Ghost Moon
Kathryn Knight
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Kathryn Knight
All rights reserved. In accordance with U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher / author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at wickedwhalepublishing.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Knight, Kathryn
Ghost Moon / by Kathryn Knight
Summary: When Lark Cavanaugh inherits an old family home, she finds new love...but her arrival awakens restless spirits and a deadly mystery.
ISBN: 978-1-7322522-4-0
Wicked Whale Publishing
P.O. Box 264
Sagamore Beach, MA 02562-9998
www.WickedWhalePublishing.com
Published in the United States of America
Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
Other titles by Kathryn Knight:
About the Author
THE HAUNTING OF HILLWOOD FARM
To my dad, for fostering my love of reading. Thank you for the many, many trips to the library. I miss you.
1
Lark Cavanaugh’s stomach did a sluggish flip as she caught her first glimpse of Holloway House. Her foot eased off the gas pedal, slowing the car even beyond the crawling pace that had still registered every bump and rut along the unpaved road that passed as a driveway. How was this her new home? With a grimace, she urged the tires up a small hill, and the trees opened up to reveal the entire structure. It sat in a cleared slice of land that nature seemed eager to reclaim, surrounded on either side by encroaching scrub pines and tangled underbrush. A semi-circle in front of the house, dotted with weeds and the remnants of broken white shells, appeared to serve as a combination front yard and parking area, so she pulled to a stop along the edge.
The empty house would have looked creepy even if she hadn’t known its history. In the evening shadows, the second story seemed to lean forward over the worn porch like a menacing beast leering at its prey. She shivered, blinking to clear the unsettling image. It was just her nerves working overtime. After all, the last ten days had been a traumatic whirlwind of shocking revelations and emotional turmoil. And now she was about to move into an abandoned house that the entire population of this small town believed to be haunted. It was a good thing she didn’t believe in ghosts. Deceitful, selfish people…yes, she believed in that. Now more than ever. Ghosts, no.
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, and her gaze drifted to the bare ring finger of her left hand. Closing her eyes, she blew out a breath, gritting her teeth against the new image that flashed behind her lids. That disturbing memory was seared into her brain forever, and she couldn’t chalk this one up to nerves. Another wave of nausea burned through her belly as she cut the engine. Don’t think about it.
A plaintive mewling brought her back to the present, and she threaded her fingers through the metal bars of the cat carrier on the passenger seat. “I know,” she murmured, stroking the corner of Preston’s soft mouth. “It was a long drive.” Six hours, in fact, from New York City to the town of Truro on Cape Cod, in a borrowed car that felt like it might break apart at any minute. She could relate.
No. She would not let this beat her. It felt as though the fates were testing her, hammering at her defenses in an attempt to shatter her into pieces. But she’d been through worse, and the prolonged nightmare of the last week and a half certainly wasn’t going to be the thing that brought her to her knees. At least not permanently. She would move into this strange, isolated house she’d suddenly inherited and regroup. She would come out stronger. “Right, Pres?” she whispered into the silence, knowing full well her cat couldn’t read her thoughts, and couldn’t answer even if he could. But she may as well get used to talking to herself until she could unload this place and get back to the city.
The lawyer had warned her it would be difficult to sell, for a number of reasons. The house sat on two acres, with a river running through the woods, but it wasn’t directly on the ocean or the bay. The town was sparsely populated and secluded. While the property had been maintained by a trust, the interior had been closed up since Lark’s great aunt Joan had moved into a nursing home ten years ago, before passing away last month.
And then there were the rumors swirling around the house, labeling it haunted and cursed. Apparently at least two of her distant relatives had died here, the wife in a tragic accident, the husband by suicide after a dark descent into grief and madness.
That had been 70 years ago, though. Every old house in Massachusetts probably had a grisly death or two in its past. Many of these towns had first been settled in the late 1600s. Homes with that kind of history had to come with a fair share of tragedies.
A movement caught the corner of her eye, and her gaze snapped up to one of the second-floor windows. A pale, gauzy face peered out at her from behind the cloudy glass. She gasped, her muscles tensing as her hand flew to her mouth. Who was in the house?
She blinked, and the face disappeared. Or, rather, the mirage her exhausted mind had conjured disappeared. Nothing was ever there, she silently reassured herself, sliding her damp palm down over her racing heart. I’m imagining things, that’s all. But as she craned forward, searching the upstairs window through the car windshield, she thought she saw the curtains ripple in the falling dusk.
Great. The stories were getting to her already. Rubbing her eyes, she heaved a long sigh. She needed to get inside, let poor Preston out of the crate, and put her feet up. Unpacking could wait, except for maybe the cat food. And the half-full bottle of wine she’d brought along in the cooler.
Warm June air and an uncanny silence greeted her as she opened the driver’s side door. The absence of honking horns, exhaust fumes, and harried pedestrians was nearly as jarring as the imaginary face in the window. Climbing out of the car, she stretched her arms above her head, then combed her fingers through her heavy auburn hair. As she rolled an elastic tie off her wrist and twisted it around a low ponytail, she surveyed the packed backseat of the car.
It wasn’t all that much, even adding in the bags in the trunk, when you considered this jumbled collection of boxes and crates basically represented her entire life. Some of the furniture in the apartment was technically hers, but she couldn’t have fit it, and besides, she didn’t really want anything that reminded her of the place she’d called home for three years right now. If she decided she needed something, she could deal with that when she returned the car in the middle of July, when the friend of a friend who’d allowed her to use it would return from an overseas trip. How she would get back to the
Cape again was still an unsolved problem…but maybe, if she were really lucky, she’d find an interested buyer, and she wouldn’t have to come back at all.
“Not likely,” she grumbled, opening the passenger door to retrieve the cat carrier. Preston made a low guttural sound in response. Grabbing a duffle bag with her free hand, she trudged toward the house, praying the key would be where it was supposed to be. The lawyer had assured her a local realtor with a copy would come by and hide it for her.
It was there beside the door, tucked beneath an old planter filled with gray dirt and a few tenacious weeds. She slid the key into the lock, frowning at the slight tremble in hand. But a little anxiety was warranted in a situation like this, right? Long trip, new—old—house, and a growing need to locate the bathroom.
She twisted the knob, surprised at how easily the old metal turned beneath her sweaty palm. Almost as if someone on the other side of the door was helping. God. Rolling her eyes at the ridiculous thought, she wiped her hands on her shorts and picked up the bag and carrier before crossing the threshold.
Part of her had imagined she’d find furniture shrouded in dingy white sheets and chandeliers draped in dusty cobwebs. But the inside of the house appeared fairly normal, despite the dated décor and the stale air. An artificial floral scent struggled to mask a damp, musty odor, and Lark’s gaze found an air freshener plugged into a socket by the base of the stairs. A wave of gratitude swept over her at the realtor’s thoughtful gesture. But the real test would be the electricity and water—she’d been assured by the lawyer the utilities would be on by the time she arrived.
She held her breath as she flicked the switch beside the door, and let it out with relief as the light above her head brightened the entryway. The switch beside it lit up the living area to her left. Phew. Now for the bathroom. She shut the front door behind her and set the carrier down first, opening the door. “Come on out and check out our new digs, Pres,” she called as she hurried through the living room into the kitchen. The open floor plan was basically a large rectangle, and she found a tiny bathroom where the kitchen led into the dining room.
The running water lifted her spirits, and she searched the cabinets for a shallow bowl to fill with water for Preston. Surprisingly, the appliances didn’t look as obsolete as she’d pictured. Someone must have made some changes over the years.
Returning to the foyer, she scanned the area for Preston. Her brows drew together as she failed to find his familiar gray and white form slinking through the new environment, tail twitching as he cautiously sniffed every inch.
“Pres?” she called, the word hanging in the heavy air. She squatted down by the cat carrier, wincing as several joints cracked like dried twigs. She needed a warm bath and a soft bed. Her 25-year-old body felt ancient after spending over a week sleeping on an uncomfortable couch.
There he was, still huddled in the carrier, his body pressed as far against the back of the plastic crate as possible. Yellow-green eyes glittered, unblinking, from the dark interior.
Weird. Why wouldn’t he want to get out of his cramped quarters, now that he could? She cooed at him, trying to coax him out, but when he wouldn’t budge, she set down the water and stood back up before her stiff muscles locked her into a permanent crouch. “Suit yourself,” she murmured with a shrug. Maybe he just needed time to acclimate…time to feel safe here.
A shudder ran through her as the phantom face in the window flashed through her mind. How much time would she need? Hopefully, not too much…she was bone-tired. Just your imagination, she reminded herself as she went back outside to grab a few more things. Still, she avoided looking up at the windows on her way back toward the house.
Once she’d set up a food bowl and a litter tray near the carrier—still occupied by her strangely cautious cat—she climbed the staircase to check out the bedrooms. A small landing midway up connected another set of stairs leading to the kitchen. At the top, a section of the bannister continued in each direction along the narrow hallway.
She paused, hand resting on the wooden finial of the newel post, and glanced back down to see if Preston was following her. Nope. Shaking her head slightly, she peeked into the bathroom across the hall, then turned and made her way to the door at the right end of the hallway. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her footsteps, the sound eerily magnified in the thick silence. After so many years of city living, where noises drifted from the bustling streets and the neighboring apartments at every hour, the quiet here was surreal. Utter and complete, it reminded her how alone she was now. And in so many more ways than just being in this creepy isolated house in this tiny isolated town.
She set her jaw against the impending wave of self-pity and pushed open the door with more force than necessary. A master bedroom greeted her, sparsely furnished but quaint in its vintage style. There was no master bath, but another doorway led to an adjoining room outfitted as a study. She wandered in, feeling a bit like she was stepping back in time.
A heavy wooden desk sat in the center, framed black and white photos tucked between paperweights and leather accessories. Picking one up, she blew on the dusty glass. A couple and a child she didn’t recognize. Probably relatives, but her connection to this part of the family was distant—the house had landed with her through a series of strange circumstances and tragedies. But this room would be a treasure trove if she wanted to learn more about her mother’s side of the family.
Setting the picture down, she swept her gaze over to a set of portraits on the wall. A stern-looking couple occupied matching frames, the man wearing a white clerical collar. Above the two portraits hung a large cross, and Lark recalled that her relative John Holloway had been the local pastor. He and his wife, Martha, were the ones who had first lived in this house after having it built in the late 1940s.
Below the portraits, shelves held rows of books and boxes. In the corners of the room, evidence of more recent inhabitants sat piled on chairs—games, puzzles, and stacks of mail. Lark checked the date on a magazine cover. April 2003. Maybe the fashions would be back in style at this point.
The windows along the far wall overlooked the back of the property, and she paused to enjoy the view. It really was peaceful. A low wooden deck stretched out from the kitchen, and beyond that, a gentle hill rolled down to the tree line. The narrow river that marked the property line wound its way through the brush and pitch pines, and beyond that, she could just make out the back of her closest neighbor’s house at the top of the opposing rise.
A wave of dizziness swept over her, and she rubbed her forehead. She needed to eat and rest. Backtracking, she left the master bedroom and followed the hallway down to the other end and the two additional rooms.
She opened the door on her right and peeked into a smaller bedroom with a backyard view similar to the one from the study. As she closed that door and turned to the one directly across from it, she hesitated, chewing on her lip. This was the room with the front-facing windows. The room that had appeared to have an occupant staring out at her as she arrived.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she closed them around the knob. Silly. And yet…what if there was someone in there? Not necessarily a ghost, but an intruder…
Should she go grab a weapon? With a small shake of her head, she dismissed the idea. If someone was here, and did intend harm, he or she could have easily snuck up on her earlier. Pulling in a deep breath, she eased the door open.
Her eyes shot to the far window. No one there. The thud of her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she scanned the rest of the room. It appeared empty, but there were twin beds and a small closet to investigate before she could declare the house unoccupied.
As she took a tentative step forward, a wave of cold air swirled around her, and she tensed, her muscles tightening, her breath catching. What the hell? Her gaze snapped back to the window. Closed. Goosebumps prickled her skin as she swiveled her head around, searching for a source.
A mournful sigh rustled in her ear, and her frozen
body suddenly came to life, her limbs flailing defensively as she stumbled sideways. Jumping onto one of the beds, she scrambled backwards until her spine slammed into the headboard, pulling her knees into her chest to make herself as small as possible.
She stared, unblinking, into the empty room, her heart pounding so hard she was surprised it wasn’t banging through the wooden bedframe into the wall. But no one appeared in the doorway, no one emerged from the closet. No footsteps retreated down the hall. Slowly, her racing heart decelerated as rational explanations began to break the surface of her fear.
Just the wind, curling and moaning through the joints and cracks of an old house.
But there hadn’t been a trace of a breeze when she’d arrived.
She bit her lip against the defiant inner voice. Truro was basically a narrow strip of land surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean on one side and Cape Cod Bay on the other. Strange weather patterns probably popped up all the time around here.
Pulling in a shuddering breath, she unfolded herself and eased her torso over the edge of the bed. She was going to have to pull up the bed skirt—on both beds—and check, just for peace of mind. It was stupid to think a gust of chilly air or a noise beside her ear could materialize from beneath a bed, but at the same time, the image of the shadowy face in the window continued to flit through her mind like photos sliding across a screen.
Ghost Moon (Haunting Romance) Page 1
