Page 5 of How I Met Your Murderer

I’d skimmed the lengthy email attachment, and then decided I was better off just hearing about the haunting firsthand when I met the Dolans on my scheduled arrival date of September 2nd. Blinking yellow lights in the back of the van proved my equipment was taking forever to charge, as usual. But this afternoon, I was only here for a tour. I hadn’t yet made up my mind whether I’d start with a stakeout tonight, or if I’d make that tomorrow’s problem.

It was strange, guiding the van onto a dirt road that wound slowly uphill amongst increasingly steeper hills, taking a path that had long been forbidden to visiting schoolkids like me or even local ones from Ballycorven in the time the place had been private property.

Now, the turnoff to Ardruin Castle was marked with sturdy metal signs and colorful pennants proclaiming “Sláinte! Welcome to Céad Míle Fáilte!” and “Céad Míle Fáilte: Where the Mead Flows, the Bards Roar, and Everyone’s a Lord (for the Evening)!”

It promised a much better time than what I was here for.

Still, as I rounded another curve and came within sight of the castle’s newly paved parking area, I didn’t catch any trace of that old, deep shadow staining the castle stones. Maybe this wouldn’t be a day at the beach, but I wasn’t filled with any of that long-ago schoolboy dread as I took in the newly restored ramparts, the fresh roofing that had already been thoughtfully weathered in places, the flag flying the Ardruin family crest above the highest tower to welcome all who happened to glance uphill. It looked like the jewel it must have once been, or perhaps better, something that gave the village hope and a sense of security.

The tourists would go mad for this, especially the Yanks. Most of them seemed to think they were the lords of something or other, anyway.

Two blond figures (one pacing, as if agitated, the other slouching slightly with a hand tucked into his pocket) were waiting for me at the edge of the parking lot. These had to be the Dolan siblings. I quickly cut off the engine and hopped out of the van, smoothing a hand down the front of my dark overalls to make sure there weren’t any biscuit crumbs as I greeted what must be the castle’s new owners under a cloudless, robin’s egg-hued sky.

“Thanks a million for coming out. We’re so glad you’re here. You’re Raff, isn’t that right? And I’m Jordy,” the man greeted me in a clipped Dubliner accent, pulling a dog treat from his pocket and tossing it to the tiny reddish-brown dachshund sniffing around in the grass nearby. “The little lad is Sir Pepperoni MacLeash,” he added, “But you can call him Pepper. All his friends do.”

He dusted off his hand on his jeans and then extended it to me.

As I took it, I studied him for a moment, curious to see whether he might be any help with the haunting if need be: he was about my age, or maybe a few years older, with bottle-blond hair, reddish scruff along his jaw, tattooed Celtic designs decorating his arms and disappearing into the sleeves of his collared shirt, and a couple piercings—gauged ears and a silver septum ring adorning his nose. Clear blue eyes glanced upward to study me in turn, because the man was a great deal shorter and smaller than me. Easy pickings for a poltergeist, I was afraid—even though I liked the way he spoke about his dog and suspected, based on the tattoos and piercings that were completely at odds with his posh shirt, that he was good craic.

“Jordy,” I said, rolling the name around on my tongue. “Where are you from yourself? I had thought Dublin.”

“That’s right,” the man said, bending to scoop up Pepper when the dog started barking a little too frantically at something in the grass closer to the castle. “Me proper name is Seordán, but there’s no way our guests are getting their mouth around that one, so. ‘Jordy’ it is.”

He winked, and finally turned his attention to the woman still pacing at the edge of the lot near the van, typing something on her phone as her heels clicked away on the pavement in time with her steps. Her curly ash-blond hair was pinned in a tightly wound bun atop her head, giving us a clear view of her frown as she glared at her phone. “And this is my sister, who I understand spoke with you about our situation. Caoimhe.”

He drew out the name in long syllables, Kwee-va, trying to get her attention.

She bristled with the irritation of an older sibling and finally raised her glacial blue eyes to mine. “Pleasure,” she huffed, like it wasn’t. “Welcome to Céad Míle Fáilte, where everyone is a lord or lady—Lord Raff,” she said in the same Dubliner accent as her brother. Clipped and nasally. “Hopefully you’ll do a better job than the last lad they sent.”

“Last lad?” That was news to me. I took Caoimhe’s manicured fingers in mine and gave a brief, respectful shake, even though she kind of terrified me.

She frowned like I’d missed a detail from her tome of an email, which I probably had. “You’re the third bloke ExorSquad has dispatched to us this year, as I wrote you. We’re about driven demented by all the shite this ghost keeps pulling when we’re trying to keep to a schedule. Time is money, Lord Raff, as you know.”

Caoimhe, who hadn’t let go of my hand, suddenly seemed to remember that she was supposed to be putting on a welcoming air, and gave my fingers a warm squeeze. Stepping in closer, she smiled through mulberry-tinted lips and added with forced cheer: “You don’t have to do much to impress us, really. The last lad died in his second week here, so if you can just help us make it to the grand opening without anyone else getting hurt, I’ll send a glowing review to your boss even if the damned ghost is still hanging around the place.” With that, she stepped back and openly sized me up. I guess she liked what she saw, because she gave a brisk, satisfied nod and said more brightly, “No bother at all, right?”

No bother at all. I nodded stiffly.

So much for a piece of cake. From the sound of things and the grim look Caoimhe trained on her phone, it seemed I’d be lucky to survive long enough to make it to dessert.

I could already picture my gravestone, a speck on the sunny hillside below the castle.

HERE LIES LORD RAFF: HE DIDN’T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT.

three

Demon Dog

Eric

There was a stranger at the castle. Not that that was anything unusual—since the Dolans bought the place and swept in with new money and new energy, there were always fresh faces breezing through the stone entryway with its tasteful navy carpet runners and seasonal floral arrangements.

There were labourers in hard hats always working up a sweat, who I liked to tease by rearranging the layers of their sandwiches or hiding their lunchboxes. There were interior decorators, like prim, upright British Basil, who I also liked to tease because he had enthusiastically joined Caoimhe Dolan in her mission to wage war on the castle’s spirits (as if a smoke cleanse was going to waft us out the windows). There was the historic preservation consultant, on whom my most impressive manifestations were utterly wasted. She really needed glasses and seemed to be in denial about it, as I found out when I summoned the energy to appear behind her in the bathroom mirror and didn’t even earn a small shriek.

But there was something different about this latest arrival, something that made me hover for a closer look even though I’d seen a few uniforms like his pass through here before—and it wasn’t just that he looked to be about the age I was when I died, even though that definitely made me nostalgic in the same way I got when one of the workers brought in a messy cheeseburger and well-seasoned chips for dinner.

No, it was the stranger’s energy. His soul. What can’t be created or destroyed, something I’d never considered much beyond passing AP physics in school until I became a ghost—until it’s all I was, and all I could rely on to get anything done in the world I had only half left behind.

His energy was hot, bright, clean. Crackling against mine like the static in a storm scattering across your arms just before lightning strikes. Sure, the living all had warmer energies, but this was a moth and flame situation. I could ignore most of the living when I wanted to, but this man held my attention captive despite his rather grumpy demeanor.