Page 55 of The Witch

“Happens every day,” Henry mutters.

Dixon continues as if Henry hasn’t spoken. “Everything you’re saying indicates to me that you’re dealing with some significant spiritual activity. But of course, I would need to visit the location personally and do a full sweep with my equipment.”

“Right.” I had a feeling he would say that, but I feel uneasy about the whole thing. “What would that entail?”

“The first visit would be very low-key,” he assures me. “I’ll come over with my K2, my REM pod, and maybe my EVP recorder. I’ll take a few simple readings and see what I find. Of course, there would be a nominal fee for the evaluation of your home.”

“Of course,” Henry says.

Dixon whips his head around to glare at Henry. “My friend, I get the feeling that you have some skepticism about the existence of the afterlife.”

“Yes.” Henry lifts his chin. “You could definitely say that. I’m just a little iffy about charging people for hunting ghosts, when there is zero evidence they actually exist.”

Dixon folds his meaty arms across his chest—yes, that is definitely a tattoo of kissing ghosts. Actually, they might be more than kissing. “So you only believe in things that you can see with your own eyes?”

“You could say that.”

“What about gravity?” Dixon challenges him. “You can’t see gravity, can you? Do you believe gravity isn’t real?”

“I can see the effects of gravity,” Henry counters. “I mean, we’re not all floating around, are we? Because if we were, we’d be ghosts.”

Dixon tips back in his chair slightly. “You know, I used to be like you.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, really,” he insists. “I was a skeptic. I would have made fun of somebody who believed in spirits. But then, years ago, I was staying in a Motel 6, and I woke up in the middle of the night, and there was a little boy standing in the middle of my room, staring at me. He was only there for like ten seconds, and then he disappeared.” Dixon scratches the scruff on his chin. “When I told the guy at the desk about it when I was checking out, do you know what he said?”

Henry can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Let me guess… He was a ghost?”

“He said a boy died in that room two years earlier.” Dixon drops his voice ominously. “Two years ago—that very night.”

“Wow,” Henry says flatly.

Dixon fishes into the pocket of his worn blue jeans and pulls out a rectangular card. He slides it across the table to me. “Julia, I can help you with your problem. Give me a call, and we can set up that evaluation.”

I can feel Henry’s eyes on me. He’s judging me, but he hasn’t been living in Pemberton. He hasn’t seen what I have seen.

“What if you find evidence of a ghost?” I say. “What then?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

He levels his eyes at me. “On what the ghost wants.”

His words send a chill down my spine. That is the question, isn’t it? If Caroline Eldridge is truly haunting Pemberton, there must be a reason why. She wants something.

Dixon rises to his feet. He holds out his hand, and I give it a shake. “Call me,” he says again. “I can help you.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling obscenely grateful that a professional is taking this seriously. Even if it’s a professional who got his degree off a website.

Dixon turns to Henry, who takes his hand much more reluctantly. “Very good to meet you, Mr. Ziegler,” he says, a strange expression on his face. “You’re welcome to come along for the evaluation. You might discover something that surprises you. Especially if you keep your mind open.”

With those words, Alistair Dixon turns around and walks out of the coffee shop, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. It’s only after the door swings shut that Henry snatches the business card off the table and looks down at it disdainfully.

“Alistair Dixon—Ghost Hunter,” he snorts. “Please tell me you didn’t actually buy any of that crap, Julia.”

I bristle. It’s easy for him to sit there and judge me when he doesn’t have a cold spot right smack in the middle of his bedroom. “He seems to know what he’s talking about.”