“Oh my god. How am I ever going to get through all my aunt’s files?” said Emma, looking up from the pile of old manila folders that lay around her on the floor. One folder was open, spilling out a jumble of notes, printouts, and photos. She looked up at the ceiling where Viv was on a ladder, addressing a Frankenstein’s monster of drywall patches. “And Thanksgiving’s in a week! How are we ever going to finish this?”
“So, uh, about that,” Viv said as she plopped a mound of drywall mud onto the ceiling. If you ignored the faint mildew smell, you almost couldn’t tell the pipes had burst or that the room had been a lake just a few weeks ago. “This might go a little faster if—”
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Emma looked up, grinning. “Hold that thought.” She stood and rushed out of the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
Her kitchen.
If the dining room was a nightmare, the kitchen was a dream: white cabinets, tile floor, and a butcher-block countertop polished to a golden sheen. A stainless-steel fridge sat against one wall along with a matching oven and dishwasher. Near the door was a small breakfast table with four padded seats. It had cost a pretty penny, but it was worth it.
She pressed a button on the microwave, and the beeping stopped. She opened the oven door.
“I think they’re ready!” she called back, her cheeks rosy from the oven’s heat. She reached in and pulled out a tray of chocolate chip cookies.
She gingerly placed the hot cookie sheet on the stove and produced a little box of Maldon salt, dropping a few of the fluffy crystals on each cookie.
“Those smell amazing,” Viv said as she walked in. The smell of buttery, brown-sugar-infused cookie wafted through the air.
They would be too hot to eat, but what the heck? Emma handed one to Viv and took one for herself. As she bit into it, her eyes shut. It was everything she’d hoped for: chewy, rich—sweet and salty all at once. It tasted like pure comfort.
She had finally broken her baking curse. Maybe Thanksgiving wouldn’t be a disaster after all.
Her shoulders relaxed, and a smile stretched across her face. When she opened her eyes, Viv was grinning at her from around a bite of cookie. “So, like I was saying, I told you that I’d be happy to show you how to do your drywall project. But it seems like I’ve been doing it all myself.”
Emma’s face fell. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just have so much to do! I’m so stressed out about hosting Thanksgiving, and the house is falling apart.”
“You really want your mom to see you’re doing okay out here, huh?”
“Yes! And how was I to know that as soon as I sent the invite, the plumbing in my dining room would break open like the Hoover Dam? And Dash is on my case about his stuff…”
“Is he that bad?”
“He’s just… persistent. Ever since I helped Alice Beyer’s spirit pass through the veil, he thinks that I can do the same for him. I don’t know what to do. I thought maybe if I read all my aunt’s old case files…”
“Really, there weren’t any? I would have thought a psychic would be helping spirits pass through the veil left and right.”
“Maybe she did, but there’s nothing in the files so far. Just lots of kids falling down wells. Lots of satanists—”
“Um, what?”
“It was the eighties. Satanic panic. I don’t think they were real. Same with most of the demonic possessions after The Exorcist came out.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that. My aunt Flo got convinced she was possessed by a demon that spoke Italian.”
“Italian?”
“Not real Italian. She just started a-talking like-a Super Mario. Waved her hands a lot.”
Emma laughed and settled into a relaxed smile—then a shadow passed across her face. It deepened into a frown.
“With Alice, the answer just fell in my lap. Once she learned about her past and was able to accept that it really happened to her and wasn’t her fault, she was able to move on.”
“So why not help Dash find out about his past?”
“It’s different. I had Alice’s diary. I don’t have anything like that for Dash. And when he gets close to remembering, he kind of blanks out.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Viv said around another bite of cookie. “Since you have so much going on right now, I’ll keep helping you with your drywall.”
“Really? Oh, that’s amazing. Thank you so much!”
“But, uh, Emma—I think you might need a little more practice on these cookies.”
“Really? I thought they were—”
“I think you should practice making them every day. Around the time I come over to do drywall.”
“Meow.”
Both turned to see the massive brindle cat peeking around the edge of the kitchen door. He had a notched ear, a snaggletooth, and a scar running across one eye.
“Afternoon, Captain,” Viv said.
The cat stepped into the room and meandered over to them to rub up against Emma’s leg. She bent down and petted him. He purred loudly, his tail whipping back and forth across her arm.
“I can’t believe the captain lets you pet him like that,” Viv said, using a spatula to peel another cookie off the sheet.
“We have a relationship of mutual admiration—and I give him all the cream he wants.” Emma walked to the fridge. She took out a ceramic jug of cream and poured some into a dish.
Stepping out of the kitchen, she walked to the door under the stairs. It was small, made of polished oak, and very sturdy. Cut into the bottom was a plastic cat flap.
Opening the door, she saw the captain’s Victorian study. It was exactly how it had been in Aunt Cora’s house. Miniature oil paintings of sailing ships hung on miniature papered walls. Miniature bookcases held fine, leather-bound miniature books. On a mahogany side table was a decanter of brandy and two brandy snifters.
An oxblood armchair sat slightly askew in front of a large miniature desk with a miniature typewriter and a messy stack of pages. On the floor next to the desk was an empty saucer.
She took the empty dish and replaced it with the full one. The captain began to lap up the cream.
“Meow.” The captain looked up reproachfully.
“I know. I know,” Emma replied. “You need your edits. I’ll get them to you. I’ve just been so busy. I thought that once I quit my job, I’d have a few less people pulling at me, but I’m stretched thinner than ever.”
Emma closed the door to give the captain some privacy. Ever since he and his compatriots of the night watch had driven all the rats out of Undertown, he had adopted the life of a gentleman of leisure and was focusing on his writing.
A familiar voice called out. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Oh God, were they late? Emma froze. She looked at Viv, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, guiltily chewing her third cookie.
“What time is it?”
“Microwave says it’s one—”
“That clock’s wrong. I forgot to set it!”
“We installed that thing a month ago. Who doesn’t set their clock?”
“I don’t apparently.” Emma raced to her purse, which was hanging off a dining table chair. She rummaged around and pulled out her phone. The time on the screen read 2:35 p.m. Her heart sank.
She’d gotten so caught up in renovations, chatting with Viv, reading her aunt’s old files, and baking cookies that she’d---
“Hello? Emma? Oh, there you are,” the man said, grinning. He was tall with dark, slicked-back hair and shy eyes that seemed large against his thin face. His tweed suit was perfectly pressed, his bow tie expertly knotted, and his hair parted so sharply it could cut glass. From his jacket pocket hung a pocket-watch chain.
“Hi, Dash! Sorry, I’ve been running like a chicken with its head cut off.”
“Oh, is Dash here?” Viv said, looking up and waving. “Hi, Dash!”
“You’re not waving at Dash, Viv. He’s, um, over here.” It was still a little weird being able to see dead people. It was even weirder that folks believed her. Her family had a reputation though. “I completely lost track of time. Has it started?”
“No, actually. The cast seems to be… well, locked out.”
“Someone locked them out?”
“Strange things have been happening. Items going missing. For example, Riley’s laptop. I wanted to see if they’d lost it here.”
“Their laptop? I don’t think—”
“Hey, Em, isn’t that it under those magazines?”
“What do you know? It is,” Emma said, pulling the computer from under a bunch of old issues of Scientific American.
“Excellent. Would you mind, er, carrying it there?” Dash held up his hands and shrugged. Spirits like him tended to pass through anything they touched.
“No problem,” Emma said, stuffing the laptop into her bag. She turned to Viv. “Ready?”
They stopped in the hallway in front of the captain’s study.
“You coming, Captain?” Emma called, but the only reply was the sound of the captain’s manual typewriter. “Suit yourself, but it’d do you good to get out a little more.”
Emma and Viv stopped at the front door, put on their raincoats, then headed out into Undertown.
Undertown was a neighborhood in Seattle, but you wouldn’t find it on any ordinary map. Due to a heady mix of history, magic, and legal obstinacy, the neighborhood had remained independent for the past century as Seattle grew around it and encased it like a pearl.
Emma’s house sat near the very heart of that pearl. It was an area that, due to a misfired spell decades ago, had been cursed and barren. Over time, it was becoming lush and green again, aided by the mild temperatures and the soothing rain.
Beyond this core was New Main Street: a circular avenue filled with cozy shops, delicious restaurants, and good friends. Beyond that were the hills—large rises filled with trees, homes, and blackberry briars.
Emma breathed deeply. The air was soothing, cool, and damp. The smell of wet earth and greenery hung in the air, and a thin veil of moisture glistened on leaves and grass. Ahead, a robin dipped its beak into the ground, looking for worms.
“I can’t believe they’re trying to restore it,” Viv said.
“Restore what? Sorry, I was just thinking about how different this place looks now.”
“The theater,” Viv said, nodding her head toward the old building to their right. “It just seems like such a big project, ya know?”
“Riley said it was well-preserved. They only needed to turn on the utilities. I just hope its pipes don’t burst.”
“Ha! It’s already hard enough to find a plumber.”
Emma glanced toward the theater. The building was old, built over a hundred years ago. The facade was covered in elaborate carvings of statues of lions and eagles rising to claw at the sky. The windows were tall and arched, framed in stone that had been carved to look like vines and flowers.
“It’s… kind of creepy,” Emma said.
“I remember when it opened,” said Dash.
“Really? Did it look creepy then?”
“No, it was marvelous. If they manage to restore it to its original opulence, it will be a sight to behold.”
“What show did you see there?” Emma asked.
“I… You know, I don’t recall. It was—” Dash flickered out of existence for a moment. “Did I just…”
“You disappeared again. Only for a second.”
“It’s quite frustrating.”
“Just relax if you can. We’re here to enjoy ourselves,” Emma said, looking back toward the theater.
She let her eyes follow the vines up to the top of the facade, where at the very top was a pair of stone gargoyles looking down onto the street below. One gargoyle was hunched forward, its wings curved around its body like a protective cloak. Its head was tilted down, and its eyes burned with an inner fire. Its mouth was a twisted snarl, filled with sharp teeth that looked like they could rip through stone.
It winked at her.
