Touch Me in the Dark

by Jacqueline Diamond

  Going to sponge off the molding before the splatter dried, he was crossing the room when a wave of dizziness hit. As Ian grabbed a chair, bands of color and noise throbbed through his head.

  For months, he’d thought the seizures were gone. Until this week.

  He eased into the chair, hating the loss of control, the helplessness. He wanted back the tough, athletic man he used to be.

  After a few minutes the throbbing eased. The memories that descended in its wake, however, proved scarcely less painful.

  One day five years ago, he’d climbed into the patrol car with a distracted mind. That had been the twenty-fifth anniversary of his parents’ deaths.

  When dispatch sent him on a pursuit, his twenty-nine-year-old self had hit the gas without an inkling that his world was about to get smashed into a jigsaw puzzle lacking several key pieces. According to the report, the stolen pickup truck had rammed him broadside and sent his car careening down an embankment. A Jaws of Life had required half an hour to pry him out.

  For weeks, he lay in a coma. The doctors nearly gave up on him. Only Great-Aunt Jody persisted, visiting every day, talking, scolding. Finally one morning Ian awoke.

  For months, he couldn’t use his body with any confidence. Gradually, he’d built up physical strength and he still worked out at a gym three or four times a week. Even so, the recurring dizzy spells barred a return to police work.

  Eager to get off disability, he lived on the income from odd jobs, occasional freelance graphic designs and the sale of his paintings. Although the report cleared him of blame, he was haunted by the guilty sense that he’d brought this situation on himself through inattentiveness.

  Painting, a talent his grandfather had shared, changed from a hobby to an outlet for pent-up energy. He’d become obsessed with capturing his inner turmoil on canvas, hoping at some level that exposing it would free him. So far, no luck.

  At last the spells had diminished. Abruptly, this week, they’d returned full strength. Sunday would mark the anniversary of too many tragedies, including his own.

  The strange perceptions hadn’t started with the crash. Intermittently since childhood, Ian had heard strange whispering in the house. But they were much worse now.

  During an attack, Ian felt as if he were being physically assaulted—from within. He sensed someone invading his mind.

  Trying to take over.

  He hesitated to consult Dr. Finley, his therapist. The medications she prescribed produced unpleasant side effects when they worked at all. He also remembered how she’d reacted once when he’d mentioned his sense that inner forces were struggling for control.

  From her subtle tensing, he’d known, as clearly as if she’d spoken, that she feared he might be going off the deep end. He’d backtracked quickly. Even if he was delusional, he damn well didn’t want anyone else knowing.

  Ian sat up and discovered the dizziness had passed. He was getting to his feet when a wordless howl of pain and fear burst through the air.

  For a moment, he thought he’d made it himself.

  Then he heard the cry again. Down the hall, someone was in trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Another shriek sounded through the open door of the new tenants’ apartment. Ian pelted inside, scarcely giving a thought to how disheveled he looked.

  The noise came from his right, where the smaller bedroom lay. “Is somebody hurt?” He stepped inside.

  On the floor huddled a woman in slacks and a turtleneck sweater, bent over a boy. Abstractedly, Ian registered the striking color of her hair, which was tied back.

  “He tried to open the bed himself and got his hand caught.” She stroked the boy comfortingly. “Do you know first aid?”

  “Sure.” As Ian bent to inspect the wound, the woman looked up.

  For a moment he thought he was suffering another dizzy spell. Although his head didn’t hurt, his mind went whirling down corridors lined by angry old faces.

  Before him sat the woman who dominated his paintings and violated his peace of mind. If her hair were loose, he’d have noticed the similarity instantly.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ian demanded.

  Staring up into the fierce eyes of Jody’s great-nephew, Sharon got the irrational impression that he must be some kind of maniac. What else could explain the fury that twisted across his face? Even under less upsetting circumstances, she’d have been leery of Ian Fanning, with that paint-smeared dark hair and the scar slashing across one cheekbone.

  Greg whimpered. Dismayed, Sharon stared down at the blood flowing from a gash on his hand. “We’re the new tenants.” She used her calmest schoolteacher voice. “I didn’t bring in the first-aid kit from my van.”

  The man knelt. Only a twitch of the unshaven jaw revealed the strain of his emotions. “Show me.”

  Hesitantly, she gave him Greg’s hand. At the contact, gentleness shone in Ian’s eyes. “That must hurt, huh, fella?”

  Her son’s tear-stained face reflected misery. “Yeah.”

  “You’re brave.” Ian raised the boy’s arm. “Keep that elevated. The bleeding’s already slowing. I’ll be right back.”

  He sprang out of the room. The change in attitude reassured Sharon.

  What had spurred that savage glare? Perhaps he’d suspected she was abusing the boy.

  By the time Ian returned with bandages and antiseptic, the bleeding had stopped. “Do you think he needs stitches? I could drive him to the emergency room.” Sharon refused to consider the cost, although she didn’t yet have medical insurance.

  “It doesn’t look deep. He should heal okay. At his age, scars fade rapidly.” Ian cleaned the wound skillfully.

  At close range, she noticed the lean build beneath his soft plaid shirt and worn jeans. He had a watchful air even while absorbed in his first-aid work.

  Her gaze flicked instinctively to the white mark on the man’s face, and then away. If Ian noticed, he gave no sign.

  At last the wound was bandaged. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she said. “I’m Sharon Mahoney, by the way. You must be Ian.”

  A nod. “My great-aunt told me she’d rented the place to a widow. You’re younger than I expected.” He frowned. “She mentioned you were from New York, but that can’t be right.”

  “Upstate New York. Buffalo, to be exact. A city famous for deep snow and spicy chicken wings.”

  “Somehow I get the feeling you’re from around here.”

  She wondered how he could tell. “I was, originally. I moved back East after I got married.” When they’d met, Jim had been staying in Orange County on temporary assignment, consulting for an engineering project.

  Ian rocked back on his heels, his gaze probing. “What led you to this house? Why this one in particular?”

  “My sister found it.” She didn’t understand why he seemed to be throwing out a challenge. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “I’m afraid there may be. Seriously wrong.”

  Greg fidgeted. “Mom, I still hurt.”

  “Give the boy some Tylenol and go to a hotel. Both of you.” Ian got to his feet. “Believe me, I have good reason for telling you this.”

  Sharon didn’t like being bullied and she didn’t trust this man’s moods. “We appreciate your help, but we’re not going anywhere. If you dislike having neighbors, you’d better talk to Jody.”

  “Nobody bosses my mom around,” Greg added proudly.

  To her surprise, the man threw back his head and laughed. She liked the curve of his mouth and the boyish glint of teeth. The ogre from across the hall could be charming. “Stepped on the wrong toes, did I?”

  Sharon brushed herself off. “That’s right. My son and I are renting this apartment. If that annoys you, I’m sure you’ll adjust.”

  “You misunderstand.” His expression sobered. “I have to show you something.”

  “What?”

  “Follow me.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” Sharon reached into
her purse for a bottle of painkillers. “We’ve got to carry in our gear and make the beds. We drove a long distance today.”

  “I’ll help,” Ian promised. “But first, you should look upstairs before you decide to stay.”

  “In the attic?” Greg’s eyes widened. “Let’s go, Mom!”

  “Great. Now you’ve got him stirred up.” She turned on Ian.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he replied, unfazed. “Half an hour at most, that’s all I ask. If you still want to stay, I’ll haul up your things myself.”

  “All of them?” Sharon could certainly use the help. “We’ve got a mini-van crammed to the rafters.” How lovely to have everything brought in tonight.

  “Okay. This won’t take long, I promise.”

  She might as well agree. Greg and Ian would keep on arguing and, besides, getting their stuff hauled up was worth a delay. “All right.”

  Greg darted ahead as they emerged into the hall. Sharon indicated the stairs and the painted man swathed in mist. “That’s a remarkable picture. I thought he was real.”

  “The title is, Memory of My Father. Hey, Greg! Back this way.” To Sharon, Ian explained, “The attic steps are at the far end of the hall. Don’t ask me why they built them that way. People weren’t fixated on efficiency a century ago, I guess.”

  He steered them along the hallway to the attic staircase. Greg trotted upwards.

  “Why did you show your father hidden in mist?” Sharon held the rail as she climbed.

  “Because I hardly remember him. My parents died when I was five.” To Greg, Ian called, “Jiggle the knob. The rain makes it stick.”

  A cold draft blew across Sharon’s face as the door rasped open, bringing a musty smell like old flowers and mold. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected; perhaps a brightly lit, remodeled chamber. The smell told her instantly that she’d been wrong.

  She sensed without knowing why that this was the kind of place that held secrets best forgotten. A tendril of fear reached into her throat at the realization that she’d agreed to venture up with this intense man.

  Greg’s voice drifted to her. “Mom, this is great!”

  At the top of the stairs, Sharon stared into a place from another era. Sprawling the length of the house, the attic roof sloped steeply on both sides from a cobwebbed center beam. By the light of several stark overhead fixtures, she made out trunks and blanket-draped furniture stretching into the depths. Among the boxes, her eye picked out an ornate, tarnished birdcage and an old rocking horse.

  “My great-aunt hates to get rid of anything.” Ian indicated the piles of belongings. “I’m sure Jody won’t mind if your son plays with this stuff.”

  Greg poked at a cardboard box that had split to reveal small, carved figures. “Mom, toy soldiers. A whole army!”

  “Take them,” Ian said. “They used to be mine.”

  “Really? Thanks!”

  Leaving the boy to enjoy his new treasures, Ian guided Sharon farther into the attic. When a tight space between a table and a cabinet forced them together, she felt the brush of his thigh and the hard length of his body pressing hers. She became sharply aware of the warmth of his breath on her neck.

  “Excuse me.” Leaning past, Ian lifted a large cloth to expose an oil painting set on an easel. “This is what I wanted you to see.”

  In the dimness, Sharon made out two formally posed figures, a seated man and a woman standing partially behind him. Nearby, Ian clicked on a table lamp.

  As the glow clarified the painting, Sharon caught her breath.

  Even through the patina of age, there was no mistaking the auburn hue of the woman’s hair, cut and rolled in the style of the 1940s. Although the face was slightly wider and the nose more upturned, Sharon could have posed for this portrait herself.

  As for the man, despite a coarser face and hooded eyes, he bore a strong resemblance to Ian.

  She struggled to speak. “Who are they?”

  “My grandparents.” Ian’s jaw worked before he added, “He murdered her and then killed himself. Here, in this attic.”

  Outside, the wind cried through the eaves. Sharon tried to absorb this information. These two people—the woman almost identical to her, the man so like Ian—had died violently in this spot. “What happened?”

  “They were deeply in love, but Grandma Susan’s family didn’t approve. Grandpa Bradley was a manual laborer as well as an aspiring painter. A shady character in their eyes.” Ian fingered the edge of the gilded frame. “This painting was his work, as a matter of fact.”

  “He had talent.” And great cruelty, to kill someone he supposedly loved.

  “When World War II came along, the Army drafted him,” Ian explained. “After he left, Susan found out she was pregnant.”

  “That must have been a shock.” Sharon tried to imagine how this woman, her double, had felt in that less tolerant era.

  “Jody says their parents locked Susan up here until she gave birth.”

  “That’s medieval!”

  “They were rigid people, obviously.” Ian scowled. “Also, they wanted to prevent her from contacting Bradley. You’d think they’d have encouraged the pair to marry.”

  “It’s hard to grasp how people thought in those days. Please, go on.” Sharon needed to learn what had happened. Against her wishes, she felt as if the unusual similarity between her and Susan created a bond.

  “They burned Bradley’s letters so she believed he was never coming back. Finally, they wore her down until she agreed to give the baby up for adoption. That wasn’t all. They also made her promise to marry a friend of the family, an older businessman.”

  His expression grim, Ian explained that Bradley had returned from the Pacific with a leg wound. While recuperating at a military hospital in Tennessee, he somehow learned about the wedding, went AWOL and hitchhiked cross-country.

  Then tragedy struck. The night before the wedding, while the rest of the family was at church, Bradley confronted Susan at the house, stabbed her to death and hanged himself from a rafter. Only the baby, Ian’s father, survived. Sorrow touched Sharon for this woman whose painted image radiated serenity. “How terrible. How did Jody come to raise your father, though?”

  “Apparently she maintained he was all she had left of her sister. Somehow she prevailed.”

  “Good for her.” Sharon would have felt the same way about Karly’s child. “Didn’t she ever marry?”

  “No. She devoted her life to Dad and then to me.” He took a deep breath. “Sharon, listen. You’re not safe. That isn’t the end of the story.”

  His words made her skin crawl. You’re not safe. “What do you mean?”

  He swung around, full face. “Sunday is the sixty-fifth anniversary of their deaths, and the anniversary of other things as well. The bottom line is, there’s something unresolved in this house.”

  Prickles ran along Sharon’s spine. “I don’t believe that.”

  “You must be related to Susan. Maybe in some way you are her.” His breath came harshly. “Don’t you understand? Your sister didn’t just happen to pick this house. How likely is that?”

  “What’s your explanation, then?” she demanded.

  His mouth formed a tight line. After a moment, he said, “I believe you were drawn here.”

  Sharon refused to accept such superstition. “For heaven’s sake, you were a policeman. You can’t believe that!”

  The only danger likely came from this man. From the moment they’d met, Sharon had felt a roughness in him. He might be as unpredictable as his grandfather.

  Ian moved away. “My father used to say he sensed a presence. He put off marrying, Jody says, because he was afraid something might happen to his wife. Then it happened anyway.”

  “You can’t believe that had anything to do with Bradley and Susan!”

  “My parents didn’t get along very well,” Ian went on. “Jody told me they used to fight. One night when I was five, on the anniversary of the deaths, they went out for a
drive. Maybe they were arguing. Dad slammed the car into a wall and killed them both.” His fists clenched.

  “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.”

  A cord of tension stood out in his neck. “If so, I was too young to understand.”

  Wind jolted the attic, sending Sharon’s heart skittering. Outside, something thumped into the house.

  “Mom?” Greg called. “What was that?”

  “Probably the tree.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Ian added loudly. “Old houses always make noise in a storm.” To Sharon, he murmured, “The tree’s on the opposite side of the house. I’d better check.”

  As Sharon followed him across the attic, a board groaned beneath her foot. “I hope you keep this place in good repair.”

  “Not as good as we ought to. I’m afraid I’ve been wrapped up in my work.” Ian led the way around a wardrobe trunk. “Aunt Jody has kind of let things go in recent years, too, although she’s got a lot of handyman skills. She should have hired someone to inspect the place ages ago.”

  They stopped before a multi-paned glass door. Outside, Sharon glimpsed a few blurry lights across the street. “Is this the balcony?”

  Before he could respond, a dark shape from outside flung toward them like a prehistoric bird, hitting the glass with a whump! Sharon jumped back.

  “Something must have broken loose.” Ian thrust open the door, blasting them with rain and a chill gust of wind. He pushed away an object. “It’s a shutter.”

  Sharon’s heart didn’t stop pounding even though she registered the fact that the problem was merely a loose piece of wood. “Isn’t that balcony what people used to call a widow’s walk?”

  “I’ve heard that term, yes,” Ian called, leaning out.

  Widow’s walk. She’d noticed quite a few of them during a honeymoon trip to New England with Jim. The roof-level balconies had allowed sailors’ wives to stare off to sea, hoping for their men to return.

  “I imagine Susan used this balcony to watch for Bradley.” Ian’s voice floated back.