ghost hunter

the hope house

As we stood on the doorstep, the muffled hum of traffic faded into the background, replaced by an eerie stillness that hung heavy in the air. Lockwood's gloved hand gripped the bell-pull, and I could feel the anticipation prickling at my skin. 

I studied the door closely, noting the small sun-blisters on its varnish and the scuffs that told tales of time worn by the seasons. The four diamond panes of frosted glass concealed the interior, threading a thick curtain of darkness and foreboding. The porch, with its forgotten corners littered with sodden beech leaves, felt as desolate as a shipwrecked boat, marooned far from familiar shores. Our kits sat silently next to Lucy, who braced herself for the encounter ahead.

"Remember our new rules, everyone," I said, breaking the silence with an edge of authority. "No blabbing about anything you see. Don't speculate openly about who killed whom, how, or when. And, above all, don't impersonate the client. Please. It never plays out well."

Lockwood raised an eyebrow, feigning exasperation. "That's an awful lot of don'ts, Val."

"Too right it is," I replied, crossing my arms.

"You know I've got an excellent ear for accents," Lockwood said, a hint of mischief dancing in his eye. "I copy people without thinking."

"Fine, do it quietly after the event," I countered. "Not loudly, not in front of them, especially when they're a six-foot-six Irish dockworker with a speech impediment and we're a good half-mile from the public road."

Lockwood chuckled, the tension ebbing momentarily. "Yes, he was quite nimble for his size, though. Still, the chase has kept us fit. Sense anything?"

I surveyed our surroundings, peering into the unfolding quietude. "Not yet. But I hardly expect to find anything out here. You?"

He released the bell-pull, adjusting his coat collar with an air of nonchalance. "Oddly enough, I have. There was a death in the garden sometime in the last few hours. Under that laurel halfway up the path."

I tilted my head. "I assume you're going to tell me it's only a smallish glow?"

"About mouse-sized," he admitted sheepishly. "Suppose a cat got it, or something."

"Not part of our case, then, if it was a mouse?" I probed, only half-joking.

"Probably not," Lockwood replied with a shrug.

Lucy's voice broke through our repartee: "She's here."

I instinctively glanced toward the frosted panes, my heart racing at the notion of the unknown. "OK, here we go," I said, bracing myself. "Remember what I said."

Lockwood bent down, picking up the duffel bag beside his feet as we prepared ourselves. A chorus of pleasant, respectful smiles formed as we shifted back slightly. We waited, the air taut with anticipation. But no one answered the door.

"Are you sure you saw someone in there, Lucy?" Lockwood asked, concern knitting his brow as he shifted his weight. Lucy nodded firmly, her determination unwavering.

Suddenly, a voice broke the silence, rich with warmth and a touch of embarrassment. "I'm so sorry! I was delayed."

We jumped slightly at the unexpected sound and turned to see her: a short, well-padded woman climbing the steps. Her round face had begun to show the soft lines of middle age, and her straight, ash-blonde hair was clipped neatly above her ears—an indication of her no-nonsense personality. She wore a long black skirt, a crisp white shirt, and an enormous woollen cardigan, its sagging pockets bursting with inconspicuous intents.