Deadly Obsession

Passing through the large dining room with small tables scattered around, he heard the rattle of pans and a giggle behind a swinging door.

He paused for a moment before pushing against the wood panel. With the door half-open and the strong, rich scent of baking luring him inside, Chance opened his mouth to ask what was cooking.

A loud bang sent him diving for the floor, covering the back of his head. The swinging door slammed against the wall and bounced back to hit him in the ribs.

For moment, Chance was back in that village in Afghanistan, his side torn open in a gaping wound caused by an explosion. He felt for the blood but came away with a dry hand. Then he realized he wasn’t in Afghanistan. He was lying on the kitchen floor, a large stockpot resting on the floor beside his head.

“I’m so sorry, Chance.” Molly snatched the pot off the floor and set it on the stove. She bent over Chance, her brow making a V over her nose. “Are you all right?”

His heart racing and heat rising in his cheeks, Chance sprang to his feet and shoved a hand through his hair. “I’m fine.”

Nova shook his head. “Brother, you are not fine. Your face went completely white, and now it’s burning red. You don’t have to pretend everything is okay when it’s not. You’re with friends here.”

Chance’s jaw tightened, and he squared his shoulders. “I said I’m fine. Is there something I can help with?” He needed to keep busy, or his heart would explode out of his chest.

“As a matter of fact,” Nova started, “I’m supposed to be over at Jillian’s today helping her unload.”

“Jillian who? And unload what?” After making a complete idiot of himself, he would do anything to get out of the house.

Molly smiled. “Jillian’s my maid of honor and wedding planner. She just bought her first house and is in the process of moving in. She needs help with the big stuff.”

“I’m your guy.” Chance nodded toward Molly and Nova. “You probably have other things to do.” Like more giggling and holding each other. He thought it, but he didn’t say it out loud.

Nova’s ready grin filled his face. “If you’re sure...”

“Positive,” Chance said. “All I need are directions.”

Nova walked Chance through the door and out onto the wide front porch. “I can join you in an hour.”

“By then, we could be done. Don’t worry. I’ll help Molly’s friend get moved in.”

Nova laid a hand on Chance’s shoulder. “We didn’t invite you here to put you to work.”

“I need something to keep me moving.”

Nova nodded. “I understand. It took six months for me to stop hitting the dirt when I heard loud noises.”

Chance shrugged. “Yeah. I’ll get over it.”

“You don’t have to work through it on your own, you know.”

“I know.” Chance hadn’t come to Cape Churn for sympathy. He came to help a friend get ready for the biggest day of his life. He’d be damned if he ruined it for him by coming unglued in front of his fiancée and guests. All he needed to do was focus and keep his head on straight for five days. Five days of rest and relaxation that would go a long way toward restoring his body and soul. “Where is this friend?”

Chapter 2

Jillian drove the truck and trailer into the yard, bypassed the two vehicles parked there, made a big circle and backed the trailer to the porch. Excitement rippled through her like a shiver.

Though she’d been a Realtor for the past six years, she had never actually owned her own home. When she’d started selling real estate in Portland, she was content to live in an apartment and build her savings.

Then she’d discovered the quiet seaside village of Cape Churn. Something about the beauty of the coastal town called to her, as if telling her it was home. She’d packed her belongings and moved, promising to purchase a house when she found one she loved. Her plan was to purchase a fixer-upper with good bones and make it her own. But it took money for a down payment and closing costs, and still more money to renovate. So she’d saved for the past two years.

When the bank had come to her, asking her if she could sell one of their properties that had been sitting unoccupied for the past seventeen years, she’d agreed. Located just beyond the edge of town, the quaint Victorian house was tucked away into the woods, quiet, beautiful and...perfect. Yes, it was neglected, it needed to be brought up to electric and plumbing codes, but Jillian couldn’t contain her excitement.

She’d offered the bank a ridiculously low price, knowing it would take every bit of her savings to restore the structure and the interior to a livable condition. The bank had snapped up her offer, grateful to unload an albatross they’d paid property taxes on for too long.

Jillian climbed out of the truck her friend Dave had loaned her and stood staring at the old house with the charming dormer windows, wide wraparound porches and so much charm, it looked like a place she could love and restore to its former glory.

Something about it made her feel as though she belonged here. Sure, many of the windows needed to be replaced, the porch sagged and she needed a new roof. But the house was hers and she had plans for it.

Now all she had to do was transfer her belongings from the trailer to the house. Everything would go into the small sitting room at the back until the workers completed the remodeling effort.

Jillian had hoped to sleep in her new home while they worked, but she couldn’t until they completed the plumbing and electrical work they’d begun a week before. Her lease was up on the cottage she’d rented, and the owner wanted to have it ready for the summer season. So she was moving things into her house before it was ready for her.

Thankfully, Molly had a room for her at the McGregor B and B, which worked out fine. As Molly’s wedding planner, Jillian needed to check with the bride on all the last-minute details leading up to the big day scheduled for the following Saturday. For the most part, the preparations had been made. All she had left to do was make certain everything was delivered on time, as promised. There was to be a combined bachelor and bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner and the wedding. Then Jillian could concentrate on her own life and getting her house in order.

“Ah, Miss Taylor, I’m glad you’re here.” Bob Greer, the contractor, stepped onto the front porch. “We ran into a problem with the septic lines.”

Jillian bit back the urge to say, What now? Instead, she followed Bob around the porch to the rear of the building.

He pointed to a damp, mossy spot on the ground. “You have a leak.”

With a nod, she smiled at the man. “I know. That’s why I have you here. To fix all the issues this house might have.”

“If the septic lines are damaged, it’ll cost more than I originally budgeted for inside the house. And depending on the condition of the septic tank, you might need to have it dug out and replaced.”

Her heart sank. Already her savings had taken a huge hit for the down payment and closing costs. She hoped the bigger issues would settle out soon so that she could see what she had left for the interior upgrades. “How much will that be?”

“Another eight to nine thousand.” He stared at her, expectantly. “What do you want me to do?”

“If it’s broken, fix it. Just let me know how much before you start replacing big-ticket items.”

Bob nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He followed her to the front of the house. “Well, I’ll be going. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

Her heart sank deeper into her belly. “Why not in the morning?”

“We’re finishing up on another job in town. Then I have to arrange for a backhoe to dig up the lines, and order more parts for the interior. It’ll take a day for both of those to make it out here, so the plumbing issues won’t be resolved for a couple days.”

Jillian sighed. “I was hoping to move in as soon as the plumbing and electricity were turned on.”

He nodded. “If I don’t have to replace the entire septic system, it’s possible to be in in a couple days. But don’t bank on it.” He tipped his ball cap. “Night, Miss Taylor.”

“Please, call me Jillian,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Bob hurried toward his four-door truck with Bob’s Building written in faded red lettering across the side panel. His team of carpenters was already inside, ready to go home.

Jillian opened the screen door. Every time she did, she had the tingly sensation of déjà vu.

A loud thump was followed by a string of curses at the back of the house.

Following the sounds, Jillian arrived in the kitchen, where Mitchell Knowlton held one thumb with his other hand, dancing around the yellowed linoleum floor.

“Are you all right?” Jillian asked.

Mitchell turned so fast he didn’t take into account the corner of the old upper cabinets, which had yet to be thrown out, and smacked his head on the sharp edge. He clamped his lips tightly together, his face turning a bright red. “Smashed my thumb,” he finally grumbled, alternating between pressing his fingers to his forehead and his battered thumb. “Should have listened to my wife.”

Jillian chuckled. “Did she tell you not to hit your thumb?”

“No.” He frowned. “She told me not to take this job.”

“Why?” Jillian asked, taken aback by Mitchell’s revelation.

“She says the place is haunted. Something bad happened here almost two decades ago. When the last owners moved out, no one would buy it. All the old-timers think it’s because it’s haunted.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d heard the stories. No matter what everyone else said, the house called to her like no other. She’d be damned if she was scared off by tales of ghosts. “You’re not an old-timer, Mitchell.” Jillian crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you believe this place is haunted?”

He shrugged and gathered his hammer. “No offense, but I think you’re crazy trying to restore this big ol’ house. It’s more than a single lady can manage on her own, much less maintain the yard.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” She tapped her toe, her brows raised in challenge.

Mitchell shoved a hand through his sandy hair. “Don’t know about ghosts, but I have a weird feeling about this place. None of the other old houses I’ve rewired made me feel like that.”

“Well, I think it’s a grand ol’ house. And if there are ghosts, I bet they’re just as grand as the house. If it makes you feel any better, plan your work when there are others in the house. Maybe ghosts don’t like crowds.”

“Ah, now, Miss Taylor.”

“Jillian,” she corrected.

“I better stick to Miss Taylor. If my wife hears me callin’ you Jillian, she’ll let me have it.”

Mitchell wasn’t much older than Jillian, but he and his wife had been married for seven years and had two small boys.

“In fact, I should leave if you’re going to be here for a while. She doesn’t like me to hang around after hours. Especially...”

“If I’m here.” Jillian smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on stealin’ Caroline’s man.” She winked. “I’m not in the market for a relationship, legitimate or clandestine. I just want my house fixed so I can move in as soon as possible.”

Mitchell’s face reddened. “Sorry. Being eight months pregnant, Caroline’s a little jealous when I’m working around pretty single women.”

Jillian beamed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Tell Caroline she has nothing to worry about. I have too much to keep me busy to bother with men right now. Between renovating this house, running my real estate business and planning Molly McGregor’s wedding, I barely have time to sleep.”

“Ever think you might have taken on too much?”

A slightly hysterical giggle left Jillian’s lips. “Yup.”

Mitchell shook his head. “When is the construction crew going to start the demolition of the kitchen and bathrooms?”

Jillian’s mouth twisted and she glanced around. “They were supposed to start today. But I can see nothing’s been done.”

“What time is it anyway?” Mitchell glanced at his watch and blinked. “Holy smokes. I have to pick up the boys at Mother’s Day Out.” He gathered his tools and slung them into a tool bag.

“Mitchell, don’t let the stories keep you from rewiring my house. I have it from one of the top Realtors in Cape Churn that you’re the best electrician for the job. I’m counting on you to bring the house up to code without burning it down.”

Mitchell paused with his hand on the door. He stared past her, his gaze taking in the sweeping staircase and the rooms at the front of the house. “I’ll do the job. With a baby on the way, I need the money. Hopefully it won’t take long.”

Otherwise he wouldn’t be doing the job. Jillian heard the unspoken words. She didn’t care, as long as the job got done. “Thank you, Mitchell. Say hello to Caroline for me.” If it helped, she’d stop by with some fresh-baked cookies for the family. When she had a kitchen to bake them in.

Mitchell drove away in a cloud of dust. Someday, when she could afford it, she’d have the driveway paved. That particular upgrade was way down the list of priorities.

Finally, she had the house to herself. Jillian wandered around, with a keen eye for what flooring, cabinets and countertops would be best in each room. She’d been a real estate agent long enough to know what she liked and what fit with the style of house she’d purchased. As she went through the kitchen, she stopped in front of the window over the sink and stared out at the overgrown backyard, reminding herself that the house came first, then the yard.

A movement in the corner of her eye made her turn her head. Had Mitchell or Bob forgotten something and returned to the house? Jillian stepped out the back door to check, a salty breeze lifting her hair off the nape of her neck. No one was there. She reentered the house, shaking her head. Mitchell and some of the older residents of Cape Churn, with all their talk about ghosts and missing persons, had her spooked.

Determined to shake it off, Jillian opened and closed the kitchen cabinet doors, checking one last time for any leftover items that needed to be removed before demolition started. All she found was an old soda bottle.

With one last glance at the kitchen, Jillian was in the process of turning to leave when she noticed the door to the basement standing ajar. She didn’t remember the door being open when she’d first entered the kitchen. Perhaps the breeze from the back door had opened it.

Jillian strode across the kitchen, grasped the doorknob and started to push it closed when she heard the plaintive cry of a kitten.

She froze with her hand on the knob and tilted her head, listening.

Again, she heard the puny mewling. This time she could tell it came from somewhere below her. Though she didn’t believe in ghosts and she had big plans for a wine cellar in the basement, Jillian hesitated at the top of the steps. She stared into the darkness, her hand fumbling for the light switch. When she found it, she flipped it and the small yellowed bulb hanging over the top landing flickered once and then glowed to life, providing illumination only halfway down the steps.

Every scary movie Jillian had seen in high school came back to haunt her. Every lone female who ventured into a dark basement met with a terrible fate.

The kitten mewed again, startling Jillian into leaving the top landing and taking several steps downward. “Here, kitty,” she whispered, disappointed in herself for her sudden aversion to going downstairs. Why had she let Mitchell’s words affect her? She was a grown, independent, well-grounded woman who’d been living on her own since she left her parents’ house to go to college. She had never been afraid of living alone in the big city, where crime was a given, and being a lone woman meant taking extra precautions to remain safe.

Since coming to Cape Churn two years ago, she’d never felt the sense of dread that now invaded her body as she crept down the stairs into the basement of her own house. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip, despite the cool dampness of the cellar.

She could wait to explore the basement until the next day, when there were more people there who could be her backup should she fall and twist an ankle. Or be attacked by a serial killer hiding out, waiting to pounce on her once she descended to the bottom step.

The cry of the kitten dragged her out of her morbid thoughts and made her feet move, one step at time, to the bottom. If there was a kitten in the basement, it might be in trouble. Perhaps its mother had brought the baby in through one of tiny basement windows and the wind had blown the window shut, thus trapping the poor creature. It could be hungry, maybe even starving.

The needs of the kitten outweighed Jillian’s fear of exploring the creepy, dark basement by herself. She’d have Mitchell lay in the wiring to lighten up the darkest corners and give new life to the dingy space. But for now, she had to find the kitten and rescue it or leave the house worrying about a little animal incapable of fending for itself.

At the bottom of the stairs, the chill air of the basement permeated Jillian’s skin, sending shivers creeping across her arms and making the hairs on the back of her neck spike upward.

All her life she’d had an aversion to dark, dank spaces. In high school, at a slumber party with a friend, they’d played truth or dare. Her friends had dared her to go down in the basement of her friend’s house and stay for five minutes.

Jillian’s parents didn’t have a basement. Having lived in a town house, Jillian couldn’t remember a time when she had been down in a basement. Accepting the dare, she’d gone down the steps into a dirt basement, where her friend’s parents stored old mason jars, lawn chairs and a couple of bicycles. The place was dark, damp and chilled Jillian to the bone. After the first minute, she must have blacked out.

She came to with her friend shaking her shoulders, shouting into her face. “Jillian!”

They’d told her she lay there wide-eyed and shaking, in a catatonic state, neither out cold nor coherent.

Jillian didn’t remember any of it, except going down into the basement. Her parents came to take her home, her friends more than happy to see her leave, all shaken by the experience.

That had been eleven years ago. Why think of that now? This basement was constructed of concrete block walls, not dirt. A little cleaning would remove the cobwebs and old crates.

The chill and the dampness filled her pores. For a moment, she forgot why she was there.

Then the meow of the kitten penetrated the haze of memory and forced her to lift her feet, to move and find the source of the sound.

Wrapping her arms around her middle, Jillian shivered, going deeper into the basement. Something moved among the old boxes. Jillian fought the urge to jump up on one of the wooden crates, her mind conjuring images of giant rats. If there were giant rats, they could easily kill the kitten.

Jillian had a soft spot in her heart for kittens and puppies. She couldn’t leave the animal in the basement. Not even for a night.

As she stepped away from the staircase, the dull yellow light flickered and suddenly blinked out, plunging her into a darkness so very deep, she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

A soft click sounded above and what little light that had come from the open door above was erased.

Jillian screamed and spun toward the staircase, her pulse beating so fast it made her dizzy. Her chest seized and she couldn’t drag in a breath to feed her airless lungs. With no sense of what was right or left, up or down, the ground seemed to rise up to greet her.

* * *

Armed with directions and a promise to be back with Miss Taylor by dinner, Chance set off. Lowering all his windows, he took the coastal highway back toward Cape Churn. In less than fifteen minutes, he was bumping along a gravel road, wondering if he’d taken the wrong turn.

Chance couldn’t believe Molly’s friend planned to live on a creepy, isolated road that had seen far better days maybe a century before. At the end of the road, the trees seemed to part and an old Victorian house appeared, tucked into a wooded glen. Like the road, the house had seen better days. The paint was peeling and a couple of the windows were broken. The yard hadn’t been maintained and the porch sagged. A truck and trailer sat in front of the dilapidated structure, the doors wide-open.

Chance parked his SUV beside the truck and climbed down. His feet had barely touched the ground when he heard the scream. At first he thought it was a figment of his imagination. The setting was perfect for a horror story; perhaps his mind had conjured a muffled scream to add to the ambience.

“Miss Taylor?” Chance called out.

No response.

He climbed the stairs and entered through the open front door, treading softly, holding his breath and listening for any sound.

Nothing moved. The old house didn’t even creak, as if it, too, held its breath. Chance passed through the wide center hallway all the way to the back of the house, peering through the open doors into what appeared to be a living room, study and dining room. At the other end of the house, he emerged onto the back porch. Lumber lay in neat piles against the side of the house. But there was no one around.

Chance’s gut tightened. Molly’s friend wouldn’t have abandoned her truck, leaving the truck doors and the trailer wide-open.

He returned to the entrance and climbed the stairs to the second story. Cobwebs hung from the corners and the wooden floors were covered in a thick layer of dust. This home hadn’t been lived in for a very long time.

After determining each room was empty, Chance returned to the first floor, passed a stack of clean white drywall leaning against a wall in the living room and entered an old-fashioned kitchen. Some of the upper cabinets had been ripped from the walls, and the countertop had been removed from the lower cabinets, making their remains appear skeletal.

“Miss Taylor?” Chance called out.

A plaintive, bleating cry of a small animal, muffled by walls, reached him, and he turned toward a door at the far end of the kitchen.

Chance twisted the knob. The door didn’t budge. Inspecting the door, he noticed a rusty hook near the top, threaded through a metal eye loop. Forcing the hook out of the loop, he flung open the door and flipped the light switch. A yellow bulb blinked to life, illuminating a small portion of the stairs nearest him.

The weak cries of a tiny animal sounded again, only louder.

Chance descended the stairs, the pitiful amount of light diminished by the time he reached the bottom. In the gloom, he almost tripped over a pile of rags. When his toe connected with them, the rags moved and a low moan rose from the floor.

Chance dropped to his haunches, his vision adjusting to the darkness. A figure dressed in jeans and a faded plaid flannel shirt rolled over and light blue eyes stared up at him.

“Who are you?”

“Chance McCall. Molly and Nova sent me over. You must be Jillian Taylor.” He scooped his hands beneath her, lifted her into his arms and rose with his burden.

She blinked and stared around the basement, her pale blond hair tousled, strands falling across her forehead. “What happened?”

“I’d like to know that myself. But first, let’s get you out of here.” Chance started up the stairs.

“I can walk,” she protested.

“Yeah, but if it’s all right by you, I’d like to get you into the light without worrying about someone pushing you down the stairs again.”

She shook her head, her silken hair brushing against his arm. “I wasn’t pushed.”

“No?”

Her frown deepened. “Why would you think that?”

At the top of the stairs, Chance set her on the dingy linoleum floor, keeping an arm around her waist to steady her. “If you weren’t pushed, why was the hook engaged at the top of the door?” He tipped his head toward the hook.

Leaning against him, she glanced up at the door, her eyes widening. “Why would the hook be engaged? I was the only one in the house. All the workers left.”