THE CAMBODIAN CURSE AND OTHER STORIES Read online

  After eating another cookie—it would have been rude to turn down his hospitality—Nadia and I departed, and I headed back to the library. This time I paid attention not to the sensationalism surrounding the original crime or the construction of the house, but to the pictures of the room itself.

  The layout of the room struck me as strange in the original historical photos. The nightstand had been placed across the room from the bed. That was odd...

  I stepped outside and pulled out my cell phone.

  “Mr. Marcus,” I said, “I know you checked the walls, but did you ever check the floor for any false panels?”

  “We certainly did. The floorboards were all connected to each other. There were no false panels there either.”

  “But did you check the space underneath the floor?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t believe we did. But without a teleportation device, I don’t see how anything could have fallen through that solid floor.”

  “Do you mind if I come back? I promise it won’t take long.”

  This time I returned to the mansion with extra backup. Not because I was afraid of a ghost, but because I needed to replicate the girth of the man who had once stayed there and been robbed of his valuable discovery.

  Nadia pursed her lips when I insisted on grabbing Miles from the poetry open mic night that was wrapping up at a coffee house in our neighborhood, but she said nothing. She didn’t like Miles, but she was at least as curious as I was.

  Twenty minutes later, the three of us piled into the corner of the room where the bed once stood.

  “Mr. Marcus, we need you, too, if this is going to work.”

  As he crossed the room and stepped within a foot of me, Miles, and Nadia, the floor began to shift.

  It wasn’t the movement of a single floorboard; the whole floor was subtly tilting. The floor was ever-so-slightly pivoting around a fulcrum in the center of the room. The tilt of the floor around the central hinge resulted in the edges of the wooden flooring being lower than the bottom of the wall. It was only a couple of inches—a small enough shift that in the dark it would have felt like stepping on a loose floorboard—but it was enough for anything small and circular to slip out of the room to the space beneath the floor.

  I took a pen out of my bag and dropped it. It rolled away and disappeared into the darkness.

  Everyone began to move at once.

  “Stop!” I said. “If any of us moves from this spot, the floor will go back to normal. “It was only because we have enough weight here that it activated the mechanism that was put in place to rob the professor who stayed here.”

  “Ingenious!” Mr. Marcus said, clapping his hands together. “Ingenious, but nasty. He altered this room and set it up to rob his friend.”

  “Let me see if I can see what’s going on under there.” Without moving away from the others, I crouched down on the floor and pulled a flashlight and a magnifying glass from my messenger bag.

  Sure enough, I could see an assortment of dusty items, mostly children’s toys like matchbox cars—anything that rolled.

  In the midst of the treasures, my flashlight shone across a blue stone ring. Nadia had said it was a piece of blue sapphire costume jewelry she’d lost.

  “Miles,” I said. “Can I borrow a pen?” He handed me a pen, and I used it to snag the large ring in the midst of the hidden treasures. Standing up, I handed Miles his pen and Nadia her ring.

  “After all this time,” Nadia said, shaking her head. “Thank you, Jaya.”

  “You can all move now if you want to,” I said. “I’ve seen what I needed to. Nobody has been stealing things in this house—not a ghost, not even a person. At least not for around eighty years. It was this mechanism.”

  I stepped away from the group. The floor slowly straightened out from its central pivot point. Because the floorboards were thick and uneven in this section of the old house, the small amount of space between the floorboards in the center of the room hadn’t raised any suspicions.

  “A hinge,” Nadia murmured.

  “I’m so writing a poem about this,” Miles said, scribbling a few lines in his beaten-up notebook he kept in the pocket of his cargo pants. “A theft from long ago,” he murmured to himself, “high above the Pacific Ocean’s beaches where the wind doth blow...Jaya Jones is the insightful professor, who’s more than a good guesser...”

  “Only when all the forces align,” I said, ignoring the clunky rhymes of Miles’ poem, “does something go missing. The floor was rigged to steal one particular thing—a valuable scroll from a very large man. The thief who owned this house was able to set things up with precision for that one-time event. He got his ‘friend’ inebriated and saw him to bed with his valued possession safely in the corner of a room locked from the inside, with the bedside table and lamp across the room from the bed. When the large man went to bed, it would necessarily be dark. He would feel himself lower down into what he thought was an uneven mattress but wouldn’t see the shift in the floor.”

  “When I opened my haunted house,” Mr. Marcus said, grinning excitedly, “people would huddle closely together because they were having fun being frightened. Acting as a group, they replicated the weight necessary to activate the lever. That’s when the disappearances began.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “In the darkness and commotion, people felt that something was happening, but couldn’t identify exactly what it was. They were already discombobulated from walking through dark rooms that played with their senses. And as soon as they moved to turn on the lights, the floor was again completely flat. It was the house itself collecting treasures all these years.”

  “What a wonderful haunted house!” Nadia said. “I cannot wait until next Halloween.”

  The Library Ghost of Tanglewood Inn

  This Jaya Jones novelette was originally published by Henery Press in 2017 and won the Agatha Award for Best Short Story.

  i.

  “I can’t believe you forced me to get into that stifling sardine can on the most crowded travel day of the year, Jaya.” Tamarind dropped her plaid backpack at her feet. The overstuffed bag fell onto its side, hiding her purple combat boots.

  A few minutes before, we’d stepped off an oversold flight we’d barely squeezed on to. Yet we were still over a thousand miles from home. We’d left Japan en route to San Francisco via a tangle of connections because of our last-minute booking, and weather conditions diverted us to Denver—where all planes were now grounded due to a snow storm.

  Which is how we found ourselves stuck in a line that snaked for miles—or at least far too many slyly hidden twists and turns—to reach an airport counter where we hoped to find out our fate. The only reason I’d agreed to fly on one of the most crowded travel days of the year was the anticipation of what was waiting for us on the other end. It now seemed unlikely I’d make it in time.

  A man in line next to us cleared his throat. He was already dressed for the weather outside in a parka, wool hat, and infinity scarf, and carried ear muffs in a gloved hand. Everything he wore was a shade of gray. If he got lost in the snow outside, it occurred to me that no one would ever find him. I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. I must have been giddy from lack of sleep. After the week I’d had chasing a murderous ninja, tracking down a missing trading ship from two centuries ago that nobody else thought existed, and helping with a magic show based on an impossible illusion, my imagination was running wild. But the past week was behind me. Why was I still on edge?

  “The Sunday after Thanksgiving isn’t actually the most crowded travel day of the year,” the man said, smiling at Tamarind. At least I imagined he was smiling based on the cheerful tone of his voice. It was hard to see much beneath the hat and scarf except for youthful dark brown eyes and light brown skin. “That’s only a myth.”


  Tamarind scowled at him and his face reddened.

  “Sorry about my friend,” I said. “Long day.”

  “For us, too,” he said.

  Tamarind and I exchanged a glance as the line inched forward. Was he referring to his suitcase? I looked around the line, filled with frustrated travelers of all ilk. In our immediate area were parents with slumped shoulders carrying young children and pushing precariously stacked baggage carts, older kids playing a game of hide and seek around baggage claim, college students in sweats with their eyes glued to their smartphones. Our gray snowman wasn’t traveling with any of them.

  He laughed. “I’m not as eccentric as I look. I’m not used to snow so I bought all this in one of the shops in the airport while my boss got in line. But now I can’t find him and he’s not answering his phone. He’s—”

  “There you are, Kenny. Why are you in this ridiculous line?”

  The speaker wasn’t traditionally handsome, but he had presence far beyond his looks and stature. With his long black hair, pale skin, and a stride that caused the sea of people to part, he looked like a haunted anti-hero who’d stepped out of a vampire television show. Like his companion, he was already dressed for the storm. And he must have ventured outside. Clumps of snow dotted his stylish, Victorianesque black coat.

  “Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I employ you,” the newcomer continued. “I found us a taxi and a hotel with rooms available.”

  “Shut. Up.” Tamarind said. “I thought the local hotels were already booked up and we’d be stuck in purgatory for the night. How’d you beat the system? And by the way, that vintage coat is to die for.”

  He grinned at her and eyed her purple combat boots. “Nice boots. I have my ways. Feel like escaping purgatory? There’s room if you two want to come.”

  “Thanks, but we’re fine,” I said.

  “We’re not fine,” Tamarind said. “Jaya, for the love of all that’s good and holy, please remember that not everything is a murderous plot.”

  Kenny choked. His vampiric boss laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s a chaperone in the taxi.”

  I slipped on my jacket, hefted my travel pack onto my shoulders, and followed Kenny’s boss past another line of angry passengers. Tamarind was right. No flights were leaving that night, and I didn’t want to spend the night at the airport. I was overly suspicious of everything these days.

  “Why does he look so familiar?” Tamarind whispered. “Maybe you were right about being cautious. Do you think he’s hypnotized us and we’re following him into a cult?”

  “You watch too many B movies.”

  “Of course I do. They’re awesome.”

  Our benefactor, who did look vaguely familiar, led us past an outdoor line of shivering people boarding the last shuttle buses to take stranded travelers to local hotels. The area was nominally shielded from the elements, but the snow was blowing sideways. I’d spent the first eight years of my life in Goa, India, and grew up in California after that. I wasn’t prepared on any level for a Colorado snowstorm. I pulled my completely inadequate jacket more tightly around me, wishing I’d brought something warmer like Kenny or was at least wearing more practical shoes than my heels.

  I bumped into Tamarind as our group came to an abrupt stop in front of a taxi so large that an automated step descended when the driver opened the back door of the SUV. I hesitated when I didn’t see other people inside.

  “What are you standing around for?” a woman’s voice with a faint Irish accent called from the back seat. “Shut the car door already if you’re not getting in. It’s colder than Finnegan’s feet the day they buried him.”

  I stepped forward and saw a woman with a bountiful bun of silver hair on top of her head sitting in the back row of seats. She looked up from her knitting and nodded at me, not missing a beat with her stitching.

  The driver took my bag, in spite of being only a couple of inches taller than my five-foot frame. Underneath her driver’s cap, tendrils of curly auburn hair had blown loose in the wind and encircled her petite face. My mind at ease, I climbed into the heated car.

  “Simon was kind enough to offer me a ride after I stopped him for an autograph,” the knitting passenger said. “Are you fans as well?”

  I felt my cheeks flushing as I brushed snow out of my hair. Was Kenny’s boss an actor on a vampire TV show?

  “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself earlier,” said our host from the front seat. “I’m Simon. Simon Quinn.”

  I groaned to myself. That’s why he’d looked familiar. He was the famous author. Or rather, the infamous author. What had we gotten ourselves into?

  “Buckle up,” the driver said, tossing her cap aside. “The roads are killer out there tonight.”

  ii.

  Outside the windows, flurries of white interrupted the bleak darkness. If anything could bond our motley crew of passengers, it was surviving the zero visibility conditions.

  Thanks to our driver, whose nametag on the dashboard identified her as Ivy, the road barely felt like the obstacle course that it was. She navigated two unexpected snow drifts and a fallen tree branch with the footwork of a race car driver, all the while chatting with Simon about his books.

  “Is it true you based the character Stetson Quick on your own experience being wrongly accused of murder?” Ivy asked.

  “You’ve no idea what it feels like to lose someone you love in such a brutal way,” Simon said. A reflection of his forlorn face flashed in the side window. “You think it can’t possibly get any worse, but when the police think you’re the one who did it…It’s why I found myself compelled to write To the Quick while awaiting trial.”

  Simon Quinn had made a name for himself writing literary thrillers about a reluctant hero—a man who’d been wrongly convicted of murder, and after escaping from prison, lived in the shadows while traveling the country and helping others who’d been wrongly accused. Simon’s books weren’t my cup of tea, but millions loved them. Of the people who didn’t, many objected not to the content of the books, but the character of the author.

  “Didn’t you care that her family thought you were exploiting the situation?” Tamarind asked.

  In the window’s reflection, I caught a flash of annoyance flicker across Simon’s face. He quickly covered the expression as he swept aside his black hair. He couldn’t have been older than his early thirties, but his face bore the deep lines of worry of someone much older.

  “Simon’s work has always been about redemption,” Kenny said. “He’s given so many people hope that it’s unfair to—”

  “It’s all right, Kenny,” Simon said. “It’s true that her family wished I hadn’t used facts so closely related to the case in the novel, but it’s what was so therapeutic, not just for me, but for everyone following the trial. As Kenny said, the pain of a few resulted in redemption for many.”

  “They’re brilliant books,” the Irishwoman said, not looking up from her knitting.

  “Exploitative is what they are,” Tamarind murmured loudly enough for only me to hear, but I saw Kenny’s posture stiffen.

  Tamarind fell uncharacteristically silent after grumbling, “Why didn’t I listen to you when I had the chance?” She crossed her arms and popped on headphones, giving a spot-on impression of a sulking teen. It made her look closer to sixteen than her true age of twenty-six.

  If Tamarind hadn’t been one of my closest friends, I would have thought she was nervous about the snowstorm. But I knew she couldn’t stand manipulative people. She worked as a librarian at a public university even after being offered more lucrative jobs, because she wanted to help people directly. I didn’t know if it was true that Simon had strangled his college sweetheart ten years ago, but he’d leveraged being acquitted for murder into fame and fortune as a bestselling author.

  While Ivy asked Simon more about his books, I be
came immediately enamored with my knitting seatmate Dorothy, who insisted I call her Dot. She’d been a high school history teacher in both Ireland and the US—a far more difficult job than my own job of history professor. Aside from a few of the students in my Intro to World History course that satisfied a graduation requirement, my students wanted to be in my classes. They were bright, curious, and at an age where they were convinced they could save the world. My best students believed me when I told them the old adage: Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it. They took the saying to heart, and I didn’t doubt they’d make a difference far beyond the classroom.

  Dot felt the same about her students. A retired widow, she was now a volunteer tutor for low-income students in Albuquerque, where she was trying to return after spending Thanksgiving with her daughter’s family in Colorado.

  “My daughter’s manky husband dropped me off at the airport before making sure my flight wasn’t grounded,” Dot said with a shake of her head. “Young men these days. No offense, Kenneth. You seem to be on the right path. It must be an honor to work with Simon.”

  Was it my imagination, or did her words have the distinct ring of sarcasm?

  “It is,” Kenny said. “I’ve learned so much this year as his research assistant. I’ve—”

  All conversation broke off as the car swerved abruptly. My seatbelt caught with the sudden shift in movement, and Tamarind grabbed my arm.

  “Sorry,” Ivy said, maneuvering around a car crash on the side of the road.

  “Nice reflexes,” Kenny said.

  Ivy beamed. “When I was younger, I dreamed of becoming a NASCAR driver.” Even in the reflection of the rearview mirror, she glowed with that adventurous spirit.

  After twenty minutes the SUV came to a stop and Ivy turned off the engine. It had taken longer than I’d thought it would to reach a hotel. Assuming that’s where we were. I still couldn’t see anything.