Haunt Your Heart Out

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

I sat across from James at the kitchen table, enjoying the soup we’d made together. His lips and hands and the speedy rise and fall of his chest had distracted me from the clock, so I had let it simmer for slightly too long. But mushy carrots were a small price to pay for the thorough attention I’d received.

My stack of unshelved new additions marked the middle of the table. James ran his finger along the spine of the top book—a Celtic mythology collection—then dropped to the next spine, and the next, to repeat the exercise.

“You have eclectic taste,” he said.

“You could say that.”

“Myths, classics, guides to illustration. A C++ for Dummies book.” He tapped each spine as he listed it off, then rested his hand on top of a weathered Western with a haggard cowboy on the cover. “I’ve been looking for this one.”

“You lie.” I tossed my napkin at him, and his eyes glittered as he laughed. Beyond his chin dimple and wit, it was my favorite feature.

“What’s with the varied subject matter? Opening your own library?”

I pressed my lips together and scanned the stack, assessing whether it was worth sharing my secret with him.

“It’s like your calling card, isn’t it. You’re a serial killer, and you steal a book from each person’s house after you off them.”

“You caught me.” I pointed my spoon at him and wrinkled my nose. “That’s why I’ve given you such fantastic recommendations. That way, I know there’ll be something on your shelves that fits my aesthetic. This,” I wiggled the copy of C++ for Dummies , “doesn’t really match the curtains.”

“Well, I’ll have to make sure my shelves are fully stocked so you have plenty to choose from.”

I leaned against the back of my chair and kicked a foot up onto the seat of the chair beside me. James slouched, then copied me, running his toe along the arch of my foot and sending a shiver down my spine.

Comfortable, simple. Playful. Safe.

“They’re all inscribed,” I confessed.

He waited for me to continue.

“My grandfather built this house, and my family moved in with him after my grandmother died. When my sister and parents moved away, I stayed in Vermont. They decided on change, and I chose roots. I went to college twenty minutes from here, came home every weekend and for random weeknight dinners, then my grandfather left the house to me when he died. My parents think it’s a money pit and want me to sell it. It’s got some quirks, is all, but I’m working on it. Little by little. I’m probably going to have to get a home equity loan to catch up on repairs. I don’t care. I like it here.”

James swept a glance through the kitchen, eyes settling on the giant window over the sink, then on the woodwork surrounding the doorway. “They did a wonderful job. It’s a gorgeous home and there’s so much potential. I can see why you stayed.”

“My grandfather used to mail letters to my grandmother. They were apart for most of the time he was building this house. She was with her parents, in New York City. They visited when they could, but he was working on a farm to save money to bring her here, to their house. He sent her letters daily. But he also tucked love notes and memories in the wall frames like little time capsules. As he built, he hid his thoughts and feelings behind wallpaper, inside the walls, and under floorboards. I found the first one when I upgraded the bathroom. The tiny closet had a scrap of paper tucked inside the wall. It was the most romantic thing I’d seen. I found another when I stripped the old wallpaper from my room and found a pencil-scribbled note behind it, obscured by the wallpaper paste and torn backing, but still legible. And another note when the electrician was poking around, the paper was nestled inside the ceiling.”

James dragged his toe along my foot again and smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“He was a sweet guy and everyone here loved him. He’s been gone a long time, but people still call me ‘Tommy’s granddaughter.’ I live in his town, and it’s heaven. I want to tear every inch of wallpaper down just to see what messages he’s left behind, but I also want to keep it intact so I don’t spoil all of his secrets.”

James’s mouth parted into a knowing smile. “So you look for secret messages elsewhere.”

“Exactly. People love to scrawl their thoughts inside book covers. Some of them are meant to make the person sound more intelligent, like the people who gift For Dummies books, or the long-winded notes left in the margins of Tolstoy. Others are sincere reminders that the giftee was on someone’s mind, a little ‘hey, I’m thinking of you.’ I couldn’t mine all of my grandfather’s thoughts, so I went searching.”

“So, what else do you have?”

“For books? I’m thrilled you asked.” I brought my bowl to the sink and tipped my head, beckoning him to follow me. We passed Lulu, who had turned my fuzziest blanket into a perfect little dog nest.

“You coming?” I asked her. She lifted her head but didn’t budge. “She just makes herself right at home, doesn’t she?”

“She’s moved around. A lot, actually. This is her seventh home. Well, seventh location, I guess. We had a couple of apartments in Arizona. She’s gotten used to the road, and change. It’s not ideal, but it is what it is.”

“How do you get used to that?” For each moment I forgot he wasn’t here for the long haul, there were three new tips reminding me that he would eventually disappear. Way to stick to your guns on not falling for the hot, temporary resident, Lex.

I waved him up the narrow stairway to the upper, mostly unused level of the house. He went first, glancing back at me as he creaked ever upward.

“I didn’t have a choice at first, but I learned to roll with it.”

I lifted the rattly gate latch and tugged the door open to reveal my book nook. I stepped aside to let James pass.

He leaned in the doorway, hip cocked, arms crossed, and heel nonchalantly kicked up. If there was one stance James had perfected, it was the cool, carefree lean. “This is a well-stocked library.”

His eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, and I savored watching him take in the scene. Scribbled-in clothbound books from the 1800s, a hardcover with a dedication jotted on the title page from a debut author to their favorite English teacher, others with various holiday greetings and birthday wishes, more still with scribbled notes about how the book brought a certain person to mind. Personal. Thoughtful.

And, for some reason, each book had been discarded.

“I sort the books at Dog-Eared before they go on the shelves. I grab any that catch my eye. Which is … a lot of them. So, this side is regular books, and this side is inscribed books. I’ve got more shelves in my office downstairs, but this is my happy place. It was my grandmother’s sewing room when they lived here. I don’t sew—I shouldn’t be allowed near sharp objects, honestly—but I wanted to turn it into my own little retreat like she had. It gets chilly during the winter since the heat in this house sucks , but I still bundle up and come sit in her chair to read.”

James pushed himself upright and strolled into the room, turning to examine the shelves. “May I?” He pointed to my grandmother’s creaky old armchair. He sat when I nodded permission.

It was easy to have him hanging out in this room with me. From the first time I scooped up a book at a yard sale, my parents had considered my collection a “phase.” I basked in the validation James was giving me now.

I plucked a book off the shelf and passed it to James. It was a beaten-up copy of Great Expectations , with the note “Granddad loves this one, and you will too. Happy first birthday, love Grammie G.”

“I found this one a month after my grandfather died. I have no idea if he’d ever read Great Expectations , and I’m even less sure he would have liked it. He would devour his Old Farmer’s Almanac when it arrived, and peek through the pages year-round, but I don’t think I ever saw the man pick up an actual book in his lifetime. But it made me think of him. I found his first letter a few weeks later, and it felt like a sign.” I shook my head. “Sorry, this is stupid. We don’t have to—”

“It’s sweet, and possibly the most whimsical type of collection I’ve ever heard of. Don’t hold back, I can take a little weird. Trust me. I’m here to film a ghost documentary, in case you forgot. This is sensible in comparison.” He returned to Dickens with a satisfied grin. “What will you do when you run out of space up here?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. My parents have been trying to talk me into selling the house for years since they think putting my hard-earned money into repairs is a bad investment in my future. But how do you put a price on the one constant in your life? I like working at the store—enough that I actually put in an offer to buy it from the owner since he’s decided to retire.”

James broke into a surprised grin. “Congrats!” He leaned in and rested his elbows against his knees, truly pleased at my news. “Did he accept?”

“He did! I’m looking for funding, but that’s what makes my house repairs so tricky. If my parents knew, they’d insist I choose one or the other—and they’d push me toward letting the house go. I like living here. They can’t stand anything that goes against their plan for my life. Pleasing them is, uh, what’s harder than ‘impossible’? Because it’s that.”

James picked at his thumbnail and jiggled a crossed foot. “I’ve had a little experience with imperious family members.”

“Yeah?”

“I was supposed to be a lawyer,” James said, as if that explained it.

I pressed a thumb to my chest and grimaced. “Doctor.”

“Oh, very nice. Well, my mother set me up on a blind date with her friend’s daughter, completely ambushed me, and then I was in trouble when there was no love at first sight. Top that.”

“My parents think I’m a failure because I don’t already have a PhD, a successful career, a spouse, two kids, and an organic vegetable farm.”

“Well, Alex,” James said wryly, “how can you expect to amount to anything without having the organic veggies locked down already?” He smiled in challenge. “My father bought me a Princeton sweatshirt, adult medium, on the day I was born. The day I received my rejection letter, he burnt it.”

“You’re lying.”

“ You’re running out of steam.”

“No way, never surrender. My father named me Alex because, and I quote, ‘a man’s name will take you places ambition can’t.’ The man ended up with two daughters, and only one lived up to his expectations.”

“My father named me James because people are more likely to take you seriously with a one-syllable name.”

I snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“No, no. I believe you, I’m right there with you on the overbearing parent train. It’s just. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, it makes so much sense now.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Julian calls her ‘Ice.’ As in, the slang for diamond.”

“I wholeheartedly approve.”

James fiddled with the corner of the book cover with a smile playing at his lips.

“So, we’ve eaten. Your dog is warm. We’ve played the world’s worst version of ‘I know you are but what am I?’ and, um, gotten to know each other better. Shall I drive you home? We can discuss our unfortunate situations further on the way there, and you can take your leave without any lingering awkwardness.”

He stood, replaced the book gingerly, and slid his way across the creaky, uneven hardwood floor until we stood parallel. Warmth shot through my middle as he took my hands in his, raised them to his mouth, and planted a kiss on my knuckles. “I’m not in any hurry to leave, but if this is a hint, I can take it.”

“Not at all. I did have plans involving a giant bowl of popcorn and terrible television, and I refuse to alter them. But company might make the television a little better, and the popcorn seem less lonely.”

And, as if we’d been sharing evenings together for months, we settled in on the couch with popcorn and TV, as promised, and a fuzzy dog between us to warm our feet. It was my house and had been for ages—but for the first time in a long time, it actually felt like home.

Haunted Happenings transcript

Date: December 14, 2006

Location: Stiller’s Christmas Tree Farm, Stowe, Vermont

Luna: [whispering] We’ve been tipped off to a very special haunting. We’re at a Christmas tree farm, and there have been multiple sightings here this week alone. Every night, just as the sun starts to set, something spooky appears. We’ve had twelve separate reports, one from a group where six out of seven saw the very same phenomenon.

[Boots crunching on snow, camera follows Luna.]

Luna: [whispering, but louder] This little saltbox-style building has been on this property for decades. It’s a workshop and storage space now, but it used to be a house. And that window up there? That’s where the action happens. There have been reports of a light flickering in the window on the left—exactly where the bedroom had been before the residents left.

My research shows that, after a stint in the US Army Signal Corps as a Hello Girl during World War One, Marion came back to her childhood home—with a fellow switchboard operator, Ethel. They were rumored to be a couple, completely in love, though there is no paper trail to confirm this … for obvious, yet completely discriminatory bullshit reasons. But, I digress. When Marion took a job as a switchboard operator in New York City in the early 1920s, Ethel stayed behind to start a millinery business and storefront. Though parted and likely never reunited, it is said that Ethel lit a candle in this window every night, and Marion promised to do the same in her city apartment.

[Luna walks past the camera; camera pans toward a group of people gathered in the snow.]

Luna: We’ve asked those who witnessed the lights to join our peek into the paranormal. Let’s keep our eyes—and lenses—on the window to see if we’re greeted by a glimmer of hope.

[A glow appears in the window. Crowd murmurs. Scattered exclamations.]