The door to Heller House was seven feet tall, solid oak. Rachel and I looked at the doorknob for a moment as snow fell on the veranda around us.
“Well, we made it.” I pressed the doorbell.
Rachel shrugged. “I hope we don’t get snowed in here.”
We were in northern Wisconsin. The snow had started halfway here, challenging my car’s wipers on the highway and coating the road from town. The gray sky threatened a lot more before morning.
The door opened. The woman inside, in her 80s, had thin silver hair and a black sweater with padded shoulders. She held a cane. “Mr. Jurgen?”
“That’s me. And this is my associate. Rachel.”
“Marsha Heller.” She had a thin, sharp nose, and narrow eyes behind round glasses. A lilac perfume drifted from her hair. “Come in, please.”
We wiped snow from our shoes on the welcome mat, and I rolled our suitcase inside. Rachel carried a laptop case and a wore a backpack slung over one shoulder.
Inside a narrow hall greeted us, with a staircase on the right leading up to a landing that looked down twenty-five feet to the floor where we stood. Wide chandeliers hung from the second-story ceiling, but half of their bulbs were burned out. Faded flowered wallpaper stretched along the wall next to the staircase. Paintings hung on the far wall. A living room opened on the left.
The hardwood floor under our feet was polished and shiny in the dim light that filtered through the windows beside the door. The hallway smelled like a pine forest.
“Up there.” Marsha Heller pointed at the staircase. “Craig!”
A man leaned over the railing. “Mom?”
“My son will show you to your room. Come back down to the study right away.” She turned, rubbing her eyes as if a migraine was settling in. “We’ll have a meeting.”
Craig, in his 30s, had a crew cut and a thin brown beard, and a cable knit sweater and jeans. He led us upstairs and opened a door. “Just the one room?” I saw him checking Rachel out.
“That’s right.” I stepped inside before she could give Craig a snarky answer. “Let us straighten up a minute, okay?”
“Sure. I’m right across the hall. With my wife.” He winked. “Just knock when you’re ready.”
Rachel closed the door. I unzipped the suitcase. “Feel anything spooky?”
“Just him.” She hung her denim jacket on the hook behind the door. “And that’s not psychic.”
Rachel’s got red hair and hazelnut eyes. She’s my girlfriend, not just my associate. Plus, she’s a little psychic. That helps with my P.I. work. I hung up our coats, we washed up, and in a few minutes Craig was leading us back down the stairs.
“So is this place really haunted?” I asked.
He snorted. “Sure. Bad plumbing. Mice. Memories. You name it.”
The study—yeah, it was the kind of house that would have a study—was past the staircase. It had leather armchairs, a long sofa, paintings and books on every wall, and sculptures every few feet. Tiffany lamps cast light and shadows around the room. A liquor cart waited in a corner. Marsha Heller sat at one end of the room, her cane on the floor, underneath a black-and-white photo of an old woman in a white dress with a high-necked collar.
Another woman sat at the other end in a straight-backed wooden chair, as if they were facing off for a debate—or a duel. Her cell phone sat next to a glass of Chablis. Slender, she had short black hair and wide blue eyes, and wore a brown blazer over a white T-shirt. Ten years or so younger than me, so mid-30s. She stood up as we entered.
“Tom Jurgen, this is Vanessa Montague.” Marsha Heller’s lips curved in a frown. “She’s a filmmaker. Mr. Jurgen is a private detective. And his, uh, associate. Rachel, was it?”
We shook hands. I’d heard of Vanessa Montague, of course. Documentary filmmaker whose YouTube channel had 1.4 million subscribers, along with 1.35 million Instagram followers. She specialized in videos of distant deserts and dark jungles, venomous snakes and giant spiders, deep caves filled with bats and ancient ruins on top of treacherously tall mountains.
And the occasional haunted house. She liked to explore the supernatural.
Rachel and I had experience there too. More than we liked.
“Nice to meet you.” Montague looked us over warily. Did she know me?
“My daughter Kathryn asked Ms. Montague here to record the, uh, phenomena here in the house.” Marsha Heller sipped red wine from her glass. “Craig, serve Tom and Rachel some wine.”
“Sure thing. Cabernet or Chablis?” He smiled at Rachel.
“Just water.” She sat down on the sofa.
“Same here.” I sat next to her. With a mild frown, Craig opened a tall bottle of Perrier. “So, is Heller House haunted?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.” Vanessa Montague smiled. “Why are you here?”
“To keep you honest.” I glanced at Marsha Heller.
She nodded. “I can’t keep you out of here. My children and I own this house jointly—Kathryn has just as much right to bring you here with your film crew as I do to have Tom here to watch you. And make sure you don’t fabricate anything, or misrepresent what you see or hear.”
Montague looked at me. “I’ve heard of Tom Jurgen. Is he really the right person for debunking? He has more experience with the supernatural than any ghost hunter I’ve ever met. Most of them are fakes, or just incredibly naïve. You’re the real thing.” She smiled at me.
Rachel kicked my leg. She gets territorial whenever she thinks someone is flirting with me. I crossed my arms. “Yes, I’ve had my share of encounters with ghosts. And demons. Invisible assassins. Vampires. Giant mutant chickens. Am I leaving anything out?”
“Aliens.” Rachel scratched her nose. “But I suppose those aren’t really supernatural. Witches trying to bring back the dead? That was pretty creepy.”
“So I know what to look for.” I took a glass of water from Craig. Lemon slice. “Thanks.”
“Just so you don’t get in my way.” Montague cocked her head.
“That’s sort of what I’m here for.” I sipped.
She stood up. “I have to check on the setup. We’re starting tonight.”
A tall blond woman in slacks and a knit vest stepped aside in the doorway to let her leave. “Time for cocktails?” She had a wide smile and a figure I was careful not to check out too closely with Rachel in punching distance.
Craig kissed her cheek. “My wife. Brandy. Wine?”
She dropped into a chair. “Scotch. You’re Tom Jurgen? Mother hired you?”
I introduced Rachel. Craig delivered her drink as another woman entered. Short, in a black turtleneck and jeans, she had brown hair tied back in a ponytail and thin, pale cheeks. “Hi, everyone. Charley will be right down.” She headed straight to the cart.
“My daughter, Kathryn.” Marsha Heller’s face was grave. “She invited Ms. Montague to the house.”
“There’s crazy stuff going on here.” She dumped ice into a glass and poured herself some vodka, topping it off with a few drops of vermouth. After a quick sip, she looked me over. “You’re the detective?”
Again I introduced myself and Rachel. “What kind of weird stuff?”
Kathryn perched in the chair Montague had vacated. “You’ll see. I know why you’re here. I don’t want to plant anything in your imagination.”
This looked like it could be a long weekend.
Finally Charles showed up, the final sibling in the family. He had jeans, a U of Wisconsin sweatshirt, and the same brown hair as his brother and sister. He was shorter and heavier than Craig. “Hi! I’m Charley.” He poured himself some whiskey and soda, and then shook my hand and Rachel’s. “You’re the P.I. mom hired? Glad somebody’s here with some sense.”
Rachel snorted. “Sense? You don’t know him like I do.”
Nice. I grinned. “Nice to meet you all. Since nobody wants to tell me what to expect. I’ll tell you a little about me.” I sipped my water. “I used to be a reporter. I saw a monster one night, and nobody would believe me, or print the story. So I quit before I got fired, and now I’m a private detective. But I still run into monsters.”
“Me too.” Rachel lifted a hand. “Lots of them. And I’m psychic, FYI.”
“Really?” Charley laughed. “Read my palm? Check my aura? Do a Tarot reading?”
Craig groaned.
“Shut up, Charles.” Kathryn glared at him. “I want Tom to keep an open mind. One way or the other. Right, mom?”
Marsha Heller nodded slowly. “He is here on business. I expect you all to cooperate.”
“Sure!” Charley winked at us. Or maybe just to Rachel. “Whatever you want.”
A young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform peeked through the doorway. “Mrs. Heller? Everyone? Dinner is ready.”
“Thank god.” Brandy stood up. “I’m starving.”
We all stood, picking up our drinks. Marsha Heller was the last to get to her feet, holding her cane in tight bony fingers. “This way, please.”
The lights flickered. Once, twice, three times. Then they went out, leaving us in darkness.
“Olivia?” Mrs. Heller’s voice was firm. “What happened?”
But the maid was gone. The lights still burned in the hall
“Damn it.” Craig stumbled through the shadows, Brandy right behind him. At the door he flicked the light switch. Nothing.
Charley chuckled. “See why you’re here, Tom?”
“Shut up, Charley.” Craig flicked the switch again, and again. “I’ll check the circuit breaker. The rest of the house is on.”
“This way.” Marsha Heller stepped forward. “Dinner.”
I took Rachel’s hand. She squeezed. Yeah, she’d felt something. In the lights of the hallway I looked at Kathryn. “Stuff like this?”
She kept her face expressionless. “Open mind, Tom. Open mind.”
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