The fire spat at her as she closed the door. The door stuck half way. Scarlet pulled, but the door wouldn’t close.
“Are you coming?” Malinda called from down the hallway.
“Yes!” Scarlet let the door stay open and chased after her. She would see about repairs tomorrow. She figured there was bound to be some fixing that needed to be done, Aunt Martha had never been overly handy.
The door slammed behind her. Scarlet looked down the long hallway.
Damn, but it felt like the house was awake.
Chapter 2
The grand ballroom was indeed as grand as its name. There was an additional smaller room that Malinda insisted on calling the music room, a sitting area, a library, though the books in there hadn’t been touched in decades, a parlor and kitchen, butler’s room, servant’s quarters.
All in all, it was a large, impressive house.
“Jack Monroe had the mansion built directly after the Civil War. He married a wealthy woman, Elle Simpson and they used her family money for this place. Sadly, she died three weeks after it was completed. No one knows what she died from. The records of that time were spotty at best.”
Here the old woman hadn’t had a single word for her when she came, and then suddenly became chatty as she showed off the house. Scarlet followed in her wake fascinated.
“Were you never told any of this?” Melinda demanded when they reached the entrance again.
Scarlet felt she was getting cross. Why was it suddenly her fault no one had told her anything? “No. My mother had grown up in this house, but she left at 18 and never wanted to come back. She advised me to sell the place and not come here, but…”
“SELL MONROE MANOR?” Melinda turned on her, eyes wide. Her glass eye seemed just as livid as the living one. “Monroe Manor without a Monroe? Never.”
“I didn’t say I was doing it!” Scarlet snapped back. She was getting tired of being snapped at. “I was told I should. I obviously haven’t done it!”
Melinda nodded, somewhat mollified and turned away. “Of course. Please, excuse an old woman and her fears.”
Scarlet blinked. “Of course,” she said slowly. She tried to think of something to break the ice. She shivered and decided to rephrase that, even in her own mind. Melinda must have seen her shiver. “I did not light the fire in the main room,” she explained, “because I thought you might want to rest after your journey. But if you wish, I can…”
“No.” Scarlet forced a smile. The last thing she wanted to do was hang around downstairs with the old servant hovering. “No. You’re right, of course; I do want to lay down. Let’s take this up again in the morning, shall we?”
Melinda nodded, every inch the gothic servant. She held herself as though she’d just escaped from some half-baked rendition of Wuthering Heights. “Breakfast is at eight.” She called over her shoulder as she left. “Sleep in and you go hungry.”
Yes. Definitely Wuthering Heights.
There was no way she could live like this. Tomorrow we settle who’s in charge.
She mounted the stairs again and headed for the master bedroom. She reached for the door and paused, then threw it open. The drapes billowed and the fire rose with the change in air, but it was all just the wind caused by her entrance.
Her bags sat neatly next to the door, the parka hung up on a hook. Scarlet was three steps into the room before that registered with her.
She was with me the entire time.
OK, well they hadn’t exactly checked every room, of course. And had she even thought to ask if anyone else was there?
Furious that someone was playing games with her, she found it apparent that she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought. Scarlet closed the door and stormed over to the heavy curtains that blocked the windows in the sitting area. She dug around looking for the pull cord and yanked. The drapes retreated to the ends like a billowing sail and Scarlet stood transfixed.
In the snow, row upon row of headstones stood directly behind the house in mute testimony to the dead. There was too much snow to read them all, and many of the stones were too far away to be sure, but all she could read one that clearly said MONROE, and another one, leaning a little sideways that read WILKINS.
A sharp CRACK behind her made her jump. She nearly launched herself through the glass. It was the fire spitting at her. It had to be.
The suitcase hadn’t moved. It was still there by the door. The knapsack next to it. The parka was draped over them both.
The coat fell. That crack. That was the nail giving way. It was the hook coming out of the wall.
She refused to look at the gleaming brass hook next to the door.
“Alright.” She said to whomever was listening, positive that someone was playing pranks and they weren’t very funny. “You want to play with me? Fine.” She stormed out of the room, the door easily swung shut behind her. She went to the first door in the hall and threw it open.
Her hand found the switch and the room came into view. Nice bed, bare mattress, dressers, armoire. Empty. The next one had the same, each room was a repeat of the last, though most of the furniture was covered with dust sheets. All six rooms had the same make up.
It was only half of the house, she reminded herself. “West wing.” Scarlet said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to find you!”
She ran down the steps into the entrance, past the empty niche and up the next flight. The hallways curved. She couldn’t see the either end while in the middle, the house making a big ‘O’ like it was screaming with a sodden and neglected courtyard in the middle.
Each room presented the same as the other side, though one door led to a storage area instead of a bedroom. Still, there was nothing unusual in any room. Her Aunt had died young – only in her forties - but she had lived alone. From all reports she did not entertain, nor did she ever have guests.
That didn’t mean Malinda hadn’t let someone in.
Scarlet left the doors open behind her. All of them. If there was someone in the house, she was going to damn well flush them out. She found herself staring at the final door, having found nothing unusually anywhere. The particular room lay at the end of the hall, the one that should, by all rights be a match for the master, sharing a common wall between them. Why the wings were not connected from her room into this she had no idea. Maybe she’d find out when she opened the door.
Her hand shook as she reached for the knob. She didn’t want to see. She did want to see.
It was the only room left. Any intruder was in there.
She grabbed the knob.
It wouldn’t turn.
Her wrist blanched at the motion. Locked? The door is locked?
There was noise. A draft. Someone had left a window open and the setting sun was sending frigid air into her house. She could see her breath. There was a window open in the locked room and she couldn’t get in to close it.
Furious now, she leaned against the hard, freezing wood, contemplating waking the old woman and demanding the key. She probably hadn’t gone to bed yet; she hadn’t had a grueling six-hour drive on ice and snow.
“GET OUT!”
She screamed and jumped, spinning around to stare at the door. It was a woman. A woman screaming, with so much hatred in her voice that she felt the blood drain from her face.
The open door to her left slammed shut. Then the one on the right.
Scarlet ran down the hall to the comfort of the entrance. As she passed, each and every door in the hall slammed shut next to her. The cold was chasing her, icy fingers caressed her spine. She screamed and flew down the flight of steps to the landing.
She cowered in the empty niche waiting for the unknown woman to catch up to her. To rend her to pieces. To do whatever strangers did when they chased you through spooky old houses in the middle of the night. Her heart slammed in her chest and her breath was like fire.
A somber blue glow flared from the hallway she’d just left and faded.
There was no way she was stayin
g out in the open another second.
Frantic feet carried her to the east wing. She stared at the gauntlet of doors down the hallway. Anything could be behind any of them.
Safety lay at the end of the hall.
She ran as fast as she ever had in track and field, arms pumping, legs flying and if the door didn’t open to her touch, she was going through it.
She tore the door open, drapes billowing as she slammed it shut.
She stopped. Her breath froze. Her knees began to fold.
The curtain was closed.
Her bags were on the bed, the parka over them.
Scarlet slumped to the floor as behind her in the fireplace the fires danced and spat and hissed.
Chapter 3
Sleep was the last thing she expected. The door was locked, the lights were on, the fire crackled away and Scarlet curled up on the top of the bed staring at her luggage. The soft glow of the setting sun around the curtains faded out like the light in the west hallway.
An open panel? A window in the hall? Something that caught and reflected the dying rays of the setting sun and threw them into the dusk of the hall. It had faded in the same way. It was possible. It was the west wing after all, it would get the light longer than the east. Maybe something shiny…something that gave it that blue cast…
Her body screamed for rest. The drive had been horrific and she was exhausted. The bed called to her, the soft mattress yielding to every point. Instead she stared into the fire. The grate gave a checkerboard shadow over the rug. Fire danced in the squares.
She jerked awake, her body tense, ridged, her heart racing. The fire had started to burn down. The flames were half of what they had been. How long was I asleep? She crawled from the bed cautiously, crossing to the fireplace and drawing back the mesh curtain. Two more logs joined in the blaze as the fire greedily rose up to lick the fresh fuel.
She closed the screen and looked around the room. It was cozy. That was the strangest part. The room was a gorgeous study in dark wood and rich material and it was the perfect retreat. She stole a look at her luggage, still piled on the bed where she’d left it.
“This is stupid!” She brought herself in hand and kicked off her shoes. “That is where I put the bags. Just there. It’s a drafty damn house with slamming doors because there are open windows as evidenced by the light, and you are being a stupid child about all of this!”
The fact was, she’d been sitting on the bed for hours and the room was calm. She was letting her mother get to her, get under her skin. Her mother was afraid of the house, not her.
Scarlet kicked off her boots and pulled off the socks. The area rug in front of the fire was toasty warm and she buried her aching feet into the soft nap. The fire warmed her legs in a grateful caress, as if thanking her for the food and promising more, so much more if only there was more fuel.
Sighing, she found the bathroom and contemplated the tub. The house was built long before indoor plumbing and as such, thickly insulated pipes lay exposed against the original brick wall. Experimentally, she turned on the water. It flowed clean and clear into the tub and down into the drain. When the hot water was added, the pipe slapped the wall twice and settled down. Hot water steamed, and someone had thought to add bath salts to the décor. It looked more like a decorator’s choice than practical, but they were genuine bath salts.
She returned to the bedroom, threw open the suitcase and rescued a fresh shirt and clean underwear which she took into the bathroom with her.
Muscles stretched and relaxed and her body sobbed in relief as the salts bath pulled the day away from her skin and buoyed her spirits. The water was as hot as she could take it and she dropped into a reverie counting the moments between each muscle relaxing and the next.
She closed her eyes and let the water soothe her.
The pipe banged twice on the wall and she started, splashing the ice water from the tub. She’d fallen asleep again. How long this time? The water was cold now. It pulled the heat from her, left her shivering, naked and cold.
She pulled herself to her feet and reached for a towel. It was soft and luxurious, but it too felt oddly cold to the touch. Across from the tub was a window. There must have been some kind of draft.
Drying off as fast as she could, vigorously rubbing her limbs to restore the circulation helped but the chill still touched her. She pulled the plug and changed into the shirt and undies and opened the bathroom door.
The bedroom was a toasty warm, inviting place. The fire still burned brightly and the two logs she’d added had only just caught.
Kneeling as if in supplication, she parted the mesh and peered in. The two new logs hadn’t even shifted yet. The fire had only just made inroads to the heart of each log. She couldn’t have slept more than a few minutes. If that.
Another check of the bathroom left her chilled. The room was decidedly cold. The water was draining through the bottom of the tub, leaving a spoonful in the bottom. It chilled her fingertip.
It’s cold. It’s nighttime in December, of course the water isn’t going to stay hot. But it happened quickly. Or did it? Maybe she was wrong about the wood. She hadn’t thought to check the time before her bath.
“Well. I’m clean. Nothing happened. Everything is just as is should be.” She pulled a fresh pair of socks and set the bags aside. The socks were stuffed into her boot in event of fast get away. She pulled down the comforter already halfway to sleep.
The bed was the best thing she’d seen in days. Fresh sheets, heavy comforter… she slipped into the bed and chastised herself for an overactive imagination. It was all drafty houses and strange coincidences.
She left the lights on anyway.
The thick down under her chin brought back memories of her father and being tucked in at night, the monsters chased away for the night. Good night Daddy.
The trials of the road, the warm salts of the bath overrode her fears and her eyes grew heavier and she drifted in dreams of violence and blood and betrayal and ultimately into the quiet of the grave where her body found rest.
Her fingers fell first, then her arms, feet, legs, all turned to dust like the end of a cigarette that had been left to smolder between idle fingers. As her body fell to ash and smoke, the pipe knocked twice and she tried to sooth it. The house hurt, she tried to heal it, her car… her car….
Scarlet bolted up in bed, a bloodcurdling scream tearing from her throat. At the end of the bed Malinda stood, dressed in a long black robe. The fire had died, long ago, even the ash looked cold, without an ember to be found and Malinda stood watching Scarlet sleeping.
The right eye glowed, sending a pure shaft of terror into the young woman.
“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” she screamed. She threw off the covers to spring to her feet, but all that was left of her legs were two dust covered bones in the bottom of a casket and she was cold. Her breath formed ice and the ice buried her and she couldn’t breathe and the dust was crawling up her belly and that disappeared. Only her spine was left and her chest…
Malinda raised a hand and spoke and the lid slammed shut to her cries and Scarlet screamed and pounded on the lid and her hand dissolved..
Scarlet gasped and woke up. She held the comforter in white-knuckled hands, clutched tight between her breasts.
She was soaking in sweat and crying hysterically. Light streamed in from the window, the drapes opened again. She spun and looked out. the grave with MONROE above the snowline gleamed in the morning sun.
When the bird hit the window, Scarlet screamed.
Chapter 4
“You were there!” Scarlet hissed, her eyes flashed.
“I am sure it felt very real, our dreams often feel as real as…”
“No!” Scarlet slapped the kitchen table. The silverware jumped and danced under the impact. “Don’t you dare tell me that ‘it was all a dream’ crap. You. Were. There.” She spat out the words, cutting each one off short. Her face was flushed and she breathed heavily, but she wasn’t a
bout to be deterred.
Melinda pulled the griddle off of the stove and expertly flipped the pancake onto the top of the stack she’d pulled from the oven. She turned off the burner without a word and added the plate to the tray.
“Breakfast is served,” she said primly, juggling the bacon and eggs and syrup and coffee. It was really an impressive selection for two people but Scarlet wasn’t about to move.
“Traditionally, meals are served in the dinging room, I either eat here or on occasion, your aunt required me to join her for the company.” She shifted the tray carefully. “Or would you rather eat in the kitchen from now on?”
Scarlet didn’t move. She straightened and crossed her arms under her chest and waited.
“Very well then.” Malinda sighed and shifted the weight in her arms. “If you say I was there, I was there. I suppose I could have been sleepwalking.”
“Why is the door upstairs locked?”
Malinda blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. “Which door?”
“The locked one.”
Malinda’s arms had to be shaking under the strain of holding up all those dishes. “Your aunt insisted. In fact, that door has always been locked even when I was a little.”
“Open it.”
“Breakfast chills in the winter very quickly.” She indicated the tray with a sharp nod. There was a fine tremble to the coffee pot.
“Open it.”
The housekeeper sighed and turned back to the stove. She opened the oven, still warm from when she kept the food hot. She slid the tray into the oven and straightened, her hand on her back. “Very well.” The slight traces of winter wind that found its way through the siding wasn’t as chilled as Melinda’s glare.
Without a further word, she strode from the room, her tall form erect, defiant. She mounted the stairs with a surprising quickness considering the quick indication of an uncooperative back only moments ago. The hallway lay quiet and normal in the cold light of day and the occasional chill was no more than the northeast weather trying to reclaim the warmth of the house.
Haunting and Scares Collection Page 21