The Watcher
By
Amber Douglas
The Watcher
Published by Amber Douglas
Copyright 2013 Amber Douglas
Other books by this author:
Blood Moon
Dark Sky
REN and Other Tales of Fantasy
Blood in the Water
When the Light Cometh
Mermaid’s Song*
White Demon
Andromeda’s Harmony*
Demon Scion: Book 2 of Dracula’s Revenge series
Dracula’s Revenge
The Shepherd’s Flock
The Protector
Red Moon
A Pie for Papa
Murder in Room 220
Ren*
The Fallen Angel
* available as single ebooks
Chapter 1
Celeste woke up to an awful racket sounding like an airplane engine mixed with a train going by. She rolled over in the dusty bed, opening her eyes and seeing the time on her nightstand clock: 12:37am. She sat up with a groan, pushing back the covers and grabbing a flashlight, searching for her robe.
It’s that stupid AC unit again. Where’s a sledgehammer when I need one?
Celeste had opened the mail that day in her studio apartment in New York City, a formal letter from her father’s attorney’s office informing her that she had inherited the run-down farmhouse down south in Georgia. She remembered playing there as a child, her father telling her stories of her pioneer ancestors who lived and loved while working the land to feed the family. There were no cars, no electricity, no running water, and yet her ancestors had survived.
When her grandfather died, her parents moved from New York to the farmhouse, trying their best to fix up the place. Celeste remembered her mother shaking her head as her father had tried to reattach the ancient shingles to the roof. “It’s a money pit. Why don’t we just sell it?”
Celeste placed her hand on the oak banister and walked gingerly down the creaking steps. The two story farmhouse sat on what was left of a 1,400 acre property, all but a hundred of the acres had been sold over the years. All that was left was the farmhouse and the barn, which had been renovated and turned into a guest quarters, even though there already was a small guest house near the barn.
Her shoes were near the door and Celeste put them on, grumbling under her breath. The AC unit had been new about a decade ago. Now it was on its last legs. Celeste turned on the porch light and walked down the five steps to the gravel driveway. She threaded her way through the bushes and shined the light on the unit outside.
The racket had been coming in there somewhere. Now what’s wrong with it? The unit was making such a racket, she was sure it would wake the neighbors. Sighing, she headed back inside, and headed straight to the thermostat controller on the wall in the foyer. She punched the keypad, turning it off.
She closed her eyes and sighed in relief when the noise ceased. She waited, listening, savoring the silence. She opened them and headed back upstairs, kicking off her shoes in the bedroom. Celeste crawled under the covers, pulling them over her head.
I’ll call and get a tech out here in the morning.
“Hi, this is Celeste Schumacher. My AC unit is making an awful racket.” She listened to the secretary on the phone. “No, I heard the noise from the outside unit. My address? It’s 3957 West Boone Drive. Yes. Farmhouse on the left side. Thirty minutes? Great. Thank you.”
She hung up the 1950s-era rotary phone and mulled over the idea of getting a new cordless phone. Not knowing what to do for thirty minutes, Celeste headed out front to pull some weeds. She yanked on a weed near the porch, and as her hand came up, it grazed the sharp edge, leaving a shallow cut. Celeste gasped in pain and swore out loud. She was pondering the idea of paying someone to mow the weedy overgrown front yard, when she heard some dogs barking. She glanced up and saw an elderly man standing there, staring up at the house.
“Y’all right there, miz?” He asked in a thick Southern drawl.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just a cut. Thanks.”
The man came forward. “Charles Manigault. I live in that house there yonder.” He pointed to the farmhouse a few miles away from hers. A next-door neighbor.
“Celeste Schumacher. I’m your next-door neighbor.”
“Where y’all from, Miz Schumacher?”
“New York City. My parents owned the property, and I inherited it.” She could see the elderly man’s eyes soften.
“Shame that. Losin’ yer parents. Far back as’n I know, this here house had’a always been here.”
Celeste glanced down at her hand. “Well, I’d better take care of this.”
“If ya need any help, don’t be afraid ter holler. Folk ‘round here, we help each other out.”
“Thank you.”
After he left, half-dragging his Rottweilers with him, Celeste went back inside and turned right, taking the shortest route to the kitchen. The kitchen was waiting on a long lists of updates and renovations, as the ancient faucet proved. She had to pump the faucet handle four times before water ran out. Another thing to fix. Isn’t there always?
She gasped as the cold water splashed on her cut, making it sting. She washed it the best she could, drying it on a paper towel. A sharp rap on the door alerted her to the time. Still clutching the paper towel, she raced to the door and opened it to reveal a young man, perhaps in his twenties, with glacier-blue eyes and dirty-blond hair. Behind him, she could see the tech’s red van parked with the large logo on the side in white.
“Chris Sharp, from KC Heat and AC. Got a call about a noisy AC?” His Southern accent was slight, not as thick as her neighbor’s.
She stepped aside to let him in. “Yes. I turned it off last night so it wouldn’t rattle. I was sure the neighbor’s dogs didn’t like it.” When he came in, he brushed past her. Celeste could smell his cologne, a muted masculine scent. Her heart fluttered in her chest when he turned to her, eyes crinkling at the corners. Vaguely, she wondered if he was married or of he had a girlfriend. A quick glance at his left hand ruled out marriage, as his ring finger was bare.
“Where’s the unit? Outside?”
“Yes, I’ll show you.” He followed her outside to the side of the house. He frowned as he knelt down and used his tools to shimmy off the cover. “Could you turn it on?”
“Sure.” Celeste went back inside and paused before the thermostat, trying to calm her fluttering heart. Stop it. He’s here on a call. Not a hookup. She pushed the appropriate buttons and grimaced when she heard the rattle again. She went back outside and saw he was standing now, the frown deeper.
“You know when this was put in?”
She shook her head. “Maybe a decade ago? What’s wrong with it?”
“Looks like the compressor. That’s the heart of the unit. Coolant looks low too. I need to look at the unit inside.”
Where the hell was that one again? “I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is.” She felt foolish for not exploring the house and memorizing where important things were, like the inside HVAC unit. “I just moved here a couple days ago.”
He rewarded her with a comforting smile. “That’s a’right. I grew up here, so I know my way around these old houses.”
“Good to know.” She commented dryly as she turned to go into the house.
He walked beside her. “Where you from?”
“New York City.”
“New York?” With the accent, it sounded like Noo Yawak. Celeste stiffened.
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t wait to git back to the country?”
“My dad was born here and went to New York. I was born in New York, and frequently visited my grandpa here.”
“You married? Boyfriend? Kids?”
“No to all of that. You?”
“Nope. Never find the time.”
They had reached the house. She was about to reach for the door when he shot in front of her and opened it for her. Stunned momentarily at the show of chivalry, he ducked inside. He followed her inside, then took a quick glance around.
“If I remember right…” he muttered to himself as he went down one hall and arrived at a door set off the floor. “Ah, here it is.” He opened it up and Celeste jumped back as spiders skittered at the daylight. The racket even continued to the inside unit, though muted. “Wow, this is bad.”
“What’s bad?” Celeste asked, peering around his shoulder at the antique unit. She was close enough to smell that masculine cologne again.
“Well, from the sound of it, you’re gonna need a whole new unit. This shoulda been replaced at least a year or so ago.”
“How much will that cost?” Already, she was budgeting in her head.
“Well, based on prices of the units both in here and out there, plus taxes, you’re lookin’ at ‘round ten grand.”
“Ten thousand.” Celeste repeated in disbelief. “Just for the units?”
“That also includes labor and installation.” His blue eyes met hers. Celeste couldn’t speak.
So that’s what Mom meant when she said the house was a money pit. A few thousand here and there all adds up.
“That’s bare minimum?”
“How ‘bout we sit and talk?”
She led him to the kitchen table where he laid out the paperwork. She half-listened as he rattled off numbers and plan perks, her mother’s words in her head. She signed on the line and retrieved her checkbook, wondering why her parents never sold the place like her mother wanted. She understood her father was born here, raised here, and wanted so desperately to live here. He had drained the bank accounts attempting to fix up his childhood home. Now she was stuck in the same rut, pouring money down the drain. She came back to the table and filled out the check, her hand mechanically filling in the blanks.
“The equipment should get here in a couple days, so by Friday, we’ll have it installed.”
“Thanks.” I just spent ten grand on a stupid AC that was a piece of crap to begin with. She walked him to the door, feeling drained internally at the stress of it. Dad didn’t leave me much, and now I’m stuck with a money pit. Thanks, Dad. She knew it was wrong to feel anger at her dead parents for leaving her with the house and acreage.
He snapped her out of her reverie. “Me and the boys will be out here on Friday. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “Don’t worry, now. We’ll have it up and running in no time.” He waved to her as he walked down the rickety front steps. “Y’all have a good ‘un.”
Celeste sighed, leaning against the door, the number dancing in her head. She had taken a leave of vacation as a magazine editor to come down here when the estate was settled and see what she could do. Her eyes roved around the foyer, resting on the drop-glass chandelier covered in cobwebs, the dried husks of long-dead spiders still tangled in them.
She couldn’t ignore the sudden craving for alcohol. Celeste headed into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge door, smiling a little when she saw the beer bottles lined up neatly like soldiers. She plucked one out, opened it and downed half of it, savoring the cold bite of the alcohol. Her mind didn’t register the fact she had drank it all when she tried to take another sip and saw it was empty. That’s odd. I don’t remember drinking it all. Oh well. Celeste grabbed another beer and soon she was stumbling to the den, a beer bottle sloshing liquid as she made her way drunkenly to the dusty couch where she collapsed.
The Watcher Page 1