A CALL FROM BEYOND...
When Kristi Stewart inherits a property in the old part of Savannah, she knows it comes with stories of hauntings. But she doesn’t believe in ghosts, even while she runs seances for the guests of McLane House Bed-and-Breakfast. Until the inexplicable midnight appearance of one of her infamous ancestors. Terrified, she flees into the night—and right into the arms of Dallas Wicker.
Dallas is trying to uncover the truth about a colleague who died under suspicious circumstances. As strange happenings continue to plague Kristi’s home, it is soon clear that there’s a very living threat in the neighborhood—several people have disappeared without a trace. Dallas can’t find any connection between the victims, but someone wanted them gone, and it might be linked to the history of McLane House. And that means Kristi should be very afraid.
Praise for the novels of Heather Graham
“Immediately entertaining and engrossing.... Taut, complex, and leavened with humor... [A] riveting thriller.”
—Library Journal on A Dangerous Game
“Graham proves that she is still at the top of the genre with the latest Krewe of Hunters book.... Evil lurks in the background and readers will be trying to figure out the motives of the killer while flipping the pages to see what can possibly happen next.”
—RT Book Reviews on Fade to Black
“Graham is a master at writing stories that weave the paranormal with the everyday.... A great read with twists and turns on every page.”
—RT Book Reviews on Wicked Deeds
“Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The Krewe is back! Graham excels at weaving history, finding the proper balance between past and present and keeping a story fresh and authentic.”
—RT Book Reviews on Haunted Destiny
“Intricate, fast-paced, and intense, this riveting thriller blends romance and suspense in perfect combination and keeps readers guessing and the tension taut until the very end.”
—Library Journal on Flawless
Also by New York Times bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM
A LETHAL LEGACY
ECHOES OF EVIL
PALE AS DEATH
FADE TO BLACK
A DANGEROUS GAME
WICKED DEEDS
DARK RITES
DYING BREATH
A PERFECT OBSESSION
DARKEST JOURNEY
DEADLY FATE
HAUNTED DESTINY
FLAWLESS
THE HIDDEN
THE FORGOTTEN
THE SILENCED
THE DEAD PLAY ON
THE BETRAYED
THE HEXED
THE CURSED
WAKING THE DEAD
THE NIGHT IS FOREVER
THE NIGHT IS ALIVE
THE NIGHT IS WATCHING
LET THE DEAD SLEEP
THE UNINVITED
THE UNSPOKEN
THE UNHOLY
THE UNSEEN
AN ANGEL FOR CHRISTMAS
THE EVIL INSIDE
SACRED EVIL
HEART OF EVIL
PHANTOM EVIL
NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES
THE KEEPERS
GHOST MOON
GHOST NIGHT
GHOST SHADOW
THE KILLING EDGE
NIGHT OF THE WOLVES
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
UNHALLOWED GROUND
DUST TO DUST
NIGHTWALKER
DEADLY GIFT
DEADLY HARVEST
DEADLY NIGHT
THE DEATH DEALER
THE LAST NOEL
THE SÉANCE
BLOOD RED
THE DEAD ROOM
KISS OF DARKNESS
THE VISION
THE ISLAND
GHOST WALK
KILLING KELLY
THE PRESENCE
DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR
PICTURE ME DEAD
HAUNTED
HURRICANE BAY
A SEASON OF MIRACLES
NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD
NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
EYES OF FIRE
SLOW BURN
NIGHT HEAT
* * * * *
Look for Heather Graham’s next novel
THE SEEKERS
available soon from MIRA Books.
Heather Graham
The Summoning
For Robert Rosello, one of the best friends possible, and
his wife, Yesenia, and beautiful kids, Victoria and Anthony.
For years and years of the ups and downs in life,
support at all the right times, and laughter.
With Dennis, half of our family “Waldorf and Statler team.”
Sometimes Slush Pile bassist.
Thank you.
All the love in the world.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
At McLane House Bed-and-Breakfast
Kristi Stewart—recently inherited her great uncle’s property
Jonah Whitney—household manager
Genie Turner—chef and housekeeper
Sydney Gary—young assistant to Genie
Shelley Blake—medium who conducts popular séances
Jedidiah McLane—Kristi’s great uncle
Ian Murphy—old friend of Jedidiah’s
Jamie Murphy—Ian’s grandson who lived with him
Keith Hollis—handyman and groundskeeper
FBI and Law Enforcement
Dallas Wicker—new agent assigned undercover
Joe Dunhill—detective with the Savannah police
Adam Harrison—founder and director, Krewe of Hunters
Jackson Crow—field director, Krewe of Hunters
Angela Hawkins—Krewe agent, married to Jackson Crow
Dr. Bill Perry—medical examiner
Dr. Colleen Horvath—forensic anthropologist
Guests
Carl Brentwood—young up-and-coming actor
Claire Danson—Carl’s manager
Murray Meyer—Carl’s agent
Granger and Janet Knox—a contractor and his wife
Lacey Knox—their daughter
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Seekers by Heather Graham
Prologue
Twenty years ago
Dallas ran, far from the house. He could hear his aunt Betsy calling to him, but he needed to escape. Betsy was kind; she was trying. But she didn’t understand that sometimes he needed to be alone, away from piano lessons, Little League and all the things she tried to make him do to forget. He hated the house now. His father, who’d been given leave for the funeral, was back overseas, a lieutenant in the army—dousing his own grief in the deserts of the Middle East.
A ten-year-old boy didn’t forget that easily that he’d lost his mother—piano lessons didn’t ease the pain.
&nbs
p; At least his aunt’s old house was far from Savannah—out past the old section and the new section, on the outskirts, in an area rife with hills and hummocks and streams. And the old cemetery.
Once upon a time, there had been a great plantation up on the hill, and near it, the remnants of the old church remained. He loved the ruins; he loved to go and wander around the remaining walls of the building and down the stairs to the catacombs and then back up to the graveyard. He liked to read what he could on the old gravestones and tombs, and imagine the rest. He preferred one grave especially. It had belonged to Louis Falmouth, a soldier during the revolution. Louis had become something of a friend for him—a made-up friend, he guessed—but he talked to the grave. He imagined Louis telling him fantastic tales about running with the Swamp Fox, a hero of the revolution, a man who dared cross enemy lines, dodged Redcoat bullets and brought desperately needed information to the American troops.
The sun was setting as he ran. At first, it shot glorious beauty across the sky. Then it created a purple and gray gloom, and a mist slowly settled on the ground.
Dallas wound through the overgrown bracken and brush, through the oaks and toward the creek, right by the church. He paused at a lichen-covered weeping angel. She seemed exceptionally lovely and sad in the growing foggy darkness.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said politely. He looked around; he was near Louis’s tomb, and all around him there was statuary, more angels guarding what had been family plots, the little gates and brick fences broken and jagged now, forgotten as the lives that had been lived. Death’s heads adorned many stones, and the mist made them seem to grin.
Bowing to the angel, he turned, and almost tripped over another old stone, one that was broken down beyond recognition of name, date or any other identifying numbers or words. This one was beneath a giant statue, an avenging angel with wings outspread, and for a moment, Dallas was afraid.
Soon it would be completely dark.
He steadied himself on a stone. “Excuse me, sir,” he said to the angel, for that one didn’t look sad or forlorn, but rather fierce. His imagination played tricks with him; the angel might come to life, begin to move. It seemed to stand against the mist and the coming night and the rising moon as if it were a warrior—ready to take on a young boy with the swipe of one wing.
“Here, this way! Over here!” a voice suddenly demanded.
Real? Imagined?
He turned, frightened and uneasy, but he ran toward the sound of the voice. In his haste, he tripped. He fell over a broken stone, flat down on the ground. He rolled to rise to his feet, but froze instead.
He was lying next to a body.
It was an old man with worn clothing, a gray beard, time-marked face.
It wasn’t the body of the long-dead, nor a haunt of his imagination.
The man was bleeding.
“Sir!” Dallas cried, rolling to a knee by the man’s side. “Sir?”
But the bleeding man did not respond.
That was when he heard words come out of the mist—real words. “Son, what are you doing? Don’t just sit there—go for help.”
Dallas looked up in terror, certain that the avenging angel had indeed awakened.
But it was not a statue who had spoken.
In front of Dallas stood Louis Falmouth, hero of the revolution, just as he’d been depicted in the book about the war at his aunt’s house: beige breeches, cotton shirt, green vest and earth-colored frock coat, his brown hair tied back. He was stern as he looked at Dallas, and for a moment, the boy just stared, openmouthed.
Had he lost his mind, gone a little crazy, as the doctors had feared after the attack on his mother had left her dead?
“Boy!” his hero said. “Move, now, get help. Those ruffians, the wretched crew that killed your mother, they did this to old Mr. Polk. It was a lark to steal his piddling belongings. Just as it was a lark to torment your mother. He may live. This man could live, and bring them to justice. Right this! Go, get help—now!”
Dallas stumbled to his feet. He stared, and blinked hard, but Louis Falmouth remained.
“Go!”
Dallas ran. As hard and as fast as he could to his aunt’s house.
He forced himself to be coherent, afraid no one would believe him, that no one would help.
At first, Aunt Betsy did not. She and her friend Michael looked at him with sympathy.
“I’m not seeing things because of Mom! I’m begging you—get help!”
He must have sounded sure; Aunt Betsy called 911 while Michael grabbed the first aid kit and his shotgun and headed out with Dallas.
They ran back through the trees and the bracken, finally coming to the stones of the graveyard.
Dallas looked around; there was no sign of the Revolutionary War hero Louis Falmouth.
And he feared there would be no Mr. Polk, and then they would lock him up in some hospital for people gone crazy with grief.
But the old man was there, still down on the ground, bleeding from a deep wound on his leg.
Michael set to work with the emergency kit, ordering Dallas to help with a tourniquet, stop the bleeding.
EMTs arrived, and Mr. Polk was carried out on a stretcher to an ambulance parked on a nearby road.
“You did good, kid. You did good,” Michael told him, ruffling his hair. “It’s a miracle that you found that man. How the hell did you see him there, behind stones, with all that overgrown bracken and grass?”
Dallas started to answer—but he couldn’t tell the truth. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Mr. Polk lived. He went on to identify the three drifters who had beaten him to a pulp.
* * *
The same men who had attacked Dallas’s mother as she was out for a run one night, and had left her to die.
Dallas went back to the cemetery to thank his hero; Louis Falmouth just nodded gravely, and then smiled, turning and disappearing as he did so. Dallas knew, however, that he would see him again.
In another three months, his father got his honorable discharge from the military and he and Dallas moved back to Fredericksburg, Virginia.
They began life anew. In time, life became something...almost normal. There was school for Dallas, the football team, and his dad’s new girlfriend and then wife, Susan. She was kind and decent, and rather than ask Dallas to forget his mom, she would ask him to talk about her.
But Dallas never stopped visiting graveyards when he needed some time for himself.
And he never stopped talking to the dead.
1
Savannah, Georgia
“Yes, I feel him—I feel his presence. He is here, among us.”
Shelley Blake—who was possibly the worst medium in the world—spoke softly and bowed her head. “Keep holding hands!” she said to the small group gathered at the foldout table. “Hold tight, for the spirits may be strong and the living must stay strong, as well.”
The “he” the so-called medium was summoning was Monty McLane, who supposedly killed his wife, Trinity, and his father, Samuel McLane—the entrepreneur who had built the McLane House in 1828. The story went that Monty had slain them in a fit of rage in 1864, when Savannah had surrendered to General Sherman when the Union general’s infamous March to the Sea threatened the city with the wrath of destruction the army had brought to three hundred miles of countryside as he’d headed to the Atlantic. On Christmas day that year, General William Tecumseh Sherman had given the city of Savannah to President Abraham Lincoln—and Monty McLane, his father and his wife had been buried in the back of the house by the surviving family member, young Josiah McLane, a boy of fourteen, too young to have made his way into the fighting.
He had hastily buried them there—without marker, pomp or circumstance, to save their bodies from what well might have been the wrath of the enemy.
The house had been hosting C
onfederate injured; it soon became a hospital for Union soldiers and the headquarters for Colonel Albert Huntington, one of Sherman’s most trusted officers.
So of course, the house was haunted. Like most of Savannah. Every respected old building—the cemeteries, churches and so on—hosted a few ghosts.
Ghosts were good business.
Kristi Stewart stood in the doorway to the parlor of the McLane house—her house now—watching the séance. After all, she was the hostess here. At the insistence of one the guests—Carl Brentwood, a twenty-something actor from LA—she had arranged for tonight’s event.
Kristi only continued the séances here because they were such an established part of staying at the house. Visitors came because the house had a reputation for being so very haunted—and the guests seemed to love what Kristi considered to be the absolute ridiculousness of the séance. They ate up every bit of Shelley’s over-the-top performance.
Similarly, neighborhood tours went by the so-called haunted house every night, pointing out the grand Victorian porch that now swept around what had once been a federal-style home, and still boasted a double stairway to the entrance. As a media consultant with a city tour group, Kristi had made sure tours went by the house. And, as the owner, she kept a mannequin of Monty McLane in the upstairs window—well-lit for the amusement of the tourists that went by.
Kristi loved the house and its history, and especially Savannah history. But most of the people who came to stay at McLane House were more interested in hearing only the grisly legends.
“Monty, are you here with us?” Shelley asked.
Kristi had to hand it to Shelley—she could make her voice become a bizarre whisper that was entirely chilling. And she dressed the part: she wore a flowing black caftan and carried a crystal globe that she’d set in the center of the table. Her dark hair was swept neatly behind her ears beneath a crimson scarf. Shelley had been conducting her séances in the city for about twenty years. She was in her mid-forties, attractive, with huge, dark eyes that added to her look of mystery. She was quite able to play up her “abilities” to a perfect T.
The table rocked suddenly, and Kristi had to swallow back a groan. Shelley had knocked the table herself, with her knee. Kristi had clearly seen her do it.
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