by Ashlee Price
“And she was always… nice?” I ask.
“To me,” Mr. Murrow answers. “But when my children visited, or my friends or other relatives or the plumber or the man who wanted to buy the house, she’d throw a fit. They say she’d chase them or glare at them or shriek. They’d wake up in the middle of the night and she’d be floating above them. That’s why they always sleep here in the living room now when they come over, though even then, they say they can hear her footsteps upstairs.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want them here,” I suggest. “Then again, while it’s understandable that she wouldn’t want strangers here, it doesn’t make sense that she wouldn’t want her children or grandchildren.”
“She wasn’t exactly a doting mother or grandmother,” Mr. Murrow says. “She was strict with them. Of course, contrary to what they think, she only did it because she loved them.”
“Why only upstairs?” Ingrid asks.
“She died upstairs in our bedroom,” Mr. Murrow explains, eyes on the floor. “I made the decision to bring her home from the hospital, knowing how weak she was. She asked me to.”
Ingrid picks up the recorder and turns it off. “Do you think we can go upstairs?”
My eyes grow wide at the question.
After hearing everything Mr. Murrow just said, she wants to go upstairs?
Mr. Murrow shrugs. “If you want to, though like I said, she might give you a fright.”
Ingrid stands up. “I’m hoping she will.”
I grab her arm. “Are you sure about this?”
She nods, then leans over me to whisper in my ear. “I need to make sure there is a ghost story first. Then I’ll ask for the love story.”
“Fair enough.”
“Are you coming with me?” she asks out loud.
“Of course.” I get on my feet.
“Shall I accompany you?” Mr. Murrow asks, standing as well.
“Oh, please, you don’t have to,” Ingrid tells him. “We don’t want to cause you trouble, though we’ll call you if we can’t find her.”
“Oh, she’ll find you,” the old man says.
I frown. Great.
Ingrid gestures to me and I follow her up the stairs.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I ask her, my hand on the railing.
She stops, turning to me. “Are you scared, Conner Blake?”
“No.”
Well, I am, but not of Nancy’s ghost. I just don’t want Ingrid to get hurt. But I don’t tell her that.
“Let’s get on with it then,” she says, completely oblivious.
She continues up the stairs. Reaching the top, she stops, taking a deep breath.
“Are you scared, Ingrid Halfield?” I ask her.
“Shh.” She holds a finger up. “I’m trying to listen.”
Walking behind her down the corridor, I try to listen as well. All I can hear is the creaking of floorboards beneath our feet.
Where’s Nancy?
We reach the end of the corridor after opening all the doors and checking all the rooms, including the one that looked like it must have been the Murrows’ old bedroom.
Nothing.
Was Mr. Murrow lying? But what about all the others?
Ingrid sighs. “I guess she’s not in the mood to appear today.”
“Maybe she only appears at night,” I tell her. “We can wait.”
She says nothing.
“Hey.” I place a hand on her shoulder. “Even if we don’t see a ghost, you can still go with the story.”
She turns to me. “Without proof of Nancy’s haunting?”
“You get proof of a haunting and you’ll have a bigger story than you bargained for,” I point out. “Anyway, you have Mr. Murrow’s word and you can interview the others.”
“I guess,” she says. “Still…”
Just then, we hear a thud upstairs. Then another. And another.
“Footsteps,” Ingrid whispers excitedly. “She’s all the way upstairs.”
I glance up the stairs. “But I thought Mr. Murrow said…”
“He simply said upstairs,” Ingrid says. She’s already going up the second set of stairs to the third floor.
I frown. Well, I knew she was stubborn. I don’t know why I thought that was an endearing quality.
I follow her, listening to the sound of the footsteps and bracing myself to see Nancy. As soon as we get to the third floor, though, the sound vanishes and everything is silent.
“Maybe we scared her off,” I remark.
“Shh,” Ingrid hushes me again, pointing at the door at the end of the corridor, which is open. “Maybe she’s in the attic.”
Walking slowly but with shoulders straight, she heads for the open door and peeks inside.
I, too, take a peek, seeing nothing.
“Maybe she’s hiding,” Ingrid whispers, entering the room.
I step in beside her, looking around the attic. There’s nothing but boxes everywhere, an old TV, an old chair and a pile of rugs, all covered in a thick layer of dust that can easily be seen in the afternoon sunlight drifting in through the lone window.
Some of it gets into my nose and I sneeze.
“Shh.” Ingrid turns to me, a finger to her lips.
I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can, the door behind creaks and then falls shut. I turn around, grabbing the knob and turning it only to find that it won’t budge.
I frown.
“What’s wrong?” Ingrid asks.
“The knob’s broken,” I tell her, letting go of the knob and banging on the door. “Hey! Mr. Murrow! Shadow! Can you get us out of here, please?”
“You think someone locked us in?” Ingrid asks. “You think Nancy locked us in?”
“Nonsense,” I tell her. “We didn’t see Nancy, plus no one said anything about her touching or moving things around her. Frankly, I don’t think ghosts can do that.”
“But…”
“The breeze probably just closed the door.” I gesture to the slightly open window. “You know, that same breeze that made me sneeze. And then it locked by itself. Sometimes doorknobs can do that, especially if they’re old.”
Ingrid doesn’t look convinced. She rubs her arms. “But why was the door to the attic open in the first place? Shouldn’t it be closed?”
Good point. Attic doors are usually kept closed.
I decide to think about that later, though. I bang on the door again.
“Mr. Murrow!” I pound my fists on the door.
“Maybe he can’t hear us,” Ingrid says.
“Maybe.”
I smack my shoulder into the door, putting my weight behind it. It still won’t budge.
“The knob may be old and faulty, but the door’s still good as new,” I say, knocking on it. “It’s sturdy. And the hinges are outside, too.”
Ingrid sighs. “So, we’re stuck here, huh?”
“Just for a little while,” I tell her. “I think Mr. Murrow will eventually get worried about us and he’ll come check on us.”
“And if Nancy’s the one who checks on us?” she asks.
I pull my eyebrows together. “I thought you weren’t scared.”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
She takes the top rug off the pile near the window and sits on it, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. I notice for the first time that they’re shaking.
She is scared.
I go to her.
“I won’t let Nancy hurt you,” I promise her.
She lifts her head to look at me. “I thought you said ghosts can’t hurt people.”
I shrug. “Well, you seem to think so.”
She tucks her chin between her knees. “I sure hope Mr. Murrow finds us soon.”
“Yeah.” I sit beside her.
Not that I’m scared. I just don’t want to be stuck in a dusty attic for long. Especially not so long that it gets dark.
I glance at Ingrid.
Then again, if it’s with he
r…
“Distract me,” she says, hugging her knees tighter.
“What?”
“Talk about something so I’ll forget about the dire situation we’re in,” she says.
Okay.
“What do you want to talk about? Alexa?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Thinking about her will only make me more anxious. I mean, what if we never get out of here? What’s going to happen to her?”
I reach for her hand. “We’re going to get out of here. I promise.”
She pulls her hand away.
I tap my fingers on my lap. “Why don’t you ask me a question and I’ll answer.”
Ingrid gives me a puzzled look. “What?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Make that three questions.”
“Any question?”
“Yeah. It’s time to put those journalistic skills to use.”
She grins, then scratches her chin as she stares at the ceiling, thinking.
“Come on.” I nudge her. “There must be a ton of things you want to ask me.”
She turns her head to look at me. “Why did you decide to become a journalist?”
Ah. A serious question.
I sit back. “Well, I didn’t really decide. It’s not like it was my dream or anything. I just thought I’d try it and I realized I was good at it, and that it was fun and relatively easy.”
“Easy?”
“I mean compared to working with numbers all day, or operating on someone. I’m not saying anyone can do it, though. It’s hard, too. It takes a lot of hard work, resourcefulness and determination.”
Ingrid nods. “Resourcefulness, huh? That brings me to my second question.”
I hold my breath.
“How many women have you slept with to get a story?”
I take a deep breath, not sure I like this one. “A few.”
“Give me a number,” she demands.
I look at my fingers. “Five maybe. Six.”
“Does that include me?”
“Is that your third question?”
She shrugs.
I take another deep breath. “No. Just to set the record straight, I did not intend to steal that story from you. I did not sleep with you just to get that story.”
“Really?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
I nod. “Really. Believe it or not, you weren’t the only one who smelled a story at Damien Shore’s party. I was there because I was after the same story. I had no idea who you were. I just found out you were a journalist because I saw your camera, because I recognized that intense curiosity in your eyes. When you left me at that crazy party, I had a feeling you were going snooping. So I followed you. I was afraid you’d be in danger. And you were. I saved you the only way I knew how.”
“By seducing me.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I confess. “I got carried away. And then afterwards, I saw the camera and I just decided to run with it, literally.”
“You stole my story.”
“Okay, I did.” I raise my hands. “But that wasn’t my intention. The opportunity came up and I seized it.”
“You stole my story,” Ingrid repeats. “You knew I was a journalist. You saw I was taking pictures. You knew I was after the same story, and you stole it.”
I look into her eyes, pursing my lips. “I’m sorry.”
She looks away, silent for a moment. Then she bangs her head on the wall.
“I should never have gone up those stairs with you.”
“Well, I did ask you if you were sure you wanted to,” I remind her.
She pouts. “Are you saying this is all my fault?”
“I’m glad you said yes, though.” I touch her shoulder as I look into her eyes. “Because that night was amazing.”
She blushes.
I stroke her shoulder. “You in that gown with your eyes smiling from behind your mask… Now, that was magical.”
She shakes her head slowly. “You tricked me. You seduced me. God knows you’ve had practice. You’re just so good at putting women under your spell, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary, it’s you who has me under your spell.”
Grasping her chin, I press my lips to hers.
She pulls away, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“Distracting you.”
I kiss her again, more firmly this time. At first she doesn’t move, her lips simply quivering beneath mine. Then, as I place my hand on her cheek and kiss her harder, she grips my arm and kisses me back.
Triumph swelling in my chest—along with something else—I move my hand behind her head, running it through her hair as I part her lips so that I can have a taste of her.
She shivers, letting out a soft moan.
Damn, I’ve missed this.
Pulling her close to me, I kiss her neck, savoring the taste of her, the feel of her skin, the smell of her…
Suddenly, I stop, smelling something else.
Smoke.
I look out the window. “Do you smell that?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Is that…?”
“Smoke,” I say, though I can’t see any.
It’s not coming from outside the house, which means…
I stare at the door and see black wisps crawling in through the gap underneath.
“Shit.”
I try to open the window, but it’s jammed. Ingrid comes over to help me, but the window still won’t budge.
Looking around, I grab the broken TV.
“Move away,” I tell Ingrid.
After she does, I throw the appliance at the glass, which shatters into pieces.
Using the rug, I remove the sharp edges and then help Ingrid squeeze through to the roof. After that, I climb out myself.
“We have to climb down,” I tell Ingrid. The smell of smoke is stronger now.
“What?”
“Hold my hand.”
She stretches her arm out to me and I grab it, guiding her across the roof towards the tree. I get on the tree branch and climb down, jumping the last few feet. Then I look up at Ingrid.
“Jump,” I tell her.
“Are you crazy?”
“Jump and I’ll catch you,” I tell her, stretching my arms. “I promise.”
For a moment, she hesitates—then she leaps into my arms. I catch her but lose my balance and end up lying on the ground with her on top of me.
“Are you alright?” I ask her.
She nods, still too shocked to speak.
Moments later, the roof bursts into flames.
Grabbing Ingrid’s hand, I run to the front of the house. Mr. Murrow and Shadow are there. Shadow starts barking at us.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re safe,” Mr. Murrow says, relief on his face.
“What happened?” I ask him.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I was just watching TV and the next thing I knew, there was a fire. You don’t think my Nancy started it, do you?”
I shake my head. Faulty wiring, maybe?
Or maybe…
I recall the footsteps Ingrid and I heard and then the door to the attic shutting, locking.
“Mr. Murrow, did you leave the attic door open?” I ask him.
“The attic?” He looks at me in surprise. “Why, I haven’t been there in years. In fact, I think I might have lost the key.”
I stare at the house, the smoke rising towards the sky.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Chapter Eight
Ingrid
“I feel so bad that Mr. Murrow’s house got burned while we were there,” I finally tell Conner when I return to the apartment after bringing Alexa to school.
I haven’t really spoken to him since the fire. I ignored him throughout the flight back to Boulder last night, still in shock about what happened. Then when we arrived, I was so exhausted that I went straight to bed after picking Alexa up from Janine’s. This morning, I was in a rush to bring Alexa to school, so we haven’t had time to talk.<
br />
Until now.
Picking up a sock from the floor, I sit on the couch, sighing as I put my hand against my forehead.
“Hey.” Conner stands behind me, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t go sounding like we started the fire now, because we didn’t.”
“I know, and I didn’t say that, but…” I turn to him. “Do you really think that it was some old wire? That it was an accident? A coincidence?”
“You know what I think?” He sits on the other end of the couch. “I think that someone wanted to burn down the house before we got there and we were in the way—I mean, we could have easily stopped him, or at least we could have done it better than Mr. Murrow could—so we got locked in the attic and then the house got burned.”
My eyes grow wide. “So, someone did try to burn us alive?”
“But they didn’t,” he says. “Mr. Murrow and Shadow were fine, too, so it’s not much of a tragedy.”
“Yeah. At least no one died,” I agree, grateful for it. “But you don’t think Nancy did it?”
“Absolutely not.” Conner shakes his head. “Even if ghosts could start fires, why would she? It was her house.”
“True.” I stand up, picking another sock from the floor. “But now that it’s burned down, she won’t be able to haunt it anymore. Mr. Murrow won’t see her anymore, and that kind of makes me sad.”
“Who knows? She might follow him to his new home. And if she does, then that makes for an even better story, right?”
I snort, picking up a shirt. “I don’t think Mr. Murrow will let us into his new home even if that happens. He didn’t seem mad at us, but still…”
I feel his hand on my shoulder again. “We’ll find a new story, okay?”
“Okay.” I pick up a small pair of pants, the last item of clothing tossed on the living room floor. “I swear that little girl leaves a mess wherever she goes.”
“And someday, she’ll leave a mess of broken hearts.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Not funny.”
“Okay.”
The pile of laundry in my arms, I go into the bedroom and toss the clothes in the hamper. Then I sit on the edge of the bed, letting out another sigh.
I still can’t believe Conner and I almost died yesterday, and I’m not sure what’s worse—that or the fact that he kissed me in that dusty old attic.
And that I kissed him back.