The Haunting of Hillwood Farm
Page 1
The Haunting of Hillwood Farm
Kathryn Knight
Contents
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
About the Author
An excerpt from Gull Harbor by Kathryn Knight
Other Titles by Kathryn Knight:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Knight
All rights reserved. In accordance with U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher / author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at wickedwhalepublishing.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
ISBN: 978-1-73225-222-6
Wicked Whale Publishing
P.O. Box 264
Sagamore Beach, MA 02562-9998
www.WickedWhalePublishing.com
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Kathryn Knight
“I clung to my tablet and couldn’t look away. If you’re looking for spooky romantic suspense, you’ll love The Haunting of Hillwood Farm. Kathryn Knight has mastered the art of paranormal romantic suspense and it’s a must-read. 5+ stars.”
~ N.N. Light’s Book Heaven on The Haunting of Hillwood Farm
“In Gull Harbor, the author skillfully weaves the ghost story and romance from separate strands that eventually become entangled. There’s a perfect blending of clues, hints, and foreshadowing, but the story never veers into the obvious or predictable. Pace, plot, story, dialog, and characters combine into a thrilling and thoroughly entertaining page-turner.”
~ My Shelf Reviews on Gull Harbor
“Every character in Silver Lake is perfectly developed. I could not put this book down. Romance, drama, renewal of friendships, and ghosts…something for everyone. I cannot wait to see what Kathryn Knight writes next!”
~ A Novel Review on Silver Lake
“Ms. Knight knows how to bring her characters to life! The tension that runs through Kathryn Knight’s words, each page and scene, is razor-sharp. I love a story where I can honestly say ‘I didn’t see THAT coming!’ A second-chance romance, layers of suspense…priceless reading!”
~ Tome Tender Reviews on Dangerous Currents
"This is an enthralling story with so many threads interwoven...well-crafted characters, packed with angst, turmoil, danger, and romance. I have no hesitation in highly recommending this captivating novel."
- Splashes Into Books on Haunted Souls
“A spooky ghost story with just the right amount of sweet romance. You’ll fall in love with Callie and Luke (and Grandma Alice!) as you’re on perched on the edge of your seat waiting for the next haunting.”
– Author Kristine Asselin on The Haunting of Hillwood Farm
To Kathy, my friend, cheerleader, and Beta Reader ~ for always being willing to dive into every chapter, for your careful proof-reads, and for supporting me through every step of this journey. Thank you for everything.
Chapter 1
The sugar bowl slid across the kitchen counter, its lid rattling with jerky bursts of motion. Alice Turner froze, her fingers clenched around the mug of coffee she held suspended in midair, a curl of steam wavering in the sudden chill. Goosebumps prickled her skin as she stared at the yellow ceramic bowl, zigzagging its way toward her via some unseen force. It jittered to a halt directly in front of her, and her taut muscles went limp. Her coffee mug slammed down against the dark stone countertop, sending scalding liquid sloshing over her hand. She cried out, more from fright than pain, and stumbled back, nearly tripping as her foot slid out of its slipper. The near fall sent another bolt of panic through her. At 73, she was still quite active, but a broken bone would put an end to that.
She steadied herself. Careful. Blowing out a breath, she glanced at the reddening skin of her hand before quickly returning her gaze to the wayward bowl. Had it really just moved on its own? Despite the fear coursing through her veins, a wave of relief washed over her.
Maybe she wasn’t losing her mind. Maybe all her recent worries about dementia, fueled by things like finding objects someplace other than where she’d left them, or discovering kitchen drawers open when she was sure she’d closed them, were unfounded. Could some kind of…supernatural phenomenon be responsible? A shiver crawled up her spine. That alternative wasn’t a particularly comforting thought. And her practical New England roots didn’t exactly lend themselves to that line of reasoning.
She cradled her throbbing hand against her chest, studying the sugar bowl for more movement. But it seemed to have completed its journey and had now reverted to an inanimate object, ready and waiting to sweeten her coffee.
With cautious steps, she backed away from the counter, crossing the kitchen toward the sink. Flipping on the faucet, she held her injured hand under the stream of cold water.
Was she really considering the presence of a ghost? It would help to explain all the strange occurrences she’d noticed since she’d returned from her trip. Without Henry. A deep ache flared in her chest as her gaze cut over to the chair he used to settle in at the big farmhouse table, empty now. With a heavy sigh, she glanced back at the stationary bowl as she dried her hand with a checkered dish towel.
It had moved. She was certain. Retrieving her mug, she nodded forcefully, trying to push away the pinpricks of doubt threatening to erode her conviction. Either a spirit had manipulated the sugar bowl, or she was truly cracking up. The latter theory felt like the more terrifying one. She didn’t even want to contemplate the possibility that her ties to sanity, already frayed by grief, had finally snapped, and hallucinations were her new reality.
Maybe it was time to talk to Luke, to see if he’d noticed anything unusual since he’d been living with her at Hillwood. It was just that he was already so worried about her. As much as she loved him, she didn’t need a babysitter; nor did she want her 27-year-old grandson to have to take on that role. So far, their cohabitation was working out, but once he got a load of her sugar bowl story, that might change quickly.
Another pocket of frigid air swirled around her, and she spun around. Her gaze searched the empty kitchen and the back hallway. No one was there. She turned back slowly, her heart thumping in her ears. From her position behind the long counter separating the kitchen from the dining room, she could see the foyer. The front door remained shut. The windows were still closed against last night’s rain. Besides that, it was 65 degrees outside, according to the thermometer in the window above the sink. A cold front inside the house made little sense, unless…
“Henry?” Her voice wavered in the silence.
The sugar bowl shivered slightly, as if a small earthquake had opened up beneath it. An extremely localized earthquake that had no effect on anything else nearby. Her tr
embling hands flew to her mouth as a potent mix of fear and longing swept through her. She slid her damp palms downward, over the hammering in her chest. “Is that you?” she added, the words barely emerging from her dusty throat.
The lights flickered. She glanced up, her breath catching. A soft moan rippled through the air, raising in pitch until it became a distant wail. She clutched the folds of her robe, every muscle in her body vibrating with tension. A sudden movement caught her eye, and she snapped her head back toward the sugar bowl as it careened off the counter, shattering in an explosion of ceramic shards and white powder.
Chapter 2
The farmhouse looked completely normal from the outside, if a little worse for the wear due to its age. According to Alice, the historic home in Sandwich, Massachusetts, had been in the Turner family not just for generations but for centuries, with parts of the original 1780s structure still intact amongst the additions and renovations completed over the years. A wide, welcoming porch, complete with Adirondack chairs, rockers, and hanging plants, stretched across the front of the home, wrapping around the sides. Old steel milk jugs flanked the red front door, and checkered curtains hung in the windows. Everything about it was quaint and inviting.
But Callie Sinclair felt it as soon as they climbed the worn wooden steps to the porch. Something was here. Sure enough, when Alice opened the front door and gestured her inside, the whispers began. They swirled through her head, a chorus of faraway voices rustling like tattered leaves in the wind, traveling through time and space, from who knew where.
Despite the warmth of the early May afternoon, a shiver slid through her, and she pulled her long, lightweight sweater coat around her chest, resisting the urge to try to close off her mind. She was here to listen, after all, and she could feel the nervous anticipation rolling off of Alice as they entered the foyer. The older woman had clearly been excited for her arrival; she’d met Callie in the long driveway, her silvery hair catching in the spring breeze as strands escaped the knot pinned loosely on the back of her head.
“Are you cold, dear?” The furrows lining Alice’s forehead deepened. “Or do you…feel something?”
“Just a little chill,” she said with a weak smile, purposefully keeping her answer vague. She did feel something beyond a mysterious chill in the air…but she didn’t want to get Alice’s hopes up. And it was difficult to explain. Of course there were remnants of past lives lingering here; it was pretty much a given for any home with this type of history. Many people connected to this house would have passed on over the years, leaving some imprint of their essence, like the blurred images captured beneath closed eyelids after a bright flash.
But she was here to connect with someone specific: Henry Turner. Alice had sought Callie out upon hearing about her abilities from a mutual acquaintance. When Callie had reluctantly agreed to meet Alice at a coffee shop last week, she’d taken pity on the kind widow. How could she not? Alice and Henry had been married 53 years, and they had saved up to finally afford their dream vacation—a 28-day Polynesian cruise. When Henry had suffered a massive heart attack in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, the medical personnel on board had not been able to save him.
But after the funeral, when things began settling down at the normally quiet farmhouse, Alice started noticing strange occurrences, which increased in frequency and severity as the weeks went by. She now firmly believed her late husband was trying to tell her something—and that his message was urgent.
Callie hadn’t wanted to get involved, but Alice truly seemed to believe she—or someone she loved—might be in danger, and contact with Henry was the key to possibly preventing tragedy. Either Alice was genuinely concerned, or she was an excellent actress… but Callie couldn’t see the point in making a story like that up, considering Alice would be paying her money for her services. When Alice’s pleas were joined by barely contained tears, Callie relented.
And now, here she was. In an isolated old farmhouse, with a woman she really didn’t know, searching for a ghost.
While she could hear the lingering murmurs of long-gone souls, she couldn’t make out anything distinct. So far, there was no bright spark of connection to a specific person, like she’d experienced before. But maybe she just needed to give it time. What did she know about the process, really? The few times it had happened to her, the spirits had come to her, on their own, and had plagued her with a determined tenacity until she opened her mind up to the messages and relayed them to the intended recipients. If there was a process she was supposed to go through, she had no idea what it was. She had no degree in this type of thing, no certification. It was just a bizarre and unwelcome result of the accident.
“I feel it from time to time too,” Alice said, a knowing look gleaming in her pale blue eyes. She closed the front door to block the air coming in through the screen door and nodded toward the kitchen. “How about a cup of hot coffee? Or tea?”
“I never say no to coffee,” she said gratefully, playing with the long dragonfly pendant around her neck. That was true, although she’d probably had enough already this morning at her apartment.
She was starting to think coming here was a mistake. But Alice had been so desperate, and Callie herself knew how comforting a message from beyond could be. That first time, though, right after the accident, she’d thought she was losing her mind. But then it started happening again, whenever she was with Karen, her physical therapist, and she finally gathered up the nerve to ask her if she had a sister who’d died recently. And the answer, sadly, had been a surprised ‘yes’. Once Callie began relaying the phrases echoing through her head, things Karen confirmed only the twin sisters would have known, her new reality set in. And Karen avoided marrying the fiancé who was cheating on her. After a few more instances, Callie came to accept she was now some kind of conduit between two worlds—but she’d never actively sought the connection before. Maybe if you tried to force it, it wouldn’t come.
Still playing with her necklace, a gift from her father, she followed Alice into the house. The floorplan was open on either side of the central staircase, with a welcoming family room to the left; they walked to the right, through an airy dining area that transitioned into the kitchen. The décor was a mix of country charm and seaside accents, a nod to both their rural homestead and its location on Cape Cod, a peninsula surrounded by water. Old signs advertising fruits and vegetables for sale hung on the pale yellow walls, and canning jars filled with shells sat on the windowsills.
Part of the counter top extended out in an L-shape between the kitchen and dining spaces, and Callie leaned against it, admiring an antique-looking iron rooster tucked in the corner. Did they have hens here? Fresh eggs every morning would be such a luxury. She’d noticed a few other buildings at the bottom of the hill beyond the house, one of which looked like a barn. But the only animal she’d seen thus far was a large black cat, sitting on a post of a split rail fence and eyeing her with contempt.
“I know it’s the afternoon already, but is a breakfast blend okay?” Alice asked as she filled the coffee pot in the deep white sink. “My grandson likes the stronger stuff, so I do have dark roast.”
“Breakfast blend sounds wonderful.”
Alice measured the coffee, then gestured with the little metal scoop toward where Callie stood. “That’s where the sugar bowl slid off the counter and smashed.”
Her gaze found a new sugar bowl, next to a napkin holder resembling chicken wire, and Callie stared at it for a moment, as if history might repeat itself.
Alice retrieved two mugs from an overhead cabinet. “I know it sounds crazy, but I saw it with my own two eyes, even if they are old eyes.”
“I believe you.” She reached for the sugar bowl herself, moving it within easy reach. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Alice waved her offer away as she crossed to the fridge and pulled out a jug of milk. “No, no, just make yourself comfortable.” She poured some milk into a small white pitcher and picked up th
e thread of the previous conversation. “Even if I’d had any doubt about it moving on its own, I sure didn’t imagine cleaning up all the mess after it flew off the edge and hit the floor.”
Callie nodded as she pulled a stool from under the counter. “That must have been a frustrating way to start the morning.”
“The thing is…why would Henry want to make me have to clean up a big mess?” Alice set the milk pitcher next to the sugar bowl, locking her gaze with Callie’s. Her thin lips pressed into a seam, turning the soft folds of skin around her mouth into parenthesis. The coffee maker sputtered and gurgled in the background. “He was always telling me I was doing too much around here, after I hurt my shoulder. I mean, we had disagreements on occasion, just like any couple, but I have no doubt he loved me. In the 53 years we were together, he was never mean-spirited or cruel.”
Callie frowned, a small sound of acknowledgement emerging from the back of her throat. It was an interesting observation, but she certainly didn’t have the answer. Go on, then, Henry…explain. I’m listening.
“When it first started moving, a small part of my brain thought, ‘He’s trying to help me, to pass the sugar’. It was scary, but a little sweet. But then when it suddenly smashed like that, it felt…different. Not sweet anymore. It felt…angry.”