Page 47 of How to Fake a Haunting

By the time I reached the driveway, Callum was opening the back passenger’s side door of my car. He practically fell out onto the pavement, his eyes bloodshot and his face creased with sleep.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, surveying the yard. “I knew that thing was digging all night long, but this shit is next level. Another day or two and the entire backyard will be one big pit.”

“Things won’t go on that long,” I said, and continued walking toward the front of the house.

Callum perked up slightly. “Why do you say that?”

“I have some people coming today. People who should be able to help.”

He hurried to catch up with me. “People? Who?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Lainey, fucking tell me!”

I stopped and sighed. “Jesus Christ. If you must know, it’s Joe and Morgan Tallow.”

Callum’s forehead wrinkled. “Who the hell are they?”

I glared at him. He should know who Joe and Morgan were; I’d mentioned them enough over the almost ten years I’d worked for the Preservation Society.

As if to prove this point, the names finally clicked for him. “The Ed and Lorraine Warren wannabes?”

“Yes, the Ed and Lorraine wannabes.” I was approaching the front walkway.

Callum seemed to realize the direction I was heading in and stopped, the expression on his face that of a frightened rabbit. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t turn around. “Inside.”

“Are you crazy?”

I sighed again but still didn’t stop, worried if I paused long enough to think about what I was doing, I’d lose my nerve.

“The Tallows are coming between three and four. Morgan thought it would be okay if we went inside before they got here. And besides, I’d like to see what we’re dealing with.

Who knows, maybe things have gone back to normal. ”

“You are crazy.”

Now I did stop on the walkway, telling myself I wouldn’t succumb to rage or participate in another circuitous argument.

Instead, I looked up at the abstract patterns of sky filtering through verdant trees, the countless leaves fluttering on intertwined, mazelike branches.

I’d been so hung up on haunting Callum, I was only now realizing spring had morphed into summer.

Under a blue sky and warm sunlight, the idea of entering the house didn’t seem quite as impossible as it had last night.

“I’m not crazy,” I said, my face still turned upward.

“I miss Beatrix and want her to be able to come home.” I looked out toward the road, to the place where Bea and I had set out on so many of our “adventures.” I wanted to pick wildflowers with her, take her to see the chickens at the farm down the road.

I wanted her to be able to go to her room after one of our walks and lay the rocks and acorns and other treasures she’d collected inside her fairy garden and regale the wooden tortoises and butterflies with her made-up stories.

I swallowed. I felt like I might cry, but at the same time, my head hurt too much to produce tears.

I wanted Bea to make up stories about scary and difficult things.

Stories. Not be faced with those things in real life.

She’d have to do enough of that when she got older.

I swallowed again, finding there were tears in my eyes after all, and when I looked up, Callum was studying me.

I huffed out a breath and resumed my trek across the walkway.

I thought Callum would say something else, but he didn’t, just fell in step beside me.

I gathered my nerve and climbed the steps to the front porch, gripping the rail and peering through the opening that’d once been a small side window.

I could see glass littering the floor, but not much else.

I resisted the urge to turn around and sprint in the opposite direction.

I so unequivocally did not want to go in there.

But I remembered what I’d said to Callum about Beatrix, and how I wanted to bring her home.

I steeled my resolve and pushed the door open onto the disaster in the foyer.

Keeping one eye on the shattered mirror, I stepped inside, doing my best to avoid the glass.

There was no sign of Lady Macbeth, no bloody hands cresting the bottom frame of the mirror, no dark hood crusted with shards like glittering diamonds.

At least, there was no sign of her for now.

I crept into the kitchen, stealing glances at the living room and playroom as I went.

The objects that had hung from the ceiling the night before—the candles and teakettle, metal fruit basket and wooden knife block, as well as the accompanying knives—lay haphazardly on the floor.

One of the knives was sticking out of an otherwise unblemished apple.

I backtracked from where I stood and almost walked right into Callum. “Jesus!” I cried.

“Do you see anything?” he whispered.

“No,” I whispered back. “Now be quiet.” I jerked my chin for him to get out of my way.

I continued toward the staircase, but there was no ghostly figure wielding a blunt-force object like Jack Torrance dragging his axe along the halls of the Overlook.

And there was certainly no “corpse specter,” as Callum had reported seeing last night, darkening the threshold of any of the rooms.

“They’re gone,” Callum said, and while his voice was still hushed, there was glee in it, glee and relief.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

But as we went through the rooms a second, and then a third time, gaining courage, Callum even peering into what was left of the mirrors despite my admonishments, nothing out of the ordinary appeared.

No shimmery-faced ghosts on mysterious missions.

No tinkling glass or groaning stairs. After our fourth exodus through the house, I was forced to admit that, whether or not they were gone for good, they were at least gone for now.

And whether or not the house was haunted, it was certainly a disaster.

Even if the ghosts were gone, I wouldn’t be able to bring Beatrix home with glass covering the floors and peppering every surface.

While Callum disappeared into his bedroom, I retrieved the broom and vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.

With the coffeepot trickling, I set to work.

It was several hours later—plus a break for a shower and another pot of coffee—that it occurred to me I hadn’t seen Callum since our last walk-through of the rooms. His description of the corpse flashed into my mind, and a jolt of fear shot through me.

With trepidation, I called out, “Callum? Are you up there?”

No response. I cursed under my breath and started up the stairs. “Callum?” I called out again. Still no response. Goddammit. I went to his room, but it was empty. So was his bathroom, my office, Bea’s room, and her bathroom. Had he gone outside? I hadn’t heard him come downstairs.

Back on the first floor, I called out again, “Callum? Where the hell are you? Why aren’t you answering me?

” In the downstairs bathroom off the kitchen, I could see a sliver of glass from the shattered mirror I must have missed while cleaning, poking out from beneath the sink.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

A small squawk came from the direction of the living room.

I made my way there, certain the horrible beings of the previous evening had returned.

But I was wrong. It was something much, much worse.