice, and slid it beneath the head of the decapitated rabbit.

One black eye looked out at nothing, while the other was an empty pink socket.

The stringy tendon and gristle hanging from its neck was the same color as the spareribs.

I maneuvered the rabbit head through the open window and tossed it into a nearby bush. I shut the window as quietly as I could, and was about to fly back across the living room when I shot a look at the playroom to make sure Bea had fully latched the doors.

A bloody handprint marred the doorknob.

Panic shot through me. Had Bea cut her hand?

But a step closer told me the handprint was too big to be hers.

Adelaide must have left it in another attempt to scare Callum.

With no more time to waste, I sprinted to the kitchen and placed the container back where I found it, making sure to reinsert the fork.

Callum emerged from the bathroom, running his hands down his cheeks. He looked as if he were returning from war. His eyes, even more bloodshot than before, were still wide in horror, and he stared at the container as if it would launch itself across the counter right at his face.

“Callum,” I said, and the second I spoke his name, I knew I’d gotten it right.

The tone, Adelaide had warned me, would be critical for Callum to believe that, not only did I have nothing to do with this, but that I was convinced he’d lost his mind.

“What the hell was that? Was there a bone? A bug?” I looked from Cal to the counter and back again, waiting for him to comment.

For several seconds, all he could do was point, mouth stuttering in time to the wagging of his finger.

“There,” he finally got out. “In there, Lainey. It’s a goddamn head! A rabbit head. In my goddamn food. I ate off it. I ate—” He dry heaved and held a hand to his mouth.

I stared at him, feeling the feigned incredulity straining my features.

“Look!” he shrieked, and I jumped, then shot a glance over my shoulder at the playroom. When I turned back, Callum was pointing at the container again. “Just look if you don’t believe me.”

I gave him a final, worried stare, leaned over the container, picked up the fork, and dug through the spareribs. When I didn’t react, didn’t gag or run screaming, Callum ventured forward, first one step, then another.

“Let me see that,” he said, and grabbed the fork, pushing meat and rice out of the way. Globs of food flew from the container and splattered the marble.

“Cal,” I started, but he kept digging with the fork. His movements became frantic until it seemed he could take the macabre scavenger hunt no longer. He picked up the container and dumped its contents onto the counter.

“Callum!” I cried.

He stared at the pile of food, the chicken fingers and pork, the little piles of chopped vegetables, the smeared puddles of duck sauce, and shook his head. He was muttering to himself, something I couldn’t make out.

“Cal!” I shouted with enough force that he finally looked up, finally saw me. I made my eyes go wide with a strange kind of pitying horror, the kind I imagined bipolar sufferers saw on the faces of their loved ones right before they went out on another manic tear.

“There’s no rabbit head in your food, Callum.” I said the words rabbit head as if they were interchangeable with unicorn horn.

He blinked. Swallowed. Were those actual tears, or were his eyes still watering from having vomited?

“I don’t know what you saw,” I continued. “But there’s nothing there.” I paused, then said it again. And again.

“There’s nothing there, Callum. There’s nothing there.”