“I’m sorry, Harper. I didn’t know Lenny would jump out. He’s never done that before. He’s a good frog. Honest he is.” I collapsed on the pallet and covered my face with my hands. My broken heart weighed heavy in my chest like a ton of lead. Even though she was the baby of the family, Loxley held me as I cried. After a few minutes of stroking my hair, she said, “I’m sorry, Harper. Really, I am. Did she hurt you real bad?” Her eyes were fearful and full of tears.
For her sake, I lied, “Not too bad.” I sat up now and did what older sisters were supposed to do. I comforted Loxley, and we held one another a few minutes. “Loxley, tell me the truth. Do you ever see Jeopardy? I have to know. Is Jeopardy here…is she a ghost?”
Loxley slowly shook her head. “I never see Jeopardy, but I look for her, Harper. Honest, I have tried. Daddy comes sometimes, but he doesn’t talk to me. I can see his mouth moving, but I can’t hear him. He looks sad now. And he doesn’t smile anymore.”
“Is he…does he look like he always did?” He’s not bloody, is he? Tell me he doesn’t look like a bloody fiend.
“Yes, he looks the same.” She wrinkled her neat blond brows and said, “But he’s not the only one here.”
“The lady ghost? Do you see her?”
“Not much, but the other night I heard tapping on my window.” She tapped at the air. “It was real soft, like how Jeopardy used to tap on your window when she wanted to come inside. But when I got up to look for Jeopardy, it was just the boy, the mean one who comes around sometimes. He used to stay upstairs, but now he goes all over the place, even outside. He has black eyes, Harper, and he scares me. He scratches me sometimes.”
I didn’t have any sisterly advice, so I just nodded thoughtfully, and suddenly her eyes brimmed with tears again. “He…he made me cut up your dress, Harper. I’m so sorry. He said I had to do it or something horrible would happen to you. He gave me the scissors.”
Stunned at her confession, I held her and said nothing else. All this time, I had believed that Jeopardy had destroyed the dress Momma had let me borrow for the Harvest Dance. I believed that Jeopardy wanted to hurt me, and she’d been innocent the whole time. Loxley and I both gasped as the attic door creaked open, but it was only Addison who stepped inside. I waved at her to join us on the pallet.
She didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” Addison rarely apologized, but just her being here was proof of her repentance. I held her too, and the three of us sobbed together until we were all cried out. I opened the window to cool the room, and soon my sisters and I fell asleep. No one came to look for us. Not like the day Aunt Dot came to tell us that Daddy had died. I shuddered to think of him bleeding out pinned inside his old truck. Momma didn’t like coming up here, not since that ghost pushed her down the stairs. And I knew it was a ghost because I’d seen her with my own two eyes. The door hung open for a while and didn’t move again. But just as I closed my eyes, I saw the door open wider.
“Jeopardy?” I asked as sleep took me under. It was then that I saw him. I hovered between sleep and wakefulness, and I was unable to move or speak. I couldn’t cry out or warn my sisters. It was as if I were paralyzed. At first, I saw a black form—blacker than a crow’s wing, blacker than the darkness that enveloped the attic. But then the blackness became something else. It was a gray mist and had a shape, a boy’s shape. And now, by some strange magic, I could see him clear as day.
He stared at me with perfect hatred, and then a black smile crossed his face.
More from M.L. Bullock
From the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection
A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.
I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.
And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.
Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.
For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his instructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”
Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”
“And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.
About the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection
When historian Carrie Jo Jardine accepted her dream job as chief historian at Seven Sisters in Mobile, Alabama, she had no idea what she would encounter. The moldering old plantation housed more than a few boxes of antebellum artifacts and forgotten oil paintings. Secrets lived there—and they demanded to be set free.
This contains the entire supernatural suspense series.
More from M.L. Bullock
From The Ghosts of Idlewood
I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I
’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”
I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.
I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.
According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and other components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Surprisingly, many people did.
I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.
I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.
“What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.
Like an amateur documentarian, I spoke to the camera: “Maiden voyage into the attic at Idlewood. Today is February 4th. This is Rachel Kowalski recording.”
Rachel Kowalski recording, something whispered back. My back straightened, and the fine hairs on my arms lifted as if to alert me to the presence of someone or something unseen.
I froze and said, “Hello?” I was happy to hear my voice and my voice alone echo back to me.
Hello?
About The Ghosts of Idlewood
When a team of historians takes on the task of restoring the Idlewood plantation to its former glory, they discover there’s more to the moldering old home than meets the eye. The long-dead Ferguson children don’t seem to know they’re dead. A mysterious clock, a devilish fog and the Shadow Man add to the supernatural tension that begins to build in the house. Lead historian Carrie Jo Stuart and her assistant Rachel must use their special abilities to get to the bottom of the many mysteries that the house holds.
Detra Ann and Henri get a reality check, of the supernatural kind, and Deidre Jardine finally comes face to face with the past.
More from M.L. Bullock
From The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road
“Sierra to base.”
Sara’s well-manicured nails wrapped around the black walkie-talkie. “This is base. Go ahead, Sierra.”
“Five minutes. No sign of the client. K2 is even Steven. Temp is 58F.”
“Great. Check back in five. Radio silence, please.”
“All right.”
She tapped the antenna of the walkie-talkie to her chin. “I hope she remembers to take pictures. Did she take her camera?” she asked Midas. It was the first time she’d spoken to him this afternoon.
“Yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup. You have yours?”
Sara cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you kidding? I’m no rookie.” She cast a stinging look of disdain in my direction and strolled back to her car in her stylish brown boots and began searching her back seat, presumably for her camera.
“Am I missing something?” I couldn’t help but ask. The uncomfortable feeling kept rising. I’d had enough weirdness for one day.
Nobody answered me. Midas glared after Sara, but it was Peter who broke the silence.
“Cassidy, have you always been interested in the supernatural? Seems like we all have our own stories to tell. All of us have either seen something or lost someone. They say the loss of a loved one in a tragic way makes you more sensitive to the spirit world. I think that might be true.”
“You’re an ass, Pete. You’re joking about her sister? She doesn’t know she’s lost her.” I could see Midas’ muscles ripple under his shirt. He wore a navy blue sweater, the thin, fitted kind that had three buttons at the top.
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I swear to you I’m not a heartless beast.”
“How could you not know?” Sara scolded him. “She told us about her the other night.”
“I had my headphones on half the time, cueing up video and photographs. Shoot. I’m really sorry, Cassie.”
That was the last straw. I was about to tell him how I really felt about his “joke.” I took a deep breath and said, “My name is Cassidy, and…”
The walkie-talkie squawked, and I heard Sierra’s voice, “Hey! Y’all need to get in here, now!”
Immediately everyone began running toward the narrow pathway. Midas snatched the walkie. “Sierra! What’s up?”
“Someone’s out here—stalking us.”
“Can you see who it is? Is it Ranger?”
“Definitely not! Footsteps are too fast for someone so sick.” Her whisper sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m taking pictures…should we keep pushing in toward the house?”
“Yes, keep going. We’re double-timing your way. Stay on the path, Sierra. Don’t get lost. Follow your GPS. It should lead you right to it.”
“Okay.”
“Midas! Let’s flank whoever this is!” Pete said, his anger rising.
Midas looked at me as if to say, “Are you going to be all right?”
Sara said, “Go and help Sierra. Cassidy and I will follow.”
Immediately Midas took off to the left and Peter to the right. They flanked the narrow road and scurried through the woods to see if they could detect the intruder.
Sara handed me her audio recorder. “Hold this! I’m grabbing some photos. We’re going to run, Cassidy. I hope you can keep
up.”
“Sure, I used to run marathons.” I didn’t want to seem like a wimp. Now didn’t seem like the time to tell her that I hadn’t trained in over six months. “But why are we running? Are they in danger, do you think? Maybe it’s just a homeless person.”
“The element of surprise! Hit record and come on! Get your ass in gear, girl!”
I pressed the record button, gritted my teeth and took off after her. We ran down the leaf-littered path; the afternoon sunlight was casting lean shadows in a few spots now. We’d be out of sun soon. Then we’d be running through the woods in the dark. Was it supposed to be this cold out here?
I wish I held the temperature thingy instead, but I didn’t.
“You feel that, Cassidy? The cold?” She bounded over a log in front of me, and I followed her. “Not unusual for the woods, but this is more than that,” she said breathlessly. “I think it might mean we’ve got supernatural activity out here.”
“You think?” I asked sincerely.
She paused her running. Her pretty cheeks were pink and healthy-looking. She’d worn her long hair in a ponytail today, and she wore blue jeans that fit her perfectly.
“Yeah, I do. I think it’s time you get your feet wet, rookie. Use the audio recorder. Ask a few questions.”
“Um, what? What kind of questions?”
“Ask a question like, ‘Are there any spirits around me that want to talk?’”
I repeated what she said. I spun around slowly and looked around the forest, but there wasn’t a sound. Not even bird sounds or a squirrel rattling through the leaves. And it didn’t just sound dead; it felt dead.
The Belles of Desire, Mississippi (The Ghosts of Summerleigh Book 1) Page 15