It's my New Year's resolution to get a first draft of The Carousel up and running, and this is meant to be an early access point for the flavor of the story and a sense of who Caris is. Let me know what you think.
It was a pleasant afternoon, upper seventies. And I was on my way to meet with a potential client who lived in the nicer part of the city’s outskirts. She claimed she was hearing discordant voices singing in her attic and was convinced of a supernatural presence.
I’d never wandered down this street before but I thought I might rectify that in the future. With very little traffic and townhouses lining both sides with a grassy median down the middle of the road, it made me think of a theme park recreation of Hollywood Boulevard. Best of all, I hadn’t received a single catcall in blocks.
I tapped on the door of my destination and a few seconds later an attractive thirty-ish brunette with an adorable pair of librarian glasses opened it. “Mrs. Henner?” I smiled. “I’m Caris. We spoke over the phone-”
“Yes, come in,” Mrs. Henner replied without returning my smile. “May I offer you a drink? We have beer, juice…”
“Thank you, just a water. You have a lovely home.”
“It costs more than it’s worth.” She sneered, stepping into the kitchen and filling a glass for me using the ice maker on her refrigerator.
I made myself comfortable on her den sofa, adjusting my skirt so it covered the features to which it was designed. Mrs. Henner returned to where I was and handed me the glass before sitting across the coffee table from me. “So, how do we do this?”
I sipped from the glass (twice filtered water, yummy) and set it down on a coaster. “The best thing is to start with some personal questions if you’re okay with that. If your home has been touched by the otherworld and it’s making itself known to you and your husband then it may be testing you.”
“Do you do this full time?”
“Heavens no. I’m a stripper,” I laughed. “There’s not a lot of money in demonology. In fact, none from what I can tell, unless I start lying to people.”
“Aren’t you about nineteen?”
“Twenty-two, but thank you,” I smiled. “I had a really good mentor. Are you ready?”
Mrs. Henner nodded and gave me the sweeping picture of her life. One husband of four years who was a bank teller. No children and no pets. Mrs. Henner worked in public relations which was a less consistent but more lucrative job than her husband had. No history behind the house that she was aware of and no mental illness in her family that she was admitting to. Basically, the situation was a blank slate.
“And you usually hear the voices at night?”
“Yes.”
“But not consistently.”
“No, why? Does it matter?”
I acted as if the question was rhetorical. Experience had taught me that most people who were willing to e-mail a 'specialist' with no verifiable credentials didn't take kindly to being told their hauntings were nothing more than an aging air unit. I found my penlight in my purse. “Do you mind if I take a look in the attic?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Henner showed me to the hallway where the door to the attic resided, tugging on the tell-tale string that unfolded the wooden ladder.
“Has your husband heard the voices?”
“No. I guess maybe he’s not…what? In tune with them?”
I climbed most of the way up the ladder and stopped on the third step from the top, shining my penlight around the attic. Nothing particularly remarkable about it; insulation, cobwebs, boxes, a few old lamps.
“There’s a switch overhead,” Mrs. Henner informed me.
“Some things are easier to see in the dark, especially when you know what you’re looking for.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“About ten seconds,” I joked, giving Mrs. Henner a grin. She wasn’t even hiding her interest in the convenient upskirt view of my backside. I could tell I was being appraised, which was probably a stronger clue than anything I'd find in the attic.
“No, how long have you been communicating with ghosts?”
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “As best as I can figure I’ve never actually experienced any sort of ethereal connection.”
“Seriously? You're admitting to being a fake?”
“I'm not saying that, I'm just into full disclosure.” I hopped down from the ladder. “It's actually not necessary when you know what to look for and subsequently what to do about it.”
“How does that work?”
I shrugged. “The same way doctors can cure diseases they haven't contracted themselves. My track record is pretty good.” I clicked off the penlight and replaced it in its cradle. “So. No singing at the moment. Can you give me any kind of description of what it sounds like?”
“How would you feel about spending the weekend here?” Mrs. Henner suggested.
“The weekend?” I repeated.
“I’ll be going out of town until Sunday. You stay, diagnose the house, eat whatever you want in the refrigerator.”
“What about your husband?”
“He’ll be here in case you need anything.”
Yep. That was all I needed. “That’s a very generous offer, but it won't be necessary.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Henner gave me a skeptical look. It was the first time her expression had changed.
I slipped past her intentionally giving off the impression I was heading for my water glass in the den. I wasn't.
“I have questionably good news and unquestionably bad news,” I told her once I was comfortably near the door. “The good news is, I don’t believe there is a supernatural presence here. At least not one that will cause you any concern.”
“But there could be something here nonetheless?”
“There’s always a possibility, but that's not the bad news.”
“Which is?” Mrs. Henner gave me an irritated look.
“Let me ask you a question, and there’s a point to it. It’s really important. Fair?”
Mrs. Henner gave me a confused nod.
“What kind of underwear am I wearing?”
She kind of lost flow of the conversation for a moment and I waited for her to find it again. “I’m…what?”
“No seriously, it’s important.”
“How does that matter?”
“It matters that you got a pretty good look.” I smiled my poker face smile, which has gotten me out of three parking violations.
“An orange thong,” she said grumbled. “What does that have to do with-”
“You know nothing about me Mrs. Henner. Yet here I am in your home with nothing more than my word supporting my claims, and you're willing to leave me here for the weekend with your husband.”
“So what are you saying?” she demanded.
“I’m saying I'm a twenty-two year old stripper, not someone a woman blindly leaves alone with her husband. But not only are you unconcerned about what might happen while you’re away, but it's fairly clear you're hoping for it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Any number of reasons. You’re having an affair for which you want to push the guilt off on your husband. You want out of the marriage but you have to fabricate a reason. It doesn't really matter. The point is, you don't need a demonologist with a website, you need a counselor and/or an attorney.”
“How could you possibly-” she trailed off. However she planned to finish the sentence wouldn't have mattered anyway.
“And any doubts I may have had are assuaged by the fact that haven’t you thrown me out for the accusation.”
She stood stunned and I took that as my cue to back towards the door. I’d just reached the knob when she recovered from the bizarreness of the conversation. “I’ll pay you.”
“I’m not a counselor.”
“I’ll pay you to sleep with my husband,” she snapped (although 'sleep with' wasn't the phrase she used but I try to be as classy as possible).
“Mrs. Henner,” I said, still smiling but awkwardly now, “I’m a stripper, not a prostitute.”
“What’s the difference?”
I took in a breath. “My answer.” One twist of the knob and I was back out in the sanctity of suburbia street. “It was very nice meeting you. You have a lovely home. And now I’m going to run away from whatever this is.”
I did and I didn’t look back. Sadly I'd never wander down that beautiful street again.
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