It was July. It was far fromcold out.
"There's ice stuck to his jacket and hisoveralls," Emmeline said.
"The creek,"Benedict spoke, dragging his words out as though they were being tugged fromhis 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 insidewith him. He is soaked to the bone, dripping water and slush from the winter hecan 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, butit's not even winter."
"Yes,"Benedict confirmed, creasing his brow and faking a painedheadache—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 atthe 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 saidand then took a step back, away from the window. "Someone struck him over the head when he wascutting wood… They dragged him to the river. Used the ax to break the ice andpushed him in."
"MisterWhittle, I think you do have a problem here," Benedict confessed, turning toward the man. His breath formedin the air, the room suddenly frigid cold as though they stood in a meat-lockerrather than a playroom.
Mr.Whittle curled his arms around himself instinctively. "Oh, this happens sometimes…" he said. "Wehad someone out to check the AC, but—"
"It's not that,"Benedict confirmed.
"He's here," Emmeline said, voice deadpan.
Benedictturned toward her and the window, startled to find herstaring back at him.
"He wants them to leave. He wants to bealone." Dangerous levels of understanding weighed heavily in her voice. Ghosts had an almostinescapable nature that drew them into theirown anger and the anger of others. They didn't feed on it so much astheir anger consumed them. He saw it inEmmeline sometimes, making her dark eyes flicker with shades of vividgreen.
Benedictparted his lips but forgot his words when her gaze slipped from his,staring past him—and up, at someone very tall.
For theflash of a second, she almost looked frightened, and then her nerves stilled,her shoulders pressing back and her chin high. Benedict took one stepcloser to her, slid to the side, and peeredinto her eyes until he saw the reflection of the room like a shadow laid over her irises. There was Mr. Whittle, wringing hiswrists and standing beside the lumpy shapeof the couch. Her eyes widened a little, unblinking and fixed on theroom. A large, dark figure took a stepforward. Benedict heard that heavy boot on the floor, and from the soundMr. Whittle made, so did he.
Adragging sound scraped across his nerves, clawing up his spine. Thehulking silhouette reflected in her eye lifted an ax from the floor, tossed it back over a shoulder, and thenlurched toward Mr. Whittle.
ChapterThree
Benedictswore beneath his breath and twisted away from Emmeline. His shoescaught the edge of the rug when he launched himself at Mr. Whittle, almosttripping and jerking the coffee table. He tackled the man, pushing a startledbreath from Mr. Whittle's lungs before they both landed heavily onto the floorbetween the couch and the low table.
"What on—" Mr.Whittle had only just begun to protest when the table beside them was cleavedin half with a thunderous crack.
Benedict collected himselfquickly and was on his feet with both hands gripping the front of the otherman's jacket, hauling him up and pushing him back into the nearest corner. Adistorted roar burst through the room, shaking the walls and battering theirsenses. Benedict pressed Mr. Whittle into the corner, holding him there untilhe knew to stay put. Benedict stepped back, plunging his hands into the pocketsof his slacks. His left came up with a stub of chalk. He crouched down and drewa half-circle, encasing Mr. Whittle in the corner, and quickly scraped littlefigures into the edges of the line, mouthing old words his mother had taughthim.
"Ben…" Emmelinesaid his name somewhere in the storm still raging through the room, rattlingthe pictures off the walls and shaking the floorboards underfoot.
Benedict thumbed open apocketknife in his right hand, sliced the pad of his thumb, and dropped bloodonto the newly etched seal. "Close your eyes," he ordered Mr. Whittleas he stood. "If you don't look, it won't seeyou." A flimsy patch for a leaking boat; no one could keep their eyesclosed forever. His brother had done this to him once, hidden him from aspirit while they finished the job. Of course, he had been a child at the time.They had dragged him along in hopes that the danger of the situation wouldbring his gifts to birth. It hadn't worked, though he had been given enoughmaterial to fuel his nightmares for life and a thorough understanding thatthere were plenty of things in the world he could not see—and that did not makethem any less real.
"Benedict!" Emmelineshouted.
He turned to see her standing muchcloser, eyes big and gaze cutting between him and something between them. OhGod, it was right there? Right in front of him? Herolled the piece of chalk between his fingers, thoughtlessly wetting it withhis blood. All at once, the room stilled, and not in acalm-at-the-end-of-a-storm sort of way, but frozen, caught in a second thatheld fast. And then the frames of the pictures on the floor burst, thewalls cracked, and Benedict was lifted off his feet. He hated being lifted byspirits. It wasn't the sense of hands jerking him upward. It wasn't a pull onhis clothing or a grip on his arm. It was pressure everywhere, seizing up hisbody and dragging him into the air as though gravity had abandoned him.
He couldn't breathe; his onlycomfort was in knowing that it wouldn't last. It never did. It took too muchenergy to lift someone. Not even the most powerful poltergeists could hold aperson long
