Afternoons were always quiet at the café. Most of the day's specialty treats sold out by noon, leaving only the staples to choose from. A few customers wandered in now and then—some with dogs and some without—probably to get out of the heat as much as anything else. It was sweltering out there.
After Paul left, I spent the rest of the day staring at my phone, waiting for a text from Ben, and occasionally sending one to him in the hopes he'd be inspired to reply.
He was not.
By the end of the day, I felt thoroughly depressed, and I wished that Ari would bring Mormo by so I could give her a hug. Just seeing her always cheered me up. Maybe I'd ask him if he wanted to drop her off some time and let me watch her for the day. She could be the café's mascot, even.
Then I remembered my resolution to keep away from unusual creatures and realized that Mormo probably qualified as such. The thought hit me so suddenly I almost dropped the plate of biscuits and iced-tea I was delivering to a table where a man sat with an unfortunate pug, which was dressed in a bowler hat and tie.
Maybe Ben would make an exception in Mormo's case, I thought. She was a very well-behaved monster, after all, and it wasn't like he would be fine with never seeing Ari again. Ari seemed to have the same effect on Ben that Mormo had on me.
At four, I closed up, cleaned up, and went home, taking the bus and then walking the rest of the way. As I approached the house, the sight of it struck me the same way it had the very first time I'd seen it, and I found myself falling in love with it all over again.
It was not the grandest house, nor the purest example of Victorian style, but it was perfect in some way I couldn't quite explain. It was three stories, narrow and long, with countless asymmetrical angles and a steep roof. It had a little porch in front with spindly columns and a carved balustrade, and it was covered in decorative trim like an elaborately frosted cake. It was painted powder blue, and the trim was white.
I don't believe there were two matching windows in the whole place.
As I stood gazing up at it, I caught a glimpse of movement in one of the larger of these, and waved, thinking that it might be Pete. Then I turned and looked down the long sloping street to the little glimpse of the bay far below, and sighed. It was early evening, and the water and sky were all pastel pinks and purples, with creeping soft grays drawing down with the veil of night.
I couldn't imagine living anywhere else, but it wasn't really our house, after all, and if Ben wanted to move...
Sighing, I trudged up the stairs to the front porch and spotted our neighbor, Valerie Owens, on her own porch next door. I smiled and waved, and she waved back.
It was the sort of wave that said, 'very good, now move along,' more than 'howdy, neighbor!' but it was still a wave.
Ari had once told me that Valerie was a witch, but he hadn't meant it in the literal sense. I figured that out after she screamed at me for asking if she'd be interested in sharing spells.
Distracted by this memory, and the fact that Valerie was currently wearing a dress that seemed to have been hand-sewn from the world's most hideous curtains, I tripped over something and had to catch myself against our paneled, green front door.
It was a box—a package—and when I examined it, I saw that it had come from New York. It must be the dybbuk box I'd ordered for Ben, I realized.
It was oddly light, wrapped in brown paper, and about 30 centimeters square. Valerie forgotten, I picked it up and brought it inside, excitement trilling along my nerves. Then I remembered that dybbuk boxes were probably among the things Ben wished we had less of in our lives, and placed it on the side table with another sigh.
I'd planned to give it to him for his birthday, but his birthday was another two months away, and who knew where we'd be by then.
By then, I considered, someone else might be looking after the museum; someone else might be living in this house.
Setting the box on the side-table by the door, I went upstairs to shower and change into my 'house clothes,' which in this weather meant a tank top and a pair of briefs.
As I stepped from the shower and reached for a towel, my hand passed through a patch of icy air, and I drew it back with a gasp as Pete materialized in front of me.
"Pete!" I yelped, covering myself with both hands. "Jeez, I'm not decent yet!"
"I am not offended," he said, his voice echoing eerily in the tiled room. "I have seen the human body before. In fact, I used to have one."
"Yeah, but this one's mine," I argued, sidling around him to snag my towel. I probably could have reached right through him, but that might have been rude.
Girding myself in the towel, I left the bathroom, walking along the hall to the bedroom with Pete gliding along in tow.
Keeping my back to him as I dress, I asked, "Okay, so what's so urgent it couldn't wait for undies?"
"The parcel you received today by post, friend Matt—do not open it," he said. His Russian accent sounded more pronounced today.
"It's a dybbuk box, Pete. Of course I won't open it."
Most dybbuks were cantankerous things, but I admit I had been hoping this one would be nice. An old grandma, maybe, who could tell me things like where to get good bagels. Most West Coast 'bagels' were just baked bread-rings, after all. Real bagels were—
"What I mean is—do not open package at all," Pete clarified, interrupting my thought. "Return to sender. Or better yet, throw in ocean—deep in ocean, far from shore."
"I don't think the dybbuk would like that," I said, studying myself in the wood-framed, oval mirror. "I mean, how would you feel if I tossed your bowling ball off the pier?"
Adjusting my shirt, I wondered if I ought to rethink my 'house clothes.' I hadn't really considered who or what might be watching me dance around in my Calvin Kleins.
"It is not dybbuk," Pete argued. "It is something else. Something older. Something dark."
"Dark, huh?" I asked. My reflection was not flattering. My blue-gray eyes were still bloodshot from the day's upsets, and I wore a pale, unhappy expression that made my already boring face look even blander. "Dark like, evil dark, or dark like, hey, someone turn on a light in here, dark?"
Pete didn't answer, and I turned to see if maybe he'd disappeared already.
He was still there, watching me with a look that might have been concern.
"The first one," he answered slowly.
I turned back to the mirror, pinching at my scrawny sides with a frown. Maybe I should eat more of Paul's eclairs.
"Well, don't worry, Pete," I said, watching my reflection's narrow shoulders slump. "There's no point in keeping it, evil spirit or not. Ben and I will probably be moving away soon, anyway."
Behind me in the mirror, I saw Pete's apparition flicker. "What new folly is this?" he asked, sounding vaguely Shakespearean. "You are needed here, Matthew Rose."
"That's sweet, Pete," I said, smiling. "But nobody—"
I'd turned to face him again, but he'd vanished. I didn't know if he was still there, invisible, or if he'd returned to his bowling ball or something, but I finished my sentence anyway. "Nobody needs me around here."
I stood still a moment, but there was no further sign of Pete. Then I jumped as my phone pinged and rushed over to where it lay on the dresser. That particular 'ping' was the sound of an incoming text, and my heart tripped over itself with the hope that it would be from Ben.
It was not.
It was, however, from one of my favorite people besides Ben.
The vampire, Volkir.
His texts always looked like real letters, and always sounded as romantic as real letters, too. I could almost imagine myself wandering the grounds of Pemberley, unfolding a scrap of paper, and reading a note in Mr. Darcy's hand. As I read through this one, I found it was no exception:
Dearest Matthew,
I have a matter on which your opinion would be of great value to me. May I pay you a visit this evening at your home? I eagerly await your reply.
Most cordially yours,
V
I started to type an immediate reply, but hesitated. I was still hoping Ben would come back, but I still hadn't heard a single word from him.
I decided to give it one more try. Maybe if I told him Volkir was coming over, he'd rush home, if only to protect me from all the ridiculous things he'd imagine the vampire doing to me if he wasn't here to chase him off. I dialed his number and waited, but as before, it went straight to his voicemail, which an unfriendly artificial voice informed me was full. It was like the AI bitch knew it was my fault somehow.
Dejected, but looking forward to the company (at least I wouldn't have to spend the evening wallowing alone), I sent Volkir my reply.
Heading back downstairs, I inspected the package again. Pete had said it wasn't a dybbuk box, or at least if it was a box, it didn't contain a dybbuk. He'd told me not to open it, but I figured I had to if I was going to explain to the seller that they'd sent me the wrong thing and that I wanted my money back.
It hadn't been a cheap dybbuk box, after all.
Grabbing an ornamental letter opener from a display of (supposedly) cursed murder weapons, I sliced open the paper covering. Beneath it was a plain, cardboard box, sealed with generic packing tape, which I also sliced through. Then, gingerly, hands a-tingle with curiosity, I lifted the flaps and peered inside.
All I saw was a nest of packing peanuts.
"Peeeete said not tooooo," I reminded myself, but I was already reaching inside. My hand brushed something that felt like glazed pottery, and then I pulled out what looked like a strangely shaped urn, or jar.
It had a bulbous bottom, a long narrow neck, and a flared top, which was capped with a pointed domed lid and sealed with something that looked like beeswax.
It was covered in intricate geometric designs and an elegant script, which I couldn't read but I recognized as Arabic.
I didn't know what it was, but it was definitely not a dybbuk box.
"Huh." I frowned at the strange object, turning it one way and then the other in my hands. It was pretty, at least.
I moved to return it to its box, when a scratching sound and a plaintive cry sounded from the other side of the door. I recognized the voice right away.
Pickles was Valerie's cat, but he liked me better. I fed him treats, and I'd heard Valerie telling one of her Historic Society friends that she never did, because she wanted him hungry enough to eat mice.
Eating mice was unhygienic, in my opinion, so I'd started giving Pickles extra snacks on the sly.
Cradling the jar in one arm, I opened the door.
"Pickles! Hey buddy! Ready for snacky treats? I got you 'tuna delight' this time."
I have no idea why Valerie gave him such an awful name—he was long-haired, had a laid-back attitude, and a smug, knowing little cat smile. I'd have called him Oscar Wildcat, given the chance.
I turned aside and rummaged in the armoire for the contraband treats. Ben disapproved of my campaign to undermine our neighbor's attempt at pest control, so I kept them hidden.
When I turned back to Pickles, however, treat bag in hand, he did not look like he was in the mood for a snack.
I'd never owned a cat, sadly—my sister was allergic, and Ben said he couldn't stand the thought of having a litter box in the house—but I was fairly certain that when they put their ears back, bared their cute little teefs, and hissed like a demon, that meant they were unhappy about something.
"Pickles...?"
Maybe 'tuna delight' was a mistake. It sounded like a mistake, anyway.
Before I could ask him what he'd rather have, he launched himself into my arms—or rather, at what I carried in them—knocking the urn to the floor where it shattered and released a cloud of dark, ashy dust.
Pickles howled and fled into the night, and even as I watched, the cloud of dust rose slowly in a column and coalesced into the shape of a man.
Then it screamed.
I screamed, too, as a pair of glowing red eyes snapped open and fixed on mine.
I stumbled back, thinking to get out of its way, but I was too slow.
It charged, rushing right through me like a thousand shards of ice, howling as it went, and vanished into the depths of the house.
I stood for a moment, unable to breathe, and thinking to myself that I really should have listened to Pete, and promising myself that next time I would.
Then I fell back—experiencing a weird yet delightful sensation of being in slow motion—hit the floor, and passed out cold.