Christmas Spirit

by Rebecca York

  Chelsea gasped. “Who was that first woman?”

  “Another one of us.”

  As the woman spoke, she raised a ghostly hand, a hand still shrouded by the veil.

  When she came closer, Chelsea huddled away from the advancing form. “Don’t,” she whispered.

  Ignoring her, the woman touched Chelsea’s cheek, sending a dart of icy cold onto her skin and through her body.

  Unable to help herself, she cried out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Michael threw the door open and sprinted into the psychomanteum.

  He felt a whoosh, as though a vacuum had suddenly opened in the enclosed space, pulling air out of the room and into some other place.

  Last time he’d been here, the ceiling light had illuminated the room. Now it was lit by dozens of flickering candles. Chelsea sat on the chair in the center of the floor, facing the ornate mirror.

  When the door opened, she leaped up and whirled toward him, wavering on her feet.

  “Michael?” she gasped.

  He rushed around the chair and caught her in his arms the way he had after the blender had shocked her. In the dim light, she looked much as she had then.

  Shocked. But this time it wasn’t because of electricity.

  “You have to get out of here,” he said, recognizing the urgency as he spoke the words.

  When she opened her mouth, no sound came out. Scooping her into his arms, he cradled her against his chest as he strode out of the room.

  “The candles,” she murmured. “You can’t leave the candles burning.”

  “Damn.” He turned back toward the room, and his breath caught in his throat. The candles had gone out, as though someone had walked through the room, extinguishing them the moment they had left.

  That was impossible. Yet he had seen it with his own eyes.

  He might have puzzled on that longer, if not for Chelsea. She hooked her arm around his neck and pressed her cheek to his chest.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured as he carried her downstairs to the second floor. “Which is your bedroom?”

  Without hesitation, she answered, “At the end of the hall. In the right-hand wing. The family wing.”

  He strode past the guest area, to a doorway that closed off the end of the hall.

  Once he had turned to shut that door, she murmured, “First room on the right.”

  She leaned over, turning the knob, and he carried her into a bedroom that was furnished much like the guest rooms in the house—with lovingly restored antiques. Only, this room was filled with personality.

  Her possessions were arranged on the tables and dresser. Little ornaments like a Japanese good luck cat. Family photos. A bookcase along one wall was brimming with art books and paperbacks.

  He laid her on the bed, and when he tried to straighten, she kept her arms around his neck.

  “Don’t go. Hold me,” she whispered.

  He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, but he understood that she needed him at that moment. In truth, he couldn’t resist the invitation. He kicked off his loafers and eased onto the bed beside her.

  She sighed. “Thank you.”

  She turned her head, staring at something, and he followed her gaze to find she was looking out the window into the darkness.

  “You see something?”

  “No. That’s the trouble,” she said, as though she were totally confounded by the lack of light outside. “So I can’t do it now.”

  “Do what?”

  “Find the mass grave.”

  He winced, feeling as though he’d come in in the middle of the conversation. “What are you talking about?”

  She gave him a quizzical look, apparently realizing that she’d left out a few details.

  “Something happened to you in that room. What was it?” he demanded.

  She kept her gaze fixed on his face as she swallowed hard. “A ghost came to me.”

  He swore under his breath, then apologized. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I felt someone calling me during the party, and I knew that I had to go up there. I knew that something was going to happen in that room.”

  “Is that why you got that strange look on your face?”

  “Yes. After Edwin started talking about the psychomanteum, I knew I had to go in there.” She gulped. “It was like a…force tugging at me. It turned out to be a ghost. She said her name was Lavinia.”

  “She gave you her name?”

  “Yes.” She raised her head so she could give him a direct look. “You don’t believe me.”

  “You believe it. That’s good enough for me,” he said. “But I wasn’t there, so I don’t know what happened.”

  “She wanted me to know about a mass grave. But it’s too dark to find it now.”

  “Yeah.”

  She kept her gaze fixed on him. “I have to do it first thing in the morning. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.” She tightened her grip on him, and he shifted her body so that she was cradled against him.

  He’d fantasized about lying with her in a bed. He’d even talked to her about it. And he wanted her now.

  When she nuzzled her lips against his neck, he was pretty sure she was thinking the same thing.

  Before she could tell him she wanted to make love, he raised his head. “We’re both dead tired.”

  “Yes.”

  He stroked his lips against her cheek, then said, “Which makes the timing pretty bad right now.”

  She heaved in a breath and let it out. “Are you making excuses?”

  “No. I’m being realistic. But there’s the other side of the equation, too. The idea of leaving you when you’ve had a frightening experience makes my stomach knot. I want to hold you for a little while. Will you let me stay?”

  The warmth in her eyes almost broke his resolve not to do more than hold her.

  “Yes.” She turned off the light on the bedside table.

  He settled down beside her, gathering her close, staring down at her breasts, wanting to cup them through the silk of her dress. He knew that if he went that far, though, he would throw good intentions out the window. Instead he contented himself with stroking her arms and shoulders, soothing her with his hands and words. He felt the tension in her, yet his touch seemed to help her relax. It worked for him, too.

  He closed his eyes, letting himself drift, feeling the mattress below him and Chelsea in his arms. With his eyes closed, he could focus on the wonderful scent of her and the soft sound of her breathing.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was shocked to see that it was no longer dark. Faint light was coming in through the window. When he shifted slightly, her eyes blinked open. For a moment he guessed that she didn’t know why he was in bed with her.

  Then comprehension dawned.

  “Last night, I talked to Lavinia in the psychomanteum. Now I have to go out to the bog to look for the grave,” she whispered.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you going to help your aunt finish cleaning up?”

  She shook her head. “There’s someone coming in from town to help. That was part of the deal when we agreed to have the party here.”

  “Okay.” He got out of bed and scuffed his feet into his loafers. It had been a while since he’d slept in his clothes, and he wanted to take a shower and change, but he wasn’t going to insist on it.

  She also got up. When she looked down at the green party dress she was still wearing, she made a face. “I can’t go out to the swamp like this. And if I’m going to change, then I might as well shower.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour.”

  He left her room and tiptoed down the stairs. Before he reached the bottom, Aunt Sophie walked across the front hall, carrying a tray full of paper plates and napkins that were left over from the party.

  She stopped and looked at him.

  “It’s not what you
think,” he said.

  “Oh?” She kept her gaze fixed on him. “Come down the rest of the way, so you don’t tower over me.”

  Obediently, he descended to the first floor.

  “Chelsea went into the psychomanteum last night. A—” He stopped short and started again. “A spirit contacted her, and she was upset. I stayed with her, in her room, and we both fell asleep.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Speaking quickly, he went on. “The spirit wanted her to do something. To go look for a mass grave. She wants to do it as soon as possible, so we’re both changing our clothes and going out.”

  “Search for a mass grave,” Sophie repeated in a soft voice. “A spirit asked Chelsea to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave him a long look. “You think you’ll find it?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I’m not letting Chelsea go out there by herself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I need to take a quick shower and change first.”

  “And I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “I don’t think Chelsea wants to take the time.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Sophie answered, heading off toward the kitchen.

  Michael hurried down the hall to his room, thinking that some mighty strange things had happened to him since coming to Jenkins Cove. And the conversation he’d just had with Aunt Sophie was one of the strangest. She’d taken it for granted that Chelsea’s encounter with the ghost had been real. Now she was making sure her niece had a good breakfast before going off to follow the spirit’s instructions.

  He took a shower in record time, then dragged a razor over his face and brushed his teeth before putting on clothes and the waterproof hiking boots he’d bought at one of the shops in town.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen, Chelsea and Sophie were both there, speaking in low voices. They both looked toward the door as he walked in.

  Her aunt spoke up in a firm voice. “I’ve persuaded Chelsea that the grave’s not going away. There’s no point in skipping breakfast.”

  Chelsea answered with a little nod, then accepted a cup of steaming coffee from her aunt.

  “I’ll make you bacon and eggs,” she said as she brought Michael coffee.

  “I don’t want that much,” Chelsea objected. “Besides, we have all those cookies and quick breads from last night.”

  Sophie gave her a disapproving look. “That’s not a very nourishing breakfast.”

  “In this case, it’s going to have to do.”

  Chelsea retrieved the plate of pumpkin bread and a tin of cookies.

  “My kind of breakfast,” Michael said as he helped himself to a spice cookie. But he could tell Chelsea was in a hurry, so he didn’t allow himself to linger.

  They were out of the house a few minutes later.

  “I’ll drive,” Chelsea said.

  “I’m not used to being driven around,” he shot back. “What’s your excuse this time?”

  “The same as last time. I know where we’re going, and you don’t.”

  He watched her expression turn grim as they climbed into the car. He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to do this—just because a ghost had given her an assignment. He knew it wasn’t strictly true, though. Chelsea had to do it.

  They turned right on Main Street and drove toward Tilghman Island. A few miles outside town, she slowed, and he saw her looking for something.

  “This is the same location where they found the body?” he asked.

  “Near here. The body was a little farther up that way.” She gestured. “I use that sign as a marker.”

  He wanted to point out that he could have headed for the sign, but he saw the tension on her face as she pulled onto the shoulder.

  “You have some other landmark?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She peered around, apparently searching for something, and pointed to a tall, misshapen pine that looked as though it had been struck by lightning. “The ghost told me to look for a tree that had its branches burned off on one side. That must be it.”

  “Okay.”

  A car cruised slowly past. The driver looked at them, but didn’t stop.

  “Was that Phil Cardon?” Michael asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing out here.”

  “He probably had a job.”

  Or he followed us, Michael thought.

  Chelsea opened her purse and took out a small revolver. Michael gaped at her. “You have a gun?”

  “Yes. For protection.”

  “And you have a permit to carry?”

  She made a face. “No. But I’m going to do it anyway.”

  They both climbed out of the car and stood on the gravel shoulder, where she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

  She looked around. “I haven’t been back here since…that night. But now that I see it in the daylight, I remember this place. A friend used to have a fishing cabin about a half mile from here. Her father would take us out there.”

  “Where do you want to start looking?”

  “Let’s head toward the tree.”

  “All right.” Michael reached for her free hand and clasped her fingers tightly as they started walking into the swampy area. There were cattails and scrubby bushes and low trees that he didn’t recognize. Though most of them were leafless in the winter, some still had foliage—either broad-leaved or pine.

  Mud sucked at their boots, making it hard to walk as they tramped farther from the road. Michael kept his gaze on the ground, unsure of what he was looking for. Probably not a white cross sticking out of the muck.

  When they came out onto slightly higher ground, he breathed out a little sigh. With the mud no longer trying to pull his boots off, the walking was easier, yet he felt a coldness in the air, like the first night when he’d walked from the House of the Seven Gables to Main Street.

  Beside him, Chelsea raised her head, looked around and made a small sound, and he wondered if she was feeling the same thing.

  “This place is spooky. I think I’d go home if I were alone.”

  “Safety in numbers.”

  She swung toward him. “Not just anyone would do,” she said in a low voice.

  He felt his heart leap. Instead of speaking, he slung his arm around her shoulder.

  She turned in a small circle. “I wish the ghost had been more specific. I don’t know where to start looking.”

  He wanted to be supportive, even though he had little faith in a ghost’s orders. “Follow your instincts.”

  She sighed. “Maybe I had a hallucination last night.”

  “Do you mean you wish you did?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and once again, her honesty tore at him. She wasn’t making up stories about ghosts. Something had happened, and she obviously didn’t know how to handle it.

  She started walking again, and he stayed close beside her.

  After about five minutes, he spotted something that wasn’t natural to the landscape. Something grayish-white, half buried in the ground.

  He pointed. “Over there.”

  When they came closer, he stifled a spurt of disappointment. It was only a tennis shoe.

  “Anybody could have lost that,” she murmured, echoing his thoughts. “Maybe that’s its mate over there.”

  She pointed to another object about the same color. But when they came closer, he caught his breath. The shape wasn’t much like a shoe.

  “I think this is something a little more significant.” He found a stick he could use to dig. Squatting down beside the grayish-white lump on the ground, he began to carefully scrape the dirt away.

  As the shape emerged, Chelsea gasped. “It’s a skull,” she whispered. “A human skull, not some animal who died out here.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So this could be a mass grave. What should we do?”

  “I think we’d better leave the skull here and see if we can find anyt
hing else.”

  “Okay.”

  They kept tramping across the ground, both of them looking down. When Chelsea made a small sound and pointed to her right, Michael hurried over. This time they saw a long bone—like part of an arm.

  “Either this is a graveyard, or animals scattered some bones,” Michael muttered.

  He had just started off to search some more when he was stopped by the sound of a small explosion and something whizzing past his head.

  Lunging back, he caught Chelsea’s hand and tugged her toward the ground.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chelsea gasped as Michael pulled her down.

  Turning her head, she stared at him. “Someone took a shot at us?”

  “Yeah.”

  She made a strangled sound, trying to wrap her head around what was happening. “Who would do that?”

  He brought his mouth close to her ear. “Keep your voice down. It’s someone who doesn’t want us to get out of here and report what we’ve found.”

  As he spoke, it happened again. The small explosion and then the sound of something whizzing past them.

  Chelsea’s heart skipped a beat, then started up again in double time, and she had to clench her jaw to keep from crying out. Somehow when she’d bought her gun and practiced at a firing range, she hadn’t imagined someone shooting back at her.

  “They didn’t even warn us,” she whispered.

  “I think that’s the idea.”

  His words made her picture two more bodies in the swamp—Michael’s and hers—and she shuddered.

  He clasped her shoulder.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

  Was it?

  “Give me the gun.”

  She handed it over. Michael moved along the ground, so that his body was covering hers, shielding her.

  “Stay down,” he whispered.

  They huddled in the bushes, and no more shots sounded.

  “Where are they?” Chelsea whispered. “And what are they going to do?”

  “I’d like to know. If we’re lucky, we can get back to the car and get out of here. Can you follow me?”