“Then what’s the problem?”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to dabble in the occult?”
Aron ruffles her blonde hair. “You say you don’t believe in demons, so it can’t do any harm.”
“I don’t believe in demons. I still think it’s a bad idea.”
“So you do believe in them.”
“No—”
“You do, or you wouldn’t be so against the idea of a séance. They either exist or they don’t.”
While they bicker, I eat the rest of the doughnut.
Aron levels his bright, blue eyes on me. “What do you say? Let’s bring a spirit board and copious amounts of alcohol to your house over the weekend.”
I freeze, fingers sticky with sugary glazing. Somewhere in the background, the slide of the cash register mixes with the bell over the door and the hum of conversation. For a small café, it’s busy.
“We’ll have so much fun.” Gwen pulls my ponytail.
I look between them all, trying to think of an excuse to back out. “I’m busy this weekend.”
Gwen pouts, tugging on my ponytail again. Aron pokes Lily in the cheek, and she bats him off. Brittany blows a big bubble that pops and covers her nose and chin.
“Have you ever been to the house?” I ask out of curiosity as I ease back, and they all shake their heads, but it’s Gwen who answers. “No, never.”
“But you still believe the rumors?”
“There’s something not right about that property,” Lily replies.
“Ha!” Aron points a finger at her with a wicked gleam in his eyes and a wide smile. “So you do believe in demons.”
“No,” she says, rolling her eyes, “but you can’t deny the house’s history. Weird stuff happens there. People go missing.” A visible shiver runs through her, and she looks at me with a crease between her eyebrows. “People die.”
I swallow down the unease as I suppress a shudder. “They could all be coincidences.”
“They could be, but locals stay away from that property for a reason.” She sweeps her gaze over our little group. “Everyone here seems to have forgotten that.”
“Relax,” chuckles Benny around a mouthful of macaroon. “No one is going to die or go missing.”
This conversation makes me uncomfortable, so I stand up and make my way over to the counter. The middle-aged man in front of me orders a slice of berry pie and a black coffee. Once the register slides open and shut, the man leaves with his tray. A dash of black and red shifts in my periphery, and I whip my head around.
“Can I help you?” the lady behind the counter asks, but I can barely hear her.
Overhead, the bell dings as the man I spied in the forest leaves the café. It’s him. It has to be.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, turning around and walking out.
It must be the same man.
The bell dings again as I hurry outside, coming to an abrupt halt. I scan the desolate sidewalk and the parking lot, but there’s no sign of him.
Where did he go?
A warm, stifling breeze chases away the chills on my arms, and the insect bite itches, so I scratch it, ignoring the bite of pain.
