by Jane Godman
He pulled open the fridge door. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
She nodded, her gaze shifting uneasily about the room. “Has there been any interest in the estate?”
Maybe she’d heard that Stella had called, or like Warlow assumed he’d gone to the village to meet with her earlier. He closed the fridge and turned to the women. Her narrow face was pale and combined with her dull, brown hair tied in a severe knot at the base of her skull made her sharp, thin features more prominent somehow. She’d pulled her coat all the way on and held the lapels closed with white-knuckled fists.
Of course, she’d be anxious. Her job was on the line.
“Nothing yet,” he told her, shooting her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “If there is, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
The anxiety tightening her features didn’t ease. She glanced at the door. “You shouldn’t stay too long. Even if the estate doesn’t sell right away, you should go home.”
That was the plan. Still, Mrs. Voyle’s words caught him by surprise. He’d been easy to get along with, making few demands on the woman. Why would she be so eager to see him leave?
He forced a rueful grin. “Am I that hard to work for?”
“It’s not that,” she said, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper and stepping toward him. “There’s something wrong with this place, and the sooner you’re away from it the better.”
The soft urgency of her words combined with Carly Evans’s questions sent a chill scuttling down his spine. It was all bullshit, of course.
How had Carly known about the red eyes?
“More than one thing’s wrong with this place,” Declan said, playing dumb. “But nothing a good contractor can’t fix.”
Mrs. Voyle stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good night, Mr. Meyers.”
“Declan,” he called after her, as she hurried out the back door in the utility room.
He sighed and turned back to the fridge. His appetite had shriveled and Mrs. Voyle’s plate wasn’t very appealing.
A dry scraping filled the quiet. Declan frowned, straightened and let the fridge door swing closed. What was that?
The sound came again, frantic scratching like an animal inside the walls. Mice, perfect. Now he’d have to set traps and put out poison. He followed the sound toward the utility room. Whatever was in those walls had to be bigger than a mouse. Rats? He shuddered. God, he hoped not. He’d have to hire someone to fumigate the place—
He stopped inside the utility room. The scratching continued loud, relentless and not inside the walls, but outside the door.
His pulse kicked up. What the hell was that? Some kind of wild animal trying to get in? Maybe Mrs. Voyle had fallen and couldn’t stand to open the door. No, he’d heard her car pull away from the house.
What did that leave? Raccoons? Probably not in Wales. A fox, maybe.
He snatched up a broom leaning against the wall, then peered out the window mounted in the door. From this vantage he couldn’t see anything outside, but the scraping continued.
Positioning the broom to keep a critter from darting inside, Declan reached for the doorknob. Before he could grip the brass, the door swung inward with a gust of icy air that smelled faintly of campfire.
Nothing. There was nothing there to scratch, or open the door.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, turning the sky twilight-blue and leaving the courtyard between Stonecliff and the coach house shadowy, the woods beyond dark.
Goose bumps studded his skin. A shiver crawled up his back. He felt like someone was watching him. He scanned the edge of trees. Two small, red eyes peered out from the black.
* * *
“I need you to come up tomorrow and bring me everything on that list I emailed you.” Carly pinned her phone between her chin and her shoulder, freeing up her hands so she could adjust the icepack slipping off her ankle.
She lay stretched out on the double bed in her room at the inn, nearly swallowed by billowy pale blue satin ruffles and a seemingly endless number of frilly throw pillows.
“Just like that?” Andy sputtered. “What if I had plans? I can’t just drop everything I’m doing and bugger off to Wales. I have a life.”
Carly snorted, inspecting the damage to her ankle. Sprained, most likely. The swelling had gone down for the most part, and the steady ache had faded since the ibuprofen had kicked in. “Your life is the same as mine—work, work and more work. That’s how you like it.”
“Aye, maybe,” he agreed, with a soft chuckle. “Have you finally talked the lord of the manor into letting us investigate?”
She might have if he hadn’t been so aggravating and she hadn’t lost her temper.
“We’re talking,” she said, carefully. It was true, in a way. They had spoken today, after all, and he had his head firmly inserted up his ass if he thought she’d let the subject drop just because he’s said so.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Andy asked, flatly. He was an excellent paranormal investigator. She’d worked with him on several cases in the past. Professional, smart, patient and without academic affiliations, making him far more likely to go along with her plan.
“It’s not a done deal yet,” she admitted.
“Then why do you want me…? No.” The humor vanished from his tone. “Bloody hell, it’s that sort of shit that gives us a bad name. You should know better.”
“I’m not suggesting we conduct a full investigation without his permission. I think we should visit this Devil’s Eye and do a little preliminary work. Then we’ll at least know if it’s even worth persuading Meyers to let us do more.”
“Are you hearing yourself? What do you expect us to do? Sneak onto the property in the dead of night and hope we’re not arrested for trespassing?”
“Of course not. It’s a big estate. No one will even know we’ve been there. Just a quick walk around, take some readings. In and out, a half hour at the most.”
“I can’t believe what you’re suggesting. If I’m caught, it could damage my reputation as an investigator. But you could lose your job at the university, everything you’ve ever published called into question. You’d have no credibility left. What the hell is it about this place that you’d risk all that?”
Her position with the university was tenuous as it was. Between a lack of funding and a department head she didn’t exactly see eye to eye with, she needed something big to save her, anyway.
“I think I’ve found evil,” she told him.
He snorted. “Well, that makes me want to drop everything and rush right there.”
She rolled her eyes. “If I’m right, this bog, The Devil’s Eye, gives off enough geometric energy that it is not only producing paranormal phenomena, it’s drawing evil to it.”
“That’s a pretty farfetched theory.”
“Just come. If there’s something there we’ll find it, then we present Meyers with our evidence.”
“If we find anything.”
“Right.”
“Then we’ll investigate if Meyers believes us?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s an awful lot of ifs for such a long trip, Carly.”
“You’re driving up from Cardiff not the moon. It’s not even five hours.”
He snorted loudly. “It’ll be five hours too long if Meyers doesn’t let us on his land.”
She thought of the man sitting across from her in the café with his unruly black hair, one straight brow cocked and a smirk twisting his lips. To think he believed he could just order her to stop her investigation, blame her for his stupid house not selling and call her a new age flake. Irritation prickled her skin. She’d get her way on principal alone.
“He’ll let us investigate. I can be very persuasive—which is how I know you’ll be up here first thing tomorrow morning.”
Andy let out a long sigh. “Fine, you win, but you better get us permission at the end of all this.”
“I will,” she promised. She
hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she could be persuasive. And if persuasion didn’t work, she wasn’t above playing dirty.
Chapter Three
Declan woke slowly. Warm sunlight seeped between the gap in the drapes and fell on his face. He squinted and burrowed into the pillow. The relentless rush of the sea beating the shore at the base of the cliff filled his ears, muffled through the closed window, but still audible, making it impossible to pretend he was at home in his own bed instead of this dreary house he’d never unload.
He sighed, opened his eyes and shoved back the blankets. Maybe today he’d have good news. Maybe the real estate agent would arrive with some eccentric crazy willing to buy this dump above market value. He could head back to Seattle a rich man. Enough money to clean up the mess Josh had made of his business.
Just thinking about everything his younger brother had done sent a fresh wave of fury rolling through him. Josh had always been a fuck up. Maybe it was classic middle child syndrome. Though, Declan was so much older than Josh and his sister Katie he felt more like a third parent than a brother—especially since his mother had passed away.
Josh, who had barely squeaked through high school and washed out of college, hadn’t been able to hold down a job so Declan had hired him. Taking on his brother had been an expense he could barely manage. He and his partner Jayne were just keeping their firm going, but his mother had been sick by then, and Declan had wanted one less thing for her and Allen to have to worry about.
He’d put Josh in charge of background checks for their corporate clients. After all, how badly could his brother screw that up? He should have known better. Josh had taken payouts from some of the people he was supposed to be investigating and falsified information. Not only had his brother damaged Declan and Jayne’s credibility, he’d left them vulnerable to criminal charges.
Declan had fired Josh, paid back the clients Josh had scammed and miraculously kept them from pressing charges against all of them—Josh included. Though, Declan had been so furious at his younger brother, he didn’t think he’d have given a shit if the cops had carted his brother off to prison. Only Allen and Katie had Declan scrambling to protect Josh. They couldn’t have dealt with that, too, not after losing his mother.
This house was supposed to be the shovel to help him dig out of his mess. Instead, it was burying him deeper.
He stood, crossed to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Once the water heated, he stepped into the ancient iron tub beneath the weak spray. The hot water dribbled over his skin in a sad piss trickle.
Lousy water pressure—one more thing that needed fixing.
As he washed, a faint smoky scent tickled his nose. He frowned. What was that? The smell thickened, charred, burned. Was there a fire? Was Stonecliff burning down while he showered? Except for the potential danger to his person the idea wasn’t all that terrible. Maybe the place was insured.
The smell worsened, taking on a nearly putrid odor like burning garbage.
He shut off the taps, pushed back the shower curtain and climbed out. The stink filled the room so strongly he could taste it. God, maybe the house was burning down, after all.
He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, then froze, his heart lodging in his throat. In the fogged mirror a steam-smeared blur stood next to his own reflection as if there were someone beside him. He wiped the glass clean and the air sucked from his lungs.
A grotesque figure stood next to him in the reflection. A woman, maybe, burned unrecognizable. Stringy, dark hair fell past her shoulder on one side. The hair on the other side had been burned away. Flaked, blackened skin with oozing red flesh visible between the cracks covered her face and neck. Wide lidless eyes stared out from the glass. Her boney hand reached out for him.
Declan jumped back and swung around. The vanity’s sharp corner jabbed his hip, but he barely noticed. There was no one behind him. He was alone in the small bathroom.
But the smell lingered.
“Screw this,” he muttered. He jerked open the door and rushed out of the room, careful to avoid glancing at the mirror.
In his bedroom, he dropped the towel and dragged on a T-shirt and jeans, the latter sticking to his still damp skin.
There had to be an explanation. Yet his overwrought brain couldn’t seem to come up with one. He couldn’t blame what he’d seen on a dream like he had with the red-eyed shadow man; he’d been wide-awake.
Maybe he was losing his mind.
Cautiously, he approached the bathroom. The steam had dissipated. Tiny beads of moisture dribbling down the mirror all that remained. No sign of the burned woman. Not in the room, not in the mirror.
The pine scent of his soap hung in the damp air, mingling with something else, something burned.
* * *
By the time Stella Bahl arrived, Declan was on his second cup of coffee, his hair had mostly dried and he was almost feeling normal again. He’d even managed to talk himself into believing the burned woman he’d seen in his bathroom was merely a stress-induced hallucination, the result of not sleeping or eating properly—or the beginnings of schizophrenia.
Stella looked like most real estate agents he’d dealt with. Probably about his own age, he would have been hard pressed to say for sure. Impeccable makeup, cloud of sable hair falling past her shoulders without a strand out of place and a stylish gray suit over a red blouse gave off a mature attractiveness that left her age difficult to guess.
“Mr. Meyers.” She held out her hand to him, which he took. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person. What a spectacular home. I’m sure we’ll find just the right buyer in no time.”
He doubted it. Not unless the Addams Family was in the market looking for creepier accommodations than their current residence. “I hope so.”
She flashed a brilliant smile. “I’m from Cragera Bay, you know, but have never had the opportunity to see inside Stonecliff before. This is a real thrill for me.”
You should get out more.
“I was at school with your sister, Eleri,” Stella told him. “But I was a few years ahead of her. Terrible thing she went through.”
Declan raked his hand through his hair. He didn’t like to think too much about Eleri and Brynn. Only one sister had turned up when she’d heard their father was dying, to see what she could get. The other had left the man to die alone after he’d protected her for years from the police, making him a virtual pariah in the village.
But wasn’t he just as bad, taking this property from a man he hadn’t wanted to know in life? Guilt twisted in his gut. He wished he’d asked his mother about his father before it was too late. Maybe then he wouldn’t be dealing with all these conflicting emotions now.
“About the house,” he prodded.
Stella’s face reddened. “Yes, of course. Is there somewhere we can sit down? I’d like to discuss some potential strategies, then you can show me around.”
“Sure.”
Declan led her into the study, sat behind the heavy wood desk while she settled on one of the chairs opposite him.
“As you can imagine, finding comparable houses to a property like Stonecliff is difficult. Still, a property this size, and on the water, makes it fairly desirable.”
Declan perked up a little. It was the best news he’d had since he’d arrived. “Really?”
She nodded and tilted her head, eyes squinting a little. “Unfortunately, the estate’s history will have a large impact on the price.”
“I have no issue listing under market value.” Hell, if he didn’t need the money at all he’d give the thing away, donate it to some worthy cause.
She flashed a brilliant smile. “We’ll discuss price after I’ve had a chance to look at the house. Can you tell me the state of the electrical, plumbing, if there’s been reconstruction work done and when?”
“I have that information here.” He pushed the stack of paper Warlow had put together for him across the desk.
“Perfect.” Stella slip
ped the pages into a folder and took a spiral notebook from her bag. “You currently have staff?”
“A butler and a housekeeper. They’ll remain here to run the house when I go back to the States at the end of the week.” At least until the money ran out and he had nothing left to pay them with.
She made a note in her book. “Good, having someone here to keep the house in good condition will help to sell quickly. Now, there is a second dwelling on the property that I’m not sure you’re aware of, Morehead Lodge.” She tapped her pen on her notepad. “I know the house has been let in the past. I’d like to suggest severing the property and selling it separately.”
According to Hugh, Stonecliff had been a much larger estate, stretching down the coast and even onto the opposite side of the road. Over the years Arthur James had parceled off the property to live on the proceeds. Even this past summer, his father had sold off tenanted properties he’d owned in Beaumaris, and the money from those sales was keeping Stonecliff running now—and there wasn’t much left, maybe enough to keep the lights on until Christmas if they were careful.
“Even priced under market value Stonecliff could take some time to find the right buyer. The estate is isolated, large and old. You are already dealing with a limited market. Trying to find someone who isn’t put off by what’s happened here…”
“What if I razed the house, filled in the bog with concrete?” He wasn’t sure either suggestion was feasible, but he was open to any possibility.
Stella chuckled. “I don’t think it will come to that. Let’s have a look at all this then.”
He took her from room to room. Except for the ones used daily—the study, parlor, kitchen and his bedroom—the others were dark, covered in a layer of dust and smelled musty.
“These rooms need a good tidy,” Stella said, making a note in her book.
Declan glanced around the bedroom and nodded. Even the covers on the bed looked faded and dusty. “The house is too big for Mrs. Voyle to keep all the rooms clean.”