The Ghost Hunter

by Lori Brighton

  Selfish bastards. They’d never cared that their presence meant she couldn’t lead a normal life. As a child, when she’d begged them to leave her in peace, they’d repeatedly ignored her request. Heck, maybe Cristian was right. Maybe ghosts were ghosts because they didn’t want to go to the other side knowing there’d be something terrible waiting. She shivered and glanced at each of them in turn. What could they have done, these three, to fear the afterlife?

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What do ye expect from ghosts?” Rachel snapped, her hands fisted at her sides.

  “Easy love,” the man with the pipe said, as if they were two women about to get into a cat fight.

  Ashley ignored them and ran her hand along the wall, flipping a switch and lighting the long room with bulbs that hung exposed from the ceiling. Lord, the place was immense, running the length of the house. Boxes, crates and trunks were piled to the ceiling in spots while the middle of the room, at least, remained free of debris. Determined to uncover answers, she pulled a sheet from the closest box, sending a puff of dust into the air.

  “She’s looking for something, all right,” the man with the pipe proclaimed.

  “The question is, Bill, what could ‘he possibly be looking fer?” Rachel floated toward her with a smirk on her face, as if she knew exactly what Ashley wanted.

  “No,” Ashley said, jerking another sheet from a box. “The question is, if you’re already dead, what do you three have to fear?”

  They looked at each other, but no one responded. Was it her imagination, or did their glow weaken? Perhaps it was a trick of the light.

  “Really,” Ashley said, dropping the sheet to the floor. “You won’t go onto the afterlife. What the hell has you so scared to go?”

  “We don’t fear the afterlife,” Bill grumbled, releasing a trail of gray smoke from between his lips. “Merely don’t want to go there, is all.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Ha, really. Why?”

  “Much more fun ‘ere,” the other man said, pulling again on his long, black mustache. He had a creepy look to his beady black eyes that made her feel unclean when he glanced her way.

  Bill nodded. “Precisely, Samuel, precisely.”

  Ashley held her arms wide. “How? How could it possibly be fun to be stuck here?”

  Samuel frowned, his beady eyes narrowing. “We’re not stuck, we can go into the garden, if we wish.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ohhh, the garden. You’re right, what a blast.”

  “Used to be fun, when yer Aunt owned the place,” Rachel grumbled.

  “Why?” Ashley asked, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice. If they knew how badly she wanted to know about the past, they’d probably disappear without a word. Had they seen her Dad when he’d been here? Did they know what had happened to him?

  Bill nodded, rubbing his round belly. “Aye, she knew how to throw a gathering, she did. The entire town would attend. What a group, what a group.”

  Mindlessly, Ashley started through a box of old clothing. For some reason that surprised her. The way the place was falling into disrepair and based on the state of neglect, she’d expected Aunt Clare to be a recluse. She knew her father had come here to visit Aunt Clare. But what had happened to him after Aunt Clare’s death? It was as if he’d just disappeared.

  “Aye, was fun until the rumbling started,” Rachel murmured.

  “Shhhh,” Samuel hissed.

  Ashley’s heart skipped a beat. She didn’t pause, but pretended extreme interest in the boxes. So the rumbling had only started recently? Her ghostly dwellers fell silent, and she could feel them watching her, waiting, no doubt for her to question them further.

  Well, she wasn’t about to let them know how interested she was. They’d totally lord it over her. She pushed the box aside and started through another, hoping they’d continue with their line of conversation.

  “We don’t care for the new man who moved in,” Rachel proclaimed.

  Ashley glanced back at her, surprised in the change of subject. How bad did you have to be if evil ghosts didn’t like you? “Yeah, well, join the club. I don’t like him much either.” She pulled open a box to reveal old, wooden toys. Another dead end.

  “There’s ‘omething off about ‘im, there is.”

  “Aye, a power,” Samuel added.

  Surprised, she turned to face them fully. “A power?”

  “Other worldly,” he added.

  A shiver of unease raced over her skin. She dropped a wooden horse and it went clattering across the floor like it was trying to escape. “What?” she whispered. Were they pulling her leg, trying to get her worked up over nothing?

  Bill nodded, drifting closer and settling on a box next to her. “Don’t you feel it?”

  She started to shake her head, but paused. She’d thought she had felt something that night she’d first met him…that night at the tea shop. Every time they came into contact the attraction was certainly electric, but wasn’t that just plain old lust? “No, he can’t be…otherworldly.” Whatever that meant.

  Rachel shrugged. “Seems to me ye’ve got some competition.”

  “Competition?” Ashley chuckled harshly and pulled a wooden doll from the box, needing something to hold onto.

  “‘e sees us, ‘e does,” Samuel added. “We’re sure of it.”

  Ashley shook her head. She refused to be pulled into their paranoia. She had enough to deal with. “He can’t. I mean, if he could why wouldn’t he say anything?”

  “Why didn’t ye say anything? ‘cause ye ‘ad a secret to keep.”

  Ashley sunk onto a box and held the doll close to her chest. What could Cristian possibly be hiding? And were they right, could he see ghosts?

  “Got some odd objects in ‘is room, he does,” Rachel added.

  “You’ve been in his room?” Ashley stiffened.

  “Course we have.”

  “So what exactly, are you looking for?” Bill asked, removing his pipe and dumping imaginary ashes to the floor.

  Torn from her thoughts, Ashley blinked them back into focus. “Oh. Umm. Just looking.” She set the doll back inside the box, wondering briefly if it had been Maggie’s.

  “Sounds like a load of hogwash to me. No one merely looks. There’s always a reason for everything,” Bill proclaimed, taking a long drag on his pipe.

  She shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “I don’t know. I guess I was just looking for information on the history of the house.” She glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, wondering if they believed her. “Do you guys know anything, remember your lives here?” It was the longest conversation she’d held with ghosts since she was a child. It felt odd, to say the least, and she wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was. Could she bring up their past life, that is, when they were alive, or was that rude?

  “Can’t really remember when I was alive,” Bill admitted.

  Apparently it was a typical ghost problem; she’d noticed this before when she was a child and she’d ask the ghosts where they’d come from. They never seemed to know.

  “Magistrate would remember,” Rachel said.

  The man who’d accosted her with a sword that first night? Fanfreakingtastic. “Why would he remember and not you?”

  “Because ‘e doesn’t know ‘e’s dead,” she replied. “Of course, you’ll ‘ave to deal with ‘im differently than us.”

  Ashley frowned, immediately suspicious. “How so?”

  Rachel slid the others a quick glance, as if Ashley wouldn’t notice. “Well, ‘e’s got a bit of an identity crisis, ye see. Ye’ll ‘ave to bow and stammer. Act generally impressed.”

  “Hmm.” Were they joking? She wouldn’t put it past them.

  “Dress the part,” Bill added after releasing a puff of smoke that lingered around her face.

  She coughed and waved away the foul scent. “What?”

  “Aye,” Rachel nodded. “Most assuredly wear a dress so you’ll look appropriate. Tis what your aunt did whe
n dealing with ‘im.”

  Bill stood tall, rocking back on the heels of his brown boots. “We’ll get you righted out well enough, just see. Rachel here will take care of you and Sam and I will find the Magistrate.”

  “Why?” she asked, of course suspicious. “Why would you help me?”

  “Why?” Bill looked offended. “Why, because this is our home and we’ll do whatever it takes to protect it.”

  She watched them float away, leaving her behind with Rachel. His little speech should have set her at ease. But she didn’t believe for a second they’d truly help. Still, if she wanted answers, what choice did she have but to play along?

  Chapter 10

  Cristian forced himself to wait thirty minutes for Ashley to return to her room. Thirty extremely long minutes. He’d sensed her consciousness even before he’d heard her tiptoe down the hall, then the floorboards above in the attic began to creak, indicating she’d gone upstairs. What the hell she was doing up there, he hadn’t a clue.

  Finally, when he could wait no longer, he’d tossed his sheet aside, pulled on shorts and made his way into the hall. Murmured voices drifted from the attic door. He jerked his head that way and narrowed his eyes. Ghostly voices. Slowly, Cristian made his way toward that door, careful not to make a sound. What the hell was she doing? She might deny her abilities to the entire town, but apparently she made it a practice to interact with the ghosts when she was alone.

  His bare foot hit the first step, then the next. Crouched low, he peered through the railings. The attic was large, running the length of the house. Ashley stood between piles of boxes. She was wearing a large blue dress and had powdered her hair white, looking like something that had sprouted from a fairy tale.

  Had she finally gone daft?

  “My ass looks huge. This is ridiculous,” she murmured the obvious.

  To anyone else it would have looked like she was talking to herself, but Cristian knew better. A soft murmur whispered through the attic. The sound of wind through the windows that lined the eastern wall, or a response to Ashley’s statement? Definitely a ghostly response. He hadn’t a clue what the spirit had said, but he had no doubt Ashley had understood quite clearly.

  The dress had to be something her Aunt Clare had worn to a costume party. As if having a huge ass wasn’t enough, her hips were miles wide, and her chest was threatening to spill from the incredibly low neckline. He loved that bloody dress.

  “Aunt Clare,” Ashley whispered, shaking her head. “You naughty, naughty old bat.”

  Cristian narrowed his eyes, focusing on that familiar soft shimmer beside Ashley, an energy field that interrupted the already odd scene. The shimmering faded, then reappeared a few feet away. A ghost. Cristian’s hands curled as he resisted the urge to surge forward and get rid of the spirit for good. It was too soon. If he reacted now, she’d never trust him.

  “You want me to what?” Ashley demanded, staring hard at that shimmer. There was a long pause, then a soft murmur. “Oh hell, fine. All hail the Magistrate,” she called out, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  Cristian stilled as he felt the distinct chill that announced more spirits arriving. A shimmering wave floated from the wall beside him.

  “Shite,” he whispered, ducking low behind the stairwell.

  Another shimmer followed, and another. They swept across the room, taking their cold air with them. Ashley curtsied low next to a Baroque style chair that was apparently posing as some sort of throne.

  Frantically, Cristian tried to remember which ghosts resided in the pub. Clare had told him years ago, before the spirits had been a threat, but he’d barely paid attention. Why would he? They’d been nothing but a shimmer of awareness back then.

  “Kind Sir,” Ashley started to rise.

  Cristian rolled his eyes.

  There was a soft murmur of conversation that Cristian couldn’t understand. He could sense ghosts, but not hear or actually see them. The good Lord had made sure of that. Nothing could be easy.

  Ashley sighed, then dropped into a curtsy once more, staring at the dusty wooden planks. “Kind Sir,” she said loud and clear. “I am a humble poet and greatly admire your home. Please share tales of your life so that I may add them to my sonnets and honor you wide and far.”

  “For the love of God,” Cristian muttered.

  “Yes,” Ashley said. “that sounds amazing, but I’d really like to know about—”

  More soft murmuring. Cristian sighed, frustrated with his lack of understanding. How many had there been? Three, or was it four adult spirits that resided here? A maid from the 1900s, two men from the 1800s…and another…the Constable, that was right. A man from the 1700s and completely delusional. One of those few spirits who had not known he was dead. Clare had talked about the ghost often; she’d had a special fondness for the spirit.

  Ashley was silent, her gaze focused on the floor. She was still in that curtsey position and her legs had started trembling, her skirts rustling. They were mocking her, obviously. He knew it, but apparently she didn’t.

  Ashley’s head snapped upright. “You lied!”

  Ah, finally she’d figured it out.

  She straightened, her wide skirt crinkling with the movement. “You’ve obviously been screwing with me and I don’t appreciate it. Don’t you have any freaking idea what’s going on here? How serious this is?”

  She started pacing, her steps hurried, the floorboards underfoot creaking loudly. No longer was she attempting to be quiet; she’d forgotten he was supposed to be downstairs.

  “If this happens, if this evil gets out, you’re all gone, done with. You’re already cowering in the attic, where will you go if this thing destroys your house?”

  Cristian narrowed his eyes. She knew more than he’d realized. He wasn’t expecting her to admit, albeit to her ghosts, that she knew there was something lurking in the cellar.

  “Rachel?” Ashley spun around, staring at the wall. “Rachel!”

  Cristian was vaguely aware of the shimmers headed toward the wall. She’d spoken the truth and because of that, her ghosts had abandoned her. Spirits hated to deal with reality. Silence settled in the attic, heavy, suffocating. Ashley sank onto a trunk, her skirt puffing up around her. Cristian had seen and heard enough. He surged to his feet and started up the steps to the floor.

  “Ashley, what the hell are ye doing?”

  He knelt in front of her. She didn’t respond, didn’t look surprised to see him, merely looked at him with wide, hopeless eyes. His lips parted on a sigh and he shook his head exasperated with the entire situation.

  “Honest to God, I don’t know what the bloody hell yer up to, but I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. Come on.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest, he wrapped an arm around her waist and under her knees, lifting her. Her dress crinkled as he cradled her to his chest. She was a trembling mess. What had the ghosts said to her? How he wished he could demand answers.

  He carried her down the stairs and didn’t stop until they made it to his room. She didn’t protest when he settled her on his bed. Frankly, he wouldn’t have cared. He had the insane desire to comfort her in some way, yet hadn’t a clue how to help.

  Instead, he moved into his bathroom. He didn’t have experience comforting humans. He’d never had to before. He had a job to do on this earth, and that job didn’t involve getting attached. He turned on the shower and glanced through the door. She hadn’t moved.

  Damn he felt useless and he hated the feeling. He rested his hands on the pink tiles as the urge to comfort her overwhelmed him. He suddenly wanted to swear to protect her, fight a fucking dragon. He rubbed the back of his neck and when he could stand it no longer, he surged to his feet and moved back into the room. She sniffed, glancing up at him through her lashes. Her cheeks grew red with what he assumed was embarrassment.

  “Come on.” He took her hand and pulled her into the bathroom so quickly she wouldn’t have time to argue. In the close quar
ters, with her warm scent catching the steam from the shower and peppering the air, he could barely think. Swallowing hard, he turned her so her back was to him. Shite, if his fingers didn’t tremble as they moved down the back of her dress.

  “Where the bloody hell did ye get this gown and better yet, why the bloody hell are ye wearing it?”

  She shook her head sending powder sprinkling down around them like snow.

  “And yer hair…Christ.” He let the dress drop to the floor so she stood in her underwear and a tank top. Skimpy underwear that barely covered that rounded, lush backside. He forced his attention upward and unpinned her hair. The strands fell down her back, releasing a puff of white powder.

  “In the shower,” he demanded.

  She did as she was told, not once arguing and that worried him more than anything. With a flip of his fingers, he released the button of his shorts and let them pool to his feet. He was wearing black boxer briefs that hugged the bulge between his legs. Did she notice? He didn’t care. All that mattered was the slickness of her curves as water trailed over her body. The way her undergarments became transparent, showing pink skin.

  Heat swirled low in the pit of his belly, tightening his insides. He stepped into the shower, the warm water kissing his skin. She merely stood, her back to him, as he squeezed out a dollop of shampoo and rubbed it into her hair. The scent of lilacs invaded the tiny stall.

  “Do ye want to tell me what happened?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  He turned her to face him. He didn’t look directly at her, merely focused on his task. No, he didn’t focus on the feel of her warm, soft skin. He lathered his hands with soap and cupped the sides of her face, slowly rubbing the cleanser over her forehead, then her nose and chin. He had the sudden urge to memorize every tiny detail. The way her nose turned up ever so slightly at the tip. The way her lashes were tinged with gold. Hell, she’d touched something deep within, a part of his soul he hadn’t realized he’d had.

  His hands slid down the elegant column of her neck, then lower to her upper chest. She sucked in a sharp breath and he couldn’t help but notice the way her nipples tightened, hard beads that pressed against her thin, white tank top.