Twenty Years Later
Benedict circled the room, inspecting a fireplace almost as high as he was tall. He scrutinized the matching ceramic vases on either side, the white chesterfield sofa and chairs arranged around a marble coffee table, and finally, the massive gilded mirror dominating one wall. The home, recently purchased, was impeccably furnished for the design of the estate without giving up the antique feeling this place oozed. Benedict Lyon liked it. He could see himself living here, if it weren't haunted.
"It's a bit much," Emmeline commented, as though hearing his thoughts, which she could not do. In his life, he'd met just about every spiritualist there was and never found one that could really read thoughts, though he had had the pleasure of meeting a few mentalists who had certainly made it look like they could.
Benedict ignored her remark and paused in his inspection of the house to give himself a once-over in the gilded mirror. He ghosted fingers across the black wave of his hair, swept up and sprayed into place, back from his face. He had been told his wide, red mouth had a lustful quality; he didn't see it himself, but he liked knowing it was there. His vest hugged his waist, creating the cut of a silhouette he chased with unhindered vanity. His family had never been inclined to fear sins, only what they left behind on the world. As long as he knew himself well enough to see those flaws, neither his vanity nor his pride would bring him down.
Emmeline coughed, a forced sound to remind him that he was on the clock and not at home.
He spun away from the mirror and considered the room as a whole. He had made a show of studying the last four rooms on the first floor with the same intensity.
Mr. Whittle followed him closely but stayed breathlessly quiet, no more than a whisper of silk trailing him through the house. The man, well into his fifties but fit enough to shame most thirty-year-olds, had called through his network of associations and friends to reach out to the Lyons—a family known for being gifted. Benedict had giggled at that term as a boy, and he still did sometimes, when no one was around to notice. Mr. Whittle and his husband had been hoping for Benedict's eldest brother, Elysium, or even his cousin, Theodore, who had become a flashy medium with his own TV special. Instead, they got Benedict, the runt of the illustrious ghost-hunting family.
Luckily, no one, including Mr. Whittle, had any idea just how much of a psychic dullard Benedict was.
Emmeline groaned, twirling in frustration near the door. She got bored easily. "There's nothing in here but tacky furniture!"
Benedict flashed her a frown. He liked the furniture.
Emmeline's dress fluttered around her thighs, falling back into place when she stopped spinning. The blue cotton ballooned out at her hips, creating a bell-shape that accentuated the narrowest part of her body just under her bust. She was far from a slim girl, that bell of skirt full of hips and thighs. Her dark hair was in a messy tie, always caught in the moment before it fell to obscure her heart-shaped face.
"There is definitely a presence here," Benedict said solemnly, countering her outburst of boredom. He turned toward Mr. Whittle.
The man held his hands to his chest, clutching at an invisible lump. "We had to move the kids back to the house in the city," he complained. "It was just a few sounds and things disappearing at first."
Emmeline rolled her eyes and spun away from the room, turning up the staircase and stomping away on bare feet. "If you have a house in the city, then move back to it!" she shouted before grumbling, "Rich people…"
Mr. Whittle let out a groan of distress, sliding closer to Benedict. "Please, your brother said you'd be able to clean the house—"
"Cleanse," Benedict corrected quickly, not liking the sound of cleaning any house that wasn't his own. "I can sense something amiss, but there doesn't seem to be anything rooted in these rooms. May we continue upstairs?"
"Of course. Please." Mr. Whittle nodded eagerly and led the way to the second floor. "We were planning to do a remodel. Do you think that could have caused the unrest?"
Benedict smiled gently. "From the beautiful state of your home, I suspect you did a bit of remodeling when you moved in."
Mr. Whittle flashed a pleased grin, proud of his home.
"I doubt the spirit minds then. It's not like you're planning to knock the house down, are you?"
"No, no. Nothing like that."
They reached the second-floor landing, and Mr. Whittle opened the first door to the right and disappeared inside. "This is my daughter's room."
Benedict stopped before he reached it, staring straight down the hallway to the very end.
Emmeline stood there, staring up a narrow staircase. She seemed frozen, stalk-still and holding her breath.
Mr. Whittle poked his head back out of the bedroom. "Mister Lyon?"
Benedict ignored him, taking measured steps toward her. Her lips moved, the faintest of whispers rushing out. He could nearly make out her words, the flood of them so hurried, almost hissing. Her head snapped to the side, gaze locking with Benedict's, and he jerked to a stop.
"What's up there?" he asked.
"A playroom for the kids," Mr. Whittle replied. "Haven't really used it in years, not since they outgrew it. We're planning to turn it into a guest apartment."
Benedict continued to hold Emmeline's gaze. She was unreadable, with too many emotions beyond the understanding of the living. She turned away as though drawn from him in a trance and went up the stairs. Benedict's stomach dropped, certain that something awful would happen as soon as she was out of sight.
He knew he was frightening Mr. Whittle now, but he couldn't wait to explain. He hurried after her with the older man on his heels.
Benedict took the stairs two at a time and came up in the attic playroom. It was bright, lit from the half-circle windows dominating the triangular wall on the far side. A bright blue rug spread across the white-painted wood floor while mirrors and pictures dressed the walls. A comfortable couch sat to the left and little play furniture had been pushed to the far end of the room. A large chest of toys and a stack of board games were arranged in the corner. It was the sort of messy that looked designed, ready for a photoshoot.
"There's a child's ghost here," Emmeline said quietly, staring at the corner with the games and toys. "He likes this room the way it is but misses the other kids." Her fingers curled slightly, and Benedict realized she was holding the spirit's hand, pressed into the side of her skirts as though to hide it from him. She does that sometimes, hides ghosts from him. She told him once that not all spirits were harmful, that they're just not ready to go and need a little more time. She didn't like the idea of them being pushed out and would rather he leave them to walk about the place between worlds until they faded on their own.
"He died in the woods outside. He got lost and couldn't find his way home. He was happy when he saw the other kids playing and followed them back here. He says he didn't do any of the bad things in the house." She paused then, a shadow of worry crossing her features when she looked down at the apparition at her side.
Benedict couldn't see it. Only her.
"The boy says there is a…scary man."
Benedict pressed his lips. That sounded promising for the job but unpleasant for his own sanity.