“Great. Well, have a wonderful trip,” I snapped at him.
Without another word, he left me standing in the driveway. There was mud everywhere from last night’s rain. If I stood here much longer, I would sink in it. No sense in standing out here like he was coming back. I could either sit down in the mud and have a good cry over nothing, in all likelihood, or make a few phone calls.
I opted for the latter.
Chapter Four—Sylvia
“You know I can’t do that,” I murmured as I poured the hot water over the tea bag. It was a spearmint tea…not my favorite, but this was the last tea bag in the pantry. Her angry whisper did not deter me either; I shook my head emphatically. “If she asks for help, I have to help her.” I did not know the name of the person who would contact me, but my spirit guide and protective ancestor, Freya, did. She warned me specifically that “I would live to regret it.”
But I would have to say yes, Freya. I need to stir things up—I need some excitement, of the supernatural variety. Besides, you and I both know my life expectancy is considerably shorter than it was a year ago. This could be my swan song!
I almost always listened to my spirit guides, but this would be a special event. I’d gotten too comfortable doing the easy things. Like giving readings to silly young people who wanted to know if they’d ever find true love or answering the question all lonely wives wondered: “Is my husband cheating on me?”
But my latest case had been the most disturbing of all so far this year, perhaps in the past five years since I moved from Montreal to Rockville. “Is my child possessed?” The answers were clear most of the time, really. But most people, or at least the people who contacted me, did not trust their intuitions. And as far as child possession went, I was pretty sure the only one trucking with evil spirits was the mother. Luckily, she had not been impressed with me and had taken her business elsewhere. I had a soft spot for children who had to endure overbearing mothers. This one was no exception.
I sighed at the sight of more rain. Why did it feel so gloomy today? It had been raining sporadically for the past few days, so I had put off going to the grocery store. I hated moving about in wet weather; it made me nervous.
Holding the tea bag up by the tag, I bounced it up and down and waited to hear Freya’s argument. But she didn’t offer one. In fact, she quite literally vanished. Whatever lay before me this day, I would go it alone. Just me, Sylvia Wray Finnegan. No spirit guides, no protection. Strange to say it, but that did not frighten me, not as it probably should have. It only piqued my curiosity. I watched the water change color slightly and then added a sugar cube.
You always did like to live dangerously.
That wasn’t Freya but my own mind. I was imagining my mother’s voice in my ear. She wasn’t here at present. I rarely encountered her spirit anymore, which was a good thing. She was finding her way, moving on, as some people liked to call the life-death transition. Maybe that meant she was finally letting go. I sighed hopefully at the thought.
I sipped my tea in front of the big bay window and watched the clouds gather over Rockville. My cozy cottage was perched on a cliffside on the outskirts of town. I liked it here. If I had been a “normal” person, the sight of a building storm might have given me pause, but I loved it. And so did the other world, the one I so frequently visited. I eased into my chair, leaned back and closed my eyes. The cup of tea warmed my hands and comforted me as I opened myself up to the friendly spirits that usually hovered around me.
Hmm…why are you so quiet, Freya? Anyone else here?
If I thought I would simply step over and step back, I was dead wrong. Freya was long gone, just as she promised she would be if I continued down this foolish path. (Her words, not mine.) But there was a woman here. She was about my height, and her hair was long but pulled up, with carefully styled curls around her face. From the look of her pale face, dark painted eyes and bow lips, she looked like she was from the 1920s or 1930s. I thought she looked familiar but couldn’t quite place her. Yes, I could see her clearly in my mind’s eye. If I opened my eyes, I would see her outside the window, standing in the rain but quite unaffected by it. She wasn’t crying or speaking or anything. Just watching me.
“What is your name?” I asked politely but quite firmly. “Tell me your name, dear. My name is Sylvia.”
I moved my hands away from the teacup. The warm liquid grounded me too well, and I wanted nothing more than to know who this woman was, to help her if I could. At the very least, I needed to hear what she had to say to me.
“My name is Sylvia. I can help you if you talk to me.”
The baby…
That didn’t last long. I couldn’t see her anymore, but I could feel her anxiety and fear. I couldn’t understand why she would not talk plainly to me. I extended patience and care toward her, but I wasn’t getting through. She was too weak but clearly worried.
“What about the baby? Are you missing your baby?” Perhaps that was it.
Then the phone rang, and whatever connection I had with the dead lady who stood in the rain outside my window was gone. Our connection was broken by the sights and sounds of the world in which I currently lived. I refrained from swearing. Sometimes swearing offended the dead, and I wanted very much to reconnect with this new ghost.
“Hello? Sylvia Finnegan here.”
A soft, feminine voice greeted me. “Hi, Sylvia. My name is Megan Pressfield. I mean Megan Wagner. Forgive me; I just got married. My friend Loretta gave me your number and suggested that I call you.” The last part sounded more like a question than a statement.
I smiled into the phone. My interest was piqued for sure. “Oh? Loretta the writer? I haven’t heard from her in a while. How is she doing these days? Still writing her lovely ghost stories?”
“Yes, Loretta the writer. I’m not sure if she’s writing anything, but she is doing well and completely in love with her new grandchild.”
Now that was a bit of good news. I always loved hearing about babies. Oh, goodness. The woman that was just here…I tried not to get ahead of myself. No sense in jumping to conclusions at this stage of the game. Whenever I assumed things, I always got it wrong. “I am happy for her. How may I help you, Mrs. Wagner?”
“Megan, please. I have a…I live at Morgan’s Rock. I am sure you have heard of the place.” She sounded cautious, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell me the whole truth. Like she was having second thoughts about all of this.
“I have heard of it. Big old place, lots of mysterious stories about the family that used to live there. Hey, you were on that television special, weren’t you? Didn’t you find bodies there? Oh, Megan Pressfield! You’re a writer too!”
“Yes, I am. Fortunately all that’s been taken care of; those bones that we found have all been laid to rest. I’m not calling because of them. I am experiencing something else—I’m not even sure it is related to the house.”
“I’m listening, Megan. You can trust me to believe you. Please go on.”
I heard the worried woman sigh. “I don’t know how much Loretta may have shared with you, but I think that I have a new problem here. It must be new because it has been months since I have seen anything. There have been ghosts here, but then everything went quiet after we revealed the hidden room. I thought that was the end of it, but that’s obviously not the case. I have to get this taken care of, Sylvia. My daughter will be here in two months.”
“You say two months?” I asked as I scribbled down a few notes on a scrap of paper.
“Yes. I’m seven months pregnant. That’s why I’m calling you, Sylvia. I have to get this settled right away. With bringing a new baby home, this is the last thing I want to worry about. Please, can you help? I need to have this house cleansed or blessed or something.”
The baby…
So that’s why the woman came. She was from the house. I wasn’t jumping the gun here. Could be the starlet, what was her name again? Oh yes, Joanna Storm. What a wonderful name. Could
be her, or it could be someone else. Whoever she might be, the baby was clearly on the woman’s mind. But there was no sense in telling Megan what I’d seen. Not yet.
“I will help you if I can. Of course I will help. Quick question for you, has anyone else been there? Have any other psychic mediums or paranormal groups come to the house?”
“No. Nothing like that, not while I have been here. But there were spiritualists operating here in the past. The Storm family was pretty involved in blood magic.”
From somewhere in the distance, I could hear Freya shriek. Oh, that’s why she was so worried. “Alright. Any information like that helps. It will take me a few hours to prepare, and I will come by this evening if that’s okay. How about seven o’clock?”
“The sooner the better. Thanks, Sylvia.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll see you then.”
I hung up the phone and downed my tepid tea. “Freya, it’s just a house with a few ghosts in it. You sure you don’t want to come with me?”
Crickets.
Well, I guess I’ll have to go this one alone, stubborn spirit.
Freya didn’t want to go anywhere near the house. Although it had happened before, the dead visiting me before I visited a location, this was the first time it had happened before I knew where I was going.
No second-guessing yourself, Sylvia Wray. You’ve got a baby and a mother to help. My fingers tapped on the phone as I thought about calling Loretta. Nope. I wasn’t going to do that. First order of business, get dressed and decide which stones I would carry tonight. I had no doubt I would need protection. Other entities wanted to speak to me now. All of Morgan’s Rock had been activated, and they all knew I was coming! With my spirit guides gone and my lazy attitude toward barrier protection lately, it was easy for them to attempt to encroach upon the borders of my home.
“No! Everyone out! You do not have permission to be here!” The gathering storm clouds abated, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I climbed the stairs.
Freya was right. I might live to regret this.
Chapter Five—Megan
“Come in, Loretta. I’ve got some coffee on. Would you like a cup? I can’t drink caffeine, not even a drop. The baby will keep me up all night if I even take a sip.” Why was I talking like a chatty teenager? Good Lord, I was so nervous.
“I would love a cup of coffee, thanks. I am so excited that you called Sylvia. She’s quite an interesting lady. I’m really looking forward to her visit here.”
I welcomed Loretta into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. I reached for a coffee cup and asked, “Tell me about her. Is that her real name or just a name she uses for her work?”
“Oh, I think it’s her real name. She’s not pretentious at all. But you know, I never thought to ask her that. Sylvia was one of the psychics I interviewed about Dreadnaught Landing. It’s supposedly haunted by a shipwreck; it’s just a few miles down the road here. Over twenty sailors died in that wreck, but that wasn’t the worst of it.”
I frowned. “Twenty dead men? Wouldn’t that be the worst possible scenario?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? But no. Another twenty survived, but the men who lived through the shipwreck and made it to the shore did not make it through that second night. They had no idea that the local Native Americans, a small but frenzied group called the Watimas, were waiting for them. The Watimas lost everything to the White Incursion—that’s how they described the arrival of the Spanish—and they didn’t give the shipwreck survivors a friendly welcome. Many men were tortured; scalps and even other body parts like fingers and toes were taken. It was pretty awful. Anyway, Sylvia helped a few of the sailors communicate with us. Talk about creepy, but not in a horror movie way. I mean creepy because it was so authentic. You could hear their anguish and confusion in her voice. And she was so patient with them, even the ones who didn’t want to talk to her. They walk up and down that shoreline; this whole shoreline is pretty haunted, if you ask me. It was fairly easy to write that chapter of the book.”
“God, that’s awful.” I shivered at the images Loretta’s description summoned. “They survived the shipwreck only to be murdered by the locals?” I felt clammy all over. Loretta nodded her head and poured her coffee. “I wonder if the Storms knew about the history of these shores before they built Morgan’s Rock.”
“I couldn’t say, but being as they were so involved in blood magic, maybe.” She fell silent as she sat down beside me. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this. You don’t deserve it, Megan. I hate it for you. Maybe the balloon, Julie and Zach, maybe it’s all just a horrible coincidence.”
I smiled sadly at her hopefulness as I sipped my water. “You know, before I came here, I wrote about ghosts and strange happenings but never experienced anything. I wrote the books and brought so many scares to people. I wonder if all this is some sort of strange cosmic justice.” I nibbled on a coffee cake nervously. Glancing at the clock, I began to wonder if Sylvia would be on time. I was anxious to get the show on the road.
Fifteen minutes later, Loretta started getting worried too. “I don’t recall her ever being late. Something must have happened. I better give her a call.”
I tidied up the kitchen and waited to hear what happened to Sylvia Finnegan. Alex had promised to call, but so far nothing. I picked up my phone and was surprised to see that he’d sent me a text instead.
Made it in safe and sound. Going for a bite to eat. I’ll call after.
Before I had a chance to text back, Loretta said, “Sylvia is not answering, Megan. I guess we should give her a few more minutes.”
“That’s fine. She will probably show up soon. Hey, would you like to see the nursery? We can see the driveway from up there, so we’ll know when she pulls up.” I locked the back door and gestured for Loretta to follow me. She was worried about her friend but polite enough to show enthusiasm for my project.
“You didn’t go with pink, did you?”
I crinkled my nose. “I’m not a fan of pink. But who knows? When she’s old enough to want to paint her room, we’ll do it up in whatever color she wants. For now, I’m going with mint green. I think it’s a beautiful…” I opened the door and welcomed the smell of clean paint, but it wasn’t the wall color that held my attention. There was a balloon floating outside my daughter’s window. A yellow balloon. “Did you see that?” I asked as the balloon bounced around like someone was snatching it up and down. It must have had a very long string for us to see it upstairs.
“What? The mobile? I love it.”
“No, not the mobile, Loretta.” I walked to the window and reached for the latch. But it wouldn’t open—and these were brand-new windows.
“What is it? You look terrible, Megan. Do you feel okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. I just saw that balloon again. Tell me you saw it, Loretta!”
“No, I didn’t. Where is it?”
“It was outside the window!”
“No, I didn’t see it, but I wasn’t looking at the window. I’ll see if I can spot it.” Loretta struggled with the window and tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge.
That’s not right! I had the windows open earlier. Without a word, I hurried out of the room and down the stairs. If the balloon was hovering around the house, I should be able to see it.
“Megan, wait!”
Loretta hurried as quickly as she could, but I was clearly in better shape than the older woman, despite my extra girth. The front door wouldn’t open, and I was practically in tears now as I struggled to get out.
That’s right! I have to get out! Let me out! I was smothering in this house. “Help me, Loretta! I have to get out of here.”
“It’s okay, Megan. Just breathe, honey.”
I watched in horror as Loretta twisted the doorknob. She couldn’t get it open either. “There is more than one way to skin a cat. Let’s go to the kitchen. We know that door opens.”
“Okay,” I said as I wiped the tears away. She took my
hand as if I were a child, and I trailed after her as we hurried into the kitchen and then stepped out into the yard. There were sprinkles of rain, but at least it wasn’t pouring down in sheets. And even if it had been, I wouldn’t have cared. I had to see if the balloon and the boy were here.
“Zachary? I know who you are!” I said as I circled the front yard. There was no sign of a balloon or a small boy. And no Sylvia. This day had been a complete washout; nothing good had happened at all. I didn’t have any answers for all my questions, which were quickly adding up.
“Megan, come on, let’s go inside. It’s okay. It will be alright. I promise.”
Loretta put her arm around my shoulder, and I suddenly felt tired. So very tired. I hovered on the porch. What should I do? Cry? Scream? “I’m not sure I can go back in there.”
“Yes, you can. I won’t leave you. Let’s go call Alex.”
“I don’t want to talk to Alex,” I complained. “But maybe you’re right. God, I can’t believe this. I know I saw that balloon!” Then the skies opened, and the rain started coming down in buckets. No time to dawdle in the yard now.
We returned to the once-cozy kitchen, and I patted the rain off my arms with a dish towel. “Alex said he would call me after dinner, but I was kind of short with him earlier. He’s probably dragging his feet because I’m being so…”
“No. No blaming yourself. Whatever disagreement you two had isn’t important at the moment. But he should know about this. You should call him, and I’ll try Sylvia again.”
I picked up the kitchen phone and dialed Alex’s number. My cell phone didn’t always provide a good signal, and despite what I’d just said to Loretta, I wanted to hear his voice more than anything right now. The phone rang and rang, and I was just about ready to hang up when I heard someone pick up. Strangely enough, they didn’t speak, just sat there. Was this another bad connection?
The Haunting at Morgan's Rock Page 24
