Page 21 of Crazy Spooky Love
The key is difficult to get into the rusty lock, and even more difficult to turn.
“Artie, give this a go, will you?” I say, and he bounds over eagerly.
“I didn’t mean that I think you look heavy, you know,” he says quietly as I step aside.
“Just get the door open for me and we’ll forget all about it.” I grin, and he half smiles too. I make a mental note to tread lightly with him when it comes to teasing, and another mental note in bright red pen to remind Marina to do the same. He isn’t like us; our friendship is based on deep foundations and a lifetime of shared secrets. Artie hasn’t had the luxury of friendship in his life, he’s still learning the ropes and probably finds it hard to understand that our ever-present sarcastic undercurrent is actually based on loyalty and trust.
Marina and I watch as he tries the key and it doesn’t budge, and then again when he goes in for a second, more concerted effort and the lock begrudgingly gives way under the pressure.
We both clap our hands as Artie pushes the door ajar and then turns to us flushed with success.
“You’re officially forgiven, Thor.” Marina winks at him, and he flushes raspberry from the neck up as she walks past him to the back porch of Scarborough House. I leave the door unlocked and pocket the key as I walk inside. I don’t know why; an instinct borne from watching too many horror movies, probably.
“Hello?” We push the inner door open and Marina’s voice rings out loudly around the huge kitchen we find ourselves in. It’s colder in here than it was outside, the drawn blinds preventing any late-spring sunlight from permeating the space.
“You know there’s no one here, right?”
“Just being polite.” She lifts her eyebrows at me. “You never know.”
“Going by the state of the back door lock, I think we can be fairly sure,” I murmur, running my finger through the substantial layer of dust on the kitchen table.
“What do we do now?” Artie whispers besideme.
They’re looking to me for guidance, so I clear my throat. “Let’s do a slow walk-through of the place and get our bearings.”
Beyond the kitchen lies a hallway of grand proportions and shabby upkeep. Marina’s heels clack against the decorative terra-cotta floor tiles until we all come to an eerily silent standstill and I decide which way to go next. A showstopping central staircase sweeps up to the first floor; it looks as if those women I imagined on the lawns might have walked down it in beautiful evening gowns, as if it were fashioned for a more glamorous era. I glance down at my beloved Converse sneakers and feel entirely underdressed.
“Let’s look downstairs first.”
Graceful plasterwork arches swoop over either side of the hallway, and I push one of the broad, old oak doors open and lead the way into a formal sitting room. It’s huge; at least four times the length of my own lounge and broken up into two distinct seating areas. Three austere tapestry sofas form a square facing the fireplace, and at the far end a cluster of wingback chairs looks out toward the walk-in, floor-to-ceiling French doors, clearly arranged to make the most of the garden views. I can imagine ladies would have perchedon the sofas in days gone by, while their menfolk lounged on the wingback chairs and talked business over fat cigars and good whisky. The rest of the furniture in here is all in proportion with the scale of the room; the cherrywood sideboard is probably about eight feet long, and the mirror attached to it soars up the wall toward the high, heavily detailed ceiling. Sunlight dapples the seating area by the French doors, but the rest of the room is distinctly cool and gloomy.
I can appreciate why this place lends itself for conversion to a nursing home; it offers wide spaces for wheelchairs and lots of opportunities for the simple pleasure of watching the world through its tall windows. The phrasemod conshas probably never even been uttered inside here; a thought strikes me and I look up at the light fittings.
“Is it wired for electricity?”
Artie glances around to find the switch as Marina saunters toward the windows to look out.
“You came back, then.”
I look toward the deep, matter-of-fact voice as Isaac Scarborough walks into the room. He’s a mature guy; I’d guess he must have been eighty or more when he died. He has a lived-in, melancholy way about him. As ghosts go, he gives off an air of having been around for a fair while, au fait with the ins and outs of being invisible to pretty much everybody.
I nod and send him a small smile, but I don’t reply instantly as I’m super aware that this is going to be Artie’s first time in the presence of a ghost.
“Bingo!” Artie beams as he flicks a light switch and the central chandelier blinks to life. Within seconds one of the bulbs blows, and the others are coated in dust and start to smell of singeing.
“Just you who can see me, then,” Isaac mutters as he takes a seat on one of the sofas. “Some party that’s going to be.”
To be fair, he doesn’t look like much of a party animal. I’d say he passed in the 1960s if his wardrobe is anything to go on: white shirt and skinny tie worn with a beige cardigan and sensible turn-up trousers. His hair is steel-gray and quite unkempt. Actually, for anelderly man in such an impressive house, he looks decidedly down-at-heel.
“You best switch that off again.” Marina looks up at the light as she turns from the windows and wrinkles her nose at the smell. “We don’t want to burn the place down on our first day.”
“Did someone mention a party?” A much younger, more debonair ghost strolls through the door and joins Isaac. I hold in the soft gasp that wants to leave my body because he is truly, outlandishly handsome. If Isaac looks slightly out of step with the times, this guy appears even more so. I’d say he could have been only in his early twenties when he died. He looks formally informal, if that’s a thing. What I mean is I expect that his cricket clothes might have been considered informal in his own day, but to my modern eyes he appears stiff and starched. He’s dressed completely in white, in slacks and a shirt with the open collar standing up and his sleeves folded back above his elbows, as if he’s about to bowl. His coal-black hair is short and slicked, and for a ghost, he exudes robust youth and health that makes my heart instantly break a little for him. He looks like a man who loved life and lost it in his prime, as if he’s just stepped from a black-and-white postcard to pick up a glass of stout that was slightly out of shot. He’d definitely have been a young man playing croquet out on the lawns of Scarborough House, trying to catch the eye of one of the ladies. Until he died anyway. That must have scuppered things quite a lot.
Marina stands beside me, unsubtly clearing her throat to get my attention, and I realize I must have been miles away. Young, handsome ghosts are few and far between.
“I’m going to sit on the sofa with Artie,” she murmurs. “Will that work?”
“Just not the one to the left. Isaac Scarborough is sitting there.” I speak out of the corner of my mouth, glad as always that she knows me well enough to realize what is goingon.
