Still, Forever, Promise

by D. L. Merritt

  She closed her eyes and listened to the rain hammering against the windows. Thunder boomed, and flashes of lightning occasionally illuminated the room. She loved the rain, she always had, but for some reason tonight the atmosphere had her feeling unsettled. And being alone in a strange house with only one neighbor who lived yards away didn’t help. If she screamed, would they even hear her? The security alarm should make her feel safe, but it didn’t.

  The storm had increased in intensity since she’d arrived, and the pauses between the claps of thunder were getting shorter in duration. The storm would be right above the house soon. It would have made more sense to have booked a room at a hotel for the night. Was it practicality or stubbornness that made her decide to spend the night in the manor? Whatever the reason, she was determined to stay put.

  And then she heard something else amid the cacophony of the storm—someone sobbing. She sat up and strained to listen. The sound continued, soft and mournful, a haunting melody.

  It’s the wind whistling in the trees or a cat meowing outside. Get a grip, girl. It’s your imagination. There’s no one here but you.

  When a double lightning strike lit up the room, she detected a dark mass zoom past the foot of the bed, slinking out the door into the hallway. She stifled a scream and rubbed her eyes as if it would wipe away the vision.

  It’s the strain of driving in the rain that has me seeing and hearing things. It’s the clouds casting shadows. What else could it be?

  Despite the rationale, a chill ran down her back. She studied the room, glancing at the window and back to the hallway, as she waited for the shadow to return.

  As she analyzed all the possible scenarios, the atmosphere suddenly shifted, and a rush of frigid air swirled around her. She shuddered, hugging the sheets tight against her chest.

  Brianna spent the next five minutes trying to persuade herself that there was a logical explanation for what she saw. Refusing to sit there helpless, she scooted to the edge of the bed and fumbled to flip on the bedside lamp. The room filled with light, but it did little to soothe her frayed nerves. Her eyes darted to the shadowy corners of the room, but everything looked the same as it had before she went to bed.

  The wood floor felt cool against her bare feet as she tiptoed to the door and peeked around the corner. The hallway was dark, empty, silent.

  She hit the switch in the hall. The light flickered and went out.

  Great. Now what?

  She ran back to the bedroom, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and clicked on the flashlight, shining it ahead of her down the dark hallway. She examined every room on the third floor, flipping on the lights as she went, looking over her shoulder after every step. To her relief, all the rooms were empty.

  Leaning over the railing, she scoped out the stairwell. No figures were creeping up or down.

  She yelled out, “I’ve called the police. I’m coming downstairs with a gun. If anyone is here, I’d leave if I were you. I’m a good shot.” She hoped the quiver in her voice wasn’t noticeable.

  Inching down the stairs one step at a time, she searched each room on the second and first floors, ending up at the front door to double check the security system. The alarm was armed. The house was secure. The shadow had to have been the lightning playing tricks on her eyes.

  Brianna trudged to the kitchen knowing hot chocolate would help her get to sleep. She returned to the bedroom carrying the steaming cup, and papers ruffled under her feet, the same papers that had been lying on the dresser when she went to bed.

  How did these get here? No! Don’t go there. I knocked them over when I rushed out to the hall. That’s all.

  Her fear was palpable, her mind abuzz with images of a serial killer hiding in her attic. Wasn’t there a movie about that?

  She walked to the window and gazed out. The storm had passed. The pale glow of the moon peeked out of the clouds. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. “I guess I won’t be getting any sleep tonight.”

  After she’d gathered up the papers and rummaged through the nightstand drawer for a pencil, she propped herself up in bed, facing the door. She braced herself for a long night, and scanned through the notes. Several design ideas came to mind. She sketched them in the margins to discuss with Mr. Moretti at their next meeting.

  With her senses heightened, she watched for any further activity, glancing toward the window every ten minutes to see if the sun had risen. Daylight always had a way of chasing away the horror of a nightmare. She hoped it would work this time. This was one night she wanted to forget.

  The writing on the paper soon blurred, and her eyes closed.

  Chapter 13

  Heavy trucks rattling down the driveway and the discordant voices of workmen barking out orders on the front lawn cut through the jagged fragments of Brianna’s dreams. She opened her eyes to a room bathed in the soft glow of early morning light and birds singing outside in the trees. She wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but it had to have been close to dawn.

  Her neck had a crick in it from sleeping in an upright position. She stretched to get the kinks out before walking to the window to watch Mr. Moretti and his crew unloading equipment from the trucks and stacking it on the concrete slab.

  After quickly dressing in jeans and a T-shirt, she rushed downstairs to catch Mr. Moretti before he had a chance to leave. The door stuck as usual, and she pushed against the panels with all her weight. The door flew open, and she slammed right into Mr. Moretti, knocking him off balance.

  He caught her and chuckled. “Good morning, Miss Rossi. I thought it might be you when I saw the car in the driveway.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled, glancing back at the door. “It sticks.”

  “I’ll have one of my guys take a look at it.”

  She could tell he struggled to contain his laugher.

  Mr. Moretti cleared his throat. “Have you had a chance to give the place the once-over?”

  “Not in great detail. I got in late yesterday afternoon, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’m impressed.”

  Mr. Moretti’s smile stretched wide, a gold filling twinkling in the sunlight. “I’m glad you like it, though it would have been hard to mess it up with how detailed your drawings were.”

  “That reminds me, I came up with some minor additions last night. I’ll give them to you before you leave today.”

  “No problem. I’ll be here all day. This job’s been smooth sailing except for the incident yesterday.”

  “Incident? What incident?”

  “I thought your friend . . . umm . . . Beverly would have told you.”

  Brianna shook her head. “I was on an airplane all day, and I didn’t get a chance to call her. Is it serious?”

  “Minor setback,” he said with a shrug. “The painter quit yesterday. Says someone yanked him off his ladder and almost killed him.”

  Brianna was concerned for the man’s safety and asked if there was anything she could do.

  Mr. Moretti assured her it was only the man’s pride that was hurt, but the painter swore he wouldn’t come back because he was afraid of what the ghost would do to him next.

  “Ghost?” Brianna contemplated Mr. Moretti’s explanation with skepticism.

  “The locals have been spreading stories about the house being haunted,” he said. “I think he used that as an excuse to quit and go to work for his new brother-in-law. Everyone else on my crew knows the stories aren’t true. The painting will get done, Miss Rossi. I’ve hired another painter who’ll be here today to finish the last two rooms. I promise the job will be completed on time.”

  She wanted to believe him, but she had her doubts.

  Brianna thanked him for his hard work, and watched him walk back to his crew, wondering what really happened to the painter. She could call him and find out, but did she really want to know? Mr. Moretti was confident there was no merit to the stories. But is it possible Monroe Manor is haunted? Was that what she saw last night, a ghost or
a remnant of one? She gazed at the cloud-shrouded mountains looming in the distance, full of mystical enchantment. Had some of its preternatural attributes been transferred to this property, making it a safe haven for the dead? She’d always sensed this house hid a long-held secret. Should she continue to strip away the layers of dust and paint to unveil its mystery, or would it be safer to leave the past alone?

  She put aside her misgivings and went inside to walk around the newly remodeled reception room, her hands grazing the counter and freshly painted walls. The house no longer looked like it belonged in a horror movie, and she convinced herself there wasn’t anything sinister lurking in the manor. When she recounted the events of the night before, she was no longer afraid, merely cautious. The local gossip had gotten to her too, and her imagination had gone into overdrive. She decided to blame her experience on the power of suggestion.

  She planned to drive into town this morning to purchase the last items on her list, but first she needed to fulfill her promise to Charlene and take pictures of the house. She was adamant that Brianna keep her updated on all the changes as they occurred. With her cell phone in video mode, Brianna moved from room to room, filming the progress of the renovations.

  ***

  Rutland’s Hardware and Lumber store was full of customers ordering supplies for the day. Riley was in constant motion behind the counter, ringing up orders and organizing deliveries. He picked up the last invoice, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Dad?” he croaked out, the invoice fluttering from his trembling hand to the floor.

  “Yeah, whatcha need?” Mr. Rutland said as he appeared from the back room.

  “We have an invoice to deliver eighteen 2x4s and a box of 16-penny nails to Brianna Rossi at Monroe Manor. Is it . . .?”

  The older Mr. Rutland walked up to the counter. “Yep, it’s her. Thought you knew she was back in town.”

  Riley retrieved the invoice and placed it back on the counter, staring at the name. “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “She’s remodeling that old relic. Gonna turn it into some kind of retreat where women get their faces and bodies worked on.”

  “It’s called a spa, Dad.”

  “Whatever.” He picked up a box of batteries and proceeded to stock the shelf at the end of the counter. He glanced sideways at his son. “If I remember right, you two were quite an item in high school,” he said. “You haven’t kept in touch?”

  Riley shook his head to clear it of unwanted images, although he’d never been successful in putting her out of his thoughts or his heart. Over the years, he wondered if he’d screwed up when he pushed her away. She would disagree, but he thought it was the right thing to do, at the time. Now, years later, the decision still haunted him.

  Seeing her name scribbled on the invoice brought back a flood of memories—the way her sky-blue eyes sparkled, the slight dimples from her easy smile, her velvety voice, rich and husky, that always gave him the chills. He picked up all the orders, shoving her invoice on the bottom of the pile. “Dad, I’ll make the deliveries today,” he said, smiling.

  With a grunt, his dad waved and returned to unpacking the box.

  Riley snatched the keys to the delivery truck from under the counter and left the store that had been in his family for over a hundred years. His father had wanted him to continue the family business, but his interests lay outside this nondescript town. He craved adventure, excitement, travel. His job as a photojournalist provided it all.

  Riley backed the truck up to the loading dock where the warehouse manager helped him carry the orders and organize them in neat piles in the back of the truck, according to location. Riley made sure his last stop was Monroe Manor.

  ***

  Brianna had videotaped every room on the ground floor except the café. The camera had panned the area where the wall had been removed when the doorbell rang. She propped the phone on the sideboard, and headed for the entry.

  The door swung open, and she found herself staring into the face of the one man she most wanted to avoid, Riley Rutland. He hadn’t changed much. His ebony hair fell across his eyes, and he flipped it back with a toss of his head. He had the same warm, compassionate smile she remembered. His whole demeanor exuded confidence.

  A Rutland’s truck was parked in the driveway, and she realized he’d come to deliver her order. But why did he have to be the one to bring it? Knowing Riley, he had his own reasons for being here. She stared at him, unable to speak, a rosy flush spreading up from her neck and across her cheeks. She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

  When his penetrating, forest-green eyes crinkled at the corners, she knew he was laughing at her.

  Unable to think of a biting remark, she remained mute. I don’t need this today. Tell him you’re busy, and he can leave the order by the parking area.

  “Hello, Anya. It’s good to see you again. You’re as beautiful as I remember.”

  Brianna grimaced. Her high school nickname was no longer endearing, but irritating. Her eyes shifted to the truck.

  “Yeah, I’m making the deliveries today. I don’t know if you heard, but I was hurt pretty bad on my last assignment. Got too close to the gunfire. I came back here to recuperate and spend time with Dad. I’ve been trying to convince him to retire or slow down a bit, but . . . well, you know my dad. I was surprised when I came across your order.” He glanced around the yard. “So . . . you bought this place?”

  She nodded. “Look, I don’t have time to take a trip down memory lane, so if you don’t mind, I’ll make a check out while you stack my order by the garage.”

  He seemed startled by her abruptness. “I thought we’d . . . well, we haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  He ignored the question and continued. “I always thought this house belonged in a horror movie, maybe a remake of Psycho. It looks different now. You’ve done a great job, but then I know how talented you are.”

  The thank you stuck in her throat.

  His eyes never left her face as they stood there in awkward silence. “Well, are you going to ask me in, or are we going to stand on the veranda all day?”

  “Riley, I need . . . oh no! I left the camera running.” She rushed inside, leaving the door open, and Riley followed.

  Once in the café, she shut the camera off. Riley was right behind her, inches from her back. She could almost feel the heat emanating from his body. His close proximity made her uncomfortable. She took a step back and whipped around to face him, determined to hide how affected she was by his presence.

  His smile disappeared. She wondered what was hidden behind the intense expression on his face.

  “I heard about your parents,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

  Surprised by his sincerity, tears welled in her eyes. “As well as anyone, given the circumstances.” She skirted past him, needing to put distance between them, and crossed her arms.

  “I knew something was up when your father didn’t return any of my calls.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why would you call my dad?”

  “We’ve kept in touch since I left for college.”

  “He never told me you called.”

  “I asked him not to,” he stated, his tone flat.

  “Why?” Brianna shook her head, trying to make some sense out of what he’d said.

  “I wanted to know you were okay.”

  “You lost that right a long time ago.” The room was rife with tension, the pain of his abandonment an open wound.

  Riley leaned closer to stare into her eyes, but she shrank back. The smell of his aftershave inundated her senses and brought back feelings she thought were buried years ago. She was being drawn to him again. Old habits are hard to break. The familiar ache—that need to respond to him—blindsided her.

  She had to regain her composure.

  “I’m in the middle of a project, Riley. I’ll let Mr. Moretti know the supplies hav
e arrived.”

  Before she could dismiss him, he blurted out, “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  Taken by surprise, Brianna could only think to raise her left hand in front of his face and point to her ring finger. “I don’t think my fiancé would approve.” She moved to the front door, willing Riley to follow and leave her in peace.

  After a drawn-out pause, he spoke in a low, muffled voice. “Your father never mentioned you were engaged.”

  He seemed disappointed.

  She decided not to answer, especially since her father had been opposed to her marrying Ben.

  “You have to eat. What’s the harm? We are old friends.”

  “I wouldn’t say we’re friends. Not after—.”

  “I’ve never stopped . . . caring about you.”

  “If you cared so much for me, why didn’t you ever come back?” she asked, her voice clear and firm.

  “I did.” His eyes softened.

  “The first Christmas after you left, and I never saw you again after that. Not in the five years before I moved to California. I meant so much to you that you never thought to call me once in a while? Oh, that’s right; we needed to date other people.”

  “I said you needed to date. I wanted to give you time—”

  “Time for what?”

  “To make sure I was the one you wanted. You were so young when we dated. I had four years of college in New York ahead of me. That’s a long time to be away. Please, Anya—”

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “You’ll always be Anya to me,” he whispered. When Brianna didn’t respond, he changed the subject, repeating his dinner invitation.