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Sometimes, an atrocity could scar the land, make it a haven for ghosts and spirits. When a series of murders or horrible acts took place in one area, the spirits could latch onto the land. Or, sometimes, the energy of the acts twisted and tainted it in some way. I didn’t fully understand the concept—that was more up Camille’s alley—but I knew that some places felt evil. More often than not, something horrible had happened there.
The Greenbelt Park District was shrouded in history. The buildings had a weathered feel to them; they were old stonework, gray and beaten down by the rains. The masons who’d worked on them didn’t build a development—they had built one building at a time, to the specifications of the old money that had lived here. Even the buildings and houses that had been abandoned or let go had an aura of mystery to them, and a quiet, decrepit elegance.
Seattle was known as the Emerald City because it was rich in trees, and the Greenbelt Park District more than lived up to its name. Looming firs and cedars overhung the streets in the residential areas. A number of the shops were interspersed with old, crumbling apartment buildings. The neighborhoods still had people living in them, but a lot of the stores sat empty, and there was a deserted, uneasy feel to the streets.
Following Camille, I turned right on Foster. The street narrowed and I wove in and out around the few parked cars. They were nice cars, but older makes, and weathered as if the owners didn’t have the money to keep them up. The ever-present trees crowded the streets, their branches leaning on power lines that stretched across the roads.
Three blocks more and the Lexus turned into a large circular turnaround, pulling through what had once been a gated drive. The gates hung open, half yanked off their posts. Up at the house, I could see lights glowing from within the two-story mansion, and Chase’s car was already there, on the side of the drive away from the house. It sat alongside a black BMW and what looked like a silver Camry. The tires of the cars had rutted the road, and mud puddles sparkled under the glow of a series of lampposts.
I pulled in behind Camille and jumped out of the car, hurrying over to her. “You feel anything?” I asked, staring up at the foreboding mansion.
Morio frowned, worrying his lower lip. “There are spirits. I can feel them from here. They aren’t just in the house but on the grounds. In fact, remember Harold Young’s place?”
“How can I forget? That was a house of horrors.” I didn’t want to remember. Some memories—some people—were better off being pushed to the past and left there.
“This is worse.” Morio looked around at me, his eyes glowing. “This…is scary big.”
Camille slid her arm through his and nodded. “He’s right. I guess we should go in. I don’t want to be out here when the ghosts begin to walk.”
We headed across the drive, careful to avoid the ruts and muddy water, and dashed up the wide stairs leading to the veranda. A long porch ran the complete length of the house and curved to both sides. My guess was that it completely encircled the mansion, bound on the outside by a white—or what had once been white—banister. The steps creaked, a symptom of old age, and as we reached the door and knocked, I felt a give in the porch floor that strongly suggested it would soon be time to change it out for a new one.
The door opened. Chase was standing there. He silently stood aside, letting the others enter.
I paused, unable to cross the threshold. “You have to invite me in, Chase.”
“Oh shit, that’s right. Come in, please.” He nodded me through and I was able to pass the invisible demarcation line. Contrary to popular rumor, the owner of the building didn’t have to be the one issuing the invitation—just someone who was already welcome in the home. Nor were private residences off limits if they were used in a public manner—like a frat house, for example, or an apartment above a grocery, or a law firm housed in a home.
As I entered, it struck me that a lot of mansions were laid out in similar patterns. A grand staircase in the center of the foyer, a left and right wing off to the sides. But unlike Sassy’s mansion, or even the grand hall of the Rainier Puma Pride, this one had seen better days.
Old paper that had once been a deep crimson, with ovals containing yellow pineapples in their centers, hung in strips, curling off the walls. It looked like the new owners were helping it along, but I could tell that—along the molding at the ceiling—it had started to peel on its own. The crown molding was worn, and I thought I saw mildew on one end. The staircase was badly in need of a makeover, the polish long gone from both steps and railing. The chandelier—whatever it had been—had been removed and it looked like a new one was ready to go up, sitting to the side in a pile of plastic wrap.
Camille raised her eyebrows. “Real fixer-upper.”
“Looks like they’re diving into the project.” I turned to Chase. “Who are these people? You said they’re friends of yours?”
He nodded. “Fritz and Abby Liebman. I’ve known Fritz from when we were in the police academy together. He decided to switch fields and go the lawyer route. Abby works from home. She’s an artist and illustrates bird-watching guides for several major publishers.” He nodded to the right of the stairway. “They’re in the living room, waiting. Let’s go.”
We followed him down the dark hall until we came to an open door. As we entered, I noticed that one entire wall had been gutted, with the exception of a load-bearing beam. We were looking into another room, just as spacious. The wallpaper had been fully stripped; primer spackled the walls. The lights were hanging from the fixtures. A sander sat on the floor—which was stripped of its stain and polish—and so much dust filled the air that Camille and Delilah started to sneeze.
A woman leaped up from her place on one of the footstools that was covered by a tarp—all the furniture in the room was swathed in plastic. She was short, about five three, with short red hair. Sturdy, she looked like an athlete. She bobbed her head at us.
“Hi, I’m Abby. I’ll get some lemonade. I forget just how bad the dust is in here—I guess I’m getting used to it.” She started through a side door, then paused. “Chase…Fritz, would one of you come with me?” The quiver in her voice belied her nervousness.
Fritz stood up and dusted his hands on his jeans. He didn’t look like a lawyer, but more like a lumberjack. But he had an easy grace about him and a winning smile. He glanced at us. “Let me help Abby and we’ll be right back. Make yourselves at home.”
As they left the room, we scouted places to sit. The furniture looked old and dilapidated, and I suspected that it had been here when they bought the place.
When Fritz and Abby returned, he was carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of lemonade on it, and she held a plate of cookies. But before they could reach us, Fritz suddenly let out a shout. From where I was sitting, I could see the imprint of hands against the back of his shirt, as he went stumbling forward. I leaped up as he hit the floor, the pitcher and glasses shattering as they bounced off the tray onto the hardwood.
“Fritz!” Abby shoved the cookies into Chase’s hands and went down on her knees on the other side, fear washing across her face.
Glass was everywhere. Camille and Morio stood, holding hands and closing their eyes, as Delilah reached down to help Abby.
“Fritz, are you hurt?” I didn’t see any blood, and he blinked, so he was conscious. But the shove had been pretty hard and I was worried that he might have broken a leg or arm.
He shook his head, struggling to sit up. I helped him avoid the shattered glass and lifted him up and over to the sofa, where he leaned forward, stunned.
“Damn, you’re strong.” He glanced up at me. “I’m okay. I think I am, at least.”
