Ghost House

by Alexandra Adornetto

  “Yes,” Grandma Fee replied. “But I don’t think they’ve ever discovered anything. It’s a load of nonsense if you ask me, but a paying guest is a paying guest.”

  “What’s an abnormal investigator?” Rory asked as I felt my hopes deflate. How stupid of me to think the answers to my problems could be found at Grange Hall. There was nothing here besides miserable weather, poor cell reception and a dead guy in a tree. Did life get any better than that?

  Farther down the hall was the sitting room with an open fireplace and a sideboard that held jars of shortbreads, tea and coffee, and a lot of mismatched china. Adjoining the lounge was a carpeted dining room with striped wallpaper and heavy sparkling chandeliers. Each table was set for tomorrow’s breakfast. At the back of the house, an inviting, country-style kitchen housed old-fashioned stoves and copper pans hanging from hooks.

  On the second floor I counted six double guest suites, three on each side of the hall with their own private bathrooms. One of the rooms was open with a cleaning cart parked outside the door. An emaciated woman emerged, a few wisps of thin gray hair trailing around her shriveled face. I did a double take when I saw her sunken eyes and bony fingers, but Gran cheerfully introduced her as the housekeeper.

  “Children, this is Miss Grimes. She lives here and looks after the running of the house. She may need your help from time to time, so I hope you’ll be obliging.”

  Miss Grimes glared at me, grim faced and bent over like an old stick. She didn’t look pleased to see us and gave a sharp nod. I peeked behind her into a lavishly decorated bedroom with a four-poster bed and hand-embroidered quilt. There was a rocking chair by the open window and a cedar dresser. The heady scent of roses filtered out, even though I didn’t see any flowers.

  We climbed the next flight of steps to Grandma Fee’s private wing full of antique vases and rose-patterned furniture.

  “This place is my refuge from the world,” she explained, as if she needed a refuge in a house quieter than a museum. “Your rooms have been set up here.” Rory’s face brightened when he saw that his had a TV on the dresser. “You’ll find your room at the end of the hall, Chloe,” Grandma Fee added. “I thought you might appreciate the privacy.”

  Despite my earlier cynicism, I liked the room that was going to be mine for the next few weeks. It was spacious with a step down to a little reading nook where a rolltop desk sat under casement windows. It even had a quill and ink pot, although I assumed these were for decorative purposes only. Everything here was fresh and crisp. I was glad to be somewhere that had no connection with my regular life. This room was anonymous, steeped in character from a time that had nothing to do with my own. There was a white cast-iron bed, a traveling trunk for storage and a chair Gran called a slipper chair upholstered in floral linen. The windows were all misted over, but when I rubbed a circle on the glass I could see right out onto adjoining fields and dense woods at the fringe of the property.

  As far as keepsakes went, I’d brought only one. It was a silver framed portrait of Mom and me, taken before my brother was born, when we were visiting my aunt Daisy in Oregon. For some reason Dad had chosen to have it developed in black-and-white. We were crouched on a rocky beach with the surf churning behind us. Mom’s dark hair was windblown, and her white dress billowed out. But her eyes were fixed on me, and I could tell I was the most important thing in the world to her. I placed the photo at the bottom of a drawer under some cotton sweaters. I wasn’t ready to have it on display yet, in case it played havoc with my emotions.

  I unpacked my duffel bag, realizing how little I’d brought and how unsuitable even that was. Then I flopped down on my stomach across the bed with its quaint floral duvet and buried my face in the plump pillows. They were soft and inviting. The day of travel finally caught up with me, and I felt like I could fall asleep right then and there. I decided not to risk that, or I’d be awake all night with no TV, internet or cell phone to pass the time.

  When I came downstairs I found Gran and Rory donning coats and scarves as if they were preparing for battle rather than going outside to see the stable. I politely declined Gran’s offer to join them.

  “I think I’d rather take a walk on my own instead…if that’s all right with you.”

  “You can do whatever you like, Chloe. As long as you’re here, you must treat Grange Hall as your home. Just remember, dinner is served in the dining room promptly at seven.” I nodded. That was easy enough to comply with. I buttoned my peacoat up to my chin and shivered.

  “Best wear a scarf and gloves,” Grandma Fee advised, pointing me to an old steamer trunk in the hallway. I opened the lid to find an extensive collection of shawls, smelling like mothballs, and expensive-looking leather gloves.

  “Are these yours?” I asked, fishing out a fringed black shawl and trying to fashion it into something semiacceptable to wear in the twenty-first century.

  “Most of those things came with the house,” Gran replied. “I don’t know whom they belonged to. But it seemed wrong to just throw them out.”

  I left Gran and Rory and set off to do my own exploring of the grounds. The grass was muddy, and my feet sank into the earth with every step. I made a mental note to wear boots and not ballet flats next time I decided to go walking in the English countryside in the middle of winter. The air was heavy with the scent of rain and the biting wind pinched my cheeks, but I didn’t mind. It had a reviving effect. This crisp, clean air was a far cry from the perpetual haze and smog that hung over Los Angeles.

  At the end of the lawn, I looked back at the house, thinking I should probably turn back and find a good book to read. I’d packed a few from next year’s AP Lit class, figuring I’d have plenty of free time to get a head start. As I deliberated, something caught my attention—a woman, standing and looking down at me from one of the windows on the top floor, a white hand pressed up against the glass. I squinted to get a better look, but with a swish of the curtains, whoever was there vanished. It had to be Miss Grimes, I thought to myself. God, she was creepy, with her crumpled body and shadowy eyes. I knew I was being unkind; she was probably just old and tired. What did I know about her life and its hardships? But there was something in her expression… I wasn’t sure whether I’d call it hungry or cruel, but I didn’t like it. Grange Hall was getting stranger by the minute.

  Deciding I wasn’t in the mood to retreat to my room with a book, I kept walking until I came across two paths that veered sharply in opposing directions. One led deeper into the woodland and the other wound neatly around the outskirts. Not being game enough to follow the first, I opted for the second, safer path, making sure to keep the house in view. By now it was dusk. I could already hear owls hooting from the nearby trees. My nose was stinging from the cold, but I wasn’t ready to turn back yet. So I trudged on, in no particular direction.

  Before long I realized I wasn’t alone. One of Gran’s guests had had a similar idea and was walking along the same path, just a little way ahead of me. He was tall and broad shouldered, with dark gold hair tousled by the wind and a slender body. He was carrying something under one arm; by its size and shape, I recognized it as a sketchbook. There was something peculiar about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. But on closer inspection I realized I was thrown off by his choice of clothing. He was wearing riding pants tucked into high leather boots and a billowing white shirt. It looked like an outfit from a costume store. I also noticed that he wasn’t strolling like me. He was walking quickly and purposefully, as if he was going somewhere important. Suddenly he reached a bend and vanished into the woods.

  Even though he was out of sight I could still hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel. I didn’t know what possessed me to run after him, but the urge to know where he was going took hold, and before I knew it, I was following him. The thick trees closed in and gloom enveloped me as soon as I left the path behind. Whoever he was, he knew his way around th
ese grounds. I could see him slipping gracefully between the trees. I was so busy trying not to lose sight of him that I didn’t look where I put my feet and stumbled over a fallen log. The loud snapping of twigs underfoot got his attention. He froze instantly, shoulders tensing, his whole body seeming to stiffen. Then he turned very slowly and deliberately, as if unsure what he might find. Finally I got a good look at his face.

  He looked different than anyone I’d ever seen before. He was handsome, but not in the run-of-the-mill, captain-of-the-football-team kind of way. He had a more gut-wrenching beauty, with his straight, fine features, pale skin and full lips. He looked like a prince from some faraway land you might find in a book. But his eyes were most startling, the clearest shade of cornflower blue, with just a hint of sadness that couldn’t be concealed. He seemed unsettled or preoccupied as he looked fleetingly at me. Then when he saw me looking back at him, something in his face changed.

  I stood up and dusted myself off. I was on the verge of introducing myself, but something stopped me. He was almost scowling at me from under his dark golden brows. If I was expecting a nod or smile of acknowledgment, I was bitterly disappointed. In fact, I was feeling more like a trespasser with every passing second. I even started to wonder whether I’d inadvertently strayed onto private property. My legs felt leaden as we stood appraising one another, waiting for someone to make the first move.

  “Hi.” That was the only strangled word I managed to croak out as I half raised my hand. The young man started and took a step back as if wildly offended. The expression on his face was something between horror and confusion. I didn’t get it. Was it my hair? My clothes? I felt myself flush self-consciously. The way he was looking at me, I might as well have been a hideous monster. It was not exactly flattering and quite frankly a little annoying.

  Without uttering a single word, he started moving toward me, his piercing eyes boring right into mine. The look on his face was so intense, it caused a dozen thoughts to flash through my brain. Could I be in danger? I didn’t know this guy from Adam. He could be an escaped inmate from an asylum for all I knew. How could I have been foolish enough to venture this far alone and chase a stranger into the woods? I would have liked to stay and stand my ground. For some reason, I wanted to hear what his voice sounded like. But every instinct was screaming for me to do one thing. Run.

  So that was exactly what I did.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Panic clouded my sense of direction; I stumbled off the path and thrashed through the shrubs, not even sure I was going the right way. The air was even more biting now. Not only could I could feel its sting on my face but also in my lungs. Even as I put distance between us, I couldn’t get the image of the young man with the haunted eyes out of my head.

  When I finally looked over my shoulder, no one was giving chase. The woods were just a tangle of twisted shadows. By the time I found the edge of the lawn, I’d calmed down. The lights in the house glowed like beacons, welcoming me back. A feeling of familiarity settled over me, and in that moment I couldn’t have been happier to see Grange Hall, despite being sent there under protest.

  The sky had changed color to a streaky mauve, scattered with stars like glittering rocks. Gazing up at them, I felt the sense of danger I’d fabricated in my mind melt away. As I hurried across the wet grass, I realized my back pocket was empty. My cell phone must have fallen out somewhere along the way, but I wasn’t going back for it now. Everything would seem less threatening in daylight. For now, all I needed to concentrate on was explaining to Grandma Fee why my shoes were caked in mud and my hands were all scratched up. I was starting to feel the sting of embarrassment even before I walked back inside. Wistings was quite possibly the most uneventful place on Earth. Tearing off like a lunatic just because I’d seen a stranger now struck me as an overreaction. All the guy had done was take a few steps toward me. That didn’t exactly make him a serial killer. What if he turned out to be Harry’s grandson or one of Gran’s employees? So what if he’d seemed standoffish? I wasn’t in California anymore. People might be different out here. Maybe I needed to adjust my expectations. Perhaps this guy’s behavior was just an example of that snobby reserve the English were renowned for.

  Right then I had but one objective—to escape to my room and put the whole humiliating encounter behind me.

  I was nearly at the front steps when I heard a polite cough and spun around. It was unnerving to see him again so soon, this time just feet away from me, leaning against a black tree trunk. His sketchbook lay abandoned at his feet, and his arms were folded, as if he’d been waiting for me the whole time. I couldn’t work out how he’d managed to beat me to the house, unless there was a shortcut I didn’t know about. He wasn’t even out of breath; only his hair was wind ruffled and falling over his eyes.

  “I think this belongs to you.” He held out my phone. The suspicion in his face was gone. He looked almost apologetic now. My cell phone with its bright polka-dot cover looked out of place in his slender hands. Still confused, I made no attempt to take it. I was too transfixed by this guy, who looked like he’d just stepped off a film set. Was this standard dress code for rural England?

  “I apologize if I startled you,” he continued. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting to see anyone.” I didn’t feel inclined to let him off the hook so easily.

  “Well, we just got here,” I replied curtly. I watched him tune in to my accent.

  “You’re American?” Another silence followed, which didn’t seem to bother him. He was studying me so attentively that I couldn’t help feeling self-conscious again. I nodded and brushed back the strands of hair sticking to my damp cheeks. “Then you must be Mrs. Kennedy’s granddaughter. I see the resemblance now. You have her eyes.”

  “Are you staying at Grange Hall?” I asked, wanting to deflect attention from myself.

  “I suppose you could say that.” I waited for him to elaborate, until it was clear that he wasn’t going to.

  “I’m Chloe Kennedy,” I said awkwardly. He gave a slight bow.

  “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Kennedy. I’m Alexander Reade.”

  He was still holding my phone in the palm of his hand, like a peace offering. It would have been rude to let him keep standing there like that, so I took it and pocketed it quickly. “Thanks. Doesn’t work too well out here anyway.”

  I should have excused myself and politely moved on, but I didn’t. Something made me linger. There was no doubt about it—Alexander Reade was unmistakably different. And I don’t mean different like the kid with Doc Martens and a pink Mohawk at my high school. He seemed to defy classification. He was in a category all his own and appeared completely comfortable with that.

  I realized he was frowning at me.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked. At first I thought he meant my cell phone but then I followed his line of vision and saw that his eyes were fixed on the shawl I wore around my neck. This conversation was getting weirder by the minute.

  “Um…I found it in a trunk in the house. Gran said it was okay to wear. It’s not yours, is it?”

  He smiled. “No, it’s not mine.”

  “It’s pretty ugly, I know, but it’s so friggin’ cold here.”

  The smile continued to play around the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid you can expect weather like this about nine months out of the year. How long are you planning to stay?”

  “Not too long,” I replied. “But my brother and I are here for Christmas at least. Our dad decided he needed to fly solo for a while.” The words my dad decided to abandon us seemed more fitting, but I didn’t want to be an oversharer, pouring out my life story to a total stranger. At the same time, I was sort of tempted. Maybe that was my problem in life. Always worrying what other people would think. So I shrugged my shoulders and told the truth. “My mom just died. California doesn’t seem so sunny anymore.” I
watched his smile fade.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  “Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

  People say the strangest things when confronted by someone else’s loss. Alexander tilted his head slightly, as if confused by me. A prickling sensation started behind my eyes. Maybe I wasn’t ready to talk about my mom after all. He seemed to notice and quickly changed the subject.

  “So, what is your opinion of the Grange so far?”

  “It’s awesome. Gran’s done a great job with it.”

  “She has indeed restored it to its former glory.” I couldn’t quite decide whether his tone was ironic.

  “I guess.” There was no disputing that he was weird, but he was also far too interesting and attractive for that to matter. In the dwindling light, his features were blurred except for his eyes—they were bright and vivid and capable of luring you into their blue depths without any effort. My gaze fell on the sketchbook lying on a mound of dry leaves.

  “Are you an artist, Alexander?” I asked.

  “Please—call me Alex. And I’d say I’m more of an apprentice at this stage.”

  “Can I take a look?” I wasn’t usually so forthright, but I figured I might as well live up to the brash Valley Girl stereo­type.

  He picked up the sketchbook without hesitation and began to unravel the leather cords that held it together. He handed it to me almost reverentially, as if I was an art connoisseur or someone whose opinion actually mattered.

  “Be my guest.”

  As I turned the pages, sketches spilled out as if they’d been kept captive and were grabbing their only chance for freedom. They were mostly charcoal portraits and still lifes, executed with obvious skill. “These are really good,” I said, a better adjective eluding me. I wanted to offer some keen insight or complex interpretation, but good seemed to be the best I could muster.

  As I leafed through the pages, the subject matter began to change. Now I was looking at highly fantastical scenes, each and every one featuring a raven-haired woman against a background of churning seas or thunderous skies. Her mouth was open in a half cry, her eyes on fire and yet with a strange, childlike quality. Despite being in black-and-white, the woman was arrestingly beautiful but troubled, too. Her presence, even on paper, was so palpable I had to look away from her.