Flipping Fates Page 5

  “Yeah, speaking of which,” I start, “have you been down there at all since Cecily and I were locked in?”

  Keith sets the trash bags on the table and adjusts his collar. “Not at all. Why?”

  I scowl at him. Is it just me, or does he sound nervous?

  “I think some things have moved.” I say quietly. “I think there’s a doll missing, and I’m pretty sure that the bike that’s down there is in a different place.”

  Keith frowns. “Well that’s—odd.”

  Biting my lower lip, I watch his hands. He’s acting shiftier than normal, though I can’t tell you what normal even is for Keith since I don’t know him very well. But he has no reason to be shifty at all if he’s telling the truth. So what if he’s lying?

  “Are you sure nobody’s been down there?” Aaron asks.

  “Not to my knowledge.” Keith shakes his head. He sounds sincere. “But it’s conceivable that a family member might have a key. Possibly.” He’s still scowling. “I’m sorry about this. I was told the house would be secure. I’ll check with my supervisor tonight.”

  “It’s not your fault, Keith.” Aaron holds up his hand.

  I don’t argue, but I don’t agree either.

  “It may not even be a big deal,” Aaron continues, “but I’d like to know who has access to the house.”

  “Agreed.” Keith nods.

  With a clattering, scraping sound, Cecily appears through the backroom door, pushing a large cardboard box full of wooden carvings. She reaches us and straightens, pushing her glasses up her nose.

  “Aaron. Patricia.” She eyes Keith. “Mr. Wilner.”

  “Miss Coburn.”

  Cecily turns her gaze to me. “Prisha and I have nearly completed the initial removal of boxes from the back room. I have assembled all visible wooden figurines in this receptacle and would appreciate direction on where to place it.”

  I struggle with the urge to sigh.

  Sighing in the face of a statement like that seems like the best course of action, but it’s probably also rude. Again, if Cecily could pretend to be human for a little bit of our time together, it would make this entire project so much easier.

  I look at Keith. “Wooden figurines?”

  He shrugs. “That could be something URM could take. We’re starting an online store for donated goods. Maybe people would be interested in—” He stops as he pulls out a wooden figure of an anthropomorphized fox with antlers and wings. His expression turns into a grimace.

  “Kindling?” Aaron supplies.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Keith drops the wooden figure into the box. “I’d say take it to URM. We’ll add it to the growing pile and sort through it later.”

  Aaron nods and bends down to lift Cecily’s box. “Trisha, you got your keys? We might as well throw this in your car.”

  “Yeah.” I dig in my pants pocket.

  Cecily vanishes around a corner and appears again with two more boxes, somewhat smaller but still large enough to be awkward.

  “More carvings?” I gape.

  “Yes. This box is a variety of cat-like figures.” She nods at the box to indicate that I should take it, which I do.

  “And what’s that one?” I eye the box she’s holding.

  “This box is entirely full of wooden carvings of human beings with duck heads.”

  I look at Keith, whose expression is worried.

  “Kindling?” I ask.

  “Highest and best use for wood carved duck-people.” He nods.

  “We’ll take this out to the car and be right back,” I say. “Aaron, you got that?”

  “My box of winged, antlered fox-people is just fine, thank you.”

  I lead the way out to the porch and then to the sidewalk with Aaron and Cecily trailing behind me.

  “This has been a peculiar day,” Cecily is saying.

  “How so?” I balance the box in one arm and search for my keys with my free hand.

  “I was certain that yesterday I left a box of plastic cuckoo clocks in the living room.” Cecily glanced at the sky as though she were watching clouds pass. “But today, I can’t find it anywhere.”

  I stop and turn to her. “Cecily.”

  “Yes, Patricia?”

  “Remember the bicycle in the basement?”

  “Yes, Patricia. There was no logical reason for a bicycle to be in the basement.”

  “Where was it?”

  Cecily blinks. “In the basement.”

  “No, in the basement, where was it? When we came off the stairs, wasn’t it right there against that very first pile of junk?”

  “Correct.”

  I turn to Aaron. “And now it’s on the other side of the room leaning on the wall.”

  Aaron narrows his eyes. “Do you remember if there was a doll missing?”

  Cecily shifts the box to one arm and strokes her chin. “No, there were dolls evenly spaced on every shelf. If there had been a void, I would have noticed.”

  Aaron sighs. “So someone else does have a key.”

  I groan. “Why can’t it be simple? Why can’t it be easy?”

  Aaron starts walking toward my car again. “Now, come on. Let’s not fret.”

  “I’m not fretting. I’m moaning. There’s a difference.”

  Aaron chuckles. “I mean, Trisha, is there really anything anybody can take out of that house that’s going to hurt? They might be doing us a favor.”

  “Or perhaps the neighborhood rumors are true after all.” Cecily brushes past me.

  I stop again.

  “What neighborhood rumors?”

  Cecily pauses and sets her box on the sidewalk. “According to several of the neighbors, the house is haunted.”

  Aaron rolls his eyes.

  “Cecily, there are no such things as ghosts.”

  Cecily shrugs. “Perhaps. But it is highly likely, according to talk in the general area, that many people have died inside the home. Apparently there were rumors about the house being haunted before the old man died in the RV in the driveway, so I’m certain that has only exacerbated the situation.”

  Aaron moved between us and set the big box of wooden carvings on the trunk of my car. “Let’s not go crazy here. The house isn’t haunted.”

  “And you are an expert in these matters?” Cecily narrows her eyes at him.

  “The house isn’t haunted, Cecily, because ghosts aren’t real.”

  Cecily tilts her head. “Ghosts are not real, Aaron, but I do not believe I am indicating that the house is full of ghosts.”

  “That’s what a haunted house is, Cecily.” I set my box down and grab for my keys.

  Aaron scrubbed his hand down his face. “All right. If you aren’t saying you believe in ghosts, what are you saying?”

  “I believe in spirits.” Cecily straightens. “And there is no point in debating the matter, because both of you do as well, if our last year’s study on the Book of Ephesians is any indication.”

  Now I’m gawking at her.

  “Cecily.” I pull my keys out of my jeans. “Are you saying you think the house is possessed?”

  Cecily shrugs. “Why not?”

  Aaron laughs softly. “Okay.” He nods at me. “Let’s get this stuff in your car and get back to work.” He lifts the box off my trunk, and I open it so that he can nestle the box inside.

  Seriously, Cecily must be smoking something.

  Does she actually believe the ugly orange house is infested with demons or spirits? What is she even talking about? Sure, I believe in a spiritual world, but I sincerely doubt that any self-respecting demon would give a hoot about a hoarder’s paradise in Tonkawa, Kansas.

  Not that demons have self-respect.

  Or do they?

  Never mind. I don’t want to think about that.

  Stupid Cecily.

  “Patricia.”

  I hold the trunk open so Aaron can set my smaller box inside the trunk. “Cecily, bring your box over.”

  Cecily doesn’t bud
ge.

  I start to glare at her, and then I trace her gaze. She’s staring at my car’s passenger door. Slowly I lean back and follow her eyes, my heart dropping into my stomach.

  The passenger side window has been smashed open, glass all over the sidewalk.

  Duct Tape and Curses

  The plastic trash bag flaps in the breeze as Laurel presses it against the passenger side window of my Buick. For once, couldn’t we just have a day with no wind? This would so much easier if I lived in Texas or Georgia or somewhere that didn’t constantly have a breeze.

  “Hold still,” I say as I rip off a strip of leopard print duct tape and carefully lay it down on my car’s roof, fastening the shivering trash bag in place where my window used to be.

  “Trisha, how much duct tape do you have?” Laurel shakes her head. “The stuff that’s on your purse and your steering wheel is zebra stripe.”

  “Duct tape holds the world together.”

  “Well, it’s currently holding your car together, that’s for sure.”

  I peel off another strip of the extra-sticky tape and attach the plastic to the bottom of the door.

  “You know,” Laurel steps back and folds her arms, watching me as I finish adhering the trash bag to my car, “you could have just left it.”

  “Forecast says rain tonight and tomorrow.” I open the door and start taping the bag on the inside of the car too.

  This isn’t my first rodeo, folks.

  “Yeah, but when do the forecasters ever actually get the weather predictions right?” Laurel snickers.

  I finish taping the bag on the inside of the door and stand up, locking it, and slamming it shut. “Considering the day I’m having, Laurel, they’ll get it right this time.”

  Laurel hugs me from the side and in spite of the sweltering heat of the late afternoon, I let her. The breeze still flaps in my makeshift trash bag window. My makeshift trash bag window still flaps in the breeze, but now it’s cooling my sweat at the same time.

  Forget what I thought before.

  Breezes are good on days like this.

  “Sure you don’t want to call the police?”

  I sigh and stare through the back window of my car at the trashed interior. Bags dumped out. Papers scattered around. Glove box emptied. But nothing taken that I can tell.

  “No.” I pat her shoulder. “I don’t think anything has been taken, and I really don’t want to have to file a report.”

  Laurel pulls away and sets her hands on her hips. “I don’t like it.”

  I smile. “Neither did Aaron.”

  Laurel returns my smile. “One of these days, you’re going to have to start listening to him, Trisha.”

  “Oh, I always listen.” I shrug.

  “Sure you do.” Laurel lifts her shoulder-length hair off her neck so that the breeze can reach her skin. “It’s weird that your car is the only one that got broken into. All of our cars are here too.”

  “It’s not weird, Laurel. It’s the story of my life.”

  Laurel giggles and squeezes my elbow reassuringly.

  “We’ve made good progress today, though.” She looks back at the horrifying orange house.

  “Yes, we have.” I turn the roll of duct tape over in my hands. “But we still have a lot left to do before the auction.” I narrow my gaze at her. “But we’re going to have to do it without you, I guess.”

  Laurel sags. “Trisha, it’s not my fault my office is sending me out of town.”

  “You could tell them no.”

  “It’s in Tahiti.”

  “You could still tell them no.”

  Laurel rolls her eyes.

  “Say no to Tahiti. Say yes to painting a garish, possibly haunted dump so it doesn’t look like a beach house.” I take her arm. “Who wants to go to Tahiti? We’re going to have so much fun here.”

  Laurel laughs and squeezes my arm. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

  I stop and hug her, lightly because it’s boiling outside. “You know I’m only teasing.”

  “Sure, you are.” Laurel hugs me back.

  We laugh and continue down the sidewalk.

  “We’ll miss you,” I say, “but we’ll get it all done.”

  “You are going to paint it, right? Please say yes.”

  I chuckle. “Either we’re painting it, or we’re having vinyl siding put on. Depends if we can get siding donated. Either way, I’m more concerned with having enough space inside the house for people to even walk through it.”

  “Trish.”

  I stop at her tone of voice and glance over my shoulder as a stooped-over man in baggy trousers lumbers toward us. Middle age, probably, though he’s probably younger than he looks. His skin’s as rough as leather, and the dirty t-shirt he’s wearing is so loose it droops off his flabby arms like elephant skin.

  At first I thought he was the same old guy I’d seen hanging around before, but it’s not.

  My purse is in the house.

  So if he wants money, he’s out of luck.

  “Did’ja lose something?” The man pauses on the sidewalk and glances between me and the trash bag on my window. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, and his untrimmed beard waggles as he speaks. “Should keep your doors locked on this street.”

  With every word he says, Laurel’s eyes get wider, and she slides closer to me.

  “No,” I say, ignoring the waves of body odor and cigarette smoke that follow the man like a cloud. “Nothing taken. And my doors were locked, which is why the window’s broken.”

  He shakes his head in disappointment. “People are no good.”

  I set my hand on Laurel’s shoulder and start moving us up the sidewalk. “Some people are okay.”

  The man follows us.

  Great.

  “Ain’t never met no good people. Ever.” The old man huffs and puffs, patting his pockets absently. “I been alive a lot longer than you. I’m Howard.”

  I nod and smile, guiding Laurel by the shoulders. “Hi, Howard. Nice to meet you. We need to be going now.”

  I step a bit faster, but the old man matches us.

  I am legitimately beginning to think I just have a face that attracts unstable people. Why else would this always happen to me? I’m just minding my own business in the middle of broad daylight, and all sorts of random head cases want to have conversations with me. Why is it always me?

  “You fixing up the bad house?” Howard hobbles along beside us.

  My stomach tightens. “The bad house?”

  The man shuffles his feet as he walks and pulls a bent cigarette out of his pocket, jabbing it between his lips. “It’s a bad house.”

  “Well, it’s ugly.”

  “It’s bad.” Howard shakes his head.

  Laurel scowls up at me. “Why is it bad?”

  I refrain from glaring at her. I’m trying to get us away from this crazy old hobo, not find out what delusions drove him to live on the street.

  Howard rocks back on his heels and nearly topples off the curb. “Old guy who lived there did bad things down in his basement. Talked to spirits. Talked to the devil himself, people say.”

  Okay.

  Howard is not okay.

  “He did what?” Laurel squeaks.

  Laurel is not okay either.

  Howard points a shaking finger at the ugly orange house. “Put a curse on it. It’s cursed. It’s bad.”

  I dig my fingers into Laurel’s shoulders. “Well, thank you for the warning, Howard. We’ll be careful.”

  He turns and puts his finger in my face, although he has to step back and crane his neck up. He looks surprised that I’m so much taller than he is.

  “Lock your doors!”

  I flinch at his shout.

  “Doors are locked,” I say. “Have a good one!”

  I usher Laurel up the walkway to the ugly orange house while Howard hobbles along his merry muttering way, unlit cigarette still hanging from his chapped lips.

  Laurel is the color of chal
k by the time we step up on the porch.

  “What was that about?” she whispers.

  “Just a crazy old man.” I open the front door. “Don’t give it a second thought.”

  “But, you know, Trisha, something really is off about this place.”

  I stop in the doorway and look back at her.

  Yes, she’s right. Something is really wrong with this house, and it hasn’t escaped me. The weird noises. The eerie voices. The bumps in the night. Doors that lock when they’re not supposed to. Items that get moved when no one was in the house to move them.

  “Do you think there’s a possibility that Howard is right?”

  I narrow my eyes at Laurel’s worried expression. “No, Laurel. Seriously?”

  “Isn’t it possible?” Laurel moves closer to me. “What if the guy who lived here really did some kind of seance or something in the basement and that’s why it’s so creepy?”

  “Laurel, the basement is creepy because it has no lights, and it’s full of junk and creepy staring dolls.” I shake my head. “Not because the house is haunted or cursed.”

  “Can’t it be dark and full of junk and creepy staring dolls and cursed at the same time?”

  “Really, Laurel?”

  She shrugs with a laugh.

  I push her inside and begin to follow, but motion in the RV catches my attention. I lean out over the porch railing and watch Aaron and Keith file out of the RV, carrying boxes full of junk. Aaron smiles at me as he carries his box into the house through the side door.

  I turn and come down the steps, walking up the driveway as Keith leans on the RV and cracks open a bottle of water.

  “How’s it going?” I ask, leaning next to him.

  “Slow but steady.” Keith flashes a full grin at me. “Did you get your car taped up?”

  “Yeah.” I roll my eyes.

  “Man, I’m sorry about your car. Are you sure nothing was taken?” Keith tilts his head, mousy brown hair flopping over his ears.

  “I’m sure. Thanks.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Aaron wants me to call the police, but it’s a lot of fuss especially when nothing is missing.”

  Keith folds his arms. “How long have you and Aaron been together?”

  “A few years,” I say. “I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids. But we started dating a few years back.”