Continuing my reading, I learn that Harold led a troubled life, in and out of foster care as a child and falling into criminality as he got older. The articles detail the reasons he was a suspect in the killings, but he was too good at covering his tracks, and law enforcement could never find solid evidence to arrest him. Someone else, convinced of Harold’s guilt, decided to end things the vigilante way and shot him as he walked down his driveway to his car.
I flip back to the pages about Keagan. Normally there’s a picture included, but sometimes one isn’t available, and this is one of those times. There’s not much information about him. He lives alone, and his mother died of cancer when he was young, so he was mostly raised by his grandparents and an aunt given his father’s unpredictable stability. He works from home as a graphic artist. That’s it. There aren’t any other details about him.
My curiosity piqued, I open my laptop to see if I can find any new information about the target. I search his name and his city, scrolling through possible hits until I find a promising one on a networking website, but it’s set to private. It dawns on me that given his father’s background, he may have taken precautions to safeguard his identity. Makes sense.
I rise from the couch again, this time heading up the stairs of my historical Victorian home. I’ve lived in this house off and on for the last two hundred years, thanks to proper estate planning and identity changes. To anyone who asks, I am the great-great-grandchild of the original owner, one Mr. Edward Wilkins. I prefer it over my New York City apartment, but there’s more work there sometimes.
I hardly remember my previous existence, but specific memories linger. I was loved, and it was a good life, until I was forced to disappear. Eventually, my lack of aging would have aroused questions, and given the superstitions of the time, I had to go. A smile tugs at my lips. It wasn’t all bad though.
Well, this Horror won’t catch itself. I quickly change into my standard Horror chasing outfit—black jeans, black shirt, black boots. It’s easier than choosing what to wear each day. After dressing, I stop in the bathroom to drag a bit of gel through my wavy auburn hair, brush the coffee breath away, and spritz just a bit of cologne on. I’ve learned the foreign scent makes it harder for the Horrors to detect my presence.
Minutes later, I’m in my black SUV heading to Beverly, the GPS guiding my way to Keagan Bishop’s house. It’s nearly ten in the morning, and since he works from his house, hopefully he’s home. It’s not like I can call ahead.
I turn up my stereo, letting the strong bass and heavy guitar of my current favorite band thump through the speakers. This is one way I get into the mental headspace to tackle a new Horror. Music up, world off.
Fifteen minutes later, I make the final turn and follow the directions to my destination, arriving in front of a quaint Cape Cod style house, complete with graying cedar shake siding and a red door. There’s an older white sedan in the driveway, but the house appears silent and still.
After parking behind the sedan, I exit my car and approach the front door slowly, listening for any signs of the Horror. Nothing. That’s a good thing.
I ring the bell, glancing around as I wait. The neighbors’ houses on both sides are obscured by tall bushes and trees.
The door cracks open and a person peers out from a darkened room. “Who are you?”
“Are you Keagan Bishop?”
“Who wants to know?”
Suspicious. That’s fair.
“If you’re a journalist or something, you can kick rocks.”
“Kick rocks? Er, no, I’m not a journalist. I’m here to help you.”
“With what?”
“A problem you may be having.” I’m always delicate initially, since I’m never sure what point the target is at with their haunting. “You do have a problem, yes?”
He pulls the door open just a bit more, his brows creased over big brown eyes. “How do you know that?”
“It’s my job. If you’ll allow me to come in, I can explain.”
He pulls back slightly, and I think he’s going to open the door, but he doesn’t. “Tell me what kind of problem it is.”
“I have reason to believe you’re being haunted, and if you’re not yet, you’re about to be.”
Keagan, I assume, blows out a slow breath, and finally pulls the door open completely. He’s of average height and build, but his face… damn. He is stunning. His hair, sandy brown, is long and wavy, hanging past his shoulders, and while his features arepleasant, it’s his eyes—big, seeking, and wounded—that capture my attention.
“You can help me?”
I nod, doing my best to soften my expression. “That’s why I came. I can give you more details, but perhaps it would be better to do that inside.”
Keagan glances over his shoulder, then nods, biting his bottom lip. “Yeah, okay, but I have a panic button on my security system if you pull any shit.”
“Noted.”
Keagan lets me pass, and I take in my surroundings as I step into the small living room. The house is quiet, but the energy here is anything but docile. There’s definitely something brewing.
“Has the haunting already begun?”
