Page 11 of Housesitter

“Thanks,” Doncaster said, flustered. He pulled away from Shepherd quicker than was polite. That was normal. Shepherd made some people uncomfortable no matter how ‘normal’ he acted. Doncaster brushed himself down as he gave the root a hard look. “I came in this way; I could have sworn…”

He trailed off as he realized where that train of thought went. It was one thing to acknowledge in vague terms that the Hell House had a ‘dark history,’ another to actually think too hard about the things that had happened. Take that first step, and it was hard to take it back.

Luckily, Doncaster shied back from the edge as he gave a quick shudder to physically shed the brief flirtation with the idea of anything that wasn’t natural.

“Forward that inventory to me,” he said, his voice turned harsh with the close call. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

He left quickly. As the garden gate swung shut behind him, Shepherd saw something on the path. He stooped down and picked it up, the thick, photo-quality paper slick between his fingers. A woman with bright red hair and the same smile as Kel was sprawled back over the hood of a Mustang. Her acid-green jeans were a sour contrast to the slick cherry finish of the paintwork.

“You dropped—” he started to say, but Doncaster was already occupied with something else. A tall man in workout gear and a weighted vest had stopped to talk to him, gesturing at the house and frowning at whatever Doncaster had to say back.

Shepherd glanced at the photo and shrugged. If it was important, there would be a copy somewhere. He folded it, feeling the ink crackle, and stuck it into his back pocket. If there was one thing he’d learned since becoming part of the real world, it was that there was always another copy.

And another con artist, he reminded himself as he turned back to face the house. Which reminded him…

He narrowed his eyes at what felt like the focal point of the house’s facade, the gable windows that glared out on either side of the back door, and pointed a finger at it.

“Don’t get attached,” he said. “You can’t keep him.”

It was a house. Cursed or not, it didn’t have a face to pull, yet somehow, the vibe was still that of a cat haughtily ignoring you as it chewed on its foot.

Fuck.

Chapter Four

Hell House Client Brief: The creatures in the well SAY they don't bite. They lie.

Kel turned the spoon over to squint at the hallmark on the back of it.

It could be silver. It could be Temu.

Either way, he stirred his fresh cup of coffee with it and then leaned down to casually stash it in his shoe. The stiff shank of it pressed uncomfortably against the side of his foot, but he could live with that.

He could find someone to tell him what it was, and what it was worth. Probably not that much, on its own. There was a whole drawer full of forks and knives and a whole roll of heavy-bladed knives with stained wooden handles.

It could be blood; it could be a maker’s mark from some up-themselves artisan knife-maker. Either way, there was a market. Maybe three or four if you separated the collectors by interest: paranormal, true crime, likes to touch murder stuff. There was crossover, of course, but it was the pitch that mattered.

In Kel’s experience, the value of something had nothing to do with anything as crass as how much it cost. It all came down to the story, and how much the buyer thought they were getting one over on you.

Whenever Kel saw a mark try and hide that ‘he’s got no idea what he has’ flash of glee from him, he knew they were hooked.

The back door creaked open, and the housesitter came back in. Kel drank his hot coffee and watched with appreciation as the guy scraped his feet on the mat and hung up the keys by the back door.

Partially because you could tell that he didn’t really think about it as he did it. The whole process from coming in the door until he looked at Kel was habit. Habits could be useful.

It was mostly just because Kel really wanted to kiss him. He’d been going to try his hand at seducing the guy anyhow, but the fact he wanted to sweetened the deal.

Although he wasn’t sure the feeling was reciprocated. There wasn’t nearly enough self-loathing in the guy’s face when he’d given Kel the once-over earlier. That was usually the giveaway. Flattering? …no, but Kel was OK with it. He wasn’t a good idea. Honestly, he’d worry about anyone who thought that he was.

Shepherd paused and looked down at himself. He gave the front of his T-shirt a quick brush as if he’d gotten something on it.

“What?” he said.

“Want to get coffee sometime?” Kel asked.

At least he assumed it was him. The words came out of his mouth. It was just a stupid question, and he usually tried to keep those for ChatGPT. He wasn’t the type of guy that ran a honeypot scam. He was sleazy hook-ups and hasty favors in return for not talking about this again. Ever.

Shepherd gave him a suspicious look.