Page 13 of The House on Haven Way

“That house was built in April of 1954. The wiring might be original. Would you like us to take a look?”

“Possibly. And a door slammed out of nowhere—”

“The wind? Was your window open?”

I bite my tongue. It’s irritating as sin to hear my own rational explanations repeated back to me. “It was, but the door slammed so hard a hinge fell out.”

“Are you new to the mountains? We get some big gusts. And you’re in a hilly section there.”

With a sigh, I resign myself to sanity. “I’m sure you’re right. Sometimes I have an overactive imagination. I also have post-concussion syndrome, and the symptoms do what they want, when they want. Maybe this shadowy mist crawling in the corners is a sign of belated optic nerve damage or something.”

Mr. Salvin is silent. For all I know, he’s used up his words for the day. “A shadowy mist is crawling in the corners?”

I carefully scan the room, afraid of what I might see. “No. No, not right now.”

“Could it have been a cloud obscuring the sun and casting a shadow in the room, and then, as the cloud lifted, the shadows seemed to leave?” he suggests.

“That’s very probable. Okay, well, if it’s not your toolbox, do you know whose it might be?”

“The owners must have left it behind.”

“Do you know the owners? I mean, did you?”

“No. I haven’t lived here for too long, but I think I heard it was only used as a summer place, a mountain getaway for people who lived in the city. Brooklyn, maybe.”

“Oh, that’s right. You told me that.” I chew my lip. There’s nothing inherently spooky about that, or about a gust of wind, a cloudy day, or even old wiring. I’m being silly.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Salvin. I’ll call you to set up a time to look at the wiring,” I say with forced cheer.

Nothing sinister at all.

“I’m way too in my head. Gonna give myself a damn migraine,” I scold, and pace.

Coping mechanisms.

Relax. Shift focus. Give your brain a break. Do something that will refresh the body and soul. And brain.

Cue for a garishly colored rom-com paperback in the bathtub, with the new over-the-tub wooden rack Honey gave me as a moving present? Hell, yes.

I decide that I can take a hot bath with a cup of hot cocoa or a glass of wine, or both if I want. I can do it right now. No more studio apartment stall shower. No more waiting until after work—and then getting interrupted by someone’s frantic phone call or a staff meeting that could have been an email.

And no peeping toms, like that creep in the apartment across from me.

Hmm. With a defiant little twist of the wrist, I throw my robe off and leave it on the kitchen floor. I need to wash it anyway. I’ve practically been living in it for days.

My nearest neighbor is like half a mile away... And the other neighbors? Well, let’s just say they’re dead to the world. Ain’t no one gonna see this body from here.

“We’re riching it up these days,” I say to my reflection in the new stainless steel fridge, deciding that this body would be worth looking at, y’know, if I wanted to show it off.

I take my bottle of wine, flip on my coffee maker, and put in a cocoa pod. I put my “Witch, Please...” mug under it. It’s shaped like a pumpkin and has a curvy witch silhouette on it.

Oh, and I grab my wine glass, even though I’m tempted to drink straight out of the bottle for a second.

Yep. Cocoa and red wine. At ten in the morning.

Nothing is going to make me give up this peace. I can ignore shadows and shit for a slice of heaven like this.

I’m dead, but I’m not that dead.