Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  Perplexed, Tyler straightened, studying her for a minute or two.

  It probably wouldn’t look proper to leave her sleeping there. But…they were living in the modern world. He was going upstairs, she was downstairs, and he really didn’t give a damn what people said. She lived alone, and he was pretty sure she didn’t have to answer to anyone.

  “Sleep tight,” he murmured.

  He walked the stairs up to the second floor, heading for the master bedroom.

  He paused to glance at the other painting of Beast Bradley. Here, there was strength in the eyes, but not that expression of brutal cunning and cruelty.

  “Talk to me?” he offered.

  But the house was silent.

  He went on to bed, open to the spirits who might roam the house.

  That night, none of them chose to appear.

  * * *

  Allison woke with a start.

  She sat up, feeling lost. Then she noticed the blanket around her and turned to see the pillow she’d slept on. She looked around, realizing she was in the foyer of the Tarleton-Dandridge House. She remembered seeing Julian and she remembered passing out.

  She didn’t want to be here. She’d imagined Julian last night; he was on her mind. She was near the place where he’d died. She had been an idiot to come here.

  Now she had to go.

  She rose just as Tyler Montague came walking through from the salon doorway, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “It’s black. Hope that’s okay. I don’t use cream or sugar so I hadn’t bought any yet. I didn’t disturb anything historical. I made it in the pot you keep in your docents’ room. You all might have cream and sugar in there somewhere? I didn’t prowl through anyone’s things,” he said, offering her the cup.

  She nodded and accepted the cup numbly.

  “I, uh, slept here all night?” she asked him.

  “Unless you woke up and went tearing around the historic district while I was sleeping,” he said. “Enjoying the wild nightlife.”

  She ignored his attempt at levity. “You didn’t see or hear anything…odd?”

  “No,” he said. “Did you?”

  “Ah, no, no. I must’ve been so tired… I’m sorry. I need to leave now. I have—I’m going to have a doctor’s appointment.”

  She gulped down a huge sip of the coffee, which was hot. She coughed but didn’t scald her mouth, thank God.

  “Hey!” Tyler took the cup from her while she caught her breath. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Embarrassed. I was just so tired. Thanks for the pillow and the blanket. You should have woken me.”

  “I tried.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You were out like a light,” he told her.

  You’ll never know how much! she thought.

  “I’ll call you later.” She took the coffee cup from him and drank more carefully, then pushed it back in his hands. “I’ll call you later!” she repeated.

  Allison tried not to run to the door. When she reached it, she remembered that an alarm was set. She keyed in the numbers to let herself out.

  At the gate, she did the same thing. She didn’t look back. She ran down the street, not sure at first what she was doing or even what time it was, just desperate to get away from the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

  Eventually, she slowed her gait. She finally checked her watch and saw that it was still early—not yet seven. She’d go home and shower, then show up at the university’s medical buildings and hope that a professor friend, a psychiatrist, would be able to see her.

  At her house, she paused, fumbling in her handbag for her keys. She didn’t want to go into the house alone.

  But she couldn’t go anywhere in the clothes she’d been wearing all day and all night. Determined, she slipped her key into the lock and went inside. Still, it took her a minute to go farther than the doorway.

  She started talking out loud. “Julian, I’m taking a shower. There will be no crazy stuff going on now, okay? I do not see you and I will not see you. You are a product of my imagination.”

  She ran through the front of the house and up the stairs to her bedroom, looking straight ahead all the while. She showered as quickly as she could, dropping the soap several times when it fell through her trembling fingers.

  She wasn’t sure if her shirt matched her jeans and she didn’t care. Besides, did it matter what shirt was worn with a pair of jeans? She was so terrified she just about fell down the stairs, but she was almost there, almost out of the house.

  She had to try twice to get the door open. When she did, she turned back. She could see the top of a head above the upholstered wingback chair.

  A hand rose.

  She clearly heard Julian say, “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  6

  Allison drove directly to the university. Once she’d parked, she headed for the medical compound and found Dr. Marty Hanson, who was a practicing psychiatrist.

  Marty said it probably wasn’t the best thing to work together, since they were friends. But she was able to send Allison to a colleague she admired, Dr. Rudy Blount, who was a short, friendly man in his early fifties with wire-rimmed spectacles and a balding head. He asked Allison to make herself comfortable. No, she didn’t have to lie down on the sofa but she was welcome to do so. She could also just sit and talk to him from an armchair.

  Allison opted for the armchair and a conversational approach. Dr. Blount was personable. They talked about their mutual love of the city and discussed issues in the news. He asked about her daily life; he knew that, like Marty, she taught at the university. He assured her that anything she said was completely and totally confidential.

  Finally, Allison released a deep breath and explained her problem.

  She told him about finding Julian—and then seeing him in her house.

  “Is it stress?” she asked him.

  “What do you think?” he asked her.

  “I think it’s stress,” she said.

  “Then it’s most likely stress.”

  “I’ve never believed in ghosts,” she told him.

  He folded his hands and set them in his lap. “Ghosts. Well, what are ghosts, Ms. Leigh? Maybe they’re memories. Maybe they’re images we create in our minds. Maybe they’re reminders that we should have done something, but didn’t. Tell me, were you feeling any guilt about your friend Julian?”

  “No, I wasn’t feeling guilty about Julian. He was always showing up late and we—the group of us—were always covering his ass!”

  “Do you feel you need to defend yourself in any way over his death? Do you think you could have saved him somehow?”

  “No, I’m not feeling defensive. I would’ve done anything to save him, but the second I saw him, I knew he was dead.”

  “Did you check for a pulse?”

  “I never touched him. I called the police.”

  “As you waited were you frightened that something would happen to you?”

  Allison shook her head. She hadn’t felt that at all. “No, no…it looked as if he’d just sat down…wrong. You know how people rest their elbows on a table and their chins on their hands? Well, it’s as if he thought he had a table and the bayonet was his hand.”

  “Very sad, and terrible for Julian, and for you. At this point, it has to be difficult to understand what you’re feeling. Guilt is an interesting emotion. It was fine to be angry with him while he was alive, but now that he’s dead, you may feel guilty about that anger without being aware of it.”

  “I really don’t think I feel guilty. Whenever he left us in the lurch, we were always honest about it. He’d know we were angry because we’d tell him, and he’d apologize and promise not to do it again. He also said that when he made it big, he’d never forget us or leave us behind.”

  “Did you like the young man?”

  “As a friend, definitely. When we were away from work.”

  “Have you ever had a feeling like this before?�
��

  “A feeling like what?”

  “That someone’s still with you. Someone dead. A spirit—a ghost.”

  “Never.” Allison shook her head. “But now…I’m afraid to be in my own house. I slept on a sofa at the Tarleton-Dandridge last night because I was afraid to go home. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t start out sleeping. I passed out. Because I saw Julian. I was with one of the FBI men—Agent Montague, who wants my help with the history and the people there—and when he went to check on the windows, doors, alarm system, all that, Julian suddenly appeared. And the next thing I knew I was sinking, the world went black, and then I woke up this morning feeling like an idiot.”

  “The agent didn’t come to help you?” Dr. Blount asked in obvious surprise.

  “He thought I’d fallen asleep. He gave me a pillow and a blanket,” she said dryly.

  “Didn’t the police have crime tape around the Tarleton-Dandridge House? When the tragedy was announced on the news, the reporter said the place was going to be closed for a few weeks,” Dr. Blount said.

  “Yes, they’ve closed the house. But the police—or the directors or someone—brought in a federal team that’s investigating the house.”

  “I see. That’s why you were with an agent. A federal agent.”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah!” Dr. Blount said.

  “Ah?”

  “Do you have something against the federal government investigation? It doesn’t sound as if you approve.”

  “I don’t approve.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want anyone making a mockery of the Tarleton-Dandridge House—with people running around and filmmakers making everyone’s eyes look like those of a deer caught in the headlights. And going ‘What’s that? Did you hear that?’ whenever a floorboard creaks. Please! Have you seen those shows? I think one of the educational channels used to do them with actors re-creating what happened in the past, and using lights to make a place seem spooky. Then they’ll have people walk through the building screaming now and then. It’s not fair to the historical integrity of the house!”

  “FBI agents film their investigations with special lights?” He seemed puzzled.

  “No.”

  “They publicize what they’re doing?”

  “No, no, it’s just that I’ve read up on these particular agents. They’re called in when there’s something unusual. Unusual to them, from what I’ve read, means paranormal. And we’re dealing with history here. Sacred ground. Old Philadelphia is the site of some of the most momentous events in our nation’s past.”

  “I agree. But filming—for the public. Do you think these people are going to do that?”

  “I know they’re bringing in equipment to monitor the house during the night. And maybe during the day, too. I know that everything about this government agency is kept as quiet as possible, but information leaks out and other units of the FBI consider them ‘special.’”

  Dr. Blount smiled. “Maybe you believe you know all this but it’s not quite what’s going on. And maybe you resent these people so much because you’re afraid of seeing something you don’t want to see—like Julian Mitchell.”

  “Is that what you think? That it’s stress over Julian’s death and the fact that I don’t really trust these people?”

  “Is that what you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I think! That’s why I’m here.”

  “There’s an old joke that a patient talks and a psychiatrist listens and asks over and over again if that’s what he or she thinks. But the human mind is complex, and in the absence of actual mental illness, we rule our own thoughts. I can give you a medication—a mild one—that’ll help you sleep until this is over. You probably need to come to terms with what’s happening in your life.”

  “A friend died,” she said softly.

  He nodded. “That’s hard enough to accept. You know the stages of grief, I’m sure—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance. We all go through these feelings. You found the young man and you were horrified and perhaps tried to deny that what you saw could be true. You’re angry he’s dead, and that may be manifesting in the way you feel about a government group coming into the Tarleton-Dandridge House. Seeing this young man in your house may be your way of bargaining—he’s not really dead if you can see him. And we’re all depressed when we hear about the loss of someone young, someone who shouldn’t have died. I think, once you accept what’s happened, you’ll begin to heal. But no one can really rush the stages of grief. We all go through them.”

  “So, I’m seeing Julian in my mind?”

  “Is that what you believe?”

  She burst out laughing. “Honestly, I want you to tell me that I am seeing him in my own mind.”

  “If you believe that, will it help you?”

  “Immeasurably!”

  Dr. Blount grinned. “Do you want to go it alone? Or would like a sleep medication?”

  “I hate taking pills unless I have to.”

  “So you don’t want a prescription?”

  “No, I definitely want one!”

  Allison wasn’t sure what she felt when she left Dr. Blount’s office; she knew he’d rearranged his schedule to see her, and she was grateful, but their visit hadn’t really helped her.

  She wished he’d just said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Ghosts don’t exist. It’s all in your head.”

  And now, of course, the problem was that, once again, she didn’t want to go home.

  Julian had told her he’d be waiting.

  * * *

  Ethan Oxford lived in another historic house. His was on Walnut Street.

  The board was ready to meet in Ethan’s dining room. Originally, Tyler thought, the place had been designed so that it could also function as a ballroom. A large period table was in the center of the room, and the walls were covered with portraits of historic figures.

  Dolley Madison held pride of place against the far wall.

  Oxford was a dignified man. His white hair, beard and mustache were perfectly groomed. He was gracious as he answered the door himself, setting an arm around Tyler’s shoulders as he led him toward the dining room. “I’ll admit, young man, I’m the one who insisted we call Adam Harrison. He and I go way back. We’ve served on the boards of many fine charities together and I’ve known many people Adam has helped. Discreetly, of course. Now, I’m not saying the young man’s death wasn’t completely accidental, but what with that fellow being in the hospital, as well…I think the house needs investigation.”

  “Sir, it’s usually worth some research when there’ve been a number of…accidents,” Tyler agreed.

  Oxford stood back, grinning at Tyler. “You’re not what I was expecting. You actually look like a real lawman.”

  “Thank you,” Tyler said.

  “Well, come on in. The others are waiting.”

  He’d met Cherry the night before, of course. This morning she gushed over him as if they were long lost friends. Nathan Pierson seemed intrigued to meet him. Sarah Vining gave him a limp hand. He had the feeling that she wasn’t one to create waves. He remembered that Allison had told him Sarah reminded her of an abused pup at a shelter.

  “Coffee?” Oxford asked him. It was already set out in a silver carafe.

  “Thank you,” Tyler said.

  He accepted a cup and the seat that was offered to him. The others joined him at one end of the massive table.

  “What have you discovered so far?” Oxford asked anxiously.

  “So far, I’m studying the house and delving into what happened to bring me here,” Tyler said. “I made a point of removing the reproduction bedding from the room I’m using, which we’ll be careful to do everywhere. I understand how many objects in the house are priceless, and we will take extreme care.”

  “The house is haunted. You found that out, right?” Cherry said.

  He smiled. “Remnants of the past always remain in a place where the passions
of history ran high, Mrs. Addison. I don’t believe that a ghost rummaged through the office in the attic or caused Mr. Mitchell to die. But we will find out what did, whether it was accidental or manufactured.”

  “Manufactured. What does that mean?” Pierson asked, frowning.

  “Caused by a person or persons unknown.”

  “Oh, dear! He couldn’t have been…murdered!” Sarah Vining cried.

  “There, there, Sarah,” Oxford said in a comforting voice.

  “It’s pretty unusual for someone to set his chin on a bayonet,” Tyler explained. “And a few of the events that have occurred in the past definitely pose a unique challenge. Here’s the thing,” he said. “No one wants the public to start believing that the house is dangerously haunted. We all know that a good ghost story draws people, but they don’t want to think there’s something really evil about a house.”

  “There’s nothing evil about the Tarleton-Dandridge House,” Cherry protested. “We have a poignant love story, and a beautiful woman who haunts the house. Why, the ghost tours would go out of business if the house were to blow away!”

  Tyler doubted that; Cherry seemed to think the house was the most important building in the historic city. But he lowered his head.

  “You don’t need to worry,” he said quietly. “My team can go through the house quickly.”

  “I hope so! The newspapers have gotten wind of that man in the hospital—and his son swears the portrait of Beast Bradley put him there!” Sarah spoke tremulously. “I hate this! If there’s anything you can do to restore our wonderful piece of the past to total respectability, we’ll greatly appreciate it!”

  “I’ll remind you, Agent Montague, I’m here to help if you need me,” Cherry said.

  “We’re all here. We’ve asked these people in because of the gossip that was already going around the city. And now this,” Ethan said, shaking his head.

  “Gossip?” Tyler asked.

  “I called Adam the second I heard what happened because of the other deaths in the house.” Oxford shook his head again. “People are saying one event could be an accident, but…a docent? A college student? And now…a docent again. Or a guide, what have you. And on top of that, someone rummaging through the attic. Why, we were all there right before young Mr. Mitchell died—and right before that attic was raided. Will you be able to tell if Mr. Mitchell was distressed in some way…if there was a reason he might have torn the attic apart?”