I smack the spot. My hand comes away with a smear of blood and a smushed mosquito, injecting me with a momentary surge of vindictive glee. I’m not normally a murderer of living things. If I find a spider and don’t like where it is, I’ll catch it in a cup and move it elsewhere. If I’m put in charge of a plant, I’ll go through extra pains to ensure it doesn’t suffer under my watch. Once, I accidentally ran over a squirrel and assigned it an entirehuman life, complete with a squirrel husband and squirrel daughter waiting for its squirrel mother to come home. I spent the rest of the day in mourning. But I draw the line with sanguinivores.
I wipe its guts on the tarp.
Twig ducks under a crumbling archway and slides the proton pack off his shoulders. It’s not really a proton pack. It doesn’t suck up ghosts like the one fromGhostbusters. But it does house our most important supernatural gear—a full-spectrum camera, a night-vision camcorder, an EMF meter, and a temperature gun, along with glow sticks and flashlights and an air horn in case of emergency. This was Carl Calloway’s idea—Twig’s dad—who isn’t nearly as concerned with ghosts and cryptids as he is about a potential run in with a territorial bear or a mean coyote.
I unzip the front pouch, where Twig keeps our non-paranormal essentials. He apologizes about being late and takes a seat beside me. The tarp rustles beneath him. I dig past spare batteries, a power pack, a Swiss army knife, a first aid kit, some granola bars, and grab the can of bug spray. Squeezing my eyes shut and holding my breath, I spray my face, my hands, and the air around us with no sympathy at all.
Die, bloodsuckers. Die.
When I’m finished, I wave my hands through the toxic cloud.
“Any sign of her?” Twig asks with a cough.
“Not yet,” I reply.
He removes the night-vision camcorder from his bag, along with a folded up tripod.
I tear open a granola bar. “So, why the late arrival?”
“Mom needed help cleaning up after the parade committee meeting, and I got cornered by Mrs. Tibbs, who went on a full tirade about her workload.” He lifts a finger and launches into the perfect Mrs. Tibbs impression. “There’s only so many pioneer frocks one retired teacher can sew!By the time we got her out the door, Dad was just getting home from his bowling league. And get this.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, a habit leftover from elementary school. “He told me that Denis Tulane is looking for a groundskeeper.”
I nearly choke on a bite of granola bar. “What?”
“He heard it from Red. Apparently, he did some repairs on the estate a couple days ago, and Mr. Tulane asked if he knew of anyone who might be interested in a groundskeeping position. Red mentioned Benny, but of course, Benny already has a job working for the city. So Benny told Red to tell Mr. Tulane about your dad.”
My mind has gone spastic—a swirl of chaotic energy.
Mr. Denis Tulane is the recluse I’ve been pestering with emails and handwritten letters ever since Twig and I started our podcast,Accounts of the Uncanny. He’s the former butler for the Vandenbergs, the last known person to see the family of four alive before they vanished without a tracethirty years ago. For five years after, the estate sat abandoned. Then reports of trespassing and vandalism had Denis moving back in. And there he has lived ever since. All by himself for the past two and a half decades.
“Why would he be looking for a groundskeeper now?” I ask.
“Because,” Twig says, his eyes twinkling in the dark. “A new Vandenberg family is moving to town.”
2
MOVING DAY
ONE MONTH LATER
Istep out of Dad’s Ford Bronco beneath a moody sky, feeling like a princess in a dream. Up until now, I’ve only ever seen the Vandenberg Estate through the gaps of its black iron fence. This evening, I’m standinginsidethat fence, unable to take a proper breath. Judging by the look on Twig’s face, he can’t either.
Dad lets out a low whistle.
It isn’t directed at the gothic manor looming before us—a sprawling mansion with stone gargoyles, lancet windows, and towering turrets. It’s directed at the grounds. Two thousand, five hundred acres of them, most of which have gone wild and overgrown. Caring for them will be a massive undertaking. So massive, in fact, Mr. Tulane requires his new groundskeeper to live on site. Which means we saidarrivedercito our dingydoublewide andbuongiornoto our very own carriage house, with walls of gray stone covered in creeping ivy, and a set of old-fashioned carriage doors that are no longer functional but offer plenty of charm.
My new home.
Dad walks around his Bronco to the small trailer hitched to the back, gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He slides open the hatch, revealing the sparse interior.
The carriage house comes fully furnished, which means we didn’t have to bring any of our derelict furniture. Twig and I sold it all in a yard sale last week. Unpacking should be a breeze.
We each grab a box.
Inside, the main level is wide open—one giant room with a kitchen, a dining area, a living area, and a ceiling two stories high. My attention travels up the staircase, where the bedrooms are.
Dad gives the first stair a test with his boot, like he’s checking its sturdiness, then turns to me with a fond tip of his chin, his brown eyes soft with amusement. “You know I don’t care where I sleep.”
The invitation is clear.
