Page 12 of The House on Haven Way

“You have a headache, girl?”

“Yes,” I answer automatically, because I want to get off the phone, and because I’m so used to it being the truth. I want to call Mr. Nigel Salvin of Promises Kept. Maybe it’s his. Or Hugo’s.

“Okay, well, take it easy. Keep your feet tucked in at night.”

I roll my eyes—then stop, staring heavenward. There was a shadow on the ceiling. One that shouldn’t be there. “That’s an old wives’ tale,” I mutter. The shadow leaves. I follow it with my eyes, down the wall, and out the open window, nausea and real, palm-soaking fear covering me.

It’s nothing. It’s symptoms of post-concussion syndrome. It’s signs of swelling in the brain. Optic nerve damage. Probably reinjured myself when I fell during the Great Popcorn Incident of 2026.

“Hey, those Old Wives didn’t get to be old for no reason. Keep your feet tucked in so the ghosts don’t grab you. I don’t want to come up for Halloween and find you with cloudy white eyes and your head on sideways.”

“Stop,” I try to laugh, but I just shiver. “This place isn’t creepy.”

I look around. It’s really nice. I like the way the light streams in the kitchen. I like the way you can open the windows, and your teeth don’t rattle from the rush of the traffic and the pulsating rush of the Green Line trains whooshing. I like the way I have big, sprawling old trees in the yard instead of little saplings in iron cages on the sidewalk. I like the way these big, beautiful trees are turning gold and red. I love the feeling of being safely, quietly alone, with no demands, no unavoidable interruptions from neighbors, sirens, and calls from lawyers and insurance people.

That’s behind me. Now, I have a total break from the rat race, the scary, hectic pace, and even the endless physical therapy that was supposed to help me heal.

It did. I’m so much better than I was. I have a ways to go, but I’m in a good place. This is a good place.

But when I think about the feeling of something grabbing me, the slamming door, the hanging hinge, and the shadow that I literally could watch move and curl like smoke until it crept through the window?

It’s creepy. And I don’t like that.

After the hellish year I’ve had? Ghost Bitch, no. You’re not gonna eff with my piece. Not without getting an exorcism in your face.

I make my farewells to Honey and call Nigel.

His gruff, and what I’ve now learned is called “Geordie” accent, grunts a greeting.

“Did you leave an old metal toolbox here? Under the sink?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did Hugo?”

“No.”

Great. Not a man of many words, that’s for sure. “Did you ever hear that this place is haunted?”

“No. I would know.”

“You would?” My eyebrows arch.

“Yes.”

“Uh... How?”

“There are ways of knowing, usually. I’m one of the ones who knows. I’ve never heard it’s haunted. When I was there, I didn’t see a ghost.”

I blink. “You believe in ghosts?”

“Yes.”

I blink a little longer, eyes struggling to open back up. Sometimes an economy of words is just as bad for my headache as too many. “I see. Well, I don’t.”

“Then why did you ask if the place was haunted?”

“Um. Well. Some odd things happened. The lights have been buzzing and flickering.” I tick it off on my hand.