Sulayman does a hasty three-point turn and speeds back down the driveway as soon as Gretchen is out of the car, more mud flying up in his wake. Hopefully Mr. Waybill doesn’t notice the tire tracks in the grass. Not that he seems to be particularly precious about appearances. Gretchen spots a broken-down, rusted, two-wheeled...thingparked beside a large tree stump off to the right, and the barn in the distance isn’t particularly photogenic with its walls overtaken by ivy and the white paint on the wooden areas faded and chipped off in a pattern that looks like a giant creature scratched its claws down each board.
Is she more likely to locate Charles Waybill inside said barn, or in the brick farmhouse at the end of the driveway?
If she were a farmer and it was close to noon on a Friday...
Unfortunately, her knowledge of farmwork is limited to having readCharlotte’s Webas a child, leaving her with very little practical information to help her finish that sentence (unless an unusually gifted spider is going to appear and spin her an answer). Well, the barn is slightly closer, so she might as well check there first.
Animal smells assault her nose as she approaches. When she walks around the side of the barn to what she presumes would be considered the front, a small herd of goats in the nearby pasture start up a chorus of aggressivemehhhing, startling her into taking several steps backward. Gretchen has never interacted with a goat—at least not as an adult. She vaguely recalls a field trip to a petting zoo at one of the six elementary schools she attended and assumes there could have been a goat involved then. Luckily, she’s here to deal with ghosts, not goats, and she’s much more familiar with pretending to understand the former. Because the animals she can see are, frankly, intimidating even from afar. Very... unpredictable-looking. And can’t they, like, eat your hair off or something?
Does that brown-and-white one by the side fence have... tennis balls stuck to its head?
A woman appears inside the barn, her silver-gray braid swinging against the back of her long-sleeved tie-dye T-shirt with every step. Gretchen calls out a greeting, and the woman turns around. With her forearm shielding her eyes from the sun since her gloves are covered in dirt (or worse, considering the variety of smells present in this space), she takes Gretchen in from head to toe. Then she frowns, adding a few more wrinkles to her heavily freckled, sun-worn face. “You lost, hon?”
Gretchen glances down at her outfit, reassessing the burgundy pleather jacket, short black swing dress, heeled suede boots, and layers of assorted dangly crystal necklaces. Maybe showing up toa goat farm looking like Alexis Rose gone goth wasn’t the most practical idea. Then again, it’s important to maintain the right vibe no matter the atmosphere; no one’s going to put their faith in a spirit medium wearing overalls.
“I’m actually looking for Mr. Waybill. Do you happen to know where he might be at the moment?”
“Oh.” The woman glances at the smartwatch on her wrist. “A little after noon? He usually breaks for lunch about this time,” she says. “Check the house first. But nice day like today, he could be by the creek.”
Gretchen already knows about the creek that gave the farm its name. The sale listing for the property—priced at $800,000, by the way, and the livestock and equipment all convey—included no less than twenty different photos of the narrow stream during different seasons and at various times of day (including at sunset in the summer, when it does admittedly take on a golden hue). She figures she can claim its presence as a potential reason why spirits are drawn to this place. That sounds like a thing.
“Thanks so much.” Gretchen gives a smile and a small wave that’s almost more of a salute, then turns and begins walking toward the brick house.
“Hey, hon, wait!” the woman calls out before Gretchen makes it more than a few steps.
She turns back around. “Yeah?”
“A bit of advice—stick to the paths.”
She says it like she’s an old local in a Yorkshire pub warning a young American tourist tokeep off the moorsandbeware the moon. The side of Gretchen’s mouth slides up. “Well, that sure sounds ominous!” she says.
The woman reaches her forearm over her eyes again, but stillhas to squint with the bright sun directly above. “Nah, there’s just lots of dog shit in the grass and you’re wearing those fancy little shoes.”
“Oh. Right, thanks.”
Gretchen is careful where she steps as she continues following the driveway. As she approaches, she takes in the tiny details of the farmhouse the same way she studies each person who comes into her shop for a séance. Her daddy taught her the importance of noticing the little things—chewed fingernails, the imprint of a removed wedding ring, under-eye bags—that can tell a great deal about a person. It applies to places too. Like here: The roof looks to be on the older side, but the white of the porch and trim is vivid and clean as if it’s been repainted recently. A sign that Mr. Waybill has put some effort into the improvements he can afford in hopes it will help sell the property. Mrs. Van Alst subtly implied his financial situation is strained, which is why time is of the essence. Perhaps in his desperation, he’ll be glad to have Gretchen here after all, True Believer or not.
She wishes she knew more about what she’s getting herself into. But for someone usually quite chatty—Rachel must have gotten her penchant for oversharing from her mother—Mrs. Van Alst didn’t provide Gretchen with all that much information about Gilded Creek or herdearfriend Charles Waybill. Two hours of internet research last night turned up only the basics: Charles R. Waybill is seventy-eight (over a decade older than Daniel Day-Lewis, for the record!), he lost his wife, Ellen, two years ago, and he’s lived in Derring Heights his entire life besides the year he served in the Navy during Vietnam.
Even without a ton to go on, Gretchen figures there are several different ways she could play this. Maybe she can claim the“ghost” preventing the sale is Ellen. Or an old war buddy. One of the prior generations of Waybills who ran the farm. A Union soldier who succumbed to illness on the property during the retreat from Antietam. Maybe it’s all of them, working in cahoots. An ensemble cast! Go big or go home, right?
Usually, for her séances, she prefers to work out her strategy ahead of time. But this particular job isn’t one she’s run before. There are variables she can’t anticipate. That’s actually kind of exhilarating. She’ll have to rely solely upon her instincts and people skills to convince Mr. Waybill to buy into the exorcism. Just like old times, with her dad. Except now she’s doing someone a favor instead of stealing from them. And she’s doing it alone, of course.
Which is for the better, really. She’s gotten used to flying solo over the past few years.
She shoves away the memory of the letter from her father buried under the bills back in DC by focusing on how the farmhouse’s front door is painted the same crisp, new white as the porch and the trim, with a rather charming old W-shaped brass door knocker. Before Gretchen can determine if there’s also a doorbell, a dog sitting in the grass just inside the fenced area holding the goats lets out a loud, deep bark that makes her heartbeat falter. It’s a huge white cloud of a dog—a fluffy marshmallow that could probably eat her in one bite. It lets out another bark, and she turns to knock frantically at the house’s door.
Please answer. Please answer. Please answer.
She keeps her eyes on the dog, as if she might warn it away with her gaze alone. It’s not that she’safraidof animals, exactly; they just make heruneasy. Gretchen is good with people. They’re mostly predictable, and she’s spent her whole life observing them. Sheunderstands them. Animals... well, she’s pretty sure she once read an article about a monkey in a zoo biting the head off a seagull, Ozzy Osbourne–style.
The terror—no, not terror, because she’snotafraid—theuneaseshe feels as the dog continues barking at her absorbs all of her attention momentarily. So when the door finally swings open, she startles and takes a step backward.
Oh.
The man standing in the doorway isn’t really that tall—several inches shorter than Yolanda’s six-one, for sure—but Gretchen’s petite stature and his slight elevation on the threshold contribute to the illusion that he towers over her. He stares down with hazel eyes that question who she is and why she’s here, though the scrutiny manages to come across as more curious than unfriendly. His blond-brown hair has shampoo-commercial body that gives it a spectacular wave, his beard is short and neat and a tiny bit darker, more like caramel but with strands of a cinnamon color that—
“Hi.” He looks left and right, as if searching for the source of what might have startled the strange woman at his door and then caused her to look at him silently for a truly uncomfortable amount of time. “Everything okay?”
