Haunting Ellie
Page 12
She didn’t want his company, but quite obviously, she’d never mastered the fine art of bluntly getting rid of a man. At least one like Matt. “Thanks. Not tonight. I might just stop by the cafe later and get something quick.”
“I’ll take you there.”
Couldn’t he catch the drift of her subtle hint? “I’d rather kick off my shoes and eat here. It’s been a long day.”
“I’m sure Libby can dish up a gourmet meal, something drenched in gravy and grease. I’ll pick up two evening specials and bring them back.”
“Well...”
“It’s no imposition, Liz.”
Following Matt to the door, Elizabeth hoped against hope that he’d slip and fall in the snow, get his pretty clothes all wet, and be forced to go home for the evening. Unfortunately, she didn’t think she’d be quite that lucky.
“Get comfortable, Liz, I’ll be back shortly.”
Closing the door, Elizabeth leaned against it for a moment. Get comfortable, huh? How? A slinky negligée? A chastity belt suddenly came to mind. She’d never thought wearing one would be comfortable, but if she had one, it might suit the occasion.
Laughing at herself and her thoughts, she sauntered into the parlor, remembering the distaste of Matt’s kiss and its precipitous end. Spitooey! She’d heard it twice now, or at least, she thought she’d heard it, both times in that same cantankerous voice.
Both times when Matt was near.
Standing in the middle of the room, she stared at one of the hotel’s many chandeliers. It wasn’t swaying now; the crystals weren’t tinkling, but that didn’t mean her housemate, if she really had one, wasn’t nearby. All of a sudden she was beginning to believe there might really be someone in the hotel with her. A restless spirit. A ghost.
She faced the ceiling and spoke to thin air. “There’s no need to stay quiet any longer. I know you’re in here.”
As before, nothing and no one answered. All Elizabeth heard were the growing gale outside and the scrape of the poplar against the exterior walls. “Go ahead. Be silent. See if I care.” She circled the room. “This is crazy. I shouldn’t even believe you exist.” She stopped again, dead still, and stared at the chandelier that hung slightly off-kilter, as if someone perched on one of the curving brass rungs. “Look, all I want to do is thank you for interrupting that kiss. Well, that’s not all, really. I want you to know that I’m capable of handling things on my own—”
Like hell!
That time she did hear it, loud and clear, and she stood frozen in place, afraid to move. What on earth had possessed her to stay in this place? My God, it was really and truly haunted. But by what? Or who?
The crystals on the chandelier shimmied, clinking against each other, as the heavy fixture swung back and forth, back and forth.
A heavy thud sounded on the parquet beneath the chandelier. Had someone or something jumped or fallen to the floor?
Gradually, the chandelier ceased its movement. Elizabeth swallowed hard. So many noises. So many strange occurrences. She took one tentative step away from the craziness.
Keep him out of my house.
The voice was deep and loud and menacing. Her chest rose and fell heavily with each frightened breath she took. Her shoulders tensed. Something was circling her, she could sense the movement, could feel the rush of air, cold one moment, hot the next, against her cheeks. She took an even deeper breath and willed herself to be calm. “If you’re trying to frighten me, you’re doing a pretty lousy job.” It wasn’t the truth, but she refused to let the intruder see or hear her fear.
Get rid of him, or I will
“Is that a warning?” she threw right back, making her voice sound just as low and just as menacing.
No response.
“Did you hear me?” she repeated. “Is that a warning?”
The front door creaked and Elizabeth spun around, half relieved, half disappointed to see Matt walk into the house with his arms laden with Styrofoam containers. “I was right. Gourmet pot roast, straight from the finest chef in Sapphire, Montana.”
Elizabeth wished she had the bottle of wine in hand so she could down a healthy swig. Had her companion departed? she wondered. Had the phantom given up so easily? She doubted it, but she didn’t sense the spirit anywhere nearby, not at the moment.
“I got a little sidetracked while you were gone, Matt. It won’t take me a moment to get the table set.”
With shaking fingers, she took red linen and white lace tablecloths from an armoire and draped them over the table.
“These ought to look nice, too,” Matt said, picking up a set of silver candlesticks with long white tapers.
They look romantic, Elizabeth thought, and she didn’t find anything the least romantic about what was going on in her home. She just wanted to eat and get Matt out.
“Nice table you’re setting.” Matt placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. A shiver ran down her spine.
The table looked too intimate. How could she expect Matt to keep his hands off her when she was setting a cozy table for two? In front of a fire. With wine.
And pot roast. Nobody ate pot roast intimately.
She felt a tiny prick on her earlobe, felt Matt’s warm breath on her ear, his fingers lightly caressing her throat. She wrenched away from his touch, halfway wishing the spirit, or phantom, or ghost, would smack the guy upside the head for being such a pain.
She set out the food, the paper plates, and the plastic utensils Libby had packed, all the while keeping one eye trained on Matt. He was leaning against the door again with his arms crossed, letting her do all the work herself. She started to light the candles, only because they looked so lifeless without flickering flames, but changed her mind and set the matches on the table.
She took her seat when Matt pulled out her chair, ever the gentleman, if only in the most superficial sense of the word. He leaned over, swept up the matchbook, and lit the tapers. She nearly groaned in frustration. “I like a more intimate touch when I dine,” he said, and took his chair.
Casually, Elizabeth lifted a wedge of potato with her fork, holding it before her mouth. She smiled weakly at Matt, wondering how to hold a conversation with a man who wanted only to talk about himself, or make sexual innuendos. Business-related talk seemed safe. “So,’ she began, “tell me about the advertising copy.”
“That can wait.”
‘Then tell me about the hotel. Why hasn’t it sold before?” He ignored the pot roast, opting for more wine instead. “No one wanted it, plain and simple. Phoebe Carruthers, the original owner, left it to family members back east. She must have died in nineteen-ten or so, and it sat empty until about ten years ago, when the last of her nephews decided to dump the place. I bought it, but until your brother came along, I couldn’t find anyone I felt deserved a place like this.”
“Well, I’m glad we bought it. As I said before, it’s proved to be a good investment.”
Matt leaned his elbows on the table. “You look very beautiful in the candlelight,” he whispered.
A cold blast of air rushed past Elizabeth’s ear and the candle flames sputtered out, leaving only a thin stream of smoke.
Matt sat up straight, his eyes wide with fear. “Did you blow out the candles?”
Elizabeth shook her head and put another piece of potato in her mouth. She chewed lightly and swallowed slowly. “This place not only moans and groans, but it’s got a terrible problem with drafts. I really do have to get the weatherstripping installed.”
Matt picked up his freshly filled glass of wine and drank the contents. “I don’t have any drafts at all in my place. No air-filled plumbing, either. Maybe you’ll consider coming to my house for dinner next time.”
Elizabeth took another bite, enjoying his discomfort. She didn’t intend for there to be a next time, and she hoped by the time dinner was over, Matt would feel the same way, too. But she couldn’t help giving him a more hopeful answer. “Perhaps.”
Like hell!
“Oh, Matt, you’ve ruined your shirt.”
“The hell with my shirt. Did you hear that voice?”
Shaking her head, she got up from her chair and dabbed her napkin at the stain. “I don’t think this is going to come out, Matt. I’m really sorry.”
In one quick gulp, Matt downed the rest of his wine and filled the glass to the brim. “I suppose what I heard was the pipes again?”
“Honestly, Matt, I didn’t hear a thing.” Again she took her seat and took a healthy bite of the Tin Cup Cafe’s daily special. “Pot roast’s delicious tonight.”
“Yeah. I figured you’d like it.” With his hand still shaking, Matt took a bite and Elizabeth watched him struggle to swallow. “So, do you know anything at all about this place you own?” He was trying to carry on a somewhat normal conversation, but she could sense that discomfort raged in his nerves.
“Only the few things Jon’s told me. I know about Phoebe Carruthers, and why she turned the place into a boardinghouse.”
“And you want to know more?”
Balancing her elbows on the table, and holding her wineglass in front of her face, she studied Matt’s eyes. Did he know more than Jon? It seemed there was something he knew about this place, something he wanted to keep to himself.
“The story of Alexander Stewart sounds rather fascinating. Did he really rob the bank and leave Amanda Dalton standing at the altar?”
“He did all those things and more.”
She heard a deep sigh, almost a moan, but saw no sign that Matt had heard it, too. She felt someone or something gripping the back of her chair, felt a presence close—very, very close. “Tell me about him.”
“There’s nothing documented, I’m afraid, and there weren’t any witnesses. None who lived, that is. Seems everyone in town was at the church for Amanda’s wedding. Must have been two hundred people crowded inside the place. Everyone but Alexander Stewart. No one knows for sure what happened, but as far as anyone can tell, he went into the bank, forced the clerk to open the safe, then shot him.” Matt pointed his index finger at Elizabeth’s head and pretended to pull a trigger. “Bang!” His face lit up. “Right between the eyes.”
Elizabeth’s chair shook, and her elbows slid. The tablecloth bunched up as if someone had grabbed hold, as if someone needed something to strangle in anger. The bottle of wine fell, its contents spilling over the red cloth and white lace, heading straight for Matt’s lap, along with the piece of huckleberry pie Elizabeth had been eager to taste.
Matt jumped, but not quickly enough. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, looking straight at Elizabeth as if she were the culprit who’d caused the catastrophe.
“You scared me, that’s all. My elbows slipped on the tablecloth.”
“Scared you? With what?” Matt grabbed a hunk of pie from his lap with his napkin and flung it on the table.
“With that story!”
Slowly, Elizabeth watched Matt regain his composure, his regal and snobbish bearing returning. He took a deep breath and laughed as if nothing at all had happened. “I apologize. It was an accident. But like I said, next time we’ll dine out, or we’ll dine at my house.”
“If we dine out again.”
Matt moved closer, smoothing his fingers over her cheek. “There will be a next time, Liz. Rest assured.” She tried to draw back, but his fingers wrapped around her neck and pulled her closer, his lips coming down on hers again. She attempted to struggle, but to no avail.
And then he stopped. “What was that for?”
“What?”
“Slapping me on the back of the head?”
“I didn’t, but I should have.”
Matt’s lips pursed and he stalked toward the door. Elizabeth followed close behind, anxious to be rid of the man and knowing she wasn’t the only one with that desire. She felt a strange upheaval in the room. Matt was close to the door when his body jerked. He stopped abruptly and twisted around, his eyes hot with anger. “Kicking doesn’t become you, Liz. I’ll try to forget you did that.”
Kicking? She had no desire to touch the man. “Go home, Matt.”
He opened the door, then appeared to change his mind about leaving. Again she watched his composure return. Never in her life had she seen anyone switch so quickly from hot to cold. “Maybe we’re being too hasty, Liz. Let’s try this again.”
Stretching his hand toward her, she was afraid he was going to touch her again, afraid she would feel his cold, clammy hand on her cheek. She backed away, but it didn’t matter. Matt’s coat flew off the rack and out the door. His composure disappeared completely as unseen fingers twisted around his collar and propelled him toward the door. His body jerked again at the threshold, his collar instantly loosening, and he stumbled onto the doorstep.
And don’t come back!
The door slammed shut.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in fear, then narrowed in anger. She didn’t know in which direction to voice her fury, but voice it she did, calmly, coolly, and only mildly loud. “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know where you are, and personally, I don’t care! That man may have deserved everything you dished out, but he was my guest, and... and I wanted to throw him out. I’d appreciate it if you’d remember that the next time.”
She didn’t wait for any further words or actions. Instead, she stormed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door behind her.
Well, hell and tarnation. Don’t that beat all.
Chapter 8
Wind whipped through the trees and beat against the windows, like an outcast begging to come inside. Elizabeth lay on her side, curled up tightly in the massive old bed, and clutched her pillow for comfort. She looked through the window, watching dark clouds break apart and scatter across the sky as the storm ebbed once again. Moonlight raced across the floor, over the foot of her bed and slid under the door leading to the hall. It lit the room just enough that she could tell no one occupied the space but her. But still she sensed she wasn’t alone.
She’d tossed and turned for hours, listening and watching for the spirit that haunted her home. It didn’t speak or make its appearance known, except for the rhythmic sighs of the floor-boards, as if someone was pacing back and forth, back and forth. There was no luminous apparition, no foggy mist in the shape of a human to let her know it kept her company, only the occasional flutter of the dust ruffle on the bed, the tinkling of a hanging crystal on a lamp, the rapid, not-quite-frightened beat of her heart.
Time ticked by on the clock downstairs. She could hear its incessant tick-tock, tick-tock echoing through the walls, keeping time with her heart.
She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
She woke with a start. Cool air circled her pillow, and something gentle, like a lover’s fingers, brushed over her hair. A tinge of fear shivered through her body. Was the ghost beside her? Was it touching her? She hadn’t been afraid earlier, not when the rooms were filled with light. Not when her ghostly companion was harassing Matt.
But now, in the darkness, she felt so very alone, and so very vulnerable.
Her muscles tensed. “Please,” she whispered with a quiver of fright in her voice, “don’t hurt me.
The fingers stilled at her temple, then slowly drew away.
Elizabeth rose, balancing herself on her elbows, and searched the room. The new white lace panels fringing the window parted and she knew the invisible occupant of the hotel was once again standing there.
“Why do you look outside?” she asked, her voice low and trembling. It seemed insane, talking to the unseen thing, yet she felt compelled, as if something strong and powerful was willing her into a conversation.
But no one resp
onded. The curtains didn’t move. Nothing stirred at all except the fright rushing through her veins.
“Is there someone out there you want to see?”
The curtains dropped back into place, rippling slightly until they stilled, hanging lifeless once again. She could easily imagine someone at the window turning abruptly, staring at her, trying to think of a response to her question.
But no one spoke.
Cool air moved around her again. The icy fingers touched her face. She reached out, wondering if there was anyone or anything there to touch. But only the freezing air surrounded her, swirling faster and faster, and in an instant the caress ended.
Light footsteps crept up the stairs. A moment later Elizabeth heard a soft, plaintive cry.
It was the loneliest sound Elizabeth had ever heard, and she had to follow.
She pushed out of bed and ran up the stairs to the attic room, where she knew she would find him. Him? Yes, she was certain now of that fact. Only a man would stroke her hair so gently, caress her cheek like a lover, softly, tenderly; it was the touch of a man who wanted something he couldn’t have.
Amanda.
The tender sigh filled the room—a man’s voice, unbearably sad—and tears fell unbidden from Elizabeth’s eyes.
She crossed the room and leaned against the wall next to the window. She didn’t look outside, just continued to stare at the emptiness beside her, the lonely spot in front of the dingy pane of glass she knew was occupied by the spirit of a man.
“Why do you call her name?” Elizabeth asked.
She heard only a sigh, and once again a ring of fog clouded the window.
“Is there any way I can help?”
No response.
“Who are you?” she implored. “Please, tell me.”
The air stirred. The dust-filled curtains shifted, and Elizabeth wondered if he was going to appear. The thought frightened her, yet talking to an invisible man frightened her even more. How many more sleepless nights would she spend wondering if he watched her, wondering if he would hurt her? How many more restless nights would she spend listening to him roam the halls and the rooms, crying in the darkness, laughing behind her back? She had to make him stop.