The bare concrete floor stretched gray and unbroken to the gray concrete walls. Pipes from upstairs hung from the ceiling and plunged out of sight under the floor. The sump pump in one corner was still in working order. The water heater was cold and waiting for someone to light it.
Abbie pulled on all three of the hanging chains and illuminated all the shadows away. But the bare lightbulbs cast shadows of their own as they gently swung, disturbed by her passing. And there in the far corner was the first stain.
The stain was small, but considering it had been a five-year-old boy, it was big enough.
There was a trail of stains leading round the back of the staircase. They were smeared and oddly shaped as if he had bled and someone dragged him along.
The last stain was in the shape of a bloody pentagram, rough, but recognizable. A sacrifice then.
There was a spattering on one wall, high up without a lower source. Probably where Phillip Garner had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Abbie turned off two of the lights and then stood there with her hand on the last cord, the one nearest the door. That air of expectation had left. She would have thought that the basement where the boy was brutalized would have felt worse, but it didn’t. It seemed emptier and more normal than upstairs. Abbie didn’t know why but made a note of it. She would tell the psychic that would be visiting the house.
She turned off the light and left, closing the door quietly behind her. The stairs were just stairs like so many other houses had. And the kitchen looked cheerful with its off-white walls. Abbie closed the window over the sink; it wouldn’t do to have rain come in.
She had actually stepped into the living room when she turned back. The handprint on the back door bothered her. It seemed such a mute appeal for help, safety, escape.
She whispered to the sun-warmed silence, “Oh, I can’t stand to leave it.” She fished Kleenex from her pocket and dampened them in the sink. She knelt by the door and wiped across the brownish stain.
It smeared fresh and bloody, crimson as new blood. Abbie gasped and half-fell away from the door. The Kleenex was soaked with blood. She dropped it to the floor.
The handprint bled, slowly, down the white door.
She whispered, “Brian.” There was a sound of small feet running. The sound hushed down the carpeted stairs to the basement. And Abbie heard the door swing open and close with a small click.
There was a silence so heavy that she couldn’t breathe. And then it was gone, whatever it was. She got to her feet and walked to the living room. So there’s a ghost, she told herself, you’ve sold houses with ghosts before. But she didn’t pick up the soggy Kleenex and she didn’t look back to see how far down the blood would go before it stopped.
She was out the door and locking it as fast as she could and still maintain some decorum. It wouldn’t help things at all if the neighbors saw the real estate agent running from the house. She forced herself to walk down the steps between the yellow flowers. But there was a spot in the middle of her back that itched as if someone were staring at it.
Abbie didn’t look back, she wouldn’t run, but she had no desire to see Brian Garner’s face pressed against the window glass. Maybe the cleanup crew had done the best they could. She’d have to find out if all the marks bled fresh.
The house would have to be re-blessed. And probably a medium brought in to tell the ghost that it was dead. A lot of people took it as a status symbol to have a ghost in their house. Certain kinds of ghosts, though. No one liked a poltergeist, no one liked bleeding walls, or hideous apparitions, or screams at odd times in the night. But a light that haunted only one hallway, or a phantom that walked in the library in eighteenth-century costume, well, those were call for a party. The latest craze was ghost parties. All those that did not have a ghost could come and watch one while everyone drank and had snacks.
But somehow Abbie didn’t think that anyone would want Brian’s ghost in their house. It was romantic to have a murdered sixteenth-century explorer roaming about, but recent victims and a child at that…. Well, historic victims are one thing, but a ghost out of your morning paper, that was something else entirely.
Abbie just hoped that Brian Garner would be laid to rest easily. Sometimes the ghost just needed someone to tell it that it was dead. But other times it took more stringent measures, especially with violent ends. Strangely, there were a lot of child ghosts running around. Abbie had read an article in the Sunday magazine about it. The theory was that children didn’t have a concept of death yet, so they became ghosts. They were still trying to live.
Abbie left such thinking up to the experts. She just sold houses. As soon as the car started Abbie turned on the radio. She wanted noise.
The news was on and the carefully enunciated words filled the car as she pulled away from the house. “The Supreme Court reached their verdict today, upholding a New Jersey court ruling that Mitchell Davies, well-known banker and real estate investor, is still legally alive even though he is a vampire. This supports the so-called Bill of Life, which came out last year, widening the definition of life to include some forms of the living dead. Now on to sports…”
Abbie changed the station. She wasn’t in the mood for sports scores or news of any kind. She had had her own dose of reality today and just wanted to go home. But first she had to stop by her office.
It was late when she arrived and even the receptionist had gone home. Three rows of desks stretched catty-corner from one end of the room to the other. Most of the overhead lights had been turned off, leaving the room in afternoon shadows. A thin strip of white light wound down the center and passed over Sandra’s desk. Sandra sat waiting, hands folded in front of her. She had stopped even pretending to work.
Her blue eyes flashed upward when she saw Abbie come in. The relief was plain on her face and in the sudden slump of her shoulders.
Abbie smiled at her.
Sandra made a half smile in return. She asked, “How was it?”
Abbie walked to her desk, which put her to Sandra’s left, and two desks over. She started sorting papers while she considered how best to answer. “It’s going to need some work before we can show it.”
Sandra’s high heels clicked on the floor, and Abbie could feel her standing behind her. “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”
Abbie turned and faced her. Sandra’s eyes were too bright, her face too intense. “Sandra, please, it’s over, let it go.”
Sandra gripped her arm, fingers biting deep. “Tell me what it was like.”
“You’re hurting me.”
Her hand dropped numbly to her side and she almost whispered, “Please, I need to know.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But I sold them that house.”
“But Phillip Garner played with the Ouija board. He opened the way to what happened.”
“But I should have seen it. I should have realized something was wrong. I did notice things when Marion contacted me. I should have done something.”
“What, what could you have done?”
“I could have called the police.”
“And told them that you had a bad feeling about one of your clients? You aren’t a registered psychic, they would have ignored you. And Sandra, you didn’t have any premonitions. You’ve convinced yourself you knew beforehand, but it isn’t true. You never mentioned it to anyone in the office.” Abbie tried to get her to smile. “And get real, girl, if you had news that important, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You are the original gossip. A kind gossip, but still a gossip.”
Sandra didn’t smile, but she nodded. “True, I don’t keep secrets very well.”
Abbie put her arm around her and hugged her. “Stop beating yourself up over something you had nothing to do with. Cut the guilt off; it isn’t your guilt to deal with.”
Sandra leaned into her and began to cry.
They stayed there like that until it was full dark and Sandra was hoarse from crying.
Sandra said, “I’ve made you late getting home.”
“Charles will understand.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I have a very understanding husband.”
She nodded and snuffled into the last Kleenex in the room. “Thanks.”
“It’s what friends are for, Sandra. Now go home and feel good about yourself, you deserve it.”