Jess shook her head. How long before the house became active again? Before people saw things in the mirrors, anxious for a chance to spot a ghost at Savannah’s most infamous haunted house?
Promise me, Jess. Promise!
Be careful what you let in.
Jess sighed. “Fools.”
Gage squeezed her hand. “Maybe someone else will find a way to make it stop.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “I’ll always feel bad we couldn’t tell anyone the truth.”
They’d kept their word to Allison, but that didn’t make her feel good about it. She thought of Allison nearly every day.
“There’s nothing we can do. If we had told them the truth EPAC would still be hounding us. And every paranormal specialist out there would think they had something to prove. We know that won’t end well. All we can do is hope that what happened at Siler House doesn’t happen again any time soon.”
But it probably would, and they both knew it. Maybe not exactly what happened to the four of them, but Riley and Siler House would never rest. Neither would those who walked its halls. The best they could hope for was that Siler House would remain standing during their lifetimes. Because, if it ever did catch fire…
Jess shuddered.
The authorities and EPAC remained convinced Allison was still out there, somewhere. As for physical evidence, the camera was missing. And, in the end, Dr. Brandt’s final notes turned out to be more about the house and his own findings than anything about the four of them. For now, they were off the hook with EPAC.
Not that they could ever have fully controlled their abilities, anyway. Some things were never meant to be harnessed.
Jess knelt in front of Gram’s grave and placed the first set of flowers there. Gram always loved roses, and while there were only a few mingling with the carnations, Jess thought Grams would approve. She lingered for a moment, then stood and rested her hand on the top of the headstone.
I’m careful now, Grams.
She took Gage’s hand and led him along the pathway. The tree leaves were a beautiful gold as they danced against the clear blue sky. A squirrel bounded across the lawn in front of them.
Jess stopped in front of the second grave—her father’s. Her heart still ached for him—still ached as though it were only yesterday that she had stood here for his funeral. She placed the second set of flowers on his grave. Had he been at Siler House? The shadowed figure? Had he been watching over her the whole time? Was he still here, somewhere close by?
She wanted to say good-bye, as though after all that had happened, it’d be some sort of closure, some way to make up for the fact she hadn’t been there when he’d died. She used to think if she’d been given the opportunity to go back in time, to have that moment they’d been cheated out of, the pain would be different. She realized there weren’t ever enough good-byes, because she’d always want one more.
Had her father been at Siler House? Jess would never know. At one time she’d only wanted answers to questions like those. Now she realized some things weren’t meant to be messed with. She, Bryan and Gage had vowed to never try to make contact with anything otherworldly again. No matter who it was.
Not all ghosts were bad or harmful, but you couldn’t always open the door to one without opening it for the others.
Would their vow be good enough? No. Probably not. Allison had said that once the portal had been opened, it couldn’t ever be fully closed. It was a bridge they couldn’t uncross.
Jess had been glad to move out of the house and into a dorm at the start of her freshman year at the University of North Carolina. Especially after she noticed little black spots on her sister, Lily’s, dresser mirror. She’d broken that mirror. Total accident, she’d explained to her mother. Lily kidded her about seven years of bad luck. It could have just been a faulty mirror, but Jess wasn’t taking any chances that dark spirits had found a way to get to them.
“I gave Lily my room,” Jess said as she placed the flowers on her father’s grave.
Gage nodded. “Ah! The wrought-iron headboard. Good move. When we’re out of school, we’ll buy our own.” He grinned in that devastating way that made her heart race every time.
A blast of cold air blew past them and Jess rubbed her arms as she stood. Winter felt like it might come early this year.
Gage held her against him. “Are you cold? Want to go grab some coffee?”
“Yeah,” she said smiling up at him. Things might never be the same again, but then, she couldn’t expect them to. “Coffee sounds good.”
He kissed the top of her head and Jess wrapped her arms around him even more tightly. God, he was still as sexy as ever.
“I told you I’d win your heart,” he said, making her feel warm inside.
It was hard to believe he’d stuck around, but he had. He’d even transferred to UNC to be with her. She loved Gage and had no doubt they’d stay together. Unlike Bryan, Jess thought they’d grown closer because of what they’d been through. No one else would ever get that. Still, she thought of Allison and what had happened that last night at Siler House. While they could have all stayed holed up behind the fence until the maids and renovation crew had shown up on Monday, she understood that Allison’s nightmare would never end. It was just one more nightmare Allison couldn’t live the rest of her life running from.
Jess understood what the nightmares were like. They crept in around the edges of her sleep more than she cared to admit. Terrifying ones where Riley had managed to take her for his queen. Nightmares where evil spirits found her. In her nightmares, they found Bryan, then Gage.
Then Lily.
Visions of Allison’s terrified face woke her often. Allison, staring at the mirror. Allison with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
The difference between her and Allison’s situation, Jess thought as she and Gage walked under the unblemished sky, was that Jess had someone who understood, someone who’d always be there to hold her when the nightmares came.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Behind every book, there’s always another story—how the novel came to be. I’ve always wanted to write a haunted house novel. I love haunted house stories. My two favorites are The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, and Stephen King’s The Shining. The premise behind The Haunting Season has been in my head for nearly two years. I set it aside to get The Book of Lost Souls published, and then again to publish Don't Fear the Reaper. But when I sat down to write the sequel to The Book of Lost Souls, I dreamed of The Haunting Season instead. Night after night. I guess the story itself haunted me.
For influencing The Haunting Season, I like to thank Stephen King and the late Shirley Jackson. You guys are my idols. Thanks for writing the gold standard in haunted house novels.
Getting a novel ready for publication is a lot of work and all authors need a great support network. I’m lucky to have such support. Thanks to my husband who by now is used to weird work hours, the insomnia, the tears, the rants, the depression and elation. You are indeed my rock.
Thanks to my dogs who had dinner served to them later than they’d like and walks that were non-existent or cut short, but who stayed by my side, patiently and without complaint.
To D.B. Reynolds and Leslie Tentler, crit partners without equal. You guys have been more than crit partners and friends. You’ve been my lifeline and talked me off a lot of ledges. Thanks to Steve J. McHugh for and Courtney Cole for all their input and suggestions. Thanks to M. Leighton for giving me the thumbs up on the sex scene.
Special shout-out to my fellow authors in The Indelibles and The Paranormal Plumes.
To author Thomas Amo who was also a mortician for nearly twenty years. I could never have accurately written a key part in this book without your input. I truly enjoyed our talk during dinner about embalming and burial methods. Invaluable information, bud. Thanks so much.
To Sarah Hansen who took my breath away with the cover, and to copyeditor L. Peters for all the late nights she put in. I ca
n’t say enough great things about you guys.
And, as always, thank you Dear Reader. Because ultimately, every author with a story to tell writes with you in mind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michelle Muto lives in northeast Georgia with her husband and two dogs. She loves changes of season, dogs, and all things geeky. Currently, she’s hard at work on her next book.
If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review, however short. Of course, telling others you enjoyed the book is also greatly appreciated. Both encourage Michelle to write more novels. Thank you!
Visit Michelle at:
Blog/Site
Twitter
Facebook
BONUS CHAPTER:
DON’T FEAR THE REAPER
By Michelle Muto
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.
I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?
Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.
The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?
No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.
“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.
“—okay, Keely.”
Cold. So cold.
“I’m right here.”
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.
Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Haunting Season Page 26
