Chapter 2: Ezra - Entities to Lovers

There’s something irrefutably haunted about a city like Boston.

It’s not just ghosts peeking around doorways or things that go bump in the night. It’s the creak of walls when the wind blows, wear and tear on wood floors from late-night pacing, a chandelier installed a century ago and left to collect dust, or height lines carved into doorframes for kids who grew up and died a hundred years ago. Everything here is full of memories and histories I’ll never learn the full story of.

And that will haunt me for all my days.

I lead the group to the front stoop of Talbot House in Beacon Hill, the final stop on the tour. It’s nestled in a row of brownstones, all decorated for Halloween—pumpkin and cauldron window clings, fake spiderwebs draped over bushes, and motion-activated decorations that cackle and sway as the guests walk by. About a week from now, the area will be bustling with trick-or-treaters. Most people would skip over Talbot House for its dimmed lights and lack of decor, but not Ye Olde Spirit Tours.

It’s one of the few locations we’re allowed to bring guests inside, and I still remember the first time I entered a year ago. I was shadowing a tour to learn the ropes and while the owner may have died a century ago, the home is so well preserved. If you ask any of the tour guides, they’d assert Temperance Talbot never left.

“Come along,” Rory chimes. “And do mind the carpets!”

I take up the rear and make sure all our guests are accounted for, before meeting her at the top of the stairs.

“Especially you,” she sneers.

Rory Woods was the first person I met at Ye Olde Spirit Shop, and she’s had me possessed ever since. She sat in her alcove, flipping tarot cards into a spread, focused like she was in her own world. She was the most stunning woman I’d ever seen—like someone ripped from the pages of time and placed into the modern world. She had an old-soul sensibility about her, but I quickly learned she was anything but proper and quiet. After I became the favorite guide on her cherished tours, I learned she has a wild spirit with a sharp tongue and wit that has it out for me in particular.

It quickly became a game of saber rattling and mutually assured grandstanding.

From day one, Rory has always been a challenge I’m ready to meet.

Tonight, she’s spent the past hour glaring at me with hypnotic contempt, like she’s trying to use her psychic abilities Matilda-style to toss me into Boston Harbor. I don’t know if her paranormal arsenal goes that far, but the many witnesses aboard might have something to say in my favor. Whether she wants to admit it or not (she won’t), I’ve formed a great rapport with our guests this evening. There’s a higher-than-normal attendance of old women, who always find me extremely charming and love to tell me at the end of the tour they have single granddaughters. My chances of walking away from our tour with a higher tip count are looking better with every silly history joke I make.

I work at Ye Olde Spirit Tours for more than the money, but I’d be lying if I said watching Rory squirm as I gain raucous laughs and have an answer to every question has nothing to do with it. Little satisfies me more than seeing her dainty, round face scrunch in irritation, her big green eyes roll when she thinks I don’t see, and how all of it makes the bird hairpiece on her head tilt to the side with each huff.

Rory steps into the foyer and promptly trips over the carpet at the doorway. Instinct kicks in and I reach out and grab her arm before she wipes out in front of our guests.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for Royce Montgomery the Fourth.”

Her purple-tinted lips fall open, aghast. Her blond curls have rebelled from her hairpins, springing out at the base of her neck and a single ringlet dangling beside her ear. God, her hair does things to me…So much of her does things to me, all against my will and better judgment.

“What would I do without you?”

She tears herself from my grip and storms into the house. I enter after her.

Talbot House was built in the mid-nineteenth century, nestled between residential homes of the rich and powerful and literary salons for the great thinkers of the time. The Talbot estate made the home a historical site and it remains impeccably preserved. By day, it’s a museum for all those seeking to learn more about its long-gone tenant and marvel at the opulence.

By night…we let guests in on the secret that Temperance is not long gone at all.

The interior smells of antique wood and aged upholstery, and sometimes I swear I even smell the remnants of Temperance Talbot’s candles burning. It’s the sort of place I’ve always had a pipe dream of owning, but on an adjunct salary, I can kiss that goodbye.

“Please follow Ms. O’Brien into the parlor,” I guide, bringing up the rear of the tour. The downstairs parlor is sprawling, with a huge brick fireplace centered on the far wall. Two elegant couches face one another in front of it, and Temperance’s séance table sits between them. Rory lights the sconces on the wall as the crowd bustles in.

While she’s distracted, I make my way to the center of the room.

“Welcome to the home of Temperance Talbot,” I begin. Rory’s back straightens and her lips purse together, trying to hide her annoyance. I’m sure Rory thinks I’m here to personally ruin her life and throw off the vibes of Ye Olde Spirit Tours, or that I just thrive on being a try-hard. She has no idea how inaccurate that truly is.

Most days, I think being a tour guide is the only thing I am getting right.

She’s not totally wrong. I am a try-hard, but one with so little to show for it. No amount of straight A’s in school, excellent SAT scores, or an insatiable thirst for education has manifested in anything that will help me pay off the cost of two degrees.

For all the hard work I’ve put in, there was always someone with a hair better experience to snatch up the job I wanted. Hell, even women I’ve dated were able to find someone just like me, but who made better money and who was doing something. Good, but not good enough is all I ever know.

Except at Ye Olde Spirit Tours.

While I was thrilled to land a teaching position at Revere University last year, it clearly wouldn’t pay the bills on its own and now it’s even clearer it’s not the position I’d been hoping for. I imagined spending time in faculty lounges, holding office hours for eager kids who wanted to learn, just like I did, or helping with special research projects around the university. I wanted to be like my favorite history teacher, Ms. Drake, who saw my passion for history and helped me foster it.

Instead, I have a department head, named Dr. Hugh Belmont, who simply doesn’t give a shit about anyone teaching freshmen, even if they’re good. I don’t even have a cubicle, and usually have to hold my office hours at the dining hall, which is sad. I wanted to make the curriculum exciting and make the kids care, but apparently, I’m not allowed to teach anything outside of the textbook Foundations of American History, which makes drying paint look like a thrill ride.

I’d love to tell them all about the hidden histories of the Revolutionary War, about Washington’s spies or how the Continental Army recruited pirates to help fight the British because it lacked a navy. But no. No matter how many A’s my kids get, Dr. Belmont still regards me like he has no idea why I got hired.

At Ye Olde Spirit Tours, I can infuse as much flavor and nuance as I like into my stories so long as they’re true (to our knowledge). The first time I wandered into the shop, I was transfixed by the antique skulls and suspicious items in jars in the window, and it felt like a place meant for me. For a kid who grew up devouring every strange History Channel documentary, pillaging the nonfiction section of the library, and fixating on the corners of time often left to collect dust, working somewhere that honored and embraced history was a gift. Delia proudly informed me I was the best external hire they’d ever made and offered me a permanent position after Halloween last year. I’m a highlight in our reviews, and the generous tip money lets me do nice things for myself occasionally.

I’ve studied enough history to know that with any amount of greatness come the dissenters and those who wish to see you fail. Exhibit A: Rory Woods.

Rory clears her throat and takes her space across the room from me. Her glare screams Enough—head tilted, brows raised, like I’m a petulant child who needs scolding. It shouldn’t make my breath catch in my throat, but it does. Oh, it does.

“Temperance Talbot was a peculiar woman, especially for her time. She was born to a high-society family and had all the makings of a perfect heiress, like myself.” She presses a delicate hand to her chest, where a threatening eyeball necklace hangs above her bodice.

The problem with Rory is she is also killer at her job. Despite her tiny size and haunted cottagecore style, she’s made of thorns. Nevertheless, I’m constantly compelled closer to her, even at risk of being burned, stabbed, or maimed in some way.

“Though that wasn’t the sort of life she longed for,” I interject. “No, no, Ms. Talbot was interested in much more than tea parties and ballgowns. Her truest passion was the occult.”

“If you come closer and take a look at this séance table…” Rory beckons the guests over. The table’s been set as if Temperance herself were going to sit down to commune with spirits or read her tarot cards. There’s a scrying bowl, a goblet, candles, and a few amber jars with long-faded labels. “Spiritualism flourished in the nineteenth century, and Temperance Talbot was a devout follower. She frequently entertained mediums and held séances in this very house—”

“It’s rumored that Thomas Edison himself came to this house—likely this room—and consulted with Ms. Talbot regarding his interest in creating a ‘spirit phone,’ ” I add. Rory scowls.

“Royce here loves to embellish the truth,” she dismisses with a haughty laugh.

“No, I don’t. I hold the truth in high esteem. Ms. O’Brien was held back in finishing school at the time, so we can’t blame her for not knowing who was on Temperance’s spirit speed dial.”

I flash a wink at the crowd, and a few of the older women blush at me.

“How funny,” she resumes. “Spiritualists believed the afterlife was not a static state and spirits had the ability to evolve and grow. When there, they could interact with the human world with ease.”

“Clearly,” I say, “because the spirits brought us here. Don’t you agree, Kitty?”

Rory’s jaw clenches, but she finally finds the inner strength to smile and nod. “Of course. We were clearly summoned here.”

“While there were no grisly deaths under this roof when she lived here,” I pick up, “there’s no saying what specters Ms. Talbot invited in herself. She was known to place hexes and pull pranks on her enemies. But it wasn’t all mischief. Temperance Talbot was also quite the romantic, often hosting matchmaking dinners—with a spooky twist.”

Rory claps her hands to draw the attention away from me. “Anyway! One of the most common sightings at Talbot House is a female apparition peering through the front windows and sometimes at the top of the stairs in the foyer we just came through. Some believe it to be the ghost of Temperance Talbot, but others theorize it could be another spirit she’d welcomed into her home. The spirits were the only company Temperance had at the end of her days. She was the last of her family to perish, at the old age of eighty-four, alone in this mansion.”

“And what does that tell us?” I ask.

“To avoid men and live a peaceful life,” Rory replies immediately, examining her nails. A woman in the back of the crowd chants “Amen!” in response. Rory grins at me. “You hear that, Royce, dearest?”

“And yet you still choose to haunt with me this evening,” I jest. Rory gives a laugh that sounds like she’s in pain.

She’s backlit by warm sconces highlighting the golden strands of her hair. Her eyeliner’s smudged, and the ashy makeup on her cheeks and under her eyes makes her soft facial structure sharpen. I try to ignore the way her corset cinches her waist, revealing a figure usually veiled by her thick knit sweaters, bold patterns, and flowing skirts in the cold Boston weather.

“Oh, Royce,” she coos. “There’s no other phantom I’d rather haunt with.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” I remark, and Rory tries to hide her cringe. “Before we depart and return to our graves for the evening, are there any questions?”

The questions segment is where I shine. I pride myself on being a connoisseur of all the locations on our tour, digging deeper than the basic facts off Wikipedia. Especially when touring with Rory, I need to plant my flag as the resident expert among us.

Sadly, aside from a single sneeze, the crowd is silent. “Gesundheit! No questions? I suppose I did that good a job on our haunt. Well, return the way you came. Kitty and I will check to make sure we didn’t lose any souls along the way.”

The crowd shuffles out of the room and back toward the trolley. We have a short window to make sure no one messed up the pillows, untied the curtains, or disrupted the space. We do our best to make sure we’re preserving the history. Though, based on some of my examinations, not all the decor is original to the house.

“I think this has gone quite smoothly, don’t you say, Kitty?”

It is more tense than my solo tours. I don’t usually have someone sending invisible hexes my way the entire time, but there’s a certain pleasure from grinding Rory’s gears. Especially knowing Delia is firmly on my side. I’ve wooed her over the past year by helping her identify certain antiques that cross her desk, refining study sheets for our new tour guides, and even befriending Clementine, who has taken to me so much she provides me with rare coins to add to my collection.

I simply can’t explain how she does it, but Clementine is a marvel. Most of all, I wish she could talk. I so want to know her stories and hear if she’s as much of a geek for old currency as I am.

“Maybe for you.”

“Are you feeling tender about how many more tips I’m going to get?”

“No,” she argues. “I’m trying to make sure my brain doesn’t leak out of my ears from all your yapping.”

“What exactly do you have against me giving the guests a good tour? You know, denial of education is one of the first and most detrimental backslides into fascism.”

I meet her in front of Temperance Talbot’s séance table. She glares at me, pursing her mouth so she looks extra mean, though really, she just looks extra adorable. This close, her light freckles are visible and tempting, as are the small specks of brown in her green irises. Her violet lips are full and—

Jesus Christ, not again.

I swear, Aurora Woods makes me understand why men went to war over beautiful women.

I think there’s a universe in which we’d get along because we are similar, but maybe too similar. Two magnetic poles that’ll push each other away no matter what, even when I’m thinking about winding one of her corkscrew golden curls around my finger.

“Apparently not wanting to hear a man talk about his favorite wartime generals now counts as destroying democracy.” She reshuffles the tarot cards on the séance table. It’s sharp and harsh. A warning I’m going to ignore. “Thanks for enlightening me, Professor.”

When she says professor, it’s meant to wound. I’m not a cool professor with a big library office or sent to dig up some ancient city. I’m just a twenty-nine-year-old with a master’s degree and a mountain of debt, and the only power I wield is through a Canvas educator interface. Nevertheless, I’d love the chance to teach her a thing or two.

She gives me a poison-tipped stare that makes my cheeks warm. Desire pricks at the palms of my hands, and the urge to touch her is impossible to resist. She flinches like she thinks I’m going to caress her face, but instead, I carefully tilt her bird piece back into place.

“Your bird was crooked.”

“Don’t touch my bird.”

“Does she have a name?”

She nods. “Yes, she’s an Eastern Tufted Fuck You.”

The venom in her voice, even if speaking about a fake bird, is tantalizing.

“Some friend of nature you are, killing it and putting it on your head.”

“Better hope I don’t tell everyone you thought my fake bird was real.”

“It was a j—”

“Hm, wasn’t funny,” she says.

“Come on. We have a tour to finish. Ladies first, Ms. O’Brien.”

Rory huffs and turns, stomping out of the parlor with me in tow. I’m so taken by the scent of her sweet jasmine and patchouli perfume that I don’t see I’m about to step on her hem until it’s too late. I worry I’ve ripped it or caused a wardrobe malfunction, but what happens is worse.

She staggers back right into me. I grasp at her for balance and to keep her from tumbling down, but it’s no use. It’s no use for either of us. My hands wrap around her waist as we both barrel into the display.

The séance table falls with us.