Haunted

by Heather Graham

  “Only because you had no idea I might ask to ride about the area.”

  “You might have mentioned your intentions.”

  “When? As you pushed me out of your car at the entrance to Melody House?”

  “I did no such thing.”

  She shrugged, not deigning to reply. He felt the itch of irritation again. He understood some of what he was feeling. She wasn’t just tall and elegant, but almost absently sensual, her movements smooth and sleek and feline. She seemed to hint of something that smouldered, richly carnal, and yet on top, she was all wrapped up like an ice princess, lips far too often drawn tight and prudish.

  “I’d expected to find you exploring the house.”

  “I did explore the house.” The green of her eyes rested contemptuously on him.

  “And you haven’t found my malignant ghost as yet?”

  She replied in an even, dismissive tone, eyes steady on him. “I explored the house, and then the grounds, and now, I’m exploring the area.”

  “Ah.” He took a seat on the log beside her. He stared through the trees towards the water, caught now in the sunlight, dazzling like a thousand gems. Then he looked back to her. “The woods are supposed to be haunted, too, you know. And not because of Melody House.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she said strangely. “Just what is the legend associated with the forest here?”

  “Ah, well, long ago—as far back as the late seventeen-hundreds, I believe, there was a family with a small farm a little closer toward the mountains. A father and mother, and a bucketful of kids. The oldest sister was plain, the youngest beautiful. The oldest sister’s suitor fell madly in love with the younger sister. The fellow had to head back east to take care of business, and when he left, he kissed his dearly beloved, the younger sister, goodbye, and they were both deeply happy, because they would be wed as soon as he returned. Little did they know that the oldest sister was a total psychotic—a scorned one, at that. She lured her younger sister into the woods, pretending they were walking to a neighbor’s. She got her to lean down by the stream…and whap!”

  “She killed her with a hatchet, nearly decapitating her. And now, the younger sister’s ghost has been seen running through the forest, blood oozing from the gash in her throat, screaming in terror,” Darcy finished for him.

  Matt lifted his hands. “Someone told you the legend!”

  She didn’t reply for a moment, then asked him, “What happened to the older sister?”

  “Well, the young man came back and hanged himself in misery, thwarting the hopes of the young murderess. I guess they didn’t have much evidence they could use at the time, so no one went to trial. But the older sister went completely insane. She was locked up in the family barn until she died, an old woman of eighty, confessing in her later years, and spending many a day screaming that her sister was coming after her in vengeance.”

  “Well, there you have what one might call a truly dysfunctional family,” Darcy said pragmatically.

  “Yes, I guess you could say that.” He looked at her. The lines of her face were truly classical, yet her sculpted, porcelain beauty seemed unique as well. She’d been a makeup model, he reminded himself, and she must have made some good money. Why give it all up for this—especially if she was really so heavily laden with academic degrees?

  “The body of the younger sister was uncovered by a local dog that had been digging,” Darcy said. “But they didn’t find the skull, and it didn’t receive a decent burial with the body. If someone finds the skull and buries it with the rest of the bones, the haunting in the forest will stop.”

  “How simple. How cut-and-dried and simple. Hell, we should all start digging up the place to find a skull that may or may not be there. Hm. Then again—where, oh where, do we start? If there were such a relic of humanity remaining from way back when, animals might have carted in anywhere. The stream might have washed it down to Florida by now. But what the hell—people love the ghost stories. So what if the poor ghost goes racing through the trees, screaming and bleeding?”

  “Because it’s pretty damned sad,” Darcy told him.

  “Well, when you have time, you feel free to dig around in the forest. It’s county land, but we’ll try to ignore the fact that you’re bound and determined to dig it all up. Just don’t leave any potholes—lots of people use this area for riding, and we wouldn’t want a new ghost running around with its head dangling from a broken neck.”

  He stood impatiently.

  He must have roused her somewhat from her continual, stiff poise, because she leapt up immediately after him. “What is the matter with you? Why on earth do you have to be so hostile?”

  “Because all you’re going to do is feed into the idiots and drunks who should behave intelligently but go all ga-ga over a ghost story! History can be tragic. Tragic—but past. Let the dead lie, Darcy.”

  “You brought me here!”

  “No. I told Adam Harrison that he could come here.”

  She planted her hands on her hips, head cast back, green eyes as dark and dangerous as the embers of a fire. “No—you signed a contract that allowed Harrison Investigations into your house. I am as much a part of Harrison Investigations as Adam.”

  He arched a brow slowly and was pleased to see the slightest sign of a flush entering her cheeks.

  “Almost as much a part of the company as Adam is himself. And very good at what I do. So—since you hired me to do it, perhaps, just for a while, you could quit being such a macho jerk?”

  He wanted to shout back, to put her in her place. He didn’t have the words, or the intelligent argument he needed. He threw up his hands. “We need to get back. Dinner will be ready.”

  He turned away, starting for his horse.

  “You know, every redhead isn’t a total bitch.”

  Startled, he turned back. His voice was far rougher than he intended. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Your ex-wife Lavinia Harper,” she said simply.

  “I see. You know this because you’re psychic?”

  “You dislike redheads. One doesn’t need to be a psychic to see that. Penny told me about Lavinia.”

  “Red hair can be bought in boxes for right around ten bucks. I would never dislike anyone for the color of their hair, skin, eyes, or anything else,” he informed her, meaning to sound as calm and staid as a schoolmaster, displaying his anger nevertheless.

  She gave a stiff smile as she walked by him. “Sure. Sorry, then. Excuse me.”

  He let her pass him while he fought his simmering temper, wondering why the hell she could get such a rise out of him, when he was usually level, sane, and careful in any judgment or assumption. Tension rippled through his muscles; he got a handle on it and turned, determined that he would politely help her mount back up on Nellie.

  But before he could do so, she was already in the process of easily swinging up on the mare.

  By the time he mounted Vernon, she was headed back through the forest trail.

  He followed her, staying slightly behind and noticing, just as they left the forest trail, that dusk was falling at last.

  Across the field, Melody House stood on its little hillock, bathed in a strange and eerie glow of crimson and gold.

  The brilliance of light lasted only a few seconds; the sun dipped.

  Night was coming in earnest, wrapped in shadow.

  Despite Matt Stone, or maybe even because of him, dinner at Melody House was an entertaining affair, and Darcy found herself laughing a lot throughout the meal.

  Matt and Penny didn’t seem to agree on anything, but the affection between them was visible and real. Penny wanted to tell legends. Matt wanted to correct her when her legends became too lurid, romantic, or too anything.

  “It was as if the entire Southern army was taking refuge at Melody House!” Penny said.

  “The entire Southern army!” Matt snorted. “A company at best. Twenty men, Penny.”

  Penny wa
ved a hand in the air. “They were exquisite soldiers,” she said, shaking her head and dismissing Matt’s correction. “They might as well have numbered thousands. They beat back the Yankees—”

  “What? The entire Northern force?” Matt queried, a sparkling light in his eyes.

  “There were at least one hundred!” Penny said, glaring back at her employer. “The point is, our boys wouldn’t give up, and they saved the day, but their leader, a young captain, was killed. Shot in the heart by a minnie ball that whizzed right through the parlor windows. Now, he is said to be here, still guarding Melody House.”

  Matt leaned low across the table, amusement in his eyes as they met Darcy’s. “And no one seems to have told him that the war is over, that the South lost. He’s not at all fond of Yankee accents—so they say.”

  “Thank God, then, that I don’t have one,” Darcy told him sweetly. “All those years watching late-night shows seems to have paid off.”

  “But you trained to be an actress—of course you can get rid of an accent!” Carter applauded her admiringly.

  “An actress, hm,” Matt said.

  “I was going to study acting,” she corrected. “I never did. Not in college, anyway.”

  “That’s right. She majored in everything else,” Matt said.

  “You can’t major in ghosts these days, can you?” Clint asked.

  “Don’t be silly!” Penny reprimanded.

  Both Carter and Clint shrugged.

  Dessert had been served. An exceptional baked Alaska. Darcy was certain that at any moment, an immaculate butler was going to walk in and suggest that the ladies retire to one room, the gentlemen to another, for brandy and cigars.

  But there was no butler—not tonight, anyway. They had all helped to serve the meal.

  “So?” Penny said excitedly, looking at Darcy expectantly. She had a feeling that she was going to hear the word “so” from Penny a lot.

  “So?” Darcy repeated, smiling.

  “Do you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “Our captain!”

  “The captain who saved Melody House from the marauding Yankees who were going to burn it down,” Matt reminded her dryly.

  Darcy shrugged. “I try just to get accustomed to a house the first few days I’m in it,” she told Penny.

  “Oh! Of course. Let all the vibrations get through to you,” Penny said, nodding sagely.

  “Something like that,” Darcy agreed.

  “So, are there vibrations?” Matt asked, seemingly polite.

  She stared straight at them. “The place just trembles,” she murmured.

  “With?” he prompted.

  She widened her eyes. “Hostility.”

  Clint burst into laughter. “The living give out vibes, too, huh?”

  Matt stared at Darcy, the flicker of a rueful smile curving his lips. A remarkable transformation came over him. He was almost devastatingly appealing, when he looked so.

  “If I’m giving out hostile vibes, it’s not with intent of malice.”

  From him, Darcy decided, that was the best apology she was going to get.

  “Sometimes it’s not easy to pinpoint just where vibes might be centered,” she said, surprised to realize that she was smiling as well.

  And that Penny, Clint, and Carter were all staring at them.

  She rose, her movement not as fluid and easy as she would have liked. “It was a wonderful dinner. Thank you all very much. I’ve just realized how late it has gotten. If you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll turn in for the night.”

  Matt, Carter, and Clint stood as one. A certain amount of courtesy seemed to have been bred into these men; it was as natural as breathing.

  “You’ll be fine,” Carter told her. “I’ve slept in the Lee room. And I’m still here.”

  “He didn’t even run down the stairs naked,” Clint said with a wink.

  “Thank the good Lord for that!” Penny breathed.

  “Hey!” Carter protested. “I look good naked.”

  Darcy laughed softly. “Well, I imagine I’ll be all right.”

  She was startled to see that Matt looked just a little concerned. “I’m in the house tonight, if there is any trouble, just scream.”

  “Ah, but you don’t believe in ghosts!” Darcy reminded him.

  He shrugged. “I believe in the power of men to do evil,” he murmured. For a moment, his strange deep gray eyes fell on hers. “I’ll be down the hall.”

  She nodded, bid them good-night, and headed out of the dining room and for the stairs to the second floor. She walked slowly, thinking it somewhat amazing that Matt Stone couldn’t feel a thing regarding his house. Penny had asked about vibes. The house throbbed with them. Gentle, lost souls for the most part.

  The only malice seemed to come from the Lee Room.

  Upstairs, she decided on a quick shower, then brushed her teeth, and prepared for bed.

  The room was cool, cooler than it should have been in summer. She ignored it, and the feeling of being watched.

  She crawled into bed, somewhat exhausted. She fell asleep with the television on, watching a program on the history of Britain.

  Deep into the night, she began to dream. She was herself, sleeping upon the bed, and yet she was not, for she moved, and moved within another persona. Fear clutched the heart of her sleeping self for a moment, for from the moment she felt the coming of the Other, she sensed the anger, a fury that was deep and dangerous. And then…

  She was the Other, seeing, feeling, knowing everything he did.

  A woman scorned…was a deadly one.

  He came in deep thought and silence that evening, angry, but not at all sure, in his conscious mind, just what he intended. In the darkness, he stared at the house, and reflected on all that had been, and all that might come to pass.

  The house…the majestic house sat as always. A place with as rich and deep a character as any living person. So it had been from the moment they had first broken ground. Time did nothing but add to the drama that must exist in such a place, as he well knew.

  She was there.

  He knew that she was there.

  And there were things that must be said. Things that must be cleared, or ended, between them.

  Still…

  He stared at the house. And waited. He denied in his mind that he had come with any malice as to his intent.

  His heart felt like stone. Seeds of ideas played deep down within his soul, truth and the physical essence of what must be banned from thought. What happened must happen.

  At his sides, his hands flexed, eased, and flexed again, as if already slipping around the throat of the lover he knew to be inside.

  Because a woman scorned…

  Just might as well be dead.

  Darcy awoke with a start, shaking. She had felt the past, as if it had entered into her. Felt not so much a person, but the fury and malevolence that had been part of a distant time.

  She sat up in bed, and looked around the room, closed her eyes again, and opened them.

  Whatever had been with her, whatever remnant of emotion, was gone.

  And yet…

  Something else was there.

  Something, someone, quiet, stealthy.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  4

  “We all know why we’ve come.” Elizabeth Holmes’ voice, though feminine, had a deep resonance. She wasn’t exactly what Darcy had been expecting when she had heard that a local novice—who had found her dedication to the occult in the last year—had begged Matt Stone to allow her to run a seance. She wasn’t theatrical. There was no turban wrapped around her head, and her eyes weren’t dark and deep set and heavily lined with makeup to add to a mystical image. Rather, the woman was about fifty-five or sixty, slender, tall, elegantly slim, with nicely styled silver-white hair and pleasant, powder blue eyes. She looked like a typical businesswoman.

  Only her voice might have fit the image of the eerie Gypsy fortune teller.


  It seemed to fill the dining room at Melody House with a strange tenor, as if the walls themselves were part of a state-of-the-art speaker system.

  And thankfully, the woman hadn’t opted to rename herself. She wasn’t going by Madame Zara, or anything like that. She was Elizabeth Holmes, a native of the northern Virginia area, and a real estate agent by day. Darcy had wondered at first if this medium wouldn’t prove to be a slightly crazy friend who was convinced that she needed only to dress the part to have the powers. She seemed to be a very nice woman, and committed to what she was doing. Whether she really had any ESP or not remained to be seen.

  And her opening was intriguing.

  “Melody House. She has stood upon this hill since the year of our Lord seventeen-seventeen. And she has, in her years, hosted both joy and tragedy. She is one of the few such surviving grand old homes of our nation still owned by descendants of her original builders. George Washington slept here!” Elizabeth paused, smiling at the group gathered around the dining room table in the muted candlelight. “George got around, it’s a wonder Martha wasn’t a great deal more upset! But I digress. Washington wasn’t her only well-known guest. The likes of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and others of tremendous renown who lived in Revolutionary times came here as well, and later, she was hostess to many great statesmen and generals of another sad period of war—Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, and then, even Ulysses Grant and Abe Lincoln were thought to have taken rest at this place. Bullets once riddled the walls, and many still remain, from battles fought on the ground. Soldiers perished within her walls. Naturally, there were other sad occurrences here, not having to do with the specific pain of battle. There is the case of the beautiful Melody herself, daughter of the builder, distraught by her suitor’s argument with her father. She is said to have been rushing to his defense when she careened down the stairway, only to die in her lover’s arms on the foyer floor, just feet from where we now sit. There was Eliza, the daughter of General Stone, who might well have been poisoned by her rival, Sally Beauville, who was, when accosted, shot dead by the girl’s father, who then faced the hangman’s noose. Those are not all the stories. There are so many more.