The Haunting at Morgan's Rock

by M. L. Bullock

  God, this thing was heavy. But I had to make it right.

  And this chair, it belonged by the fireplace. I didn’t want to drag the heavy thing across the wooden floor, but I had to fix this. Everything was wrong. I moved things around for a few minutes, and thankfully Aimee came up to check on the noise.

  “You sound like you’re moving refrigerators up here. End over end.” She shook her head with a grin. “Need an extra pair of hands?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, happy for her help.

  “Okay, so what would you like to do, Miss Pressfield?”

  I pointed to the couch. “Well, I would like to shift this sofa back a few feet and move that rug forward. Then let’s slide that side table to the wall.”

  “Let’s do it,” Aimee said cheerfully as she rubbed her hands together.

  Thirty minutes later, we were sitting on the couch trying to catch our breath. This room was almost right, but there were no paintings on the walls. Paintings, statues and smaller silhouettes used to be in here. But where were they now?

  “It is kind of strange, isn’t it?” Aimee asked as she followed my eyes to the empty corner. “They probably have them stored somewhere on the property.”

  “Why would they hide the pictures and artwork but leave the furniture?” I asked, curious to know what she thought.

  “To preserve them, maybe? I guess it’s better to stash them somewhere where they can’t collect dust and grime. Just a guess, though.”

  I slapped my knees with some satisfaction and said, “I love this room. It’s not practical, this is a lot of space, but it is wonderful. And you were right; I love the view of the ocean.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely.” Aimee walked to the window and opened it up. She breathed in the salt air, and I joined her. “I guess you heard about Mr. Storm? Joanna’s father? They say he jumped from this balcony; it’s quite the tragedy. People say they see him standing up here sometimes when they drive by.”

  I frowned slightly; it was my go-to emotion when I heard these kinds of stories. I was always skeptical about any claims concerning the paranormal. I had to be. I wrote about the stuff, so I had to remain objective. Or as objective as I could.

  “Have you ever seen anyone standing up here?”

  “Would it shock you if I said I had?”

  “Recently?”

  “No, not recently.” Aimee grew silent.

  Time to change the subject. The hairs on my arms were already standing on end. “I think I’ll go look for the pictures. I’m sure you’re right that they must be around here somewhere. Of course, as I’m only renting this place for a little while, I won’t drag everything out. Just a few pieces to make this room more…authentic. That’s a lot of wood paneling to stare at all day.”

  Aimee smiled and rubbed her arms. Was she feeling that cold chill too? “How is the book coming along, Miss Pressfield?”

  “Which one?” I joked. “Everything is fine. Just do me a favor—if my agent calls, tell him I’m busy. I’ll call him back when I’ve made some significant progress.”

  “Roger dodger. I’ll take care of that. Supper at seven?”

  “Yes, please. Thanks for the extra pair of hands, Aimee. I do appreciate you.”

  “Not a problem. See you downstairs for dinner? In the dining room?”

  “Only if you join me.”

  “I would love that. Enjoy your search.” She smiled as she padded toward the staircase. “If I were you, I would start on the second floor. I have a feeling that’s where they put everything. I was up there yesterday, thought I heard something moving around in one of the rooms. Maybe a rat or a mouse.”

  “Yuck. Do we need an exterminator to come out?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I never found any evidence of either, but there were loads of crates and boxes in the rooms at the end of the hall. Maybe you’ll find some decorative pieces in there. And if you need any help, please, let me know.”

  “Thanks, Aimee. I’ll do that.” With that, she left me alone, and I quickly toured the four previously unexplored rooms on this floor. The loft area, or so I called it in my mind, took up much of the top floor of Morgan’s Rock, but perhaps some of these rooms held treasures too? I went inside each one; they were bare except for one room, which was apparently used for random storage. I could see a bed frame; it had no mattress but a rather lovely wooden headboard with angels carved into the posts. I touched one with my finger.

  Yes, very lovely work indeed. Someone was a master craftsman.

  As I peeked through a half-empty trunk and plundered a few boxes, I hummed a tune I’d heard recently. I didn’t recall the words, but I could hear the music in my head and I hummed along. Swing style. Trumpets, woodwinds and…Oh God! That was the song on the radio.

  I felt a cold hand on my shoulder and heard beads tinkling, the beads of a dress. Toes tapped the floor, and then everything went still. I could smell cherries…and something else. I detected something repulsive, the faint fragrance of death, but then it was gone.

  Except she wasn’t. I could hear her breathing, and I sensed her smiling. And watching me.

  Remember me?

  The hand moved, and I immediately ran out of the room and down the stairs. I didn’t stop until I was outside in the sunshine. There were tears in my eyes as I stood there because I did remember her.

  And I remembered the slithering blackness and the voice and the promise. The oath she’d made with something. Why would she be coming to me?

  I was sitting on the ground weeping when Aimee found me.

  Chapter Eight

  When I woke up, I felt better, warmer, happier. Immediately, my writer’s brain began to sort through what I experienced earlier. I’d just been overwrought with emotion. That’s it. I mean, I’d been through so much lately. Let’s count how much had changed in my life. I was suddenly wealthy, then divorced, betrayed and essentially homeless.

  I made up my mind. This was going to be my home! I would buy Morgan’s Rock myself and make it my own. I could still travel and investigate the places I wrote about, but I would always come back here. This would be home base—my forever home. I flung the blanket off my legs and grabbed my phone. In fifteen minutes, it was all but done. All except for the paperwork. I didn’t bother calling Alex; this really wasn’t any of his business, was it? I called my attorney, who was surprised to get a call from me so late but didn’t try to talk me out of making the purchase. He did, however, ask me how the new book was coming along.

  “Great! I’ll send you a copy as soon as they come available,” I said with faux assurance. We didn’t chitchat beyond that. I liked that about him…always to the point. “Any word from Glenn?”

  “Everything is squared away with your ex-husband, Megan. You don’t have anything to worry about, as long as you don’t move him in.”

  I snorted at that idea. “No thanks. Once was enough. Call me and let me know about the house as soon as you can, please.”

  “I’ll do that. Good night.”

  We hung up and I finally glanced at the clock. Wow! Was it really eleven o’clock at night? I had slept hard, but now I felt refreshed. I needed a bath, maybe a bubble bath, but I was going to finish my walkthrough of this house first. I grabbed my favorite slouchy sweater and slid it on to protect myself from the chilly air. Hmm…I’d have to do something about this heating situation. Restoring this place was no doubt going to cost me a fortune, but in the end it would all be worth it.

  My house! Morgan’s Rock was going to be mine!

  I didn’t want to wake Aimee, but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t alone. That was funny. Being alone had never bothered me before. In fact, I quite liked it.

  Aimee’s door was shut and there was no light on in her room, but I heard whispering. She must be talking to someone. Not wanting to eavesdrop on a private conversation, I hurried away from the door and headed down the hall. I went from room to room, flipping on switches and wandering around. Some lights weren’t working, but there wa
sn’t much to see. There were six rooms on the bottom floor: a large dining room, the kitchen, two restrooms and two other rooms that Aimee and I were using as bedrooms.

  After touring the bottom floor, I hiked up the wooden staircase to the second floor. Yeah. Couldn’t shake the feeling I had here. The air was heavy, as if no windows had been opened up here. In, like, forever. Despite the dismal ambience, it was very well kept. The floors were neat and tidy—by the shine of the wood, I could see it had been polished regularly. Yes, I could smell the polish. Geesh, I hoped Aimee wasn’t spending all her time cleaning this place. It was too much for one person. Too much for two people. But if I was going to own this place, I had to see every room. Even though I’d never been on this floor, I knew what I would see as I opened each door. Yes, this would be the sitting room. There would be lots of glass in this room, many windows. And sure enough, that was exactly what I found.

  How the hell was it possible for me to know what was behind each door? Déjà vu on steroids.

  And here—this was where they kept the treasures. Well, this room and the next; the rooms were connected by a sliding door. I flipped the light switch, but the bulb must have been blown. Yet even in the dark with the room littered with boxes, I knew where to find that sliding pocket door. With a definite whooshing sound, I slid the wooden panel back to reveal a huge fireplace on the other side. There were windows on either side of it, and I could see the outline of dark trees. No wind blew, nothing moved. There was nothing to see, not even the stars. I flung back the curtains on all three windows, hoping to get at least a tiny bit of light shining in here.

  And that’s when I spotted them. Yep. Those were paintings. Large, heavy-looking paintings covered with drop cloths. I slid the cover back and one by one turned them around.

  Such a collection! Such an amazing collection of beautiful paintings. The smallest of the group wasn’t a portrait but a strange swirl of colors. Azure blue, purple and maybe lavender. Strange that the frame and the painting were so mismatched. The painting was far more modern than the antique frame; it was too elaborate a frame for such a subject. Nothing but splashes of color, melancholy in their arrangement, yet I sensed a much deeper meaning there. I set it to the side and turned my attention to the next few items.

  Interesting find. A handsome couple, both rather cheerful and smiling. Hmm…best guess? 1910? It was too dark to read a signature or see any other details.

  And last but not least, the portrait of a woman. My writer’s brain immediately went into description and assessment mode, and I couldn’t resist touching the carved frame. What a lovely picture. She was probably thirty-five? She wore black clothing, lace at the bosom and dangling earrings, black pearls? The subject had dark eyes, slightly upturned at the corners, a petite nose and full lips. Not overly full but certainly attractive according to today’s standards…but I knew that she never liked them.

  In fact, she liked to make them look smaller by pressing makeup on them and then penciling them with lip pencil. Yes, she hated that her lips didn’t suit the style of her time.

  The prettiest women had bow lips, flat chests and wide eyes. I had none of those.

  I shook my head and withdrew my hand from the picture. That’s just odd. Too much imagination, Megan. Stepping away from the painting, I could barely take my eyes off of her angular face. Really unusual, just beautiful and so exotic-looking. If I tilted my head slightly, or if she could tilt her head and look at me…then I could certainly say it was her.

  Yeah, I was looking at Joanna Storm!

  I wanted to cry. I rubbed my hands over my eyes and was immediately struck with intense pain at the base of my skull. Oh God! I had to get out of this room. I had to go now. I struggled to find my way out, and when I finally made it back into the hallway, I was surprised to feel the pain lifting. I closed the door and caught my breath. Joanna Storm! I found her portrait. Tomorrow I would get Aimee to help me move it. We would put it back where it belonged, but not tonight. I couldn’t do it tonight. It was getting late and as the headache vanished, I felt hungry. Yes, that’s what I should do, eat something and go to bed. But I couldn’t go to bed yet; I just wasn’t tired. The rest of the rooms were on the smaller side, with only a few boxes and nothing exciting to see. Except the last room. Hmm…there was quite a bit to explore in here, and thankfully the light worked beautifully. There were several old steamer trunks that practically begged me to open them.

  Two were empty, but one was full of vintage clothing. Old garments, beautifully made museum-quality garments. One item in particular caught my eye immediately. It was a stunning gown, turquoise and gold with a handkerchief hem and lots of soft details. There was a peacock embroidered on the bottom of the hem, and the colors were so vibrant. I lifted it carefully from the trunk, amazed at all the lovely details. It was sleeveless and had a plunging neckline. Yes, this was a treasure, and I knew my garments. I had researched this time period for my first novel. The book was a flop, but my research had been impeccable. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was a Vivaldi gown. And this peacock, well, this was more than a beautiful embellishment. This was a symbol of the Vivaldi brand, and they used this emblem only for the first run of their gowns. Back in the twenties, peacock feathers were all the rage, so it made sense that a smart business would adopt it as an icon. If this wasn’t a replica, I mean, if this was a true-blue Vivaldi gown, then it was worth quite a bit too. The drop waist and sewn-in gold sash were lovely touches too.

  I clutched the gown and closed the trunk. I would explore the rest of these treasures tomorrow, but I could not leave this wonderful dress behind. I had to possess it. Keep it.

  And maybe after I bathed and washed my hair…maybe then I would try it on.

  Chapter Nine

  August 1932

  My vanity table shook slightly, but this kind of thing had been happening so frequently lately that I no longer screamed or tried to call for help. Was it the rumbling of the earth or some other type of natural phenomenon? It’s you, Joanna. You know it’s you. The house isn’t trembling—you are. I did my best to remain calm and breathe evenly. Could it be the house? I so wanted that to be true. I held on to my hairbrush and waited for the trembling to cease. Eventually, it did. I continued brushing, but it availed me nothing. It certainly did not improve my appearance. The dark shadows under my eyes could not be hidden by any amount of powder. I’d cut my hair recently, an act of defiance that had only brought injury to my pride. It had been a feeble attempt at recapturing control over some part of my life.

  I had endured too much loss, and now I would never step on the stage again. I couldn’t. If I did, who was to say I would not fall to the ground and begin foaming at the mouth? The fear of making such a spectacle, of urinating on myself in public or possibly choking on my own tongue, forced me to dig in my vanity table in search of yet another capsule.

  Bromide potassium is the cure, Miss Storm. Trust me.

  And I had trusted the physician, but he had been wrong. Nothing could stop the progression of my sickness. Was I destined to die like Mother? Gagging and choking, eyes wide with fear?

  I swallowed the pill as best I could without benefit of water and wiped the tears from my eyes. Yes, loss had become my closest companion. Dear Dan was gone, dead in a most spectacularly cruel way. Vivian too, and there had been so much left unsaid between the two of us. Mother died not long after Father’s accident.

  I was the last Storm at Morgan’s Rock.

  At least Paden would return soon. I had sent a message already, and by now he would be making his way back to me. Surely his family business could wait a little while. We had been happy for a brief moment, but now this? I put the brush down and decided to get dressed.

  “Are you ready, ma’am? The car is here.”

  “Yes. I’ll be right down.” I stood before the mirror and wiped a tear from my eye. Another tear. Another loss. I looked like a crow in my long black dress, black hat and black pearls. My black hair cut in a bob at my shoul
ders did not do much to soften the illusion. I deserved this unattractive style now that the baby was gone too. Barely a few months in my womb, it had expelled itself during one of my attacks. What would Paden say? Would he hate me forever? I did not tell him about the loss of our son…he had been convinced that it would be a son. I could not do such a thing in a letter, but I begged him to return to me as soon as he might.

  I walked to the window and stared at the ocean. I had always loved this view, but it did nothing for my heart today. The door opened, and I heard the sound of high heels clicking on the wooden floor behind me. Then the clicks dulled as my visitor crossed the carpet. Holding the soft sheer curtain between my fingers as I peeked outside, I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no one.

  Suddenly the room felt darker, as if a cloud had settled over Morgan’s Rock. I walked to the door, closed it and clicked the light switch. The chandelier immediately filled the room with light. What had I just seen?

  “Hello? Emma?”

  I searched the adjoining dressing room, but there wasn’t a soul in the place. The housemaid wasn’t here, and there was nowhere for anyone to go. There were no doors or windows in this room. Only racks of clothing, wardrobes for hats, shoes and accessories. A circular couch was in the middle of the room, with an elegant statue of Aphrodite next to it. Everything was as it should be, neat and tidy. But a pungent, horrible smell assaulted my nostrils, and I gagged as I covered my mouth.

  “Emma?” I asked again as I timidly circled the room. I watched and waited. There wasn’t a soul here. At least the horrible smell had dissipated, but fear overtook me nonetheless.

  I know I heard a woman walking into my room. She had been there! I know it! And what about that horrible smell? Surely, that was the smell of Death itself.

  I eagerly left my dressing room and bedroom and hurried downstairs where the car waited for me. I had an appointment today with the priest. That was something I never believed I would do, but I was desperate for help. I had never been one to cling to any religion; my parents had encouraged me to be a “free thinker” in my theology, and to be honest, I never had much of an interest in the subject. But that had been before I lost my baby and all the other people I had ever loved. Everyone but Paden. Would I lose him too? I was beginning to believe—no, not beginning. I knew I was cursed; deep down in my bones I knew. How did one break a curse? This I had to know. If anyone could tell me, it would be a priest, surely. After this morning’s encounter with a ghost in my room, I felt even more desperate.