Chapter 13: Who Ya Gonna Call — Part 1
The Victorian mansion loomed against the evening sky like something from a horror movie poster — all sharp angles, dark windows, and the particular silhouette of a building that wanted you to know it was menacing.
"No."
"Gus—"
"Absolutely not." Gus had stopped the Blueberry at the end of the driveway and was gripping the steering wheel with both hands. "I'm not going in there."
"The client is expecting us."
"The client can expect us from the safety of this vehicle." He stared at the house through the windshield. "Look at it. That's a house that has definitely killed people."
Margaret Worthington's Victorian mansion occupied a hillside lot that gave it commanding views of Santa Barbara and, apparently, the souls of anyone foolish enough to enter. Three stories of dark wood and darker windows, with a tower on one corner that served no architectural purpose I could identify other than looking ominous.
I knew this case. Season one, early episode — someone was trying to devalue the property through staged hauntings so they could buy it cheap. The "ghost" was a projection system, the "unexplained noises" were recorded sound effects, and the terrified homeowner would eventually sell at a massive loss to a relative who'd orchestrated the whole thing.
I knew all of this.
So why was my heart pounding?
The front door of the mansion opened and a woman emerged — Margaret Worthington, I assumed, based on the particular posture of someone who'd been waiting anxiously for help to arrive. She was in her sixties, well-dressed, and had the expression of someone who hadn't slept properly in weeks.
"Mr. Spencer?" She walked toward the Blueberry with visible relief. "Thank God you came. The noises started again last night — footsteps in the hallway, doors opening by themselves. My contractor found something in the walls and won't tell me what it is. Please, you have to help me."
I opened the car door and stepped out.
The moment my foot touched the gravel driveway, Shawn Spencer's body betrayed me.
Cold sweat broke out across my skin. My heart rate spiked. Every muscle tensed with the particular readiness of a prey animal sensing a predator. The rational part of my brain — Dennis Chapman, data analyst, who knew this was a scam — tried to assert control.
Shawn Spencer's lizard brain told Dennis Chapman to shut up and run.
[CONDITION DETECTED: GENUINE FEAR RESPONSE][DEBUFF ACTIVATED: "ACTUALLY SCARED"][EFFECTS: CT → 0. PT: -3. ALL STYLE BONUSES SUSPENDED.][SYSTEM NOTE: YOUR HOST BODY HAS A PHOBIA. DEAL WITH IT.]
I stood frozen beside the Blueberry, staring at the mansion while my borrowed body screamed at me to get back in the car.
"This is insane. I know it's not haunted. I know exactly what's causing the effects. Why am I terrified?"
But the fear wasn't rational. It wasn't based on analysis or logic. It was written into Shawn Spencer's nervous system — decades of childhood fears and supernatural anxieties encoded into reflexes I couldn't override just by knowing better.
"Shawn?" Mrs. Worthington's voice was concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Fine." The word came out strangled. "Just... receiving some impressions from the house. Very strong impressions. Of the... spiritual... variety."
Gus had emerged from the Blueberry and was standing beside me with an expression of pure terror that made my own fear look restrained by comparison.
"We're going in there?"
"We're going in there."
"I don't want to go in there."
"Neither do I." I met his eyes. "But a woman needs our help, and we're the only ones who can provide it."
"We could call an exorcist."
"There's nothing to exorcise. It's not actually—" I stopped myself before I said too much. "Just... stay close to me."
The interior of the mansion was worse than the exterior.
Dark wood paneling absorbed what little light the evening provided. Portraits on the walls seemed to watch our progress down the main hallway. Somewhere in the depths of the house, a floorboard creaked without any visible cause.
[SHAWN VISION ACTIVATING — STRESS TRIGGER]
Three highlights shimmered into existence, but the fear was interfering with the accuracy. The golden shimmer flickered, faded, returned — unreliable data filtered through a terrified nervous system.
"I can't do this. I know where the projector room is, I know who's responsible, but I literally cannot function in this house."
The first unexplained noise made both Gus and me grab each other simultaneously.
It was a thump. Heavy. From somewhere above us, in the darkness of the upper floors. The kind of sound that could be a person walking, or furniture settling, or — in the imagination of a phobic mind — something far worse.
"That was definitely a ghost," Gus whispered.
"It wasn't a ghost."
"You don't know that."
"I'm psychic. I would sense a ghost."
"Maybe the ghost is blocking your psychic senses."
"That's not how—" Another thump. Closer this time. "Okay, we're going to the porch."
We retreated with what I hoped was dignified caution and what was probably obvious panic. Mrs. Worthington followed us, her expression shifting from hope to disappointment.
"Mr. Spencer, I was told you communicate with spirits. Surely you're not afraid of them?"
"I communicate with spirits from a safe distance." I was already at the front door. "My psychic abilities work best with... proper environmental conditions. Fresh air. Natural light. A clear path to the nearest exit."
[BCM UPDATE: 33/100. +2 FROM SHARED VULNERABILITY.]
The system's notification appeared at the edge of my vision. Shared vulnerability. The BCM was tracking our mutual terror as a bonding experience.
"At least something positive is coming out of this disaster."
We spent the next three hours on the mansion's front porch while Buzz McNab — our police escort, arranged through the department because Mrs. Worthington's case had technically been flagged as potential criminal activity — stood guard with the casual competence of someone who wasn't afraid of buildings.
"The two of you seem pretty spooked for ghost hunters," Buzz observed, unpacking sandwiches from a cooler he'd brought.
"We're not ghost hunters." Gus took a sandwich with the gratitude of someone who needed comfort food. "We're psychic detectives. There's a difference."
"What's the difference?"
"Ghost hunters actively seek out paranormal entities. Psychic detectives receive impressions involuntarily and would rather not be here at all."
I sat on the porch steps, watching the mansion's dark windows while my heart rate slowly returned to normal. The "Actually Scared" debuff was still active — I could feel it in the way my body tensed every time the house made a noise — but the intensity was fading with distance and time.
"The show never mentioned this. Shawn was afraid of ghosts, sure, but they played it for comedy. Nobody mentioned that the fear was this... visceral."
"The previous owner died three months ago," Buzz said between bites. "Heart attack. Mrs. Worthington bought the place from the estate."
"Who handled the estate sale?"
Buzz pulled out a notepad — the man was organized in a way that made me respect his future career trajectory. "Property was appraised by a company called Baxter Development. They've been doing a lot of estate work in the area lately."
I stopped chewing my sandwich.
"Baxter. Again."
The name from the storage unit. The files Marcus Reyes had hidden. The thread I'd reported to Lassiter and tried to file away as someone else's problem.
"Can you get me the appraisal records?"
Buzz nodded. "Should be public information. I'll have them for you tomorrow."
[THREAD FLAGGED: GARRETT BAXTER DEVELOPMENT LLC — SECOND CONTACT POINT]
The system's notification was unnecessary. I was already connecting dots that I didn't want to connect.
"Shawn." Gus had finished his sandwich and was staring at the mansion with the particular expression of someone making a decision. "We can't solve this case from the porch."
"I know."
"We have to go back inside."
"I know."
"In daylight," he added quickly. "Tomorrow morning. When it's less... creepy."
"Agreed." I stood, brushing crumbs from Shawn's jeans. "We come back at sunrise, find the projector room, identify the scammer, and never speak of tonight again."
"Deal."
[BCM UPDATE: 34/100. +1 FROM MUTUAL PACT OF DENIAL.]
We drove back to Santa Barbara in silence, both pretending we hadn't spent three hours hiding on a porch because a house made spooky noises.
The photographs from Marcus Reyes's storage unit were still in my apartment. I'd kept personal copies of the Baxter documents, telling myself it was just caution.
Now I wasn't sure what it was.
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