Hauntings in the Garden, Volume One

by Wild Rose Press Authors

  Of all the people I could’ve expected, she wasn’t one of them. “Go away,” I said dully.

  “I’m alone. I’ve got some food with me, in case you and the little girl are hungry.”

  “Go away,” I repeated.

  “I need to talk to you about your sister.”

  I let her in.

  Mary had a bag of muffins from the bakery and two bottles of orange juice. She placed them on the dresser and glanced at the sleeping Juniper. “Poor lamb.”

  Mary sounded kind but she was Patrick’s wife and Rory’s mother and I didn’t trust her. “She’s had a hard night,” I said coldly. “Thanks for the food. Now what about my sister?”

  Mary perched on the edge of the chair, smoothing down her champagne linen pantsuit. The colour did nothing for her sallow complexion. I could’ve sat down on the other bed to be polite but I remained standing, my arms folded. That made it easier to pretend I had an advantage.

  “Don’t the muffins smell good? They’re still warm. Why don’t you eat something? You’ll feel better.”

  “My sister, Mary.” I ground out the words.

  She sighed in that I’m-only-trying-to-help way and brushed manicured fingers through her graying blonde hair. “Don’t worry about Lacey. She’ll be taken care of.” Mary got up to leave.

  “What does that mean?” I demanded, grabbing her bony elbow. “Is Lacey alive or dead?”

  She pursed her pale lips and looked pointedly down at my hand. I let it fall.

  “Like I said, she’ll be taken care of.” Mary regarded me with sympathetic eyes. “All Carrick County will know, or want to know, is that my son and your sister ran away together. Now eat a muffin, dear, before you pass out.”

  She walked out the door. I didn’t stop her.

  ****

  I still have no idea if my sister is really with Rory or buried somewhere in the back forty. None of the remaining Phelans will speak to me, not even Mary. Sean and Hugh will cross the street to avoid me.

  We filed a missing persons report, for all the good that will do. Deserting your husband and stepdaughter to run off with another man may be morally repugnant but it’s not a police matter. Charlie Slater told me, right to my face, that I should “accept it.” He doesn’t want to know anything else.

  So far, the detective I hired to find Liam has turned up zilch. Liam said he was heading ‘west’ and ‘west’ covers a lot of ground so I know the search could take awhile. I’m afraid that his brothers will find him before I do and I remember the beating in the alley. But I need to know more of the Phelan family secrets if I want to find out the truth.

  Colin doubts he would want to go against his family. But he already did, by trying to warn me and by leaving them. And Colin doesn’t know Liam asked me to go with him. Besides, Liam told me he wasn’t a wolf at heart and I believe him.

  Colin is trying to sell the farm but the only offer has come from Patrick, of course, and he didn’t even come in person, he sent his legal mouthpiece. The lawyer also had a message for me: if I don’t stop “harassing” the Phelan family, they’ll get a restraining order.

  Nobody talks about Lacey. Not my mother, not Colin, not me, though I think of her often. I don’t know exactly what Colin told Juniper but I can guess. She includes Lacey’s name right after her dead mother’s, in her prayers at night.

  I told Momma the “accepted” story and she took it with nothing more than a sigh and a murmured, “I’ll pray for her.” My mother never liked inconvenient truths, like the existence of werewolves in Carrick County. She is more vocal about Colin and me “living together in sin” as she puts it. I let her ramble on without comment; I know what’s really bothering her. When I ask when she’s coming home, she always replies when Aunt Maureen kicks her out.

  Colin and I have exchanged claddagh rings and we wear them facing inwards. It’s not legal and it’s not Church-sanctioned but in our hearts we are pledged to each other, husband and wife.

  He and I never talk about that night; we never talk about last summer. I’ve tried and he just walks away, saying he’s not ready yet.

  Since she and Colin moved into my house, Juniper’s nightmares are less frequent now. But sometimes, when the moon is full, she creeps into bed with Colin and me, clutching her doll like a life preserver. She whimpers in her sleep and we hold her, and each other.

  There have been no more howls in the night, no more dead animals in the morning. Maybe the Phelans think they’ve won. Maybe they are just being patient. Patrick had been awfully patient with my father; it was Rory who got reckless, I think. But they haven’t won. Colin’s clever lawyer has drawn up a contract with restrictive covenants limiting the use of the land and it’s binding on all subsequent owners. Patrick won’t be happy when he hears that. He’ll have to expand his dairy operations somewhere else. And Colin’s real estate agent is advertising all over the country and even in the States. There will be other buyers; it’s just a matter of time. If there aren’t, I swear I will sow every acre with iron and silver so the Phelans can’t lay a foot—or a paw—on my daddy’s land.

  I know Lacey wouldn’t have done the things she did, if not for Rory Phelan. He seduced her, body and soul. His love—if you can call it love—turned her into something dark, something dangerous.

  Something inhuman.

  I’ve been researching the old werewolf legends; a few tantalize with supposed cures for lycanthropy. I will find Lacey, if she is still alive. Whoever she is, whatever she is, she is still my sister. She is my blood.

  No, this is not the end of the story. I promise you that.

  A word about the author...

  “Cee” Farrell grew up in a rural area much like Carrick County, minus the werewolves. (But there are wolves in the provincial park, so who knows?) She has a degree in Mass Communications and English, and diplomas in Publishing, Technical Communications, and Law Clerk. Learning new things is a passion of hers. She wrote her first story—a fairy tale called “Princess Mayblossom”—around age six and made her first sale to a popular confession magazine while in college. Chocolate is her favourite drug, with mocha lattes not far behind.

  The House

  by

  Lara Parker

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The House

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Lara Parker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-570-8

  Halloween Anthology 2014

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To all the dreamers: you can do it.

  Chapter One

  Stepping out of the airport terminal, I stood in a spot of sunshine determined to soak up as much warmth as I could. The smile on my face hadn’t wavered since I’d seen palm trees outside the plane window as we approached Orlando International Airport. The cold, dreary, cloudy Ohio winter days now a thing of the past, my new life started right now, in the Sunshine State.

  At the rental car area, I took the proffered keys to a convertible BMW. Yes, this new life certainly had its advantages.

  I thought it only happened in movies; long lost relative leaves you a pile of money and a house in another state. Still in a bit of shock, I continued to process why t
his elderly aunt of my mother’s would leave everything to me, but she had.

  Up to this point, my life could only be described as mundane, no love interest to speak of and my mother traveling now that my father had passed. With time on my hands, it was the perfect opportunity to pull up stakes and see what this new adventure had in store.

  ****

  The hour drive passed quickly, especially with the top down and the warm wind whipping through my hair. The next thing I knew, I pulled into a long lane with a wide black wrought iron gate guarding the entrance. I punched in the code and the gate slowly opened.

  As I drove up the lane, I saw a black four-board fence surrounding what looked like more land than the state of Rhode Island. Large live oak trees along with a handful of horses gracefully dotted the pristine fields. Horses. I had always wanted a horse but hadn’t been able to convince my parents. I hadn’t ridden since I was a kid. This could be fun!

  I crested a small hill and the house came into view…at least I think you could call it a house. It looked more like a mansion with a Southern flair. The three-story brick behemoth had a huge wraparound porch held up by thick white pillars; a matching three-car garage sat toward the back of the house. I literally couldn’t believe my eyes. There had to be some mistake. I’d expected an aging Victorian in need of repair and had even mentally earmarked some money to do so. I checked the address, but logic told me the gate wouldn’t have opened with the code the lawyer, Mr. Ferguson, had given me if I happened upon the wrong place.

  I cruised around the circular drive and came to a stop at the foot of the front steps. I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, or was that excitement?

  I climbed out of the car and got a whiff of some sweet-smelling flower. I noticed a two-story brick barn off to one side of the house. I barely contained my excitement for exploring my new property, but first things first. I needed to check out the house and bring my suitcases in from the car.

  When I reached the porch, an uneasy feeling passed over me, as if someone watched me. I glanced around but found nothing. I brushed it away, chalking it up to stress and proceeded to the front door. I pulled the unusually-shaped key from my pocket. When I inserted it, a bright blue spark came off the lock. I jerked my hand back. What was that? Tentatively, I tried again, this time no spark and the lock slid easily open. I shrugged my shoulders; must have been static electricity.

  The door creaked open, and I stepped over the threshold. The beauty of the house was unequalled and unbelievably, I owned it. Realization dawned, and I had to put a hand on the wall to keep from falling over. Was I dreaming?

  Intricate crown molding complemented the abundant chair rail while an elegant crystal chandelier graced the ceiling in the foyer. A brick fireplace stood proud in the front room with what looked like a driftwood mantel.

  Boxes from the moving truck sat in the front room, dwarfed by the size of the room. I’d be shopping for house wares for several years to fill this place. Fortunately, most of the rooms were furnished, items left behind by Aunt Victoria according to Mr. Ferguson, all covered with white sheets if the front room was testament of how the rest of the house looked.

  When I mounted the staircase to continue my exploration, I realized it rivaled the width of an interstate, or at least it felt like it. It branched at the top, the bridge to the multiple wings of the house.

  Halfway up the stairs, another odd sensation washed over me like a cold chill. Too excited to give the feeling any credence, I proceeded up the stairs.

  At the top, I took a left.

  I entered a room the size of which I had only dreamed about. A large canopied bed took center stage while a huge armoire stood to one side of the bed with matching vanity on the other, all of them dark wormwood. Oddly, none of this furniture sported white sheets and looked as if had been polished yesterday.

  Across the room, I found a master bathroom the entire size of my old apartment. The floors, countertops, sunken tub, and walls in the shower stall all featured large tiles in a swirl of cream and sand with the light greenish-blue painted walls enhancing the bathroom’s beauty. Dark copper-like fixtures accented the tiles.

  Back in the bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to take it all in. Unbelievably, this huge gorgeous house was my new home. Mine. Finally, I rose from the bed and found my way downstairs and explored the rest of the house. The back of the house had more windows and French doors than I dared to count, which faced a huge tiled pool with a waterfall cascading from a hot tub. Potted plants gave the area a tropical feel, if the palm trees lining the stained concrete pool deck failed.

  I opened one set of French doors and walked out to the pool area. The big brick barn caught my attention so I ambled in that direction.

  Once again the same feeling I’d experienced on the front porch washed over me, like someone watched my every move. I looked around but saw no one. Then I gazed up at the third-story windows, probably the attic, and a curtain fluttered, as if a breeze blew through the window. A chill moved down my spine. I shivered but pushed on. I wasn’t one to believe in ghosts or such things, so there had to be a logical explanation, but I didn’t feel compelled to search out the answer at the moment.

  I walked into the barn, greeted by silence. No horses. But a rather round black and white barn cat sidled up to me and wove around my legs loudly purring.

  “Well, hello there.” I crouched down and petted the cat as it continued to wind around me. “What’s your name?” I asked, knowing I wouldn’t get a response.

  “Callie,” said a deep voice behind me.

  I jumped up and whirled around.

  A tall, lean-muscled man stood behind me. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, he put me in mind of a lumberjack, just not as muscle-bound. His blue eyes sparkled even while his expression didn’t convey friendliness. He studied me as I studied him.

  “I’m Leslie Harrison,” I said, breaking the awkward silence and offered my hand.

  Hesitantly, he took my hand and gave it a half-hearted shake. “Preston.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, though I had the distinct feeling Preston didn’t feel the same way.

  “You must be the new owner,” he growled.

  “Ummm…yes, Aunt Victoria left the estate to me. So here I am. Do you work on the property or…”

  “I’m the farm manager. Do you know anything about horses, Mrs. Harrison?”

  “Yes, I used to ride at boarding school, and its miss, I’m not married.”

  I think he did his best not to roll his eyes but failed. “Great,” he said, the tone of his voice flat.

  “What does that mean?” His prickly nature stirred my ire.

  “Nothing.” Apparently, he had no use for me.

  “I assure you, Preston… I’m sorry, what’s your last name?”

  “McClay.”

  “I assure you, Mr. McClay.” I emphasized his last name. “As the new owner of the estate, I am very interested in a successful farm and hope to find a way for us to work together.”

  He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Now, I’ve got a house to put together so what time do you start in the morning?” Spur of the moment, I decided I would shadow Mr. McClay in the mornings and spend the afternoons putting the house together. I knew it would look like I had to prove myself to him, but honestly I needed to prove myself to me. I needed to prove I could handle everything I’d been given. I wouldn’t have someone say I didn’t try or was ungrateful for such a gift.

  “About 5:00 a.m.”

  “You arrive at 5:00 a.m?”

  “I live here,” he said flatly.

  “Where?” I looked around.

  “There’s an apartment upstairs.” He pointed above our heads. “Victoria wanted someone on premise to manage the farm.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll be right here, in this spot, tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. Thank you, Mr. McClay.” I walked away without waiting for a reply.

  We had to work together,
and I hated conflict. Besides I needed him to show me how things ran on the farm; I didn’t plan to be an absentee owner. So I would do everything in my power to make sure we had a good working relationship, even though it might take every ounce of my willpower not to throttle him.

  On my way back to the house, I glanced up at the third-story windows and the same curtain fluttered. There had to be a window open up there. I’d have to go up and shut it, but first I wanted to get my clothes unpacked and put away.

  Entering the house, icy pins prickled my skin. Springtime in Florida wasn’t overly hot so why did it feel so cold in here? Maybe the air-conditioning was on the fritz? Until I could figure out the thermostat’s location, I’d just have to wear a sweater.

  Relocating clothes from boxes in the front room, retrieving my suitcases from the car and putting it all in the proper place took several hours. Finally, I flopped down on the bed, nearly exhausted. I looked up at the high ceiling. I felt dwarfed and alone by the sheer size of the house but decided not to dwell on it. In time, I was sure I’d grow used to all this space.

  Shadows filled the corners of the room as night fell. Something jogged my memory to shut the window on the third floor.

  The staircase to the attic was a narrow passageway, probably a servant’s passage in the old days. I flipped the switch at the foot of the stairs and a faint light turned on from the dusty ceiling fixture. I made a mental note to clean the fixture and change the old bulb. With every step I took, the wooden stairs creaked loudly. At some point, I’d have to hire someone to fix them. At the top of the steps, I came to a door. Oddly enough, cold permeated through the door. I grasped the door knob and instantly jerked my hand away, as the knob burned like fire. What the hell?

  The door seemed to bow toward me, the wood groaning as it did so. Fear gripped my throat and my heart pounded in my chest. I shook my head to clear my vision, the door returned to normal. I stood for several minutes, trying to decipher what I thought I’d just witnessed. When nothing more happened, I concluded I was more tired than I thought. I needed sleep, though I knew that might be a difficult task.