Haunted

“Go on, Matt—we’ll keep them entertained for you,” Clint told him laconically. Matt arched a brow. Clint could be openly lascivious. He had surely enjoyed the spectacle of the bride, wrapped in the antique quilt and nothing more.

“Thanks,” Matt said dryly, and left them all to their arguments on whether there was or wasn’t a ghost.

An hour later, he was moved back into his room at the main house, and he and Penny and Roger had packed up the newlyweds, who were now happily settled in the caretaker’s cottage. Penny returned to her apartment over the stables.

Matt had barely gotten back to sleep before he heard a ringing sound. He fumbled around to turn off his alarm, but it was the phone instead. One of his officers was on the other end, anxiously urging him to get moving; they had a domestic violence situation threatening to turn explosive.

Matt hurriedly dressed, his thoughts half on the night gone by, and half on the day to come. There it was—the truth again. As his dad had once told him, when he had shivered at the sight of an old cemetery, the dead were the safest people around.

It was the living you had to watch out for.

That day was hell for Matt. He was so tired most of it, he could have toppled over. It began with the situation at the Creek-more house, old Harry threatening to kill his wife and kids, accusing her of sleeping around, claiming he didn’t even know if the kids were really his or not. Thayer had kept the situation under control until he got there. Matt had managed first to get Harry to let him in, then pretended to share most of a bottle of whiskey with him, convince him he could do DNA testing on his kids, finally get the shotgun, and haul Harry off to jail.

Somehow, he endured the rest of the week, staying in the main house, hearing the honeymooners in the pool at all hours, day and night.

Jeannie came to thank him personally for not throwing them out. Her honeymoon, between the pool and the horses and the incredible Jacuzzi in the caretaker’s house, was bliss.

She had forgotten about the ghost. She admitted that she’d had a lot to drink.

Penny kept insisting that there was a ghost, and he was being a blind fool to ignore it. Either something bad was going to happen, or—on the bright side!—were they to prove that a ghost existed, they could get so rich they’d never have to worry about the upkeep of the place again.

Finally the honeymooners departed and everything went back to normal. Then, Penny started at him again. She wanted to have a seance.

He said no.

She persisted.

He begged her to leave him alone. He had too much work on his plate at the moment.

At last, Penny backed off and contented herself with her tours. Matt thought that life was pleasantly back to routine.

Until she came to him with the letter from Adam Harrison, Harrison Investigations.

It was a month later that Clara Issy, one of the five daytime housekeepers, stopped dead in her tracks.

It was a sunny morning. The beautiful old bedroom in Melody House was as it always was. The bed she had just made with its shiny four-poster and quilted cover sat against the right wall. The polished mahogany bureau held the modern touch of the entertainment center within it. The television was off. The French doors to the balcony and the wraparound porch were ajar because it was such a nice day and the breeze was fresh and clean, causing the white draperies to stir and dance. That was natural, and she was accustomed to the smell and feel of fresh air. She loved it, and she wasn’t at all fond of the air-conditioning that ran through the summer months. No, the room itself was just as it always was.

She stood near the open French doors, jaw agape, and stared.

Because she was alone in the room, yet something else was moving. Something that drifted from the bed. Something in a hazy form, something cold, something that felt threatening.

It approached Clara. She felt something touch her face, almost like the stroke of fingers against her cheek. Very cold fingers. Dead fingers. She thought she heard a whispering. Scratchy, against her ear. Something that pleaded…or threatened.

Her hands were frozen in a vise around her broom handle. Her body felt as if it had jelled into ice. Fear raced up and down her spine.

The cold…wrapped around her. Tightly. More and more tightly.

At last, her jaw snapped shut. She broke the sensation of terror. She screamed, not a bloodcurdling sound, but one that barely held a gasp of air.

Then she found life, and ran.

Out to the second floor landing; there was no one there. Down the flight of stairs to the grand foyer, where again, the house was empty. She headed toward the second doorway to the right of the sweeping stairway. Surely, for the love of God, someone would be in the house office—Penny, a tiny bastion against anyone evil, but someone, at the least.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief. Matt was there. Bursting out the doorway before she could reach it. He was in his work uniform, but he hadn’t headed out for the station yet; it was still very early. Thank God.

He hurried toward her, as if he had heard her cry—being Matt, of course, he had heard it!—and had been preparing to rush to her rescue. Except that she had fled the room upstairs with greater speed than a greyhound. And so she was here, spurting into his arms.

“Clara! What is it?”

She was fifty-five. Twenty years older than Matt, at least. But he was Matt; solid as a rock. A tall man in his prime with a way about him that commanded respect which in turn offered her a feeling of security that allowed her to speak when her mouth was still all but completely contorted.

“I—I—quit!” she gasped out.

“Clara, what on earth?” he asked kindly, holding her at something of a distance from himself and searching out her eyes.

“Let me tell you, that bride was not crazy. There’s a ghost in that room!”

“Oh, Clara, please. We both know the silly stories about this place! We’ve both heard them since we were little kids. But come on, we’ve also worked in this house, both of us, for years and years. Clara, I feel like a broken record here, but believe me—ghosts don’t really exist. People want them to exist sometimes. Penny is dying to have a few authentic ghosts to give the place a greater reputation. Seems like being an historical masterpiece doesn’t always cut it these days.” He smiled, smoothing back her graying hair.

“There’s a ghost in the Lee room, and it just touched me.” Clara planted her hands on her hips. “How long have you known me? Forever? Haven’t I always agreed with you, saying that it was just silly airheads who felt they had to make up ghost stories? But you have to believe me—there’s something in that room. It threatened me. Matt, it wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a memory of ghost tales told over and over. It was real. I could see it. Come up and see for yourself!”

Matt sighed deeply. Still, there was concern for her in the depths of his dark eyes. “All right, Clara, let’s go take a look.”

Clara edged behind him, then followed as he left the office and strode with long footsteps through the foyer, up the stairs, and to the Lee room.

Naturally, there was nothing there.

Clara walked over to her broom. “I was standing right here.”

“Clara, maybe you saw the draperies drifting in. The French doors are open.”

Clara indignantly straightened her five-foot-one frame. She could see that Matt felt as if he was living a repeat of a silly performance. He was trying to be patient; he felt like throwing his hands up as if the whole world had now gone insane. “I know the difference between drapes and a ghost!”

Matt ran his fingers through his ink dark hair, shaking his head. “Clara…I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing here at all.”

Clara sniffed. “Matt, it’s gone now. But there was something here! Why can’t you believe me? You should. It wasn’t all that long ago that we rented the room to the Thomases. She came running out of the room in the middle of the night, stark naked, and screaming! All right, I wasn’t here when it happened, but I sure heard all about it.” Clara paused, biting her lip. “Okay, I laughed like hell, I’ll admit, but…Matt, there’s something going on.”

“Clara, Jeannie Thomas herself said later that she’d had a lot to drink that night. Her husband didn’t see or hear a thing, and all it did was cause a big argument on the first night of their marriage. Clara, Jeannie drove me crazy and came here and specifically asked for this room, having heard that it was haunted. Don’t you see? The bride wanted there to be a ghost, and so there was. History can be tragic, Clara. And there was some tragic history associated with the place. But come on, now! You’re a sensible woman. In your heart, you know that you’re just letting your imagination run riot.”

“Matt, I quit.”

“Oh, Clara!”

She knew that he couldn’t afford to lose another maid.

“How about this, Clara. You don’t quit, but you don’t clean this room. How’s that?”

She reflected on his offer. “Who is going to clean it?”

“We’ll let Penny come in here and take care of this room. Penny thinks it’s the greatest thing in the world that the place has a reputation for being haunted.”

“You know, Matt, I can’t help it. I was definitely one of those to scoff at such absurdity, but I can tell you now—this house is haunted!”

“Clara, maybe it’s haunted, and maybe…hm.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe Penny is playing tricks, she wants the house to be haunted so badly. Or maybe someone is…I don’t know. Breaking in here. Making things happen.”

“How?” Clara asked incredulously.

“Who knows,” he murmured.

Clara again planted her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowing. “Who the hell would break in here? Who would have the balls—since it’s your place—the town sheriff?”

“I don’t know. But since you think there was someone in here, I intend to find out.”

Clara shook her head. “We’re the ones who have been lying to ourselves, Matt. The whole darned house may be haunted, but this room…this room is menacing!”

“Ghosts don’t menace people, Clara.”

She sniffed. “You don’t believe in ghosts, so how do you know what they do?”

“Clara, I don’t believe in ghosts, but from everything I’ve seen and read, I’ve never heard of a ghost actually hurting anyone.”

Clara shook her head again, appearing to be the one wise beyond all earthly knowledge. “Well, Mr. Matt, I’ll have you know, that isn’t true at all! Haven’t you ever heard of the Bell Witch in Tennessee? They say that even old Andrew Jackson was afraid of her, that she pulled people’s hair and threw the children around and even caused the death of the master of the house. You refuse to accept anything that isn’t cut-and-dried, and you’re blind to things going on in your own house!”

Matt leaned against the door frame, smiling. “Clara, once again, I believe that people can make things real with their imaginations.”

“You think old Andy Jackson was an imaginative guy?”

“You’d have to show me written proof that Andrew Jackson was afraid of a ghost. And I don’t mean any hearsay on a Discovery program or even in a book of ghost stories.”

Clara pointed a finger at him. “You’d better do something, before the stories about this house become so real that no one will pay for the tours. You can’t keep this place up on a sheriff’s salary alone.”

“Thank you, Clara. I’ll take that under advisement. But then again, you know, Penny is certain that a documented haunting would make us as rich as Midas.”

Clara was startled when Matt frowned suddenly and walked over to her. “What happened to your face?”

“To my face?” Clara frowned as well, and walked over to the mirror. Her cheek was red and mottled, as if she’d been slapped, and slapped hard.

She turned and stared at him. “Ghosts don’t menace people, huh?”

“Clara,” Matt said. “Think about it! You must have run into something in your hurry to get out of the room!”

Clara eyed him sharply and shook her head. “Matt, the stories have circulated for years. People have sworn that they’ve seen soldiers in the downstairs rooms. They’ve seen a lady in white, floating down the stairway. Ghosts that fit in with history. It’s only been in recent years, since your grandfather died, that things have gotten really serious. Remember how Randy Gustav quit after staying a night in the Lee Room? He wouldn’t even explain what happened to you. It’s only in the last few years that…that the ghosts kind of threaten to get violent.”

“There are no such things as ghosts.”

“Oh, yeah? One just gave me a bruise!”

With that, Clara indignantly walked out on him, calling back over her shoulder, “Matt, you’re a hell of a man. That’s why I’m staying. Believe it or don’t, but you’d better do something about that particular ghost—that doesn’t exist in your mind.”

That evening, having returned home very late from work, Matt sat at the desk in his suite in the main house, going through correspondence.

There was a tap at his door.

“Come in.”

Penny stuck her head in. “Am I bothering you, Matt?”

“Not at all.”

She walked in and sat on the corner of his desk. “Matt, you have to do something over this latest episode with Clara.”

“Oh?” He leaned back in his chair.

“Clara was hurt!”

“Penny, please. I’m sorry, I think the world of Clara, we’re friends from way back, and I gave her the rest of the day off with pay. She had to have run into something.”

Penny shook her head.

He leaned forward suddenly, abruptly. “Penny, you wouldn’t be playing some kind of game up there, determined to convince the rest of the world, if not me, that the place is haunted?”

She gaped at him in such affront that he was immediately sorry.

“Matt, I would never—”

“But maybe someone would.”

“Maybe,” Penny agreed grudgingly. She wagged a finger at him. “You know, you are far too trusting at times. Too many people could have access to this place.”

“Penny, I’m not too trusting. We’re a fairly small town.”

Penny shook her head decisively. “You’re right, of course. But you’ve got to remember that even in our small town we have had a few pretty grisly murders. Why can’t you just accept the fact that something strange is going on?”

“Penny, you’ve wanted nothing more than a real ghost for years.”

Penny shook her head, suddenly troubled. “Ghosts…that cause a cold spot, or breeze by, or…I don’t think this is a good ghost,” she murmured.

She patted his desk, rummaging through the unopened letters. “What about that letter you got from Harrison Investigations? Call Adam. You respect him. He was friends with your grandfather long ago.”

He groaned.

“Please, Matt. You’ve suggested that maybe someone is breaking in, or doing something to make it appear that there are ghosts. Adam can tell you what’s real, and what’s not.”

“What he perceives as real,” Matt muttered.

“Hey, I’ve followed some of what he’s done. Last year, he and some of his colleagues proved that the haunting of an old mining camp was nothing more than two modern prospectors digging for gold.”

“Great. I call in Ghostbusters and become the laughingstock of the town. I might as well find a new place to live.”

Penny shook her head. “Matt, maybe they can just do the same thing here.” She hopped off the edge of the table. “Please, promise me you’ll think about it, at least.”

She left him, closing the door softly in her wake.

Matt walked to his own set of French doors out to the wraparound balcony. The moon was full. In the distance, he could see the vague shape of the mountains, and the sweep of the valley. God, he loved this area. Loved the house, the stables, but mostly, just the natural beauty of the area.

He returned to his desk, reflective. Clara’s face had been marked, as if she had been hit. He still didn’t believe in ghosts, but…

He reflected on the number of people who lived on the property. Penny, Sam, Clint, Carter, even Clara now and then, and through the years gone by, various friends and relatives. Could someone have set the place up so that it appeared haunted?

He strode to the Lee Room, searched under the bed, in the closet, all around. Nothing.

Still…

He returned to his own suite, toyed with Adam Harrison’s letter for a moment, and picked up the phone. He dialed Harrison’s number. They spoke briefly. “Matt, good to hear from you.”

“You weren’t certain that you would?” Matt queried dryly.

“Nope. Not this time.”

“You know I don’t believe in the supernatural in any way, shape, or form.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“If you come down here, I’m only having you because I think you’ll be able to prove that I don’t have ghosts.”

“Maybe,” Adam agreed.

“When can you come?”

“My schedule is a bit of a mess, but…I’ll arrange to see you soon.”

“And according to your letter, Adam, you’re going to pay me?”

“Yes. And like I said, I am anxious. I’ll arrange something as soon as possible.”

“You can usually find me around lunchtime at the Wayside Inn.”

“All right, my office manager will call, set a date.”

“Good,” Matt said. “Look forward to seeing you, Adam.”

Adam Harrison was still talking when Matt hung up the phone. He stared at it, already thinking that he had made one hell of a mistake.

On the other end, Adam Harrison, too, stared at his phone. He did so with fond amusement. He’d always liked Matt. “My boy. You’re about to learn a lesson. All the courage, brain power, and brawn in the world can’t cut it against a real ghost,” he said softly. “Ah, well.”

He had meant to warn Matt that he wasn’t even sure he could come himself right away, that he’d be sending his topnotch aide.

But he didn’t want to call back. Matt Stone wasn’t at all pleased with this arrangement, even though he was surely having trouble.

It would all be fine. Darcy could handle any man, living…

Or dead.

2

From the moment she walked into the bar, Darcy felt at a distinct disadvantage.

It was called the Wayside Inn. It should have been called Bubba’s Back-then Barn.

She was nearly overcome by the wave of smoke that almost knocked her over when she opened the door; it sat like a fog over the decades-old plastic booths and bar stools. There were two pool tables to the left, stuffed away from what might have been used, at times, as a dance floor.

There were actually still a few spittoons for tobacco chewers scattered around.

When she stepped in and the door closed behind her, the place came to a standstill. The four pool players and the broken-toothed wonders watching the games all stopped their play and stared at her. Behind the bar, a heavyset woman with teased red hair styled in something like a sixties beehive looked up from washing glasses. In what looked to be a dining area, the four men seated at one of the chipped wood tables also looked up.

She stood in the miasma of smoke and stared around, taking it in as her eyes adjusted from the sunlight. And she knew, instantly, that Adam was the one who should have come here. And he should have worn jeans and an old plaid or denim work shirt. Of course, the concept of Adam dressed that way was an amusing one, but Adam was a determined man. And for some reason, he was determined that they were getting into Melody House.

She had come in a business suit, the same attire she usually wore when conducting business, she reminded herself, defending her choice of clothing when she was so obviously out of place. But though she hadn’t imagined the Wayside Inn to be a five-star restaurant, she hadn’t thought that it would be quite this…colloquial.

“Can I help you, honey?” the redhead called from behind the bar. Her voice was warm and friendly, giving Darcy a bit of encouragement. She smiled in return. But before she could reply, one of the men who’d been sitting at the table had risen.

“Miss?”

He was tall, somewhat lanky, and when he smiled, she saw that he had all his teeth, and a single dimple in his left cheek. Light brown eyes, and a pleasant way about him; he seemed to ooze accent and Southern charm with his single word.

“I’m looking for a man named Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here.” She hoped that one of the men knew Stone. She didn’t think that he was among them. She’d already pictured him in her mind. He was the descendant of a man who was practically a Founding Father. He would be tall, straight, and aging with incredible dignity. He might be one of the those fellows who sat around Revolutionary or Civil War round tables, rehashing the past. He might have a certain attitude about him, but he’d still be an incredible old gentleman.

“Hey, honey, you can meet me!” one of the pool players called out.

“Watch your manners, Carter!” one of the others said, and another sniggered.

At the table, another of the men stood.

“Come in, have a seat,” he said.

She had to admit, this fellow’s jeans fit him well, hugging leans hips, strong legs, and some solid length. He was wearing shades, even inside, in the cloud of smoke—maybe he thought that they’d protect his eyes from the haze. He was well over six feet, ebony hair a little too long, but apparently clean and brushed. He was clean-shaven, maybe thirty, thirty-five. Strong, solid features. While the first fellow to approach her had been polite and laid-back, his face splitting instantly into an easy grin in the first few seconds, this one looked as if he might have been chiseled on Mount Rushmore. Though he had stood courteously enough and asked her to sit, he looked as if he were entirely impatient, more like a man about to suggest that she go jump in a lake.

She walked over to the table. The first man—he with the great dimple—had drawn out a chair for her. She looked at the other two who had been sitting at the table, now risen, as she approached. One was older, white-haired, white-bearded. She kept imagining him in a butternut and gray Confederate Army uniform. The fourth in the party was somewhere around thirty as well, had a decent haircut, and was actually in a tailored shirt and chinos, and looked as if he might have a real job somewhere in a civilized town.

“What’s your business here?” the tall, chiseled-face man asked abruptly, sitting as he did so. They all stared at her.

“My name is Darcy Tremayne. I had an appointment with Matt Stone. I was supposed to meet him here. I believe I’m in the right place. Do any of you know him?”

She spoke evenly and politely—she was here on business. But she felt as if hostility oozed around her. She longed to bolt from the chair and fly out the door. She knew that everyone in the bar was still staring at her.

“Know him?” the tall, lanky fellow with the dimple said.

But he was interrupted. The man Darcy had mentally begun to refer to as Chisel-face cut him off. “Are you one of the psychics?” he asked.

Darcy arched a brow. Be pleasant with the locals, Adam had told her.

All right, she could be friendly.

“I suppose you could say that. I’m with Harrison Investigations,” she said. This was definitely a small town. Okay, so she had come from a fairly small town herself, but this one seemed even more rural. Maybe that was because she’d spent so many years in New York, and had been living in the D.C. area for so long now. It seemed that any event regarding Melody House was news in the area, and that everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“A real live ghost buster?” the fellow with the dimple teased.

“Ghost buster?” She ever so slightly hiked a brow once again, sitting back, determined that she would be cool, cordial, and dignified. “Harrison Investigations is actually a small, private company, and what we do is investigate strange occurrences in old homes and the like.” She smiled. “Most of the time, we find squeaky floorboards and leaky plumbing, but when a place is as historically relevant as Melody House, the history alone could create a very old and spiritual feeling.”