Page 6 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)
Six
The Davilla house must be dusted so that it does not fall ill. Rearrange the furniture, replace it as needed, to keep it happy and entertained. If neglected, the house will turn feral.
Local Legends and Superstitions, Tempest Family Grimoire
I am retroactively disappointed that none of the men I’ve dated have had the consideration to bring me to a haunted house.
Morgan is pleased. “Seemed like it might be up your alley.”
“It has a permanent address on my alley. I love creepy places.”
He closes the trunk of his car, swinging a backpack over one shoulder. A flashlight, digital audio recorder, and headphones hang from various clips on his tool belt. He tosses me a flashlight.
I switch it on, experimenting with the different modes. “Fun! What’s the plan?”
“To make contact, hopefully.” A small pink ball bounces out of the pocket of his backpack, lighting up when it hits the grass. He scoops it.
“Is that a cat toy?”
“Yep. These things only light up when touched. We’ll put it on the floor and step away, and if it activates, we’ll know a ghost is trying to communicate.” He peers at the house, running a hand through his windswept hair. Then he gives me a camera. “Would you mind recording this?”
I blink at it, still distracted by his hair. “Uh. Yeah, sure.”
“Fantastic. Start recording now, please, and keep filming even if it seems like nothing’s happening. I might be able to pick up interesting stuff in the background while I’m editing the video.”
“Will you post this online?”
“Not the footage itself, no. I’ll review it later, then discuss anything noteworthy in my next podcast episode. You can let me know when you’re available to guest chat, so we can discuss the experience together.”
I pointedly do not commit to that, and tap the record button.
The ground leading up to the house is uneven, reminding me of a crème br?lée after you’ve cracked the sugar crust with a spoon. I scan our environment through the flip screen on the camera: up close, the front of the house seems to be swollen, and whichever room is tacked to the right of the porch bulges out. I frown at the coloring in the screen, the way it makes the house look brown again, the grass not as vibrant, almost as if we’re walking across a late autumn scape. The sky is off-color in the camera, too, more like late afternoon than 8:25 p.m.
“Built in 1934,” Morgan utters into his Dictaphone, “by Frank Davilla. The Great Depression hit his family hard. Had two younger brothers who lived with him, his wife, and three kids. Was accused of inappropriate behavior toward a preacher’s wife, and the congregation shunned the whole family. Tried to drive them out of town. Mrs. Davilla, a pious lady and Sunday school teacher, was devastated to lose her community and tried to get them to forgive Frank so that she could return to the church. On March fifth, 1945, Frank’s wife and his two younger brothers were found dead in their beds. Frank and his children were never seen again.”
I study the house. “Are you hoping to find Frank?”
“Or anyone else still here. Maybe they’ll know why Mrs. Davilla, Nate, and Otto were murdered, and what happened to the missing family members.” He lays a paintbrush on the doorstep. “Feeding the house,” he explains. “Mrs. Davilla liked to paint.”
I don’t believe in ghosts, but as a writer of paranormal mysteries, this is fantastic field experience. And unorthodox for a date, which makes me all the happier.
I test the front door. The knob rattles loosely, unlocked and broken, but the door itself has engorged in the July heat and sticks to its frame. I press harder, hoping there aren’t any cops cruising nearby. Not that they’d have much reason to. This house is so notorious for its (alleged) malevolent spirits that even the most intrepid of teenagers dare not use its halls as a place to drink or make out.
“So, one sister who does candle magic. One sister who does flower magic.” He eyes me sidelong. “And what about you?”
“Lately? I read and sell books.” The door finally gives way. “When’s the last time you were here?”
“Never been inside. I’ve checked out the property, but you don’t go into a place like this without backup.”
“How long have you been into the paranormal?”
He sighs. “Not as long as you have. About two years.”
We’re in what appears to be a living room, and it definitely hasn’t been sitting empty for seventy-eight years. I expected cobwebs, dirt, and bugs. Peeling paint, strips of plaster hanging from the ceiling.
There is damage to the ceiling: it bows in places, perhaps from gathered water. But there isn’t any dust, no paint leaves shedding from walls. Not a single spiderweb. It’s a surprisingly small room, compared to what it looked like from the outside of the house, with a boarded-up fireplace, a child’s sandal (judging by the style, it was left here sometime in the past fifteen years), a framed painting on the wall, a desk, and a McDonald’s Happy Meal toy still in its plastic. The air smells peculiarly like one of the walls in my living room. The wall back home, which currently has a television and armchair pushed against it, has always carried a scent of rose water and tobacco. Nobody in my family smokes tobacco, and neither did my grandmother.
“I’m not really into the paranormal,” I tell him. “I only write about it.”
Morgan isn’t listening. “That’s the desk where they found the severed hand!” He turns, shining the light directly in my eyes. I wince, and he lowers it but is too wired to apologize. “It didn’t belong to any of the victims. Wasn’t a match for Frank’s description. They never figured out who it might have belonged to, but the weirdest part is that it smelled like sulfur and spontaneously combusted during forensic analysis.”
“Very weird,” I agree. “Two years you’ve been doing this, then? Two years ago is about the time you started renting my old desk at the shop.”
“Yeah. I mean, you’ve heard what Aisling says about ghosts. It’s impossible not to be intrigued.”
“You believe in ghosts because of Aisling?”
“I always thought… maybe . Maybe they’re real. But then I started listening to her stories, and now I’m a true believer.”
Key word: stories .
I try not to sigh, but it’s inescapable.
“Her information’s so specific, it has to come from somewhere ,” he goes on. “Luna monitors what Ash gets up to online. She doesn’t watch any ghost hunting shows. So it’s like, how does she know any of this?”
Credit where credit is due: Ash can give a hell of a convincing speech. But still, I pity him for being so gullible.
Morgan thumbs through a book he’s brought along: The Unidentified: Mythical Monsters, Alien Encounters, and Our Obsession with the Unexplained , and I am helpless to float over, skimming it with him. “You dog-ear your books,” I observe.
He flicks me a guilty look. “Yeah.”
“So do I.”
His face brightens. “You do?”
“I write in them, too. Little footnotes.”
“ Yes. ” He smacks the book against his palm. “Exactly. That’s what books are meant for! Love them, mark them. Fill up the margins.”
I have to hold myself steady, hand to the wall, so that I don’t faint into a dead swoon. What I wouldn’t give to read this man’s margins.
He peruses drawers in the rolltop desk, which prove empty. Not a paper clip, not a dead cricket, not a mousetrap in sight. “I thought The Magick Happens was going to be my novel-writing muse,” he tells me, “but it turned out to be a gateway to something entirely different. I work for the newspaper, you know, but a couple years ago, I actually wanted to write books, too.”
“Really?”
He tests the first three steps of the staircase to see if they’ll hold his weight. They don’t even creak, so we forge our way up. The carpet is tan but probably used to be white. “I’d write three thousand words, then get a shiny new idea, and set it aside. Write three thousand words of the new idea, scrap them for another new idea. You get the picture. It was disappointing, because I’d been telling myself I was going to be a novelist—it seemed like the next step, for some reason. But I’m a short-stories kinda guy, it turns out. I like the challenge of limited length, and it keeps me from getting bored. Speaking of stories, what are you working on now? Are you gonna add to the Villamoon universe, or…?”
“What can you tell me about ghosts?” I blurt. “I haven’t done much research.” Intentionally. I’ve always worried that if I let myself fall down supernatural rabbit holes, I’d end up believing again. Most of the lore in my books comes from my own imagination.
As it happens, Morgan can tell me a lot about ghosts.