Fog Descending (House of Crows) by Lisa Unger (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📕

at some point, while recounting his time at Merle House, Ian had just passed out on the ridiculously soft couch. He dreamed about Claire; she was running down a lane lined with trees, and he was chasing her.

Shit, he thought as he jerked awake.

It was just after two thirty. Everyone knew that 3:00 a.m. was the witching hour, the liminal space between late night and the approach of morning. This was when things happened. Liz believed it was because so many people were deeply asleep at that time, that all that dream energy opened a kind of doorway in the universe.

Ian roused himself from the couch. Josh was sound asleep in the Eames chair by the fireplace, snoring softly, glasses askew.

Ian couldn’t blame the kid for failing at literally the only thing Ian needed him for; he’d practically bored poor Josh to sleep, droning on about his bizarre childhood memory. How far had he even gotten?

Ian left Josh sleeping and went to walk the house, stopping in the foyer. He pulled a fresh stick of white sage, Liz’s old abalone shell, and a pack of matches from his backpack, which he’d left by the door. Standing in the double-height space, he lit the smudge stick.

Smudging was a Native American ritual for cleansing, blessing, and repelling evil influences. Liz’s family had descended from the Seminoles in Florida, and she had been careful to get her sage bundles from indigenous people in New Mexico. The sage was only harvested at a certain time of year, according to Liz, and if it wasn’t done right, harvested by the right person, bundled and blessed appropriately, then it was just new age garbage at best, appropriation at worst. Not all the rituals Liz had employed spoke to him, but the sage had a special power—it smelled of calm, of cleanliness.

He let the match light the leaves, and the smudge stick started to smolder. He blew on it to get the embers going but avoided a full flame, and the curling smoke started to fill the air. He used the shell to catch the ashes as he walked from room to room. He used Liz’s favorite mantra:

“This house belongs to Astrid and Chaz,” he said, keeping his voice soft but firm. “Their light and love energy fills the space and invites all negativity to return to the universe, where it will be welcomed with love and nonjudging.”

He repeated it softly over and over.

According to Liz, sometimes all that trapped or lost entities wanted was to be told they could go home, like a runaway who’d done shameful things but found the courage to call her mom, asking for forgiveness.

Liz, his beautiful wife, had been a true believer. It had radiated off her in waves; you could see it in her stunning smile, the kindness of her eyes, the strength of her embrace, the careful way she had listened to her clients and to their houses. She had been a bright light in this world, a person who had answered her calling. When she had passed, she’d been at peace, ready to go home.

His heart broke every day, remembering the special glow of who she was. He wished he were more like her.

This house belongs to Astrid and Chaz . . .

In the basement, there was nothing, just the hum of the air-conditioning. What he would have told Josh if they hadn’t both dozed off was that the image Astrid captured looked familiar to Ian. No, not looked. Not visually, because it was just a long amorphous shadow. It felt familiar.

The hallways, the nursery, the spare bedroom.

Their light and love energy fills the space . . .

The place felt clean. Maybe Astrid or Chaz had doctored the footage—it wouldn’t be the first time someone had done that, looking for attention, or trying to run a scam, or auditioning for one of those ghost hunter shows. They were the type, Instagram influencers, new age wannabes, living their whole lives online for the show of it, for the “likes” and “follows.”

The kitchen.

. . . and invites all negativity to return to the universe, where it will be welcomed with love and nonjudging.

The master bedroom.

In the morning, he’d tell them that the house was clean. He’d go through all the motions for the video cameras; when he was done with the sage, he’d move on to the gong and the singing bowl. In each room, he’d leave a little talisman from the collection he had in his bag—a crystal, a piece of driftwood, a little bell. Each item blessed by Rachel, their shaman friend, to banish dark energy.

It should be good enough. Like exorcisms, mostly, it was just about believing the demon had been expelled. People didn’t even realize how much power they truly had—over themselves, their minds, their lives, their versions of reality.

“But you saw him. You know him.”

Liz lounged on the plush mattress in the master bedroom. She had propped herself up on the pile of pillows and was wearing her favorite pair of pink silk pajamas. She was a vision, flushed skin, cascading dark hair.

“You’ve been looking for him all this time. Now you’ve found him.”

“No,” said Ian with a shake of his head. “It was just a shadow. Probably they doctored it, right? Remember that couple in Seattle?”

“You don’t believe that.”

He suddenly felt the weight of his life, of fatigue pressing down on him. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

“Come lie down.”

Ian put the sage and the shell down on the fireplace hearth.

He moved into her delicious warmth and let himself be enveloped by her love. His wife was the most expansive, luscious human being he had ever known. Making love to her, being held by her, just being near her was to be infused with her radiant spirit. He could conjure her, as if she were still with him, as if her energy still dwelled in the cells of his body.

“God, I miss you,” he whispered into the silk of her hair.

“I’m right here.”

But then she was gone. The softness