Touched by Shadows

“Why are we going to the creepiest house I’ve ever seen?” Alex asked.

Rows of giant oak trees and high fences hid the house, one of those historic Garden District homes everyone wanted to tour. I had never been inside, but knew a lot of history about it, some of it sketchy. Dion had referred us, which had to mean something positive.

“Dion says she takes care of ghost animals.”

“Cause that’s not creepy?”

“Uh, we have a ghost cat,” I reminded him, “who sometimes gives you nightmares.”

“She’s sensitive to negative energy,” Alex defended our ghost cat. She wasn’t really ours. Alex had invited her to stay with us instead of remaining at an active B&B in Texas, which had really seemed to mess with her peaceful afterlife.

“That’s why we are visiting first,” I said. “We can see how she treats the animals.”

“Or if she’s off her rocker?” Alex offered.

“You’re the one who sees dead people.”

“What if it’s a house full of yokai?”

“Then we leave.”

“That simple?” Alex asked. He’d been working hard on his control and had created a dozen grounding charms that helped keep spirits out, and Alex where he belonged, with me. We’d had a few months without incident, and were getting used to the ghost cat, until Lukas showed up to have a breakdown. I still wasn’t clear on all the details, but he’d flipped out at Alex.

“Why was your brother on boss mode?”

Alex flinched. “I didn’t send Mom a Mother’s Day present.”

“Okay. I assume that happened a lot when you were overseas, too. You can send her something even if it’s a little late,” I offered, thinking it was a simple solution to make everyone happy.

“No,” Alex said.

I looked at him. “You sent my mom a gift.” He’d quilted a delicate pattern of fleur de lis on a piece of faux leather, and I’d made it into a handbag. It looked designer when we’d finished and my mom loved it.

“Your mom doesn’t treat me like I’m an inconvenience,” Alex said. He headed up the walk toward the gate entrance. “My therapist says I’m allowed to set boundaries.”

And that was true, but I also knew him well enough to understand that he felt guilty, and his brother had made it worse. Was he setting a boundary with his mother, or himself? I raced to catch up with him and slid my hand into his. His tension eased immediately. “I just want Precious to be safe.”

Concern for the cat, or his mother?

“We weren’t allowed pets as kids. Mom worked too much and didn’t think we were responsible enough. I found a batch of kittens once. She said she took them to the Humane Society,” Alex said.

“She didn’t?”

“I don’t know. I called to ask about them, but they didn’t know what I was talking about. Maybe she took them to a location far from us? She always worked pretty far away.”

Alex had an enormous heart, and of course he worried about those kittens from decades ago. States away and ages later, it wasn’t likely we’d find them at the ghost cat lady’s house. “Jet loves you.”

“He’s an amazing cat, but I think he likes Lukas more than me.”

I was pretty sure Jet adored Lukas because cats had an uncanny way of gravitating to the individuals who acted the most annoyed with them. Timothy had gifted him to me and found the cat stupidly annoying because Jet would sit inches away and stare at him for hours on end. With Lukas, Jet’s contact was more hands on, but he curled up in Alex’s lap without hesitation and always marked him with his scent when he came in. “Jet loves you and you spoil him rotten.”

Alex sighed. “He loves the new toys. I can’t help that there are so many amazing toys for cats in every shop in the Quarter.” Every time he wandered through the Quarter, he came home with something new for Jet. Often handmade catnip mice, or jingle toys, but Jet had an entire drawer dedicated to his amusement at home. “Maybe Precious needs toys?”

“How do we find a cat toy for a ghost cat?”

“I don’t know, maybe the cat lady will know?”

“I’ve heard she has more than cats, but one battle at a time, right? Let’s see this menagerie.” We found the gate and entered the code they had given us to unlock it, sliding inside and closing it behind us. “I hope there aren’t ghost attack dogs or anything,” I said in a half joke, hoping to lighten the mood.

He scanned the yard with a slow gaze. Since it was the middle of a weekday everything was still, at least to my eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “Not even ghost dog poop.”

“Well, that’s good to know. I’d hate to step in ecto-poo.”

A smile tugged at Alex’s lips, and I squeezed his hand as we made our way up to the door. He rang the bell and we waited. He swayed a little, self-comfort that I was learning a lot about lately called stimming. We hadn’t talked about his new diagnosis yet. He’d come home from the therapist, sank down into my arms and cried. He was on a waitlist for an actual evaluation, but his therapist suspected and gave him a dozen books to read. And each one he had tabbed with a bunch of little colored stickies, passages highlighted, page after page of self-awareness rising.

We heard movement from inside. “Ready for the paranormal Dr. Doolittle?” I asked.

“Probably better than seeing random dead people,” he said.