Cara tried to be firm with her, but she found it hard to stay angry with her twin for long, she was so grateful to have her alive. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, stroking Phoebe’s head where the skull had been fractured.
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Phoebe asked. She always wanted this when Cara got back from a trip.
“Of course you can.”
Half an hour later, as Cara was drifting into sleep, Phoebe said, “I wish we weren’t going to Quantico.”
“It’s going to be fine. You’re a big deal for them.”
“If I really didn’t have a conscience, I’d refuse.”
“I’m very proud of you. Mom and Dad would be, too.” Cara could hear Phoebe’s mind ticking over.
“If this works, maybe I’ll be able to talk to them.”
A dull ache cramped Cara’s throat. “You never know.”
Phoebe rolled onto her stomach and draped an arm over Cara’s middle. She always fell asleep that way when they shared a bed. There were photos of them sleeping in the same position as babies.
“If I can, what do you want me to say to them?” she whispered.
Cara called her parents’ faces to mind. “Tell them I wish I knew them now. I think we’d be good friends.”
*
Rowe opened her eyes and drew a quick breath. The air seemed thin, depleted of oxygen. She listened intently and heard a rushing noise as if from a great distance. Her heart was doing its job, pushing a persistent tide of blood through her body. The muffled drum in her ears grew more rapid as she heard something else, a sound that didn’t belong in her night.
Footsteps. Faint laughter. She reached for the switch that would flood her room with lamplight, then arrested herself and lay rigid in the darkness. Where was it coming from? She slid silently out from under her bedclothes and stepped onto the cold wooden floor.
For a moment she wondered if Dwayne and Earl had shown up ahead of time to carry out some kind of nocturnal investigation. Surely they would not have broken into the cottage. She dragged on her robe and quickly tied the belt. Should she call the police now? Were there any police on Islesboro?
A smart woman living alone kept a gun on hand. Not Rowe. If she wanted a weapon, she would have to use whatever she could lay her hands on, or rustle up a knife from the kitchen. Avoiding the board that creaked, she crossed the room, cracked open her bedroom door, and listened, motionless, trying to breathe without making any noise. The dogs were asleep in the next room, which she had converted to a cozy library. She had shut them in there that night because Zoe snored like an old man and having them on the bed meant lousy sleep and she could say good-bye to writing the next day.
She crept to the top of the stairs, thankful her thick bed socks eliminated any sound. The footsteps floated nearer, and she knew it was not laughing she could hear, but crying. Her arms crawled with gooseflesh, and her teeth began to chatter. Lowering her weight carefully, she gripped the banister and descended. Her sensible self kept insisting that the noise she could hear was wind in the trees and something banging inside the house. She would enter the ballroom and find a trapped bird making small thumps as it flew time and again into impervious windows. Or she would wake up in bed at any moment and realize this was nothing but a dream.
When she reached the base of the stairs she paused and pinched at the soft flesh of her wrist, hoping to open her eyes and see her bedroom wall. Instead, she sensed a brooding malevolence, the presence of something old and discordant in the house. Her mouth dried until she could barely swallow. The ballroom loomed ahead.
What if she just turned on the lights and marched in like she owned the place, which she did. It was crazy to stand trembling in the hall, allowing her imagination to run riot. Yet she had to know what lay beyond the two solid timber doors. She wanted to see with her own eyes what her mind refused to accept could exist. A ghost.
A shudder played along her spine and she groped for an ornate brass latch. Chill air and whispered voices seeped from the gap between the doors as she slowly parted them. Holding her breath, she slid inside.
Moonlight from the far windows etched the room in silver. Footfalls echoed, but she could see no one. No shimmering apparition. No mist. No flickering light. Yet she was not alone.
“I know you’re there,” she said, trying to sound calm.
The footsteps halted.
Rowe advanced a few paces. “Juliet?”
Something stirred the air near her face. An ice-cold hand touched her cheek. She gasped and stumbled back into the hall. Panting like she’d run a marathon, she fumbled her way up the stairs and fell into her room. This couldn’t possibly be real, she reasoned feverishly. Ghosts didn’t exist. There was nothing in that room.
She crawled into bed and hunkered beneath the covers, shivering in fits and starts, waiting for her heart to slow down. Granted, she hadn’t seen a ghost, Rowe thought, but she knew she had felt one.
*
“It’s serious,” Dwayne said, sitting on the parlor sofa scrawling notes.
Rowe wanted to look over her shoulder. “Seriously haunted?” She watched Earl pack up the spook-catching equipment that would have had her cracking up laughing a few days ago.
“Hot spots all over the place. Confirmed Class Three in the ballroom. Record levels of activity in your kitchen. And that problem with the knives falling off your counter—it’s a level surface, so right off we’re talking object levitation. But with the other phenomena and EVP evidence, and your dogs weirding out, it could be something major.”
“As in Class Five major,” Earl cut in. “There’s a malevolent entity that wants you out of that room. For starters, keep your knives in the drawer.”
“You think I have some kind of poltergeist in there?” Rowe could hardly believe she had just asked that question.
Dwayne gave her an odd look. “No. Unless…I mean, are you feeling like maybe—”
“A poltergeist isn’t a ghost.” Earl cut to the chase. “Dude, explain.”
“It’s a psychokinetic manifestation of an individual’s emotional stress.” Dwayne wet his lips as he spoke. “The person who causes it is called a poltergeist agent. So, if this was a poltergeist situation, then that agent would be…uh, you.”
How could any self-respecting horror writer not know that? Rowe didn’t want to think about her pitiful ignorance leaking out. Her MySpace blog was already a sea of perturbation.
“Right. Of course,” she said, making it sound like a lightbulb just lit the gloomy corridors of her memory.
Dwayne didn’t seem convinced. “Clients quite often blame themselves for a haunting. But this is a residual situation.”
“The ghost was here first, in other words?”
“Yep. Whatever happened in this cottage…” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “We need to find out what it was so we can deal.”
“Deal? You mean an exorcism or something.” Rowe found herself whispering as well. Feeling ridiculous, she reverted to a normal voice. “I thought the last resident tried that already.”
Earl rolled his eyes. “Jasper was a fucking basket case after a few months here. Man, you did him a favor buying this place. No one else would.”
“We told him the priest would be a waste of time,” Dwayne said. “But some people need to think religion has all the answers.”
“It’s a scary world,” Rowe said.
“Even scarier when it’s run by those exact same people.” Dwayne put his notebook away in the steel briefcase and rolled the combination lock.
Earl got to his feet. “I’ll develop those EVP tapes some more. We’ve got some wailing and the Type B voice calling Run. I’ll get that onto our Web site as a midi file, so you can listen any time you want.”
“Great,” Rowe said. Just what she needed—her very own howler.
“Your identity will not be disclosed,” Dwayne assured her. “We take client privacy seriously, unlike certain other paranormal organizations.”
/>
Rowe gave him the grateful nod he seemed to be waiting for. “So, what’s our next step?”
“Well, see, we need to gather more data. Measure your other rooms.” Dwayne stood up and swept a sober look around the parlor. His eyes fell on the photograph Rowe had propped on the desk. “It’s terrible what happened to her.”
“No one likes getting dumped,” Rowe said.
“No, I mean how she died, frozen in the snow like that.” He stared out the window. “Must have been just out there.”
Rowe cast an irritated glance at him. These two knew much more than they’d been letting on. Whenever she asked them about Juliet Baker’s death, all they could talk about was sightings of her ghost.
“I thought you didn’t know what happened,” she said.
“Uh. We do and we don’t.” Dwayne shifted uncomfortably. “Like, obviously, the real story never made it into the newspapers. All the reports said it was an accident.”
“But you have a different theory?”
“Well, see, when a house is haunted the paranormal investigator has to figure out why the ghost is hanging around. Like maybe they’re unhappy or there’s something they want to say. So, you have to ask yourself why a young lady like her would have gone out into a storm in the middle of the night. It’s not…uh, normal behavior. If we can get to the bottom of it and find out what she wants, then we can try a banishing.”
“Which is what? Some kind of an afterlife therapy session with the ghost? You tell her to get lost and she does?”
Earl muttered, “Works a whole lot better than getting a priest to throw holy water around and order Satan out. Shit like that.”
It made sense, Rowe supposed. That is, if you accepted ghosts actually existed. And since she now did, despite her attempts to rationalize her experience in the ballroom, she asked, “What do you think Juliet’s ghost wants?”
“That’s what we need to find out,” Dwayne said. “The original report in the Camden Herald says she had a fall. Her father found her body the next morning after a maid noticed she wasn’t in her bed.”
“And your theory is that she walked out into the snow deliberately?”
“Maybe. It’s, like, a suspicion. See, we visited her grave when we were photographing orbs at the Evergreen cemetery with the MPRA, and—”
“Man, what a waste of time,” Earl remarked, rewinding audio tapes. “It was all about the tourists. Big fat surprise.”
“Her grave?” Rowe prompted the para-nerds back on track.
“We took a photo of the headstone. You gotta see this.” Dwayne reached for the steel briefcase, only to freeze, his eyes glued to the front window.
A dark shape loomed through the condensation. A pale face stared from beneath a hood.
“Oh, Christ,” Rowe said.
Dwayne made an odd wheezing sound. “It’s her.”
“Man, that’s a Class Four apparition.” Earl frantically unzipped a bag and pulled out a camera. “Wicked awesome!”
The apparition tapped on the glass and called, “Rowe?”
Earl lowered the camera. “Fuck. She knows your name.”
“We’re going to be famous,” Dwayne croaked.
Grumbling to herself, Rowe opened the window. This was all she needed—the entire world knowing she’d called in the crazies to help her deal with a ghost problem.
Cara pushed back the hood of her coat and peered in at them. “Am I interrupting something?” Flicking a glance in Dwayne’s direction, she asked, “Is your friend okay? Looks like he saw a ghost.”
*
“Don’t tell me—paranormal investigators?” Cara asked as Dwayne’s car departed.
“How did you guess?” Rowe opened the baby gate on her stairs so the dogs could humiliate her by leaping all over the visitor.
“Let me see.” Cara fended off the slobbering pair. “Bumper stickers that say Ghot Ghosts? The telltale Friends of Casper insignia on the back window…”
“Seems like I bought a haunted house. The guys wanted to take a look around.”
“Actually, you bought the haunted house,” Cara said as the dogs lost interest in her crotch and bolted out into the meadow. “Wait till summer. You won’t be able to walk out your door without finding a family from Wisconsin camped on your stoop waiting for the tour guide.”
“You’re kidding me.”
Cara gave her an incredulous look. “Are you saying you didn’t know? Everyone thinks you bought it for the publicity.”
“The horror writer poses on the doorstep of her haunted cottage?” Rowe rolled her eyes and launched into a glib media patter. “Author Rowe Devlin knows what she’s talking about when she writes a ghost story—”
“The sacrifices we make for art,” Cara mocked gently.
“Seems like I was the last person to find out about this place and its…inhabitants. I know what I’m going to call this year—you know, when I write my memoirs—The Year of My Perpetual Humiliation.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Trust me. It is.”
“I can’t wait to hear the sordid details.” Cara tucked a hand in Rowe’s arm and said in a coaxing voice, “I was sent to fetch you for lunch. Phoebe’s cooking crab cakes.”
“Your sister is a temptress. I love crab cakes.”
“You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted her remoulade sauce.”
“It’s a conspiracy. I have to stop coming over to your place. I can feel the fat cells piling on as soon as I walk in the door.” Rowe pulled at a small roll around her middle.
To her astonishment, Cara’s hand joined hers, sliding across her midriff. “I’ve felt worse.”
“I was buff once upon a time.”
“Not that long ago.” The hand lingered. “You still have muscle tone.”
A small shock of awareness jarred Rowe’s spine. Cara’s hand fell, and they stared at one another. Rowe wanted to look away, but something in Cara’s gaze prevented her. She drew a sharp breath, and a seductive, spicy perfume invaded her nostrils.
Don’t, she thought.
She must have said it out loud, because Cara’s pupils dilated and she murmured, “Why not?”
In the same split second, they reached for one another, and Cara’s mouth parted softly. A chill of desire blossomed across Rowe’s chest, stifling her ability to draw breath. She slid her hands to the base of Cara’s spine and kissed her.
Their bodies fit like they were meant for union. Cara was a little shorter and built more slightly. She moved against Rowe as if they were already naked. Starved of touch, Rowe’s body clamored for the hot, firm press of flesh, the wallowing pleasure of all-over caresses, the building urgency before release. She wanted to feel a woman naked in her arms, to smell and taste her arousal, to hear her small cries of pleasure. It had been too long. Did she care if her potential sex partner was until recently a virtual stranger?
She lifted a hand to Cara’s face, caressing the fragile jaw, tilting her head as the kiss grew deeper. With her free hand she pulled Cara’s coat from her shoulders. She felt Cara’s fingers at her waist, tugging her shirt from her jeans. The kiss slowed to one of passionate intensity, and a strange calm descended on Rowe. How could the sharing of a single breath so enthrall? Mesmerized, she left Cara’s mouth for her throat, kissing and delicately biting. All the while, she could feel Cara’s hands moving over skin untouched for more than a year, leaving trails of prickling nerves. A ringing sound invaded the moment. She tried to ignore it, but its persistence was intolerable.
They drew back from each other, breathing hard.
Cara stared down at her coat as if she wasn’t sure how it ended up on the floor. Shakily, she said, “It’s probably Phoebe.”
Rowe went into the parlor and picked up the phone.
“Hey, Rowe,” Phoebe said happily. “Are you coming?”
Almost, Rowe thought, then said, “Absolutely. Can’t wait.” And like a coward, “Your sister’s here. Want to talk to her?”
&
nbsp; Standing in the doorway, pulling on her coat, Cara shook her head. Rowe handed the phone to her anyway.
“Hey, sweetie,” Cara said with cool aplomb. “Sorry we’re running late. Rowe had to get rid of some visitors and take the dogs out. But we’re on our way.” Face flushed, she passed the handpiece back to Rowe and they avoided looking at one another.
Rowe ended the call, tucked her shirt back into her pants, and ran a hand over her hair. “Well, this is awkward,” she said.
Cara touched her arm. “It doesn’t have to be. Nothing happened. We don’t have to read a whole lot into it.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Rowe moved out into the vestibule and took her peacoat from a hook. All she could think was that she had just avoided falling off a cliff and she might not be so lucky the second time. She buttoned the coat and held the front door for Cara.
They strolled across the meadow, mist wreathing their faces.
“We’re neighbors. So…bad idea.” Cara might have been talking to herself.
Rowe agreed. “Yeah, way too complicated.”
Cara stopped suddenly. Snowflakes clung to her straight dark eyebrows and her top lip. Rowe refrained from licking them off. “Just so you know, the kiss was excellent. I would have liked to have sex with you.”
“Me, too.” Rowe cursed the phone for ringing during that hormonal interlude, reminding them that they were adults with common sense. She tried not to think about Cara naked in her bed. Why torture herself?
Cara produced a dazzling smile, which Rowe took to mean that they could now pretend it had never happened. She smiled back like it hadn’t. They started walking again, but Cara was not quite ready to let it go.
“It was my fault,” she said as they reached the tree belt.
Rowe inhaled the smell of damp balsam and dead leaves. “It takes two.”
Dark Dreamer Page 7
