The Uninvited

Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost buster.

“They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.

“Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period dress drifting in a bell around her.

* * *

It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew headlines across the country.

He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.

Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.

As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her. After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived again.

She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures. She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and giving and…

Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it. She’d claimed that his death had to be an accident. And yet…

Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.

The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when one of the officers had driven her home.

She wished she could’ve slept the entire day, and then thought she should just be grateful she hadn’t had horrible dreams, considering how Julian had looked....

A shower seemed in order, although she’d taken one the night before. A psychiatrist would probably tell her she was trying to wash away what she’d seen but she didn’t care. It might make her feel more human. Or at least more awake.

While the water streamed over her, she thought about Julian and let her tears flow. She thought about the many times they’d been ready to smack him for his lack of responsibility or for leaving one of them in the lurch. It didn’t matter. He’d still been a friend. Worse, it was such a ridiculous way to die.

When she’d first found him, after the initial horror and disbelief, she wondered if he’d sat there to play a prank on her, maybe planning to apologize for disappearing. Maybe he’d tell her he’d gotten the gig of a lifetime because he’d taken off that afternoon.

It had never occurred to her that anyone had killed him. His death had looked like a tragic, stupid accident. And that was terrible enough, but…

Why would anyone kill Julian Mitchell, and why would that person go up to the attic and trash everything there?

And how had it happened with her and Jason in the house, not to mention the thirty or so people in their tour groups?

She’d barely dressed and her hair was still dripping when her doorbell rang. She cringed, not wanting to see anyone, but curiosity got the better of her and she walked to the door to look through the peephole.

It was the Texas ghost buster.

She watched him as she ignored the buzzer. He rang again.

He didn’t go away.

She considered it bizarre that the police had called in the FBI—and that they’d called in this unit. Allison had to admit she didn’t know that much about the FBI or the “Krewe of Hunters,” but she’d checked the internet when she first met Adam Harrison and read that they were a special unit sent in when circumstances were unusual. Unusual meant that something paranormal might be going on, or seemed to be going on, and it appalled Allison that a historic property like the Tarleton-Dandridge House could be turned into a supernatural oddity. Of course, the ghost tours in the city loved the house and the tales that went with it, but those tours were for fun. And that kind of fun was great as long as it didn’t detract from the real wonders of Philadelphia.

All the information she could find about Adam—or his Krewes—seemed to have plenty of read-between-the-lines suggestions that there was something out of the ordinary about them. From what she could gather, the Krewes were well acquainted with the paranormal and made use of strange communications in solving crimes. No way could she buy into that!

Peering out at Tyler Montague seemed to make it all the more ludicrous. He looked as if he should be in a barbarian movie; he was tall as a house and built with pure, lean muscle. How could such a man believe in ghosts?

He had waited a respectable amount of time. He rang the bell again.

With a sigh, Allison threw the door open. “What?” she demanded.

“I need your help.”

She turned and walked back through her house toward the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area. “With what? Do you need a cup of coffee? That I have. Do you want to know about the Tarleton ghosts? Can’t help you there. I’ve never seen them. Oh, and I suppose I should mention this—I don’t believe they exist. We have a shot at life, then we die. Period. I believe in God as an entity seen by different people in different ways, but I don’t think He has an open-door policy in heaven, saying, Hey, come and go as you please. But coffee? I’ve got that.”

“I could use a cup,” he said mildly, following her inside and closing the door. He walked to the counter as she placed another pod in her coffeemaker. She turned to look at him, hoping—to her surprise—that her house was clean and neat. She had the feeling that, ghost hunter or no, he was observant and perhaps judging her character through her living space.

“Things might be a bit messy,” she said, sweeping out an arm that indicated the sections of newspaper strewn on the table and her shoes and cape thrown on a chair. “Sorry. Long night.”

“Looks pretty good to me,” he commented.

“What do you like in your coffee? Oh, and what are you doing here?”

“I told you. I need your help.”

“That doesn’t answer my question about the coffee. What do you want in it?”

“Just black, thanks.”

“Of course. A fed from Texas. Black coffee.” She handed him the cup, asking, “What do you need from me?”

“Information about the people you work with.”

“Everyone fills out an extensive form in order to work at the house, and then has to pass an oral exam. Guides have to know what they’re doing. Believe it or not, the place gets a lot of applications. When the board hires, they want people who not only have a good grasp of history, but really love it. So they ask personal questions, as well.”

“I’m aware of all that. What I want to hear is more about what you’ve seen. What you, personally, have observed.”

She paused, eyes narrowing. “You think one of my coworkers had something to do with this?”

“I don’t think Julian Mitchell went crazy, trashed his workplace, then sat down and killed himself on a bayonet—no.”

Allison shook her head. “I’ve been through it and through it, with you and with the cops. I don’t know what else I could possibly tell you.”

“Start with your day,” he told her. “Tell me about it again.”

She sighed. “It was pretty much like any other day,” she said.

He took a sip of his coffee, smiling. “I was looking for a little more detail than that. Were any of the tours unusual? Did anything stand out to you?”

“Yes, I found the body of a friend in the study,” she said curtly.

Before he could respond, his cell phone rang. He excused himself and answered it, frowning as he listened.