Page 14 of Some Kind of Haunted

“Lexi?”

It’s Logan’s voice from down the hall. Hearing it gives me the strangest feeling, like I’m emerging from some kind of spell.

I clear my throat. “That’s my brother. I better find him.”

“Oh, you must be the Darlings.” He says this like that’s great news, which seems surprising to me after the reception I got from Jack and the whole creepy vibe of the town. “My girl—granddaughter, adopted—worked for Amelia.”

She must be one of the future owners. I wonder if she likes that her grandfather announces her adoption to strangers, but I smile. “I think I’m going to meet her later this morning. At the store.”

“She’s real eager to meet Amelia’s grandkids. They were the best of friends, Amelia and my Nora. She’s a sweet girl. Quiet, but sweet. You’ll like her.”

I don’t know where he gets the conviction that I will like this random stranger who’s quiet and sweet, but then, he was right about what antiques I’d like. And he seems nice. Genuine, maybe. I want to take it as some kind of good omen amongst all these terrible ones.

Not to mention last night’s trail of horror through my poor, damaged psyche.

“Lexi!” Logan’s voice is louder now. Possibly even concerned, which I am tempted to draw out and savor, but maybe not while knee-deep in small-town “treasures” that include eyeless dolls and limp plush toys with the stuffing poking out, carefully arranged on the shelf behind the old man.

“It was nice to meet you, Lexi.” The proprietor smiles at me, then holds out his shaky hand. “Harrison. Harrison Bellamy. You come back and see me sometime.”

I shake his hand, concerned about the tremor. Maybe he has some sort of condition, but I can’t ask a stranger to list his maladies. This is apparently frowned upon, according to my brother. “You have a very unique store, Mr. Bellamy.”

“Call me Harrison,” he says, releasing my hand.

“Where the hell are you?” Logan says like he’s talking to himself, coming down a narrow aisle between stuffy dressers and old-timey wagons. He sees me and rolls his eyes, but I know both that he was worried and that he’ll never admit it. “Way to answer. We have to get over to the knitting store. I told them we’d be there by ten.” He hands me a paper cup. “I got your coffee to go. And, don’t kill me, a bagel.”

I take the cup, too weirded out about the clock tower needle point and dead babies to care about a bagel that obviously wasn’t made in New York City, which is the only place a bagel should be made and eaten—and my brother knows my feelings on this. “Thanks.”

Logan leads me away from the rooms full of antiques, but he’s looking at the store’s offerings as we walk. His gaze is assessing, and there are no eyeless dolls in petticoats along the route he takes. “There’s actually some nice stuff in here. I might have to come back.”

“To do a bit of antiquing in between legal matters and probate?” I ask in a deliberately bland voice.

My brother grins. “Like you know what probate is.”

I look back at my new friend, Harrison. He’s sitting in a rickety chair, alphabetizing books. He gives me a little wave, and I think that maybe it really wouldn’t be so bad to come back.

Maybe this town won’t be the death of me after all.

Chapter Six

Logan and I exit the diner/antique store combo and are back on the street in the overly warm, sunny morning.

“We’re running a little late,” he says, clearly blaming me for this. When he’s the one who sent me off to the bathroom, knowing I didn’t have to go, so how is it my fault I ended up sucked into an antique store vortex?

Not to mention he sat idly by and let a hot waiter hate on me, so really, he has only himself to blame.

I glance back at the diner entrance as we walk. The sun is glinting off the windows, so I can’t see anything, but it feels like someone is watching me. Not quite the ominous-clock-tower-looming-at-me feeling, but someone is definitely keeping their eyes on me all the same.

The face in the window.

I shake this thought away, though in my head, that face is now Jack’s. And I know better than to believe my own psychosis, really I do, but Midas is making it harder than it should be.

I try to hold on to the warm feeling of welcome that Harrison offered. I gulp down a few sips of the tolerable coffee, then swallow a few bites of subpar bagel. Maybe this town is giving me emotional whiplash—for a whole host of reasons—but that doesn’t mean I can’t focus on the positive end of that spectrum.

My therapist insists that gratitude is a practice, and the reward of that practice is joy.

I would personally settle for a little less anxiety and a few less nightmares. Joy seems a little out of reach.

Darling Knits & Notions is right across the narrow street. A cute sign in the shop door has Open printed on it, with little knitting needles and a font that makes the letters look like they’re made of yarn. On this side of the street, the tall buildings partially block the sun so the sidewalk is in shadow. I expect creepiness, but it’s a nice reprieve from the relentless sun in the bright blue of the October sky.