Page 15 of How to Fake a Haunting

I broke off a piece of my muffin but didn’t take a bite.

Adelaide and I were tucked into a back corner of a coffee shop, discussing the events of the previous evening.

“You didn’t get the rabbit from Todd?” I asked.

“Oh, god, Adelaide, please don’t tell me you yanked some poor bunny from its burrow and decapitated it yourself. ”

We were supposed to be working, but neither of us were expected in the office on Wednesdays thanks to the Preservation Society’s post-COVID policies.

Adelaide had messaged asking if we could talk before our nine a.m. meeting, and I’d agreed.

Though I was surprised I’d even seen Adelaide’s text; I’d been avoiding my cell phone all morning.

Callum had called six times since leaving for work.

I knew he was keen to start in with his bullshit as soon as I answered.

But I had no plans to answer. Not that morning. Not all day.

I didn’t want to hear his voice. Didn’t want to be subjected to his whiney, hangover-and-guilt-fueled speeches that were never apologies as much as they were canaries in a coal mine, dropping lines about whether he should pick up the salmon I liked from the fish market on his way home or asking how Bea was when I’d dropped her at school, when he was really gauging the extent of my anger.

Each new drinking episode was like a game to Callum; he made his mess, then calculated how long it would take—and how much groveling was required—to clean it up.

And speaking of cleaning things up, I’d realized something as I’d stared at Callum’s drunk, deluded face while he blubbered and stared, wild-eyed, at the rice and pork littering the table, the knowledge solidifying as I dug a small hole and buried the rabbit head in the backyard late last night.

I wasn’t just mad or disappointed or bitter or resentful or tired. I was furious. Rageful.

My wrath at everything he’d put me through over the years was like a white-capped surge of sediment-heavy river water finally freed from its dam.

Witnessing the terror the ghastly rabbit head had elicited from him was the first time in years Callum had been stripped of his power, left without the upper hand.

Nothing I’d ever said or done had gotten as much of a reaction out of Callum.

Haunting him was liberating. Vindicating. Delicious.

Adelaide was saying something about her luck in finding the rabbit carcass in the woods after Todd hadn’t come through yet with something dead, but I couldn’t concentrate on her words. My mind kept spinning, reeling.

I’ve never been a spiteful person, never delighted in another’s misfortune.

But I liked watching Callum suffer. I liked seeing him fearful and upset, even hurt.

How many nights did he lie to me about when he’d be home?

About not drinking? How many times had he disappointed Bea?

Missed her horseback riding lessons? Avoided spending a moment with her over an entire weekend?

Been oblivious to her needs, her likes, her cute—and inevitably fleeting—little four-year-old fancies?

The next thought came with all the force of a high-speed train: I wish we’d gone further.

I wish the rabbit head had been infested with maggots and he’d bitten into it, tasted blood and rot, as bitter as the disappointment I’ve swallowed for more than half a decade.

My fingers itched with the desire to push Callum headfirst into a downward spiral.

Sure, I’d take him fleeing the house in surrender, losing custody of Bea, but might I like to see his complete disintegration too? His madness?

I interrupted Adelaide mid-sentence. “So what’s next?”

Adelaide frowned, caught off guard. “Sorry?”

“What’s the next thing we’re doing to him?”

Her frown morphed into a smile. “Last night really did go well, didn’t it? Okay, yes, let’s talk next steps.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a notebook.

“How did you intercept the driver, by the way?” I asked.

“I pretended to be you. Walked around the side of the house and into the driveway brushing my hands off like I was simply buried in homeowner chores. I told the delivery guy I’d take the food in, then put the bag on the ground.

‘Just want to make sure everything’s here,’ I said to him.

When I put my hands into the bag to open the container, I sort of rolled the rabbit head out of my shirtsleeve and covered it with the skewers.

Then I said something like, ‘Shoot, I forgot something around back. Could you bring it up to the porch for my husband after all?’ and moseyed back around the house. ”

“What if the driver had said something to Callum?”

Adelaide shrugged. “We talked about this, remember? We have to go all out in the moment. Why don’t serial killers get caught for decades?”

I tilted my head, considering this. “Well, up until fairly recently, I’d say it’s because of limited technology. DNA testing being in its early stages, fewer surveillance tactics, more—”

Adelaide groaned. “Good grief, Lainey, no. It’s because they had serial killer confidence.

They were brazen as hell, taking insane risks that paid off.

Everyone’s luck runs out eventually. But in our case, by the time Callum figures out what hit him, he’ll be living in some dumpy apartment by himself, and you and Beatrix will be free and happy. ”

“Maybe he’ll be sober,” I said. “If he loses custody of Bea. Maybe the haunting will have a positive effect in the long run.”

Adelaide eyed me curiously. “Maybe,” she agreed, but I could tell she thought that was about as likely as last night’s rabbit hopping through the coffee shop. “But by then, it would be too late.”

I took a bite of muffin. “So what’s next?” I repeated. The idea of Callum getting sober was like a mirage, some wispy, intangible thing I’d couldn’t conceptualize. “More stink bombs? Increase the frequency of the knocking?”

“Hardly.” Adelaide’s eyes glinted. “Have I ever mentioned a Chris Matheson to you?”

“Maybe?” I tried to remember.

“He’s a plumber. Just over the border in Connecticut.” Adelaide drained the last of her latte. “But before we get to him, I’ve got to employ the flies.”

Dread pooled in my stomach. Adelaide had mentioned flies during our first conversation about the haunting, but I’d been so frazzled by the idea on the whole that I hadn’t questioned its individual parts. “What do you mean, ‘employ the flies’?” I asked warily.

“I found this place online, the Critter Depot. They sell crickets, spiders, baby chicks, and food for pet snakes and raptors. And they sell black soldier fly larvae. Apparently they’re great for compost piles.

Anyway, you can take the larvae through the pupa stage to adult black soldier flies.

I ordered a thousand at the pupa stage now.

The adults will be ready for release in ten to fifteen days.

” She held up her phone, and I winced at the Google image of shiny wasplike insects congregated on a wide, flat leaf.

“A thousand flies ready for release?” I pushed the muffin away. “In my house? You know I hate insects, but especially flies. And what about Beatrix?”

“What about her?”

“Flies carry diseases! I can’t simply coat the windowsills of my house with a thousand flies and let them have at it, even if it would freak the shit out of Callum. They’ll get into the food! Into Beatrix’s bedroom!”

“It’s not like I haven’t done my research. Black soldiers are one of the few fly species that transmit zero diseases. They’re also super-slow fliers. Easy to catch. You can practically pluck them out of the air mid-flight.”

“Uh-uh, no way. You should have ‘researched’”—I made obnoxious air quotes—“that I’m against flies in my house no matter the species.”

“But it’s right out of The Amityville Horror,” Adelaide said. “It might as well be written into the ‘stage a haunting’ playbook.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not. Either way, the answer is no.” I shuddered. “I’m no more bug phobic than the next person, but a thousand flies? No, thank you. No way.”

Adelaide pouted. “The larvae were delivered this morning. I’m looking forward to watching them grow. I already feel like they’re my children.” She batted her eyes then, seeing she was getting nowhere, changed her tactic. “Doesn’t Bea sleep at your folks’ house semifrequently?”

“She does,” I said. “So?”

“Sooo, when’s the next time she’s spending the night?”

“Next Saturday.”

Adelaide raised her arms as if to say, Well, there you go.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll think about it. As long as every single fly is out of the house by the time Beatrix gets home on Sunday.”

“Yes, yes, understood. Sticky ribbon, bait bags, the highest-voltage bug zapper; whatever well-reviewed fly-removal products exist on the market, I’ll have them on hand.”

I took out my phone and opened the Venmo app.

“I’m sending you a hundred and fifty dollars to cover it,” I said.

“But that doesn’t mean I like this.” Before Adelaide could get too excited, I added, “Didn’t you start this conversation by talking about your plumber friend?

Chris something? What does he have to do with this? ”

She raised her eyebrows. “He’s more of an acquaintance than a friend.

But, yes, we’re going to plan a little field trip to get some advice.

I hope Callum is ready for what we’ve got in store for him.

Because after the onslaught of a thousand black soldier flies crawling across every door and windowpane, I have a feeling he’s going to want to shower. ”

A wicked smile creased her face; with her fuchsia hair, she could have passed for a comic book villainess. “Problem is, when he gets into the shower, he’s going to end up far less clean than when he went into it.”

“What do you mean?”

Adelaide leaned forward and lowered her voice. “We’re going to make your showerhead rain blood.”