Page 59 of The Witch

Ethel’s eyebrows shoot all the way up to her hairline. “What do you mean?”

“I found a man who has equipment that can be used to communicate with…with people on the other side.” I can’t bring myself to tell her he’s a ghost hunter. I don’t think I could say it without cringing at how silly it sounds. “I was hoping he could come to Pemberton to investigate.”

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking this over. “He won’t hurt her, will he?”

How does one “hurt” a person who is no longer alive? But Ethel’s concern is touching. I never realized what a sensitive person she is, but ever since I found out about the child she must have been forced to give away, I’ve been seeing her with fresh eyes.

“He won’t hurt her,” I say. “The goal is to help her.”

The truth is, I have no idea what Dixon will do. Henry thought he was a con artist, which means he might not do much at all. I’m not entirely sure what to make of Dixon. Henry could be absolutely right, and maybe Dixon is just taking me for a ride. But right now, he’s my only chance to find out if there really is a three-hundred-year-old woman haunting the halls of Pemberton.

After an interminable pause, Ethel flashes me a nervous smile. “I’ve always wanted to try talking to her. Do you think we’ll be able to do that?”

“We might.”

If Caroline is able to communicate with us, she can tell us why her spirit has hung around the halls of Pemberton for over three hundred years. If such a thing as ghosts exists and she really is one, there must be a reason why she hasn’t crossed over. Maybe she has some sort of unfinished business.

Or maybe what she wants is payback for the grave injustice that was done to her by our ancestors all those years ago.

43

Ethel has cleaned the whole house top to bottom in anticipation of the ghost hunter. She also cut up cucumber slices, but I get the feeling Alistair Dixon is not a cucumber-slices sort of guy.

Dixon wanted to meet in the evening, because he claimed most supernatural events occur after sundown. Our appointment is for eight o’clock, but he shows up at 8:17. When Ethel and I greet him at the front door, he’s wearing the same army fatigue jacket he wore at the coffee shop, and he doesn’t appear to have shaved since I met him three days ago. He’s got a large duffel bag hanging off his left shoulder.

“Alistair Dixon, ghost hunter.” He holds out his hand to Ethel, who takes it gingerly. “I’m here to help you with your supernatural infiltration.”

“My name is Ethel Eldridge,” she says. “My sister and I own Pemberton.”

That’s not exactly true though. My grandmother owns Pemberton, since Ethel was cut out of the will, likely due to her illegitimate pregnancy. But there’s no point in correcting her in front of this man. For all intents and purposes, Ethel runs this household.

We step back to let Dixon enter the foyer. He drops his duffel bag and holds his hands out in front of him, as if carrying a weight we can’t see.

“Wow.” He bobs his head. “I definitely sense a supernatural presence in this house. It’s very intense. I’m glad you called me when you did.”

I glance over at Ethel, who is watching him intently. She seems to be eating this up. “You’ve seen a lot of this?” she asks.

“All the time,” Dixon says soberly. “Trust me—you’re in good hands. If there’s a ghost in this house, I’m going to find her.”

Dixon hauls his giant duffel bag into the living room and drops it on the floor with a loud thud, which seems like a strange thing to do if it contains a lot of sensitive equipment. While he rifles around inside, he comments, “I guess your boyfriend decided not to come for this, Julia.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about Henry. “That man is not my boyfriend. And I’m sorry he was so rude to you.”

“He wasn’t rude. He’s a skeptic, and he thought he was trying to protect you.” Dixon lifts his gaze from the bag to look up at me. “But in actuality, he was trying to protect himself. And for that reason, I feel sorry for him.”

Right now, I’m really glad Henry isn’t here because I don’t think he’d be able to stop himself from commenting.

“Anyway.” Dixon gets to his feet, holding a heavy rectangular device in his palm. “Henry Ziegler has a good reason for pretending that life ends when your heart stops beating, even if we don’t know what that reason is. Hell, he might not know what that reason is.”

I’m not sure what he meant by that cryptic statement, but I don’t ask him. He’s busy now fiddling with some sort of device he pulled out of his bag. It’s bright red and somehow reminds me of this toy I had when I was very young; I used to shake it, and it made cow sounds.

“This is an REM pod,” he says reverently. “It creates an electromagnetic field, and then an alarm goes off if anything disturbs it, such as a paranormal presence.”

“Is that safe?” Ethel asks anxiously.

“In my job, I’m used to risking my safety,” Dixon says in a grave voice. “But the two of you ladies should probably step back.”

Obligingly, Ethel and I step outside the living room and watch Dixon set up the REM pod. Ethel nudges me with her arm. “He certainly does seem to know what he’s doing.”