He swayed on his feet, eyes fluttering shut and hand going to his temple. Mr. Whittle jumped closer, catching Benedict's elbow to steady him. "Are you okay, Mister Lyon?"
Benedict took an exaggerated swallow of air and steadied himself, pressing a hand to his chest. "You have a little spirit here, in this room with us now…"
Mr. Whittle sucked a breath and turned, looking about as though he might spot it. His fingers pressed tighter on Benedict's arm.
"A child," Benedict went on, gasping and opening his eyes. They were teary. He could cry on command. He had mastered that little talent years ago to help sell the experience. "He's young, and he means you no harm. A tragic soul. He was lost in the woods, died there, and continued to search for a way home—unaware of his own state. He was alone for so long, searching for the warmth of home, until one day he heard the laughter of your children playing. He followed the sound from those dark, lonely woods and came here." He turned toward Mr. Whittle, catching his hand when it left his sleeve. "Your family has given him such a sense of peace and safety," he said, peering deep into the older man's eyes and seeing that fear and pity blossom into pride. "He'll move on soon. He's so grateful to you for letting him be here. For letting him come home."
Benedict gave himself chills with that line, and Mr. Whittle's eyes filled with tears. "Oh," was all he managed before rallying a question. "What's his name?"
"George," Emmeline prompted.
"George," Benedict repeated with soft reverence. "And he promises that he hasn't been responsible for the loud sounds and broken things." Benedict paused, pretending to listen and laugh gently at something sweet the boy said. "He says he's a good boy and would never mess up the house."
Emmeline rolled her eyes at him; he knew without even looking.
"Oh," Mr. Whittle said again, eyes big and clear now, holding tight to Benedict's hand. "Then what is causing it?" he whispered, as though the culprit might overhear him.
"It's another spirit," Emmeline answered.
Benedict glanced in her direction. She wasn't standing off to the side with the forgotten piles of toys anymore. She was at the windows, chin down and gaze fixed outside.
"There is something else here…" Benedict said, gently moving away from Mr. Whittle and toward the window. He stood beside her, looking past her and out at the lawn sloping off the back of the property. It led down to a large creek with a little dock and thick woods on the other side. A rowboat tied to the dock bobbed gently in the shade of a shed at the very edge of the bank.
"He's out there," Emmeline said, her voice distant. He wished he could take her hand just to make sure she really was with him still. But she was never really with him, not like that. His Emmeline was dead. He had never held her hand and never would.
"I see him," Benedict lied.
"He's big and soaking wet," Emmeline continued. "He's wearing a heavy jacket, and his breath forms in the air, like it's cold…"
It was July. It was far from cold out.
"There's ice stuck to his jacket and his overalls," Emmeline said.
"The creek," Benedict spoke, dragging his words out as though they were being tugged from his body unwillingly. He swayed in the mimic of a trance. "It was frozen. There is a presence in your home… A man… He brings the cold inside with him. He is soaked to the bone, dripping water and slush from the winter he can never escape."
Mr. Whittle gasped. "There have been wet footprints down the halls! Sometimes with clumps of snow, like it was tracked into the house, but it's not even winter."
"Yes," Benedict confirmed, creasing his brow and faking a pained headache—contact with spirits can do that, or so he heard.
"He's looking back at me," Emmeline whispered beside him, and his eyes snapped open to stare at the spot outside where her gaze had fixed. He saw nothing, of course. Benedict never felt more like a charlatan than in these moments, when everything was working. He had the homeowner convinced. It wasn't a complete lie, though, because the ghosts were real. They were there. He just couldn't see them.
"He knows we're here," Emmeline said and then took a step back, away from the window. "Someone struck him over the head when he was cutting wood… They dragged him to the river. Used the ax to break the ice and pushed him in."
"Mister Whittle, I think you do have a problem here," Benedict confessed, turning toward the man. His breath formed in the air, the room suddenly frigid cold as though they stood in a meat-locker rather than a playroom.
Mr. Whittle curled his arms around himself instinctively. "Oh, this happens sometimes…" he said. "We had someone out to check the AC, but—"
"It's not that," Benedict confirmed.
"He's here," Emmeline said, voice deadpan.
Benedict turned toward her and the window, startled to find her staring back at him.
"He wants them to leave. He wants to be alone." Dangerous levels of understanding weighed heavily in her voice. Ghosts had an almost inescapable nature that drew them into their own anger and the anger of others. They didn't feed on it so much as their anger consumed them. He saw it in Emmeline sometimes, making her dark eyes flicker with shades of vivid green.
Benedict parted his lips but forgot his words when her gaze slipped from his, staring past him—and up, at someone very tall.
For the flash of a second, she almost looked frightened, and then her nerves stilled, her shoulders pressing back and her chin high. Benedict took one step closer to her, slid to the side, and peered into her eyes until he saw the reflection of the room like a shadow laid over her irises. There was Mr. Whittle, wringing his wrists and standing beside the lumpy shape of the couch. Her eyes widened a little, unblinking and fixed on the room. A large, dark figure took a step forward. Benedict heard that heavy boot on the floor, and from the sound Mr. Whittle made, so did he.
A dragging sound scraped across his nerves, clawing up his spine. The hulking silhouette reflected in her eye lifted an ax from the floor, tossed it back over a shoulder, and then lurched toward Mr. Whittle.
Chapter Three
Benedict swore beneath his breath and twisted away from Emmeline. His shoes caught the edge of the rug when he launched himself at Mr. Whittle, almost tripping and jerking the coffee table. He tackled the man, pushing a startled breath from Mr. Whittle's lungs before they both landed heavily onto the floor between the couch and the low table.
"What on—" Mr. Whittle had only just begun to protest when the table beside them was cleaved in half with a thunderous crack.
Benedict collected himself quickly and was on his feet with both hands gripping the front of the other man's jacket, hauling him up and pushing him back into the nearest corner. A distorted roar burst through the room, shaking the walls and battering their senses. Benedict pressed Mr. Whittle into the corner, holding him there until he knew to stay put. Benedict stepped back, plunging his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His left came up with a stub of chalk. He crouched down and drew a half-circle, encasing Mr. Whittle in the corner, and quickly scraped little figures into the edges of the line, mouthing old words his mother had taught him.