Perhaps most disconcerting was the darkness I’d felt in the house, the darkness that Millicent had alluded to. And it was a real darkness, too. Bad things had happened there at one time in the house’s past, of that much I was sure. What those bad things were, remained to be seen.
Soon, I turned onto his street, which was lined with big homes and big trees and wide patches of bright green lawns.
A wonderful place to live, I thought. Or die.
Chapter Four
Billy immediately answered the door, looking a bit embarrassed and surprised to see me.
“I’m Allison.”
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said.
“I could pinch you,” I said, “if that would help.”
“Maybe later—wait, sorry, that sounded creepy. It’s just that...”
“What?” I asked, as I stepped into the big home.
“Well, I hadn’t expected you to be so, well, lovely.”
“Hearing you say that in your cute English accent makes me almost believe it.”
He smiled at that, and as he did so, I saw again what I had seen earlier: the black aura that surrounded him. I could see auras around most people. In fact, I could see them around just about everyone. Auras were an interesting thing, and I was only just beginning to learn about them. From what I now gathered, thanks to my many conversations with Samantha and Millicent, auras were an extension of our spiritual bodies. Most were interlaced with color. The colors often indicated someone’s mood or intention. I was learning to understand what the colors meant.
There was, of course, no mistaking the meaning of the color black. Samantha had told me the story of her son, Anthony. She had seen the black aura around her son—and had known he would die unless she did something about it. Well, she had done something—something big—and it had changed the course of his life, perhaps forever.
She, too, had been warned not to mess with her son’s fate...but she had done so anyway. It had been a decision that most people would respect, I believed. I certainly did.
But, like with all decisions, there were consequences—and now her son wasn’t like other boys his age. Not quite a vampire, he was something else. What he was, exactly, remained to be seen.
Now, as I brushed past Billy, some of the black residue that clung to his aura attached itself to me, and broke free. I gasped a little and waved it away, where it disappeared in a puff. But before it did, I saw an image that I wouldn’t soon forget.
“Everything okay?” he asked pleasantly enough. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I was too startled for even a halfway witty response. I merely shook my head and headed deeper into the house. Except I didn’t find solace in the big, brooding structure. In fact, I received just the opposite impression: a sense of gloom and foreboding.
I had known Billy was going to die...but I hadn’t known how.
Until now.
Sweet Jesus.
He said, “I would ask you if you wanted something to drink, but I see that you beat me to it.” He motioned to the iced coffee I was holding. I had forgotten I was holding it, and now it was collecting condensation and was beginning to drip. I told him I was fine and asked if he had a trash can. He looked at the mostly full cup and shrugged. After seeing what I had seen, I had lost my appetite...and apparently, my thirst, too.
He threw out the plastic cup for me—yes, I knew it was coffee abuse. He disappeared for a moment, in the kitchen, I presumed, and then reappeared. He showed me over to his couch, where we each sat on one end.
The house had a familiar feel.
It was, of course, exactly as I had seen it just a while earlier. If anything, though, it was far bigger than what I had been prepared for. Bigger and darker.
“Nice place,” I said.
He shrugged. “Most people find it kind of creepy. My daughter does.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And where is she now?”
“In jail.”
I’d been so focused on him and his bleak house that I’d forgotten the reason for his call. His daughter.
“Why does your daughter think the house is creepy?”
He shrugged. “Apparently, it has a history of creepiness. I guess in the 70s, a few bodies turned up in the basement. And before that, in the 20s and 40s, two different owners were charged with murder. I think one of the owners, in the 80s, died in an insane asylum.”
“So, what made you want to buy the place?”
He laughed, or tried to. “I don’t believe in any of that stuff.”
“Yet, you called a psychic.”
“Well, I didn’t believe in any of that, at the time.”
“What do you believe now?”
He shrugged, looked around the living room, looked up into the dark, vaulted ceiling. As he did so, his black aura swirled and churned. “I don’t know what to believe. My daughter, as soon as we moved in here, well...she claimed to hear voices.”
“What kind of voices?”
“Not nice voices.”
“Evil voices?” I asked.
“I guess you could say that. They told her to commit crimes, to hurt people, and even to hurt me.”
“Why didn’t you move?” I asked.
“I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just being cheeky and wanted to go back home.”
“To England?”
He nodded. “Glastonbury.”
“Why did you move out here to Southern California?”
“I’m a director.”
“Movies?”
“Yes. Short films, mostly. I was nominated for an Academy a few years ago.”
“Congratulations,” I said, noting that my voice might have trailed off. The reason it trailed off was because I had just seen a very dark shape materialize in the hallway...and then disappear again.
Very dark, very tall, and very inhuman. It had, I was certain, red eyes. That was all I could make out before it had disappeared again.
I did not just see that, I thought.
“You all right?” he asked. “Gawd, you just turned pale. I mean, all the color just drained from your face.”
I decided to be blunt. In fact, I couldn’t help but be blunt. In double fact, I wasn’t even entirely sure what I was saying next, so startled was I, and, quite frankly, terrified, by what I had just seen.
“I think your house is haunted, Billy. Very, very haunted.”
He laughed immediately, and, if you ask me, a little too sharply and quickly. “Blimey! Why would you say such a thing?”