Hargrove House: The Haunted Book One

by Allie Harrison

  The lovely green dress hung behind her. Time and time again, her gaze moved to it in the reflection of the mirror before her as she carefully applied her makeup. She wanted to take her time getting ready, but at the same time, her excitement built until she could barely think straight.

  Still, she wanted to look perfect for Will, not for the party or the guests.

  Finally, enough was enough. She stared at her reflection and thought she could do no more. Carefully, she stepped out of the mud room. The dress fit her as if it had been made just for her. And the slippers Alice had given her were a perfect match and size. She was glad to be free of the heavy, clumsy boot.

  She stepped out into the kitchen. Finger foods and appetizers were carefully placed on beautiful trays that lined the entire kitchen counter. Some of them looked too beautiful to eat. Torrie silently slipped past them as she hunted for the Daltons. She wanted Will to see her first. He deserved nothing more.

  But the Daltons were nowhere to be found. Neither was Alice.

  They must be up in their rooms getting ready.

  There was no other explanation.

  Well, she’d just carefully make her way up and find them.

  With eagerness that nearly sent her running through the house and up the stairs, it took nearly all her willpower to treat her foot with care. And yet, by the time she slowly, step by step, made her way to the second floor, she had to pause at the top to catch her breath. She considered herself lucky her foot didn’t ache. To her surprise, even here she heard no sounds of the Dalton family. She expected to hear Alice giving directions or the girls giggling over the right hair ribbons.

  But the second floor was completely silent. The only sound was that of the heavy breath she let out before she moved down the hall.

  Eleanor’s room was empty and dark, as was Alexander’s room. In Violet’s room, a single lamp was burning on the desk in the corner. With the drawing desk, the bed with the violets carved into headboard, and the work table, the room looked warm and complete and inviting. Torrie gave into the urge and stepped into the room to see Violet’s latest work on the easel. It appeared to be a still life of Violet’s own palette, very interesting.

  Torrie let out another breath in a huff.

  Again the question clawed at her like cold nails down her back. A shiver moved up her. How could she have designed this room or any of them before she knew of Will’s children?

  None of this was possible…

  She could not have planned these rooms for children who were not here.

  And yet, somehow she had planned these rooms. Again, she forced a swallow past the lump of terror in her throat. “What the hell is happening here?” she said out loud. Perhaps William Dalton had been drugging her with laudanum all the while since the first time he’d shared tea with her in her office. Good heavens, had that only been a few weeks ago? It seemed like a lifetime of kisses and dances since then.

  There was only one bedroom left—the master bedroom. It was the bedroom where Will kept his children hidden. It was the bedroom where he conducted his business because she hadn’t until recently found the suitable desk for the conservatory. It was his private domain.

  She had never seen it.

  Well, that was about to change. Obviously since the Dalton family was nowhere to be found downstairs, they had to be in there, perhaps all getting ready for the party together. Will had wanted her to stay, to get ready here. He thought enough about her to ask her to stay every night. He thought enough for her to make love to her and care for her when she hurt her ankle. Surely, he wouldn’t be upset now if she knocked on the door. After all, he practically invited her to live in the house.

  She closed her eyes against the dizziness that touched her, and she wondered if it was from the trek up the stairs with her pretty-well-healed foot as she pushed aside the lingering questions. She told herself she didn’t want answers. She didn’t even want to think about those questions. Suddenly her dream of the night she’d gotten stuck in the drive and injured her ankle passed through her thoughts.

  There had been a party. It was her birthday. Just like today. She wore the same green dress she wore now. There was a man with blood on his hands.

  Torrie shuddered and tried to push the nightmare away, tuck it back into the deep corners of her mind where she never had to face it again.

  It didn’t help that she told herself over and over she could have never designed these rooms for kids she did not know. She told herself William Dalton would never keep children locked away. And what about his digging in the cellar? She was terrified to speculate where that might fit in.

  The dress made a slight swishing sound as she moved down the hall. Tonight was the biggest party of her life. All of the guests would see her work first hand in the house. She should be happy, not plagued with unneeded questions.

  She reached the door that led to Will’s room. And her mouth felt as if it were filled with cotton.

  Hesitantly, she reached up and knocked. There was no answer, nor were there any sounds of movement from within. “Will?” She called out. The entire house was eerily silent, and it took her a long moment to get her voice to cooperate. Still there was no answer.

  “Will?” She called louder. She suddenly never felt so alone in her life.

  She knew it was wrong, that this was his private domain, but she had to look in, make sure he wasn’t in there.

  The doorknob was cold beneath her palm. And it turned easily.

  The door opened slowly.

  Torrie would have gasped had she been able to draw in a breath at the sight of the bedroom before her.

  Chapter Nine

  The bedroom was completely bare, empty.

  The gray floor matched the gray walls in the falling shadows as dusk gave way to night through the bare windows. A layer of dust at least a half inch thick rose and shifted with the air current caused by Torrie opening the door. There was not a single piece of furniture, not even any footprints in the dust on the floor to indicate anyone had been in this room in the past decade.

  “Oh, my…What the…How…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

  Nothing made any sense.

  The only thing that made sense was the terror that gripped her. That terror, mixed with the horror of the remnants of her past nightmare told her she needed to get out of the house. Now.

  Still, there was more about the dream that bit at the edge of her mind and left questions she needed answered.

  She turned away from the empty room, unable to look at the emptiness any longer, unable to accept the horror of the Dalton Family.

  She made her way to the stairs again, the only sounds being rushing of her own blood in her ears. After one step down, she stopped and looked up.

  The dream took place in the ballroom as well as in Alexander and Aiden’s bedroom. Perhaps there were answers up there.

  Perhaps Will and the kids were up there now, decorating, and all this was for nothing. Perhaps he would be able to explain the empty master bedroom. Torrie forced in a breath. Perhaps his embrace would warm her and erase the terror that clutched her heart.

  Feeling as if her head was somehow detached from her body, it took nearly all her efforts and energy to make her way up another flight of stairs. She paused at the top and worked to breathe slower. For a long moment, she did nothing but lean against the banister and breathe.

  The ballroom was filled with light that spilled into the foyer at the top of the stairs. She half expected all the Daltons to be standing in there waiting for her expectantly, and when she found the large room empty, she was disappointed. Her throat burned with the need to scream out her questions about what the hell was going on.

  The portrait over the mantle took her attention first.

  Because of her injured foot, Torrie had not ventured back up the stairs to the ballroom, so she hadn’t seen any of the paintings hung. The places she had chosen were perfect, even if there was somet
hing hauntingly familiar about each of them.

  The painting over the mantel was that of the four children.

  Biting her lip and ignoring the fear that pulsed through her with every heartbeat, she drew closer, close enough to be within feet of the painting and see it clearly.

  The oldest child was Eleanor. Seeing it in the light, Torrie could not deny it.

  The boy without the ball in his hand, the boy next to Eleanor, was Alexander. The artist had captured his slightly crooked grin perfectly.

  Torrie’s gaze move to the second girl—Violet from her dream, the girl who had hugged her as Torrie played the piano, the artist, the one who would rather be up here for Torrie’s birthday party than with the children, even though she was one.

  And then the boy holding the red ball—Aiden, also from her dream, the constructor of the train track—as it was now.

  “Impossible…Simply impossible…”

  She didn’t even want to turn and take in the second portrait. In the dream, what had Will said? He had asked her if she liked her birthday present, and they had both looked at the portrait hanging right where it hung now, near the doorway leading to the stairs so anyone leaving would see it.

  She walked toward it, no longer feeling any pain in her foot. The terror outdid the pain now. She moved like a woman approaching a hangman’s noose. She didn’t want to look at it closer, but she had no choice, it was like being unable to turn away from a terrible accident.

  The painting was now dust free and every detail lit by the beautiful lighting of the room.

  Torrie stared up at a painting of herself—same honey hair, same green eyes, same pointed nose. The artist had even captured the small birthmark at her collar bone that was easily seen with the scoop neck of the dress. What was remarkable was it was the green dress that hung on the mannequin in the attic, the same dress she’d worn in the dream of her party where she danced with Will. The same dress she now wore.

  She had to remind herself that the dress came from the attic. Not in the master bedroom in her dressing room where she thought it should hang. After all, there was nothing at all in that bedroom. Still, she had the strange sensation that if she made her way back down there, she’d find the room wasn’t empty at all.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she so confused?

  “I have to get out of here,” she said out loud. “This house is making me crazy.” Her words echoed in the huge room. She knew it would be a long hobble, but she had no choice but to get to her car and get out of there. She wasn’t sure where she would go after she left Hargrove House. Would anyone believe her? “Whatever’s happening here, it can’t be real. It just can’t.”

  And then the sounds of shoveling came to her.

  How could she hear that all the way up here?

  Before she could even search for an answer to that question, she heard something else.

  “Victoria…”

  Someone called her name. Just as someone had called her name all those years ago, when she was a child and she had ventured into the house on a dare.

  She stood completely still, terrified to move, terrified to head downstairs, where the shoveling would be closer and louder, where someone called to her.

  She wouldn’t go down there. She just wouldn’t.

  No, she was leaving.

  She couldn’t stop herself as she took the steps out of the ballroom and toward the stairs.

  In the openness of the stairwell, the sounds were louder, just as she feared they would be as she drew closer. Her heart raced in her chest. Her palm on the banister was sweaty, but goose bumps covered her all over and caused her hair to stand up as she fought down shivers.

  She forgot about her hurt foot when she took the first step down and nearly tumbled, catching herself on the banister at the last moment. She let out shaky laugh at the idea of falling down the stairs and breaking her neck when she was already so terrified she could barely breathe. How ironic would that be?

  She ignored the pain that shot through her foot.

  At the sound of her frightened laughter, there was a pause in the shoveling, as if Will—or whoever was manning the shovel—could hear her, too. She didn’t know if she liked that idea or not. At the same time, she was grateful she no longer heard her name called.

  She took another step down. In the same moment, landing on the injured foot sent a jolt of pain up her leg again. This time, she welcomed the pain, however, as it cleared her mind. When it eased a little, she carefully continued. She should have kept her boot on, but she thought for one night she could do without it. Obviously not.

  She looked up at the new chandelier that hung above her head and stopped, staring at it. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure it was new. It looked new. At the same time, it looked exactly like the one from her memory, the one she’d seen as a child as she stood in the foyer below. It was even missing a single crystal, a crystal like the one in her coat pocket downstairs.

  The pain in her foot brought her back from memory lane. It was never going to go away completely, not as long as she continued walking on it which she had to do. She couldn’t stay up here forever.

  She moved to the second floor by way of her backside, scooting like a child afraid to work the stairs. It was just as slow and awkward, but easier on her foot. It also gave Torrie the opportunity to look at her foot closer.

  From all the walking and stairs, the swelling was back, mixing well with the array of bruising that still lingered.

  At the second floor landing, she used the banister to haul herself to her feet. Then she used it like a cane, propping herself up with it while she kept her weight off her injured foot. Only a few times did she need to use her other hand pressed against the opposite wall to keep her balance.

  By the time she reached the bottom, she had to sit and rest and catch her breath again. “When this heals, I’m going to the gym every day. This being out of shape sucks,” she muttered, doing her best to ignore the louder sounds of the shovel impaling earth. “And I don’t care how loud that sounds; I’m not going down there. I’m not checking it out. I do not need to know why he’s digging down there!”

  She grabbed her purse, which she’d left in the mud room when she’d put on makeup. It had her cell phone and her keys. She could forget her laptop or clothes or anything else for now. She was too tired from the trek to search and gather things. Besides, the bag with her computer would simply be too heavy and slow her down.

  The sudden sounds of rain touched her beneath the sounds of the shoveling. And it left her uncertain. She might not do well trying to escape in the rain, hurt as she was. The last thing she needed was to try something that might hurt more. What if she fell again? What if she slipped and hurt her other ankle and couldn’t walk at all? She slipped into her coat. The idea of falling sent a shiver through her as she slipped her purse over her shoulder. She’d call the police, get some big, strong men in uniform here so she wasn’t alone. They could help her to her car so she could leave.

  She could at least wait for help on the front porch, out of the house but protected from the rain.

  The sounds of the shovel were urgent and touched her like claws raking over her skin. She wanted to scream for them to stop.

  She dug into her purse for her phone. In her fumbled fear, the small phone slipped from her hand and tumbled to the floor. “Damn.” She couldn’t afford to break her only way of communication—not now.

  Thank heavens the phone worked and she still had bars since it obviously hadn’t been charged in a while. She couldn’t dial 9-1-1 quickly enough.

  “Nine-one-one emergency. What’s your emergency?”

  At the sound of the dispatcher’s voice, Torrie couldn’t think how to respond. “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, can you tell me what’s happened to you? Are you hurt?”

  “I fell. I hurt my ankle. I know it was sprained. But…”

  “But? Do you need an ambulance?”

  The dispatcher sounded impatient. To
rrie supposed she would be, too, if the person who needed help couldn’t get their story clear enough so it could be received.

  “I think I just need help, perhaps from the police.”

  “Are you able to get up on your own? Did you hit your head?”

  “Yes, I’m up on my own, and no I didn’t—well, I did hit my head when I fell, but I’m fine now. I’m not calling for help from the fall. That was some time ago. But I’m at the Hargrove House, do you know where that is?”

  “Yes,” came the dispatcher’s reply.

  “And there’s something more going on in the cellar.”

  “Something more like what? Could you please be more specific so we know the type of emergency help to send to you?”

  “He’s…digging.”

  “Digging? Who’s digging? And why is that an emergency?” It wasn’t her imagination. He really was impatient.

  “William Dalton…” How could she explain? The dispatcher now thought she was crazy since she told them William Dalton was in the cellar digging. Actually, she was surprised he didn’t just laugh and remind her the owner was allowed to dig on his own property as long as the utilities were marked.

  “I think I just need the police,” she replied. “Could you please just send the police!”

  She hit the end button. She felt better, at least her heart wasn’t hammering in her chest. Let the police check out what Will did in the cellar. Then they could take her home or just help her out of here—whatever she needed. She slipped her phone into her pocket. In her coat pocket, she also felt the crystal from the chandelier. She pulled it out and looked at it. It had always seemed to bring her luck.

  She held it tight in her fist. It felt warm.

  The door to the cellar opened slowly. The loud creak of its hinges startled her, and Torrie realized that over the course of her conversation with the dispatcher, the sounds of shoveling had stopped. Her purse slid off her shoulder and landed with a plop on the floor of the kitchen.