Haunted by the Neverborn

C. David Belt

© 2024 C. David Belt

Cover design: Ben Savage

Paperback ISBN: 9781637322772

Ebook ISBN: 9798224403776

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PARABLES

10829 Dublin Road

Walkersville, MD 21793

http://www.parables-pub.com

To Cindy,

who haunts my sweetest dreams

To Mark,

who asked the question

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague.

Edgar Allan Poe

One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted

Emily Dickinson

My name is Legion: for we are many.

Legion

Author’s Note:

Would you ever write a story about a haunted house?

That was the question posed to me by Mark Abramson, a fellow baritone (at the time) of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square during our West Coast tour in 2018. We (along with about four hundred of our best friends) were sitting down to dinner between our rehearsal/sound checks and the actual concert. It was a perfectly innocent question. We had been discussing my writing of Latter-day Saint horror novels.

In my writing, I strive to stay one hundred percent within the bounds of my faith, staying true and accurate to the doctrines and ecclesiastical policies and procedures of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although I write fiction and often include a fantasy element (for example—and this may come as a shock to some—vampires are not real), I try very hard to be historically, doctrinally, and scientifically accurate. So, when Mark asked the question, my immediate answer was, No. Not in the sense I think you mean.

You see, while I do believe in spirits (premortal and postmortal), and we do have some evidence from the scriptures (and rabbinical tradition) that the dead may linger for up to three days after death, I don’t believe it’s possible for the dead to become stuck among the living. In most ghost stories, the spirits of the dead stick around (i.e., haunt) because they died tragically and couldn’t move on or they were so evil, they refused to leave. Or, perhaps, like the ghost of Jacob Marley, they were condemned to walk the earth, able to see the suffering of their fellow men, but unable to succor them, unable to do good. While that makes for a fun, scary story, it doesn’t work for me doctrinally.

No matter how violent or horrible their sufferings in mortality, I believe the dead return to the loving God who created them. And conversely, I don’t believe that a person who has chosen evil in mortality can escape the justice of God by refusing to leave.

So, for me, that eliminates the traditional concepts of haunting, at least in my writing.

HOWEVER, I once met a real, live Latter-day Saint ghost hunter. He had seen things he couldn’t explain. (I couldn’t explain them, either.)

I have had my own . . . experiences, and I will relate one of them briefly here—the night my mother died.

When I was about ten years old, my mother died suddenly, but then was called back to life by the power and authority of Jesus Christ. She remembers dying, hovering in the room, seeing (but not hearing) my dad and me dealing with her death. (My young sister was asleep.) My mother also remembers another priesthood bearer, our home teacher, arriving at the door of our apartment in Lexington, Kentucky. I remember my dad letting him in and saying, My wife is dead. We need to give her a blessing. So, this other elder and my dad gave my mom’s corpse a priesthood blessing. They anointed her head with consecrated olive oil. They laid their hands on her head. And then I very distinctly remember my father saying, Mable Faye Belt, in the name of Jesus Christ, and by the authority of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood, which we hold, we command you to live.

My mother could hear nothing that was said before my father spoke those words. But she heard those words clearly. And then she remembers returning to her body.

That was in the early 1970s. As of this writing (2023), she’s still with us. In fact, she lives with my wife and me.

I have also had my own encounters with horrific evil. While I won’t go into detail, let’s just say that some of the events in this novel parallel my own personal experiences.

Evil is real, and it is strong.

But good is stronger. Good always triumphs in the end.

But we, as flawed mortals, must always be on our guard. In the words of Dr. Leonard McCoy (as written by Gene Roddenberry) from the Star Trek episode, The Omega Glory (admittedly, not one of the better episodes from the original series), I’ve found that evil usually triumphs unless good is very, very careful.

So, with all that in mind, I have finally written the story that Mark’s question inspired. It’s not about a haunted house per se, although there is a ghost and a castle and . . . But I’m getting ahead of myself. And as far as I can tell, though fiction, this story is doctrinally correct.

I hope you enjoy it.

C. David Belt

October 2023

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Chapter 1

Park City, Utah, Monday, October 25th, 2022, 10:19 p.m.

Something moved in the darkness, just on the edges of Mari’s vision.

Mari did not look directly at it. At him. She knew well that if she looked, he would be gone. Not that she didn’t want him gone—she did, of course. But looking wouldn’t drive him away. He would still be there. In the shadows. In the darkness. Waiting for her. Stalking her.

Just as he had for most of the last sixteen years.

There were, of course, places where the Neverborn did not follow Mari, places where he did not haunt her every step. There were places where she was safe from him and others like him—in the temple, in her dreams and, most of the time, in church. There were places of safety. But the ancient stone tower was not one of those places.

The interior of Castle Duncan’s circular tower was as black as the depths of the River Styx. All artificial lights had been shut off—at Mari’s request. She worked best in the dark.

Moonlight barely pierced the dense October overcast, and what little ambient light there was that night barely penetrated the tall, tight arrow slits in the five-and-a-half-foot-thick stone walls. Inside the tower, the only illumination came from the red light of the headlamp strapped around Mari’s head. She used red light to preserve her night vision—and to optimize her other senses. And she had intentionally set the brightness to a minimum. She could see, at best, a couple of yards in front of her. The dim, bouncing light bathed the stone wall and steps in a bloody crimson.

And there was the scent—a clever touch. The air carried just the hint of rose petal and mushroom. The combination was a subtle aroma that most people wouldn’t identify, at least not on a conscious level. But subconsciously, their minds would associate the faintly disturbing aroma with flowers, freshly turned earth, and decay—the scents of the graveyard.

Mari clung to the twisted-rope handrail attached to the limestone central column of the spiral staircase as she ascended the steps of the ancient tower. The tower itself was the only ancient portion of the castle. The tower had been disassembled in Scotland, shipped across the ocean, across the continent, and reassembled in Park City, Utah. The rest of the castle was of modern—though decently authentic—construction.

But the tower was the part of the castle that was supposed to be haunted.

Mari caught the movement at the corner of her eye again. The Neverborn did not speak to her. He had not spoken to her since she was fifteen, on the night her parents died. But there were times, like that moment, when she could hear whisperings in the darkness—a susurrus of unintelligible words in, she supposed, a long dead language.

She counted the steps as she climbed. Forty-two. Forty-three. Forty-four. Forty-five.

Almost there.

She paused just before the forty-sixth step. Ready?

As ready as I ever am.

She ascended one more step.

Forty-six.

And there it was, surrounding her, enveloping her—the all-too-familiar feeling of wrongness. It pulsed, ebbing and flowing arhythmically. She didn’t need to pull out the EMF meter from her shoulder bag to know that the needle would be fluctuating slowly. She had the Electromagnetic Field meter to show her clients that there were indeed changes in the EMF at a site. But at that moment, there was no one else inside the tower. Outside the tower, in the interior of the castle, yes, there was someone waiting for her. But no one else inside.

At least no one else among the living.

Mari could feel variations in the local electromagnetic field without the aid of electronic instrumentation. She was—in a word—sensitive. She had been sensitive since she was eleven—since her first encounter with the Neverborn.

She turned her head to the left, shining the red light on the tower wall.

And for a moment, just on the periphery, she saw him—a man-shaped shadow, with horns like a bull and far too many teeth. For a moment, and then he was gone.

No. Not gone. In the shadows. Hiding.

Coward.

And just who are you calling a coward, Mari Madlen Gwynn? The Neverborn? Or yourself?

He’s the one hiding. In the dark. Always in the dark. Never facing me. Never confronting me.

But I am facing him.

Or, at least, doing my best to ignore him. I’m not afraid.

Keep telling yourself that, Mari Madlen Gwynn. You’ll never convince yourself.

You’ll never convince him.

As the EMF throbbed slowly within her, like a cold ocean tide washing over her and then receding, she let go of the rope and sidled to the left. She had just an instant of vertigo. I’m not going to fall. She reached out with her left hand and put it against a particular block of limestone. Immediately, she felt the wrongness radiating from within the limestone, in perfect synchronization with the irregular tide in the air.

She felt along the edges of the stone, tracing the mortar with the tip of her index finger. Then she ran that same fingertip along the mortar of the stone above it, noting the difference in texture.

Fresh.

Duncan simply put it back. He left the EMF emitter in place and just covered it up. Probably replaced the battery, though. It feels stronger than it was.

The scent was more noticeable in that spot as well—less subtle.

She put her fingertip to her nostrils and sniffed.

Yes. Duncan mixed the mortar with rose petals and mushrooms. Just like last time.

She shook her head and smirked. You’re not fooling me, Robert Duncan. She shrugged. But it’s your money. I’m not giving you a discount for a repeat visit.

She placed her hand against the stone again to steady herself, then she lifted her head to examine the arrow slit.

And he was there—like the shadow of a horned, man-shaped spider clinging to the stone wall by his fingers and toes.

Then he was gone, skittering silently away. Into the dark.

You don’t frighten me. Not anymore.

Liar.

Mari gritted her teeth and continued her investigation. She examined the arrow slit above and to the right of the stone where the EMF emitter had been rehidden.

Unlike in ancient times when the tower had actually been part of a medieval fortification in the Scottish Highlands, the arrow slits were all covered by tall, narrow, rectangular sheets of glass. The last time Mari had been in Castle Duncan, when she’d been hired to authenticate—or debunk—the haunting, she’d found a hole, conveniently drilled through the arrow-slit glass. That hole had allowed chilly night air to leak into the tower, creating a cold spot, as it was called among ghost-hunting enthusiasts and paranormal investigators. But that night, the hole was gone, as if it had never existed.

Well, at least Duncan replaced the glass.

And . . . abracadabra! Poof! No more cold spot!

Won’t make your resort guests happy, Mr. Duncan. They pay good money—a lot of money—to spend the night in your haunted castle . . .

But once Mari had pointed out the hole on her first visit, everyone knew to look for it. They knew the cold spot was a fraud. Just like Robert Duncan himself.

So, why did you pay me to come back, Mr. Duncan?

Did you really think that by replacing the glass and eliminating the hole, you’d discredit me?

Look, everybody! The great Mari Madlen Gwynn said there was a hole, but you can see for yourself—no hole! She’s a fake.

"Ddim fi," she whispered in Welsh. Not me.

She turned back to the right—catching just a glimpse of the scurrying Neverborn. Carefully, she edged toward the center column, grasped the twisted-rope handrail, and took the next stair.

Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty—

And then Mari saw her.

The woman stood on bare feet, a few stairs above Mari. She appeared to be wearing a full-length dress—like a temple dress. The dress was probably white. It almost always was, but in the red light of Mari’s headlamp, both the woman and her dress looked as if they were bathed in gore.

The woman gazed down at Mari with doleful eyes.

Mari recognized her, of course, from the KSL news report. On the TV, Selene Duncan, wife of multibillionaire Robert Duncan, had been a beautiful, blonde, and richly dressed woman in her mid-forties. But now she appeared to be a woman of no more than twenty.

So, she didn’t just take a vacation to the Bahamas.

"Mor drist," Mari whispered, momentarily reverting to Welsh again. So sad. I’m sorry, Mrs. Duncan. I’m so sorry.

Selene Duncan, of course, said nothing.

The woman looked away from Mari, beyond her and down. She stepped to the side, then descended the stairs slowly, walking around and past Mari. As she moved down the stairs, Selene Duncan didn’t bother holding the handrail. She didn’t need to. There was no chance of her falling down the staircase.

Mari turned around and followed, gripping the handrail tightly.

And that time, as she turned, Mari did not catch a glimpse of the Neverborn. In the presence of someone like Selene, the Neverborn were powerless.

As the woman descended the staircase, she moved slowly, as if she were the chief mourner in a Dickensian funeral procession. Even in the dark, Mari had no trouble keeping pace.

When Selene reached the bottom of the tower, she strode to the center of the floor, then knelt on the flagstones.

Mari joined the woman on the floor, kneeling and facing her.

Mari ran her fingers across the flagstones, feeling for anomalies. And, just as she expected, she found one—a single flagstone, tilted ever-so slightly.

I’m sorry, Mari said again.

Then she pulled her cellphone from her bag. She closed her eyes and spoke a command to the operating system, Dim my phone. After a moment, she opened her eyes—the phone display was very dim. Mari went to her contacts, found Chuck Mortimer, and texted—

In the tower of Castle Duncan in Park City. Found another one. Selene Duncan. Robert Duncan is waiting for me in the castle.

She waited for the response.

Her phone vibrated.

I’ll call PCPD. Get out of there! Don’t confront him.

She answered—

I won’t confront him, but I’m staying right here. I’ve got my gun.

Mari did not expect an immediate response.

She pulled the Webley Mark VI revolver from her bag, then thumbed off the safety switch—a rare feature on a WWI revolver. With the safety off, the Webley was already cocked and ready to fire.

Mari turned off her headlamp. Even without the light, she had no difficulty seeing Selene Duncan. As expected, without the bloodred light, the woman’s dress was white.

I’ll stay with you, Mari said, until the police arrive. Or until you have to go. But don’t worry. They’ll find you. He won’t get away with it.

The dead woman, of course, was as silent as an undiscovered tomb.

Chapter 2

Springville, Utah, Tuesday, November 9th, 2022, 4:45 p.m.

New client. Sabina Brazil nodded toward the wide picture window of the front office of Seven Devils Investigations. Mari’s receptionist and personal assistant—a middle-aged, slightly plump woman with streaks of white in her shoulder-length raven hair—clasped a warm mug of spiced, hot apple cider in both hands. She chuckled and took a sip of the steaming, fragrant liquid. Fresh meat!

Stop calling them that, Mari muttered, her Welsh accent particularly thick, as it always was when she got annoyed. Mari had her own mug of cinnamon-spiced cider, but she hadn’t tasted hers yet.

How does she drink it when it’s so darn hot? Mari thought. It’d scald my tongue.

Mari blew across the surface of the amber liquid. Maybe it’s a coffee-drinker thing?

Mari joined the older woman at the window. A single, nondescript, white sedan, heavily spattered with dirt and the ubiquitous salt used to counteract the early snowfall, had pulled into a slot in the otherwise-empty parking lot. Snow clung to the lawn and the skeletal branches of the barren trees, but the roads and the parking lot were simply wet and dirty.

The car washes must be doing gangbuster business right now.

I ought to take my Jeep down to the Quick-Quack. It’ll be dirty by the time I get it back home, but the salt’s not good for the paint.

Mari blew across the surface of her cider again and took a tiny, tentative sip. She immediately regretted it. How do you drink this stuff? So hot! She nodded toward the cider dispenser. "I swear, you keep it too hot on purpose. You don’t have to boil cider, you know."

Sabina rolled her eyes and took another sip—a long sip. How the heck would I know? If you’d just let me have some coffee in the office . . . A nice percolator. It doesn’t come out so hot.

It was Mari’s turn to roll her eyes. No coffee. They’d had this discussion before—a number of times. It had become almost a ritual. Any excuse Sabina had to rib Mari about her religious prohibitions . . . My office, my rules.

And I couldn’t stand the smell of coffee all day long.

You’re the boss. The older woman glanced her way and gave her a crooked grin. "Thanks, you know. For being my boss. The grin softened. Without you, I’d still be in prison."

Mari chuckled. "Without me, you’d never have gone to jail in the first place, Madame Sabina."

Sabina’s lopsided grin returned. "Not the first time I’ve been to jail, not by a long shot. But, hey, a gypsy—at least, a real gypsy—who’s never seen the inside of a jail? Or at least been in trouble with the cops? Ain’t no such thing. I was twelve, my first time in juvie. She’d spoken as if her first incarceration were a matter of pride. But I was only there two months. That hardly counts. Not like the five years I served this time in state lockup."

The dirty car in the parking lot was still idling, exhaust polluting the air.

Al Gore would have a coronary.

No one had emerged from the vehicle. The outline of a man’s head was clearly visible through the driver-side window.

Mari frowned. What’s he waiting for?

Probably scared. You’re not the easiest person to approach, ya know. And most of your clients are already scared. Goes with the territory.

A shadow moved across the ceiling, just at the edge of Mari’s vision.

You’re early. It’s not even dark yet.

Overcast. Gloomy. Oppressive. But not dark.

Not everybody’s scared, Mari said. Most clients are just worried—worried they or someone they love is being taken advantage of, deceived.

Deceived, Sabina said. Yeah. By someone like me. The older woman took a long sip of her cider. She frowned and stared at the mug in disgust. Stuff’s getting cold.

Mari eyed the steam rising off her own cider dubiously. As if!

The car door opened, and a man emerged. He looked very . . . average. Brown hair, cut short and parted at the side, missionary style. Clean-shaven. Not tall. Not short. Not skinny. Not fat. Blue dress shirt with the long sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Tan khakis. Cheap tennis shoes. The man would simply blend into the background of any crowd.

Average.

Almost as if he doesn’t want to be noticed.

The only thing at all remarkable about his appearance was the lack of a jacket, in spite of the cold, moist November air.

You recognize him? Sabina asked.

Mari narrowed her eyes. I don’t think so. But something tugged at her memory. He looks sorta familiar.

The man stood next to his car. He gazed up at the sky, but not directly at the office.

Shy, Sabina said. Timid. Wants to come in, but hesitates. Not sure what he’s doing here. She huffed. Quiet. I hate the quiet ones. So hard to read.

Stop it. You’re not a fake psychic, doing a cold reading.

Not anymore. Sabina shrugged. "I was good, though. Even you gotta admit that."

You were one of the best. Which made you one of the most dangerous.

That’s why I had to stop you. Expose you.

Sabina shook her head. But not so good with this type, though. Too hard to read. But look at the way he stands.

What about it?

Feet spread, left foot slightly forward. She nodded. Uh-huh. Knees slightly bent. That’s a fighter’s stance. Ready for trouble, but subconsciously, I think. Probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Used to be a soldier? No. Not with that lack of confidence. Martial arts? Yeah. That’s it. Probably as a kid.

Yep. One of the best. Sabina can read all that without his saying a word.

That’s what made her such a successful fake psychic. "Well, whatever he’s here for, he’ll tell us. If he actually comes in." I feel as if I should know him. Come on, man, work up the courage.

As if Mari had transmitted the thought directly to the man’s brain—and, of course, she hadn’t—he suddenly squared his shoulders like a gladiator preparing for battle. Then he strode briskly toward the door.

Sabina scurried back to her desk. She set down her cider mug—on an electric mug warmer—sat, and quickly rubbed the crystal ball sitting in its stand on her desk.

Why does she do that? It’s not as if the crystal ball is anything more than common glass.

Mari retreated to her office and set her mug of cider on the desk at the back of the room. Then she hurried to stand behind the open door, just out of sight, so she could listen.

Should’ve made Sabina put the crystal ball away. It gives people the wrong idea.

And maybe that’s exactly why she has it there.

Mari heard the door open.

And in that very instant, the shadow on the ceiling scurried out of sight, fleeing.

Aha! Whoever this guy is, he must be a Melchizedek Priesthood holder.

Because the Neverborn just ran away.

Coward.

Welcome to Seven Devils, Sabina said. How may we help you?

At least, she’s not doing her mysterious Madame Sabina voice. Mari allowed herself a tiny smile. She sounds almost professional. Almost.

Uh, yeah. I’m, uh, here to talk to, uh, Mari Gwynn. The voice was shy, hesitant. And tantalizingly familiar.

Yes, of course, you are, Sabina said. May I ask why? Hauntings? Cold spots? Voices? Apparitions? Nightmares? Sabina paused briefly between each phrase, gauging the man’s reactions. Or is it fraud? Medium? Fortune teller? Psychic? We do investigate those.

A longer pause.

She must not be getting anything.

If you’re looking to contact the dead, Sabina said, we don’t do that.

No, we don’t. Not even you, Sabina.

Uh, yeah, the man said. I know. A small chuckle. I’m, uh . . . It’s, well, personal. I’m in . . . I go to church with Sister Gwynn.

And then something clicked in Mari’s mind, like a key turning in a lock, but stopping halfway through the turn.

Mari stepped out from behind the door and into view. Church. That’s got to be it. But I swear, I don’t think I’ve ever heard his name. She smiled at the man on the other side of the reception counter. Hello. I’m Mari Gwynn.

He quickly averted his eyes. Hi, Sister Gwynn. I’m, uh, Brother Stewart.

He’s blushing?

You probably don’t know me. He stepped around the reception counter and extended a hand, but he didn’t close the distance between them. He seemed ready to withdraw the hand at the slightest hint of reluctance on her part.

Mari met him halfway and took his hand.

His grip was firm and warm. A missionary handshake. Just as Mari had done on her own mission in Wales years earlier.

Call me Mari, please.

He shook her hand just a bit longer—a bit longer than was normal. Then he released her hand and jerked his own away. Uh, yeah. Mari. The color in his cheeks intensified. I’m Harvey. You know—like the rabbit? That old Jimmy Stewart movie?

Mari blinked. Harvey? The rabbit? Jimmy Stewart?

Oh, yes! "I’ve never actually seen that one, but . . . the rabbit was a pwca. Right?" What’s the American word? Pooka? Bugaboo? Invisible. Tall. Mischievous. Right?

He grinned. His bright, brown eyes met her gaze. That’s right. When I was a kid, the other kids used to call me ‘The Rabbit.’ Because I was so . . . timid. Said I was scared of my own shadow. He dropped his eyes. "Nothing like the, uh, invisible rabbit in the movie. I mean, he was invisible, but he wasn’t . . . timid."

The rabbit is invisible. Like Harvey here? He feels . . . invisible?

Well, I certainly didn’t notice him before. That’s invisibility of a sort. Come into my office, won’t you, Harvey? She stepped aside and motioned him forward. Would you like some hot apple cider? She gave Sabina a mock-withering look. "Emphasis on hot."

He hesitated, then shook his head. No, thanks. But he grinned and strode into Mari’s office.

Mari followed him in, closing the door behind her.

He stopped, staring at the ring of overstuffed armchairs that occupied the center of the office. Mari did have a desk, but it was at the back, almost as if that normal piece of office furniture were an afterthought.

Pick any chair, Mari said. And let’s see which one you choose.

He glanced around the six chairs, then chose one facing the office door.

He wants to see if anyone enters. He doesn’t like surprises.

Mari grabbed the chair opposite him, then pushed it closer, until it was less than a yard away from him. Then she sat.

She leaned forward, toward him, just as Sabina had coached her. Look interested. Engaged.

His eyes widened for a moment, then he seemed to shrink back, into his chair.

Maybe not too engaged. Mari leaned back, and he seemed to relax.

"So, Harvey, you said your visit was personal, not business. You’re not seeking my services as a paranormal investigator."

He let out a nervous chuckle. No. Not that. I’m, uh . . . I’m your ministering brother. I’ve been trying to get in contact with you at home—for months—but you never answer your phone. And it says your voice mailbox is full. And you never answer my texts.

It was Mari’s turn to chuckle. "Sorry about that. I get a lot of nasty phone calls and texts from people—fake psychics—I’ve exposed or debunked. And even more from people who think I’m a fraud. And even some from people who think I’m the Devil himself." People who don’t understand what I really do. People who make false assumptions and don’t even want to know the truth. I don’t answer my cellphone or answer texts if I don’t recognize the number. And I get far too many voicemails to go through. So, yeah, I bet my voice mailbox is full.

He nodded. Okay, I understand. That’s why I came here. To your office. He grimaced. Sorry.

Mari waved a dismissive hand. Don’t be. My business is thriving, but it’s not like I have people in and out of here all day long. She pulled her cellphone from the pocket of her jeans. What’s your number, Brother Rabbit?

He grinned.

She grinned back. I like a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously. I’ll add it to my contacts.

He recited his phone number, and she entered it on her phone. There. Now I’ll answer you the next time you call. But if I miss your call, don’t bother leaving a message. You won’t be able to, anyway. You can leave a text, or I’ll call you back.

You could, uh, put other folks from church, from the ward, into your contacts list. There’s an easy way to do that for the entire ward. I could show you how.

Mari rolled her eyes. A lot of the horrid calls I get are from folks at church. Thank you, but that’s alright. I’ll just muddle along as I have been. If people really need to get in touch with me, they know where to find me. During business hours, of course. But frankly, you’re the first to reach out from the ward, other than Bishop Mendía and his wife. I do have the Relief Society president and my ministering sisters in here. Not that they’ve bothered reaching out. "I have the two sisters I’m supposed to minister to and my ministering companion in my contacts. But none of them return my calls."

Wow. I’m sorry about that.

Mari shook her head. "Not your fault. And frankly, if I’m being honest, it’s not exactly their fault either. I’m not the most likeable person. I can be—"

His head snapped up. Oh, yes, you are! I— Then his eyes went wide, and color bloomed in his cheeks again. I—I mean . . . Then he muttered, "Drapia."

Drapia? Drat? Did he just say . . . You speak Welsh?

All the color drained from his face. No! I— I don’t. It’s . . . It’s just something I, uh, picked up over there. On m-my . . . mission.

The key in Mari’s mind completed its turn in the mental lock with an almost audible click. Elder Stewart! You were in my mission! In Wales.

He smiled. It was a shy grin, but genuine. Yeah, that was me. We met at District Conference. And at Mission Conference. I, uh, baptized some of your converts once. The Gruffudd family. In Betws-y-Coed.

I remember you! I mean, obviously, I remember you, but you were so shy. Painfully, awkwardly shy. But I heard you were the top baptizer in the mission.

His blush returned with a vengeance, and he dropped his eyes. "I didn’t baptize that many."

Mari laughed. "You most certainly did! The mission president held you up as a shining example. I guess your humility went a long way." From what I remember, people used to hang on your every word. Every awkward, halting, deeply sincere word. "I remember you always looked like you needed a hug too. And, of course, I couldn’t give you a hug back then. Not when we were missionaries. She stood. May I give you a hug now?"

He gave her a look that Mari could only interpret as horrified.

Oh, come on, man. It’s just a hug. Oh, wait a minute. You’re probably married. Not that it should be a big deal anyway.

I could open the door so Sabina could witness it. Chaperone.

He dropped his gaze. "I— I was married."

Drapia! Is he divorced or something? Poor guy. She dropped back into her chair. "You were married?"

"I mean, I still am. I, uh, I mean, we . . . Melissa and I got married right after my mission. We were writing the whole time, and she waited for me. But she . . . passed away. Died suddenly in childbirth. Heart failure. Tears gleamed from his eyes. I was there, in the delivery room, but she . . . She was just gone. I didn’t even get to say goodbye."

Mari leaned forward and gently laid her hand atop his. Oh. My. I’m so sorry. Did the . . . Did the baby survive?

He flinched, but he didn’t pull away. He nodded, then shook his head. Emergency C-section. A little boy. He survived for about an hour. He . . . died in my arms. Melissa wanted to name him Harvey. Harvey, Jr.

Mari realized she was weeping as well. She stood, closed the distance between them, bent, and put her arms around him. I’m so sorry, Harvey.

After a long moment, she felt his arms encircle her as well.

And together, they held each other and sobbed.

The phone rang in the reception area. The second ring was interrupted. Mari couldn’t hear Sabina talking through the closed office door, but she assumed that her assistant had answered the phone. Mari continued to hold Harvey for a moment longer, but he pulled his trembling arms away.

Whatever that moment had been, whatever it had meant, the moment had passed.

Mari went to her desk and retrieved a box of facial tissues. She grabbed one for herself and dabbed at her eyes as she returned to Harvey. She offered him the box.

He glanced up at her with stricken eyes, then looked away. Thanks, he whispered as he took a tissue. He blew his nose with both hands, then glanced up at her once more. He lowered his eyes again and appeared to be staring at the crumpled tissue in his hands.

Mari didn’t have Sabina’s skill at reading people, but she had the distinct impression he was acting guilty, like a child caught sneaking a forbidden cookie before dinner. What would he have to feel guilty about? It was just a hug. And it’s not like there was anything improper about it.

I’m sorry, he said with his eyes still downcast. I shouldn’t have done that.

Mari offered him the wastebasket. It’s okay. Everybody needs a hug now and then. Even crusty, old paranormal investigators like me.

He dropped the tissue in the basket. It wasn’t . . . appropriate.

She chuckled and set the basket beside her chair as she sat again. "I was the one who hugged you, remember? Besides, it didn’t mean anything." Is it because we’re behind closed doors? Because he’s my ministering brother? I don’t get it.

He glanced at her again, and the guilt in his eyes was unmistakable. I’m sorry. It won’t—

A knock at the door interrupted him.

Without looking away from Harvey, Mari called, Come in.

She heard the door open, but Sabina said nothing.

She’s reading the room, figuring out what’s been going on. What do we have? Mari rose from her chair and turned to Sabina.

The older woman cocked an eyebrow. Poltergeist. At least, that’s what it sounds like. Objects flying around.

Where?

This one’s local. Mapleton. I just texted you the address.

Mari’s phone buzzed, and she read the address. Got it. Phone them and let them know I’m on my way.

Want me to come with? Sabina asked.

No. I’ve got this one.

Are you sure, boss?

Mari allowed herself a tiny smile. Bless you, Sabina. It took courage to even offer. I’m sure. Poltergeist hoaxes—at least the good ones—are really hard to pull off. And they require hefty magnets or even electromagnets. The best ones use superconductors. But it’ll be easy to feel the EMF.

"Easy for you to feel, you mean."

Yeah. But I’ll take my EMF meter for show, anyway. She strode toward Sabina and grabbed her satchel hanging by the door.

Sabina wrung her hands. "And if it’s not a hoax?"

"If it’s not a hoax—Mari suppressed a shudder—I don’t want you anywhere near the place."

A Neverborn?

Yep. A Neverborn.

Mind if I come along? Harvey asked.

Mari gasped, and Sabina’s eyes grew wide.

I forgot he was here. Mari turned back toward Harvey and gasped again, startled to find him standing right in front of her.

She shook her head. I don’t think that—

Please, he said. "Bishop Mendía talked to me . . . about what you do. About what you might need me to do. He said you might need to call on me, sometimes. He shrugged, giving her a small grin. How about now?"

You may be about to face a demon. Ah, well . . . In for a penny, in for a pound.

She nodded. Welcome to the Seven Devils team, Harvey.

And after this, you’ll probably never come back.

Chapter 3

The funerary urn leapt off the fireplace mantel. The metal vase sailed in an upward arc, almost grazing the vaulted ceiling, then abruptly plummeted toward the hardwood floor. The urn crashed, spewing a gray cloud of incinerated human remains.

INVADERS! a deep, quavering voice howled. Get off my land!

Mari’s client, Mrs. Ignacia Altuna, screamed, cowering against the wall of her spacious living room. Her teenage son, Miguel, stood beside his mother, with one arm protectively around her. In his other hand, he held a cellphone, filming the terrifying scene. His eyes were huge, his mouth open wide. But he didn’t look particularly scared—at least not to Mari’s eyes. In fact, his face bore an expression of wonder and delight, as if he were a child visiting Disney’s Haunted Mansion for the first time in his life.

Yes, Mari thought, this is going straight to TikTok.

The air stirred, and the howling of a mighty tempest filled the room. The air swirled like a