Tales From The Mist: An Anthology of Horror and Paranormal Stories

by Scott Nicholsonan

  “That is no small gift, Nathaniel.” He lowered his head. Hoping he wouldn’t disappear again, Sarah moved to his side. “I saw their faces when they crossed. They were joyous—you led them to that, when they would stay, bury themselves in their sorrow.”

  “Thank you, leannan.” He turned to her, the pain in his eyes softened by the gratitude she heard in his voice. “Time for you to start living among your own, Sarah.”

  “I’m not sure I know how to deal with them anymore, not one on one.”

  “You work for a tour company. I heard that correctly?” When she nodded he glided forward, until only a breath of space separated them. “Then you are already dealing with them. Now open yourself, and enjoy them.”

  “Sound advice, from a dead man.” With a watery laugh, she tucked wind teased hair behind her ear. “And that is a sentence I never thought to utter in my lifetime. But—I am going to try and take it.”

  “And what are you still doing here, then?” He raised one hand. Sarah turned toward the squeak, watched the gates swing open. “Go.” She met his eyes, saw the despair flash in them before he covered with a smile. “Find your way back to yourself.”

  Her heart lurched when he winked out of sight.

  “Nathaniel!” The cold particular to him was gone, leaving her to shiver in the normal cold of October. She scanned the cemetery, knowing she wouldn’t find him. “I promise you, I will come back. I promise—”

  She turned around—and almost screamed when she saw the figure standing next to the gates.

  “Sarah—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Jamie—” One hand pressed over her racing heart. “What are you doing here?”

  “You mentioned that you were wanting time without people. This is the only place I know of in Glasgow meeting that description.” He ran one hand through his hair. “It’s been near to three hours since you left your group with me. I was starting to worry—”

  “Three hours?” It felt like days since she first saw Nathaniel. Her life had shattered and reformed in that time, leaving her—lost. And unsure of her next step.

  Jamie took it for her. Moving to her, he laid one hand on her cheek, the concern in his dark blue eyes lodging tears in her throat. “I have been worried since you left. Before you left, truth be told.”

  Swallowing, she backed out of his touch. “Jamie—it was sweet of you to look out for me. But I’m not—I can’t—” Nathaniel flashed into sight behind Jamie, for just a second, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Oh, hell.”

  Before she could talk herself out of it she moved in, grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him.

  He stilled against her. Just when she was ready to pull away, mortified by her rash move, he gathered her into his arms and responded, with such tenderness it nearly broke her.

  “I have wanted to do that since I first laid eyes on you.” Jamie rested his forehead against hers, his breath uneven. “But I knew you were not ready for such intimacy.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready now. But new—friends have not so subtly informed me it was past time to try.” She leaned back, met his eyes. “You knew, about—”

  “I recognized you from the photo in the paper.”

  Shock gripped her. “Oh, God—”

  “Hey.” He framed her face. “I realize how much you lost that night. And I will understand if this is as far as we go. I’m willing to wait, leannan, until you are ready.”

  Her heart jumped. “What did you call me?”

  “It’s an endearment, from the Gaelic. It means sweet—”

  “Heart. I’ve heard it before.” She looked at him. Really looked at him. And swallowed as she took in the blue eyes, dark, curling hair, angular features. “Jamie, as in James . . .” He couldn’t be— “What is your last name?”

  “MacGregor.”

  She closed her eyes. “Of course it is.” Laughter bubbled out of her. It felt so good to laugh, and not have the edge of guilt cutting at her.

  “Sarah—”

  “I’m all right.” She kissed Jamie again, felt a jolt, a spreading warmth. “And I think—I’m ready.”

  “We can go slow, as slow as you need. Sarah—I mean to hold on to you.” That warmth spiraled to a thrill. One she’d never felt before, with anyone. “I will never ask you to forget your Edward, or replace him in your heart. All I want is a chance to find a place there.”

  Letting out a shaky breath, she took his hand. “Okay.” She smiled at the shock on his face. “I had some—moments of revelation, over the last three hours. Life is too short. I can’t promise I won’t slide backward now and then.”

  “I will help you find your footing, if you’ll let me.”

  She realized that she did want him to, and it made her feel stronger, more centered than she had been in far too long. “Did I hear talk about a costume party?”

  Jamie smiled, moving toward the gates. “We hurry, we’ll have enough time to find a costume. Who were you talking to, when I nearly scared the life out of you?”

  “I was just making a promise. One I intend to keep.” She didn’t mean to ask, but the words popped out before she could stop them. “By any chance, do you have an ancestor named Nathaniel?”

  “Aye—he’s said to haunt this place. You haven’t seen him, have you?” She knew he asked the question as a joke; when she didn’t answer, he pulled away, gripping her arms. “Sarah—did you—were you—talking to him, when I found you?”

  “And if I said yes?”

  He closed his eyes, let out his breath. “Then I’d no longer be thinking I was crazy. I thought—God protect me, I know I heard him when I came to visit my Gran last week. I convinced myself it was the wind, or a bird. Anything but—”

  “Jamie.” When she touched his cheek he looked at her, the doubt in those dark blue eyes squeezing her heart. “I did talk to him. He’s real, and you’re not crazy. You would be proud of him; he helps people cross over—never mind that now.” Tugging on his hand, she headed toward the steep path leading back to civilization. “If you want me to, I’ll tell you all about him, once we get out of here.”

  “I would like to know more about him. Hey,” he leaned in, brushed his lips over her cheek. And she felt the last wall around her heart fall away. “Thank you for believing. In all of it.”

  Looking into his eyes, she understood what Michael said to her, about paying his debt. He opened her to someone who had been a part of her life all along, the right someone—not to replace Edward, but to help her move on from the despair and blame that had become her world. She looked forward to thanking him. A long time from now.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted Nathaniel, standing next to a young girl. Tears stung her eyes as she saw him comfort the girl, cradling her face as he knelt, spoke to her. Sarah knew she was in good hands, and would soon leave behind any regrets or disappointment. Just as Sarah planned to do now.

  She had walked into the Necropolis, alone, battered by grief, swamped by despair. Now she walked out, changed by circumstance and choice.

  And because of Michael, because of her own acceptance of Edward’s selfless act, she was no longer alone.

  About Cate

  Cate Dean has been writing since she could hold a pen in her hand and put more than two words together on paper. She grew up losing herself in the wilds of fantasy worlds, and has had some of her own adventures while tromping through the UK, and a few other parts of the world. A lover of all things supernatural, she infuses that love into her stories, giving them a unique edge. When she's not writing, she loves cooking, scaring herself silly in the local cemeteries, and reading pretty much anything she can get her hands on.

  You can find her hanging out at her website: http://catedeanwrites.com

  JADE O’REILLY AND THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT

  By Tamara Ward

  “This is outrageous,” the masked crusader said, adjusting his cape ties.

  “Not really.”

  “It is. It’s
outrageous, Jade. You’re a professional private investigator, and you’re house sitting at a supposedly haunted mansion on Halloween night—tonight. And a storm is brewing.”

  As if to punctuate Keith’s words, a vein of lightning pulsed through the foreboding clouds gathering beyond the three–story antebellum house. The historic mansion originally was a plantation house until the owner subdivided and sold the surrounding cotton fields. Now the building served as a museum for the town of Sweetwater.

  Greek Revival–style columns ran from the foundation to the upper story balcony and then to the roof. The dark windows felt like soulless eyes staring down on me. Sitting next to Keith in his parked pickup truck, for a second, I almost agreed with him—my assignment tonight felt outrageous. But then again, Keith wore black leather pants and a matching sombrero.

  “You know what’s outrageous?” I said. “You growing a mustache to go with your costume.”

  Keith shook his head and pushed his mask up, revealing glacier–blue eyes rimmed with thick, dark lashes. “I might be new in town, but I’ve heard the rumors. It’s not that I believe the talk; I don’t believe in ghosts, and I don’t believe the property is cursed. But the property manager hiring Grayson Investigations to house sit tonight of all nights—the job is ridiculous in the extreme.”

  “At least the job pays good money.” I shrugged and pulled my chocolate brown hair into a quick pony tail.

  Even though we’d only been seeing each other for a handful of months, Keith felt the same way I did about tonight’s assignment. Part of being a private investigator included security guard details, but a job at this mansion tonight of all nights did seem over the top. I didn’t believe in ghosts, either. Still, even from the street, the Edward Bronstein–Rutherford House felt creepy. My clenched gut told me I acted cockier than I truly felt.

  “The live–in caretaker is on vacation,” I said, “and Mack and I are alternating watching the museum in his absence.” The senior PI at Grayson Investigations, Mack claimed the day shift, as he had a wife to spend his nights with. I lived alone and enjoyed late evenings anyway. “The caretaker gets a few weeks of vacation a year. Apparently one of the new rules of the job is that he’s got to take one of those weeks to include Halloween night.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because caretaker after caretaker has resigned November 1, following Halloween night in the mansion.” I stared at the gloomy covered porch, and I could easily imagine the shadows shifting. “The manager didn’t want to lose another caretaker this year. No one has stuck around long after spending Halloween night alone in the mansion.”

  “Why? What do people say happens Halloween night?” Keith chuckled. “Do the ghosts of Civil War soldiers rise from their graves and hold a party in the banquet room?”

  “I don’t know what they say happens Halloween night, particularly,” I said, “since the caretakers don’t stick around in town long after October. And they’re alone in the house when whatever it is allegedly happens. But about those soldiers—during the Civil War, Union soldiers seized the house for a makeshift hospital but left not a week later claiming that bones refused to set; amputees inexplicably bled out. Their unmarked graves are on the back corner of the property.”

  Keith waggled his fingers at me as if casting a spell.

  “I know,” I said. “But it’s fact that the house has a history of maladies. I did some research. During construction, one of the workers tumbled from the chimney and cracked his head open on discarded bricks; his bright red blood was the house’s first coat of paint. I guess that’s when people say the curse began, not that I believe in it.”

  “So what do people say happens in the house these days?”

  “Cold drafts—”

  “—which come with old houses,” Keith finished.

  “Slamming doors—”

  “—caused by the cold drafts.”

  “Odd power flickering—”

  “—from ancient wiring.”

  “And the occasional overwhelming smell of magnolia coming from the upper story bath,” I said.

  “Are there magnolia trees on the property?”

  “That would explain it, but no.” I snickered. “People say the scent is the ghost of Mrs. Rutherford.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “Let me rewind a bit,” I said, wanting to share what I’d gleaned off the Sweetwater Walking Ghost Tour blog. Sure, reading up on the mansion was kind of nerdy, but it seemed pertinent, especially since I’d be spending the night inside. “I forgot to mention one other alleged manifestation. Visitors say they sometimes feel their shoes stick to the hardwood flooring in the exact location where Charles Rutherford is said to have died, where he coughed and cried blood.”

  Keith grimaced.

  “Records say he died of an exotic disease following an international voyage.” I shrugged. “Then local rumor has it that, following her husband’s death, Mrs. Rutherford lost it. She said she heard the echoes of her husband’s coughing in the pipes. Not long after, on Halloween, they found her dead in the claw–foot tub that’s still in the upstairs bathroom.”

  “When was this?”

  “Back before World War II. The house was abandoned for years following her death.”

  “And then they turned the mansion into a town museum.”

  I nodded. “And during the renovations, the third–story floorboards gave way, one thick splinter of rotten wood hooking the ribcage of one of the workers, piercing him as he flailed between floors, right above the doorway to the bathroom where Mrs. Rutherford died.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Keith fingered his sombrero. “Disgusting and strange.”

  “Yes,” I said. I looked again out the truck window at the mansion. I didn’t believe the stories about ghosts, curses, or sticky floorboards. But my head knowledge seemed to be momentarily competing with heart knowledge, as a roll of thunder growled and my pulse raced.

  “So why have anyone in there tonight?” Keith asked. “Why not just lock up the house and let it alone?”

  “Probably to discourage pranksters from doing anything that will cause the property permanent damage.” I looked at the mansion’s front yard. Filled with overgrown shrubbery, the landscaping begged to be garnished with toilet paper. “And I guess they want the museum’s artifacts protected on the night teens will be most likely to break in and mess around. With the old, temperamental wiring, having a functioning security system on the property is impossible.”

  I’d visited the museum a couple years ago. In the daytime, even with the tall, wide windows, the place felt ominous. Not only did the house have a history, now that it was a museum, it collected artifacts and their histories, too. Civil War trinkets accompanied tools used by slaves, and old parasols gathered dust alongside riding crops. I didn’t relish the thought of spending the night in the mansion. Especially this particular night.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off at your place so you can drive here yourself?” Keith asked. “I’d feel better if your Jeep was parked nearby, just in case you need it.”

  “I’ve got my cell, and it’s freshly charged,” I said, patting the phone clipped to my waistband opposite my heavy–duty metal flashlight. I glanced at my standard private investigator surveillance uniform—faded black polo shirt, jeans with the worn thin knees, and of course my combat boots. “I can walk home to my Jeep in 15 minutes. Besides, there’s the bet.”

  “What bet?”

  “$200 bucks says I don’t last the night in the house.”

  I smiled. Mack always underestimated me. And tomorrow morning he’d pay for it. After I volunteered for the graveyard shift, Mack said I’d run home squealing. Our office receptionist told Mack to put his money where his mouth was. He did. The other PIs at Grayson joined in the bet. With a $50 buy–in, if I stepped off the property, I’d be considerably poorer. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  “The office is going to track my cell phone’s GPS coordinat
es, and they’re going to call me a couple times during the night so they’ll know if I bail and just leave my phone behind,” I said.

  “It’s too bad you can’t come to the party with me at the Shack,” Keith said.

  My favorite bar in Sweetwater knew how to throw a Halloween bash. The owner rented a fog machine and hired a great band. Gelatin shooters. Orange beer. Caramel popcorn. Complimentary candy corn. And everyone wore costumes.

  “So I’ll see you when I see you,” I said. I leaned over and pressed my lips against Keith’s. The kiss felt hot and good and I didn’t want to let him go. But suddenly the mansion’s porch lights flickered on, and a grisly, hunched figure stood silhouetted in the doorway—Mack, apparently ready to go home.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Keith said.

  “I won’t.” I jumped out of his truck and waved as he drove away.

  I took my time walking to the mansion and up the front porch steps. When I finally reached the landing, Mack stepped toward me.

  “Jade O’Reilly,” he said. “About time you showed up.” He frowned, his wrinkles bunching even more than usual, reminding me of the surface of Sweetwater Lake when the wind and waves disagree. The porch lights accentuated silver streaks in Mack’s white hair as he limped toward me. Decades ago, when he served on Sweetwater’s police force, Mack got shot. Rather than retire to a desk, he quit the force and joined Grayson Investigations.

  “Any trouble yet tonight?” I asked.

  “Not a peep. It’s been really quiet. Eerily quiet,” Mack said. “I felt almost as if the house was—” he paused— “waiting for something.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing Mack applied his theatrics in an attempt to psych me out and make me lose the bet. All the same, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

  “It really is spooky in there,” Mack said. His eyes drifted to my neck, taking in my gooseflesh. “All that old stuff, all the stories, all the—” he lowered his voice— “strange deaths. There’s no shame if you want me to cover your shift. We’ll all understand.”