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The senator winced at the word paranormal as if it physically hurt him to hear it.

“That was the terminology that the surveyor used. We personally do not cotton to such foolishness as people returning from the dead to haunt homes. Scripture tells us that such happenings are either related to mental instability or demonic interference.” Huh. Well, guess I was mentally unstable. I thought to ask about the whole savior-coming-back-from-the-dead thing but opted not to get into a theological debate. Neither side would win, and it would only make the atmosphere more ugly. I didn’t have to look over at Phil for his thoughts, as his father did all the talking. I could hear him grunting. “That being said, there are many instances in the New Testament that cite angelic messages from God, divine interventions, prophetic dreams, and other inexplicable events. There are interactions with departed saints and angels in Revelation, so we do try to keep an open mind in such things as long as they reflect God’s intent to relay his wishes to us. Otherwise, we are cautioned to view oddities as Satan’s whisperings.”

“What exactly is it that you’re facing?” I asked, plucking a cookie from the dish. Stress eating. It was a thing. I took a small bite and nearly choked on it as volumes A, B, and C of dusty copies of vintage—meaning they were old and outdated—encyclopedias hovered over the top of Senator Kestrel’s blond head. My eyes flared as Reggie blinked into view, his sight catching mine. I shook my head sharply before feigning a coughing jag. The books floated back to their shelf and deposited themselves back into place with a slam that made both Mrs. and Senator Kestrel look over their shoulders. “Old plumbing. So, what kind of unexplainable situation are you dealing with?”

Reggie took a seat on the steps to glare. Phil was behind the desk also glaring. And I was having tea while playing polite host with two very powerful people. This was not how I pictured this day going.

The senator glanced at his wife before settling his attention on me. “Last year we purchased an old campground in the Adirondacks with the intention of refurbishing it so that it could be used during the summer as a wholesome place where children eight to eighteen would be given access to fresh air, clean water, and Bible studies. We envisioned a camp steeped in family values where children could spend time away from the sinful lure of the internet.”

“What he’s saying, Arch, is that they want to make a camp for rich, white, straight Christian kids,” Phil interjected with venom. His father sighed softly. His mother lowered her eyes to the cookie resting between her perfectly manicured fingers. “We can’t apply because we’re deviants, and you’re Asian.”

“Philip, we have no issue with Asian people. I have an Asian man working on my re-election campaign as we speak.” Senator Kestrel tore his angry gaze from his son to look at me. “He’s incredibly skilled with numbers.” I shoved the rest of my cookie into my mouth to keep from saying something snarky. Maybe I should have let Reg conk him on the noddle after all…

“The camp?” I prodded the senator after swallowing. Mrs. Kestrel was incredibly quiet. One might even say meek and subservient. I did notice her darting looks at her son as her husband spoke.

“Yes, the camp. We bought the land and buildings late in the year. It’s now spring, and we’d like to start renovations so that we may possibly see the cabins full come June when school is over. Last month, we hired inspectors to begin preliminary walkthroughs to assess the state of the plumbing, electrical, and building foundations. The team of four arrived at Camp Minnow Mingle at seven a.m. sharp on March twentieth. By noon, two of the four men had disappeared into the woods and did not return at quitting time.”

“That’s pretty odd,” I said and got a curt nod from the senator.

“The two men were new hires, younger, and known to drink and smoke marijuana, so we assumed they left the worksite. Your generation seems to be wholly unwilling to work a full day for decent pay.” Phil started mumbling under his breath. I bit down on the inside of my cheek as the senator continued talking. “The following day, the owner of the assessment company returned alone since the other employee had called off sick. He set out by himself to begin assessments of the remaining buildings. At dusk, the owner, in a state of mental duress, returned to his truck. Somehow he managed to drive to the nearest town where his phone picked up a signal. He called his priest, raving about monsters in the woods that leaped out at your back to drag you to Hell, then fell at the priest’s feet to begin confessing all of his sins.”

“Shit,” I whispered and offered a soft apology to Mrs. Kestrel. Her husband continued the story while she sat quietly at his side.

“The priest called me at the rattled man’s request to pass along that he was going to quit and me and my haunted campground could go straight to Hades. That man has since joined a monastery in the wine district of the Finger Lakes in New York State.”

“What did the police say about all of this? Surely they must have some thoughts on two men disappearing?” I asked as Mrs. Kestrel brushed cookie crumbs off her smartly pressed clothes.

“You didn’t call the cops, did you?” Phil flung out the accusation like it was a ninja star. It seemed to have the same amount of painful impact. Senator Kestrel grimaced. “Yeah, see that face. That’s his deception face. He didn’t call the cops because that would be bad press. And bad press would bring bad news. And bad news would mean he would lose money on this investment. Right, Dad?”

My sight flew to the senator. He was totally unruffled now. Maybe a life spent in politics taught you how to maintain your cool when shit hit the fan.

“Honestly, Philip, the bile you spout. Of course law enforcement was notified of the situation. They investigated the area, found bits of clothing, traces of blood, and claw marks on several trees, so they came to the conclusion that it was a rogue bear.” Senator Kestrel’s face told me he wasn’t buying the bear attack scenario any more than I was. “It was posited that it could be a rabid grizzly bear.”

My brain did a two-step to try to make that statement jibe. “There aren’t grizzly bears in the Adirondacks to my knowledge.”

“You’re correct, only black bears. It was a deputy who made the comment. I quickly debunked his words as utter nonsense,” Senator Kestrel replied.

“Yep, that sounds just like you,” Phil growled before leaving his stool to stalk toward us seated under the staircase. “Anything that you don’t agree with is nonsense.”

I bit back on correcting Phil. Sometimes being a good partner meant knowing when to offer a correction and when to let things slide.

“The cookies are homemade,” I muttered but that was buried under the sheer amount of confrontation bubbling up. I was reminded of a TikTok video I saw recently about two roosters getting ready to rumble when the senator rose from his seat, chest out, to face down this young cockerel sauntering into his space.

“That comment was nonsense since there are no grizzlies in the Adirondacks. Perhaps if you’d have gone to a good college as we had wished—”

“Commanded,” Phil snapped back. I blew over my tea even though it was cool enough to drink.

“We never commanded you to do anything, Philip. We told you our feelings and wishes considering the type of life we hoped for you. Then you threw that wise counsel back in our faces to apply to this two-bit backwater school and announced that you liked to engage in immoral behavior with men. You were given a choice. Either be the type of son we could be proud of or leave. You left. And here we are almost two years later watching you prance around on the internet, kissing this man on the mouth and chasing ghosts. Ghosts. There is no such thing as ghosts, Philip, and his claims to speak to the dead walk a very fine line with me of being nothing short of charlatanry.”

“But you’re here asking for his help!” Philip shouted. That was when I stood up, tea still resting in my palms, and yelled for silence in Chinese. That spat of a foreign language stalled the argument that was rapidly veering from a discussion about a dilapidated camp to a deeply personal family rift.

“I think we all need to take our seats and drink our tea,” I firmly said, staring hard at both the Kestrel men until they sat. The senator sat next to his trembling wife, and Phil stormed back to his glaring spot behind the register. I sat too, took a breath, and did my best to return to the problem at hand. “Thank you. Shouting upsets the spirits.” I shot Reggie a look over at the steps. He slid his rapier back into its scabbard but remained standing at attention. Senator Kestrel made a sound of displeasure. “Now, the camp and its problems. Has anyone called the local game commission to sort this out?”

“Yes, and they investigated the area and set a trap for a month. No bears were found in the area, no tracks, no signs of scat. So they called it an unsolved wildlife incident and left, taking the trap with them. During this time, no work was done, no surveying, no inspections. I had a hundred acres of woods and rotted buildings, wasting away, that set me back several million. Word travels fast through the workmen, it seems, for no company I contacted to come out and resume inspections would even return my calls. Most of them seem to be Italian or some other superstitious nationality, so they’re easily spooked by evil eyes and such.” Wow, that was only terribly bigoted. “One of my aides made an offhand comment that they were scared of the boogeyman and perhaps I should have someone cleanse the camp. My wife suggested we reach out to Philip, which we did and were summarily ignored.” Phil mumbled something I couldn’t quite grasp. “Left with no other course of reasonable action, we came here to speak to you, Mr. Kee, to see if we could hire you to do whatever it is your profession calls for. Just walk through the camp with incense sticks while you chant to whatever pagan gods you paranormal sort worship, call it exorcised, and that will be that. Work can resume.”

“For the record, the Buddhist gods, the religion that my grandfather and I adhere to, are older than Jesus Christ. Siddhartha Gautama, the historical Buddha, lived and taught in the fifth or sixth century, about five hundred years before Jesus. I’d not speak of the faith that we follow in this house in that belittling tone if you want me to help you with your problems.”

“You tell him, Arch!” Phil said loudly.