by Trisha Telep
It wouldn’t budge. No matter how many times she tried to turn the handle, it wouldn’t move. It was almost as if a ghostly hand kept her from turning it.
She shut her eyes against the stark image and jumped when a warm hand covered hers.
“Let me,” Mitch whispered in her ear and stepped closer, his body pressing against hers as he eased her hand off the knob and with a quick jerk turned it. The door popped open and with a firm hand to her lower back he ushered her out the door.
It closed with a sharp snap behind them.
“I would ask you if you remembered your keys,” he said directing her to his car, “but it isn’t necessary. The house wants you back and so the door will always open for you.”
They were seated at a corner table in the Chowder House. It was frequented by locals during the week, since on weekends tourists mobbed the place and a table couldn’t be had. Each one of their chowders was better than the next, as were their sandwiches and salads.
Their wine list wasn’t bad either, and she was relieved when Mitch ordered a Sauvignon Blanc. They both decided on the seafood chowder and home-made corn bread.
After several sips of wine – her nerves a bit calmer, though not totally – she was ready to ask what he had meant by “the house wants you back”, when the waitress appeared with their bread.
“You’re that ghost-hunter fellow, and you’re Sophia Barnes’s granddaughter.” The older woman smiled. “You’re the image of your beautiful grandmother; even have her famous sapphire-blue eyes and long black hair.” She turned to Mitch. “You’re handsomer in person than you are on TV.” She kept chattering, not giving them a chance to reply. “I guess you’re here to finally get rid of that ghost at Blackstone Manor. You’d think he would have left that place by now.”
“Susie, some help please,” another waitress called, struggling with a full tray.
Without another word, Susie took off to help her.
“No matter how many times I explain that I’m not a ghost hunter . . .” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t hunt ghosts or chase after them nor am I out to confirm their existence, though I could easily do that. I help ghosts move on and it isn’t always easy.”
She leaned forward, cupping her wine glass with both hands. “I hope the one at Blackstone Manor will not prove difficult to move on.”
“Tell me about the ghost,” he said.
Amanda was grateful that at that moment a different waitress approached with their chowders. It gave her time, if only briefly, to collect herself and think of how to tell him what she had been experiencing. But would he believe her?
He reached out and took hold of her hand. “Trust me.”
His words didn’t help, having heard exactly this phrase from men who, in the end, weren’t at all trustworthy. But then this wasn’t that type of relationship, so there was no need to worry that he would disappoint her. He had an excellent business reputation and if she needed to trust him in order for him to help her then so be it.
“At first I thought my grandmother haunted the house,” she said. “Doors opened and closed, lights flickered, electronic devices gave me trouble. I assumed my grandmother was letting me know how pleased she was that I was staying in the house for a while.”
“You don’t intend to live there?”
“I’m not sure what I intend to do with the place. It’s awfully big for one person.”
“When did you realize the ghost wasn’t your grandmother?”
Amanda took a sip of wine and realized that this wasn’t the place to discuss this. “Do you mind if I reserve that answer for later?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
While Amanda was grateful for the change of subject, she wasn’t comfortable talking about herself. Her life wasn’t very exciting, her job in human resources restrictive and boring. She had thought by now she’d have advanced further in her job and been married, perhaps even have one child, but neither had happened and it wasn’t making her feel too confident about the future. So she switched the subject and regaled him with stories of the famous Sophia Barnes.
When they got in the car after dinner, Mitch waited and didn’t start it. He looked over at her and said, “I believe it would be best if you answered my question now before we return to the house. When did you know the ghost wasn’t your grandmother?”
Amanda didn’t hesitate; she wanted to get this over with. “When he touched me.”
Mitch didn’t appear shocked by her answer, so she continued, “At first I thought I was dreaming. I drifted between sleep and wakefulness . . . when I felt—” her hand drifted inside her open jacket and rested beneath her breast “—the hand lingered there for a moment and then it stroked my breast, so feather light that goosebumps ran down my arms. It moved, exploring my other breast, squeezing ever so lightly while his thumb played with —” She paused and took a deep breath, her hand moving down along her midriff and across her stomach before moving even further down . . .
She gasped and her hand stilled. Her eyes startled wide when she realized that her hand rested between her legs.
Now Mitch would know what she hadn’t intended on telling anyone – the ghost had aroused her.
She was too embarrassed to turn and face him. She remained staring out the front window of the car.
“Has this happened every night?”
Did she dare tell him that she wished it had? She had never been so aroused in her life and it wasn’t for lack of attentive lovers, or at least she had thought they had been attentive.
She shook her head. “No. After the first time, it didn’t happen again until two days later and then every other night until finally . . .”
“It’s been every night now?”
She nodded, growing wet at the thought that her ghostly lover would visit tonight.
“More often than not a logical explanation can be found.”
She was mortified. Did he think that she aroused herself? That this was nothing more than her wishful imaginings? “You don’t believe me?”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he said. “The world between sleep and wakefulness is hard to define. It is a place of lucid dreams and an opening for spirits to slip through. It can also be nothing more than nonsense, which is why science has such a difficult time explaining and defining it. There are no set rules in that unique world and one must approach it with caution if you want proof.”
She still didn’t turn and look at him. “What you’re saying is that it’s possible that I could simply be crazy.”
She jumped, startled, when his fingers took firm hold of her chin and forced her to turn her head and look at him. It wasn’t his rough good looks that sent her heart beating madly; it was the sincerity in his dark eyes and the confidence of his words.
“You’re not crazy. I’ll take care of this for you. I promise.”
His hand dropped away and he started the car. They sped down the road toward Blackstone Manor, Amanda eager and fearful to be returning home.
They spent the remainder of the evening in conversation, Mitch declining any more wine, though eager for a cup of hot tea. She joined him and added gingersnap cookies to the tray she brought into the living room.
“What made you take up this line of work?” Amanda asked, tired of the discussion being only about her. She wanted to learn more about him than just what she had read in his books.
“My grandfather raised me, not because I didn’t have any parents, but because they were never around. They’re scientists and travel extensively around the world.” Surprisingly, he didn’t say it with bitterness but rather with sadness. “Though my parents had left me behind, my grandfather made sure I didn’t miss a thing. He gave me the most wonderful childhood, and when he died—” he shook his head “—it devastated me. That was fourteen years ago when I was twenty, and my life changed completely.”
Mitch continued. “My grandfather came to me right after his funeral. He told me there
was work to be done and I needed to be ready. It took several years of study and trusting that I wasn’t nuts, but finally I accepted the gift my grandfather had given me. I had the ability to detect ghosts and help them move on and, as they say, the rest is history.”
She was about to ask what his scientist parents thought of his profession when the lights in the room flickered off then on then off and then on again.
“Does this usually happen the same time each night?” Mitch asked, not at all perturbed.
“I’ve noticed no pattern, and I did have an electrician check for any problems. He found none.”
“Did your grandmother ever make mention of a ghost while she occupied the house?”
“No, Grams was very happy here,” Amanda said, thinking back to the time that she had spent here. “She wore a constant smile and laughed often and friends and family visited frequently. She didn’t spend much time alone.”
“And not once did she ever make mention of a ghost?”
“No, whenever my wild imagination would take flight, she’d take time to calm me and make me see reason,” Amanda said.
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What doesn’t?” she asked, curious and a bit apprehensive.
“Do you recall what our waitress said tonight about the ghost?”
“Not the exact words.”
He repeated the waitress’s words. “‘I guess you’re here to finally get rid of that ghost at Blackstone Manor.’” He rubbed at his chin. “That would lead me to believe that the ghost has been around for a while.”
Could it be possible? Could the ghost have been the reason her grandmother had stayed and never left? Had it been her secret all these years?
“You said there were old trunks and boxes in the attic. Were they left by the previous owner?”
She nodded. “A lot was left by the previous owner. My grandmother had much of the furniture refinished, and simply left the old steamer trunks stored in the attic.”
“Then that’s where we’ll start our investigation tomorrow . . . the attic.”
It had been years since she had ventured up there, her youthful imaginings having faded completely. She found the attic now nothing more than a chore. Only a few months ago, Grams had asked her to help sort through the collected mess and discard what wasn’t necessary.
Could her grandmother have had something else in mind? Was there something there she had wanted her to find?
“It’s getting late,” he said. “We better get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
She conceded with a nod, though she really didn’t want to go to bed, at least not alone.
She led the way to the second floor where her grandmother’s suite was located along with two other bedrooms. Mitch carried a small suitcase. Earlier, he’d informed her he would probably need to stay a few days, and that had been fine with her. He could stay as long as he wanted.
She intended to show him to the bedroom next to the suite, but that was before she spotted her door slowly opening. She didn’t recall closing it.
Mitch grabbed hold of her hand and marched straight for the room. The door slammed in his face before he could enter.
“Whoever it is either doesn’t want me in there or wants my attention.” He shoved open the door.
She entered the room along with him, not letting go of his hand. It was empty. No ghostly apparitions or cold spots. It was a lovely room decorated in a long bygone, opulent era. It had suited her grandmother perfectly, though not Amanda, but she didn’t have the heart to change it.
Mitch released her hand and explored the room. Amanda wondered how she could get him to sleep with her . . . actually sleep with her, so she wouldn’t be afraid of the ghost.
The warm, soft whispered breath on her neck was enough to make her run to him. She grabbed hold of Mitch’s hand, pleading, “Please sleep with me tonight.”
He smiled and ran a gentle finger down along her cheek. “I never turn down a chance to sleep with a beautiful woman.”
His innocent touch teased her senses and she was surprised by her instant response. Or perhaps she had thought her hormones dormant for so long that they had just withered and died. She couldn’t honestly recall the last time a man’s touch had excited her.
She figured she’d better clarify. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he said. “You’re hoping my presence will discourage the ghost from visiting you.”
“It was a thought.”
“A good one,” he said. “Let’s see if it works.”
She went into the bathroom to change into her most comfy pajamas – pink and purple polka-dotted knit bottoms that rested on her hips. A plain pink T-shirt that didn’t quite cover her midriff matched the bottoms, but she didn’t feel comfortable wearing it to bed with Mitch beside her, so she threw on a large white T-shirt, the hem almost reaching to her knees.
“Sexy,” he said with an amused grin when she walked out of the bathroom.
He certainly filled that word out quite nicely. He was stretched out on the bed wearing black pajama bottoms and no top. He had a broad, muscled chest that would make women salivate and fill men with envy. And damn if she didn’t want to touch it.
She wondered which was worse, being aroused by a ghost or sleeping beside a sexy man and not taking advantage of it.
She got into bed and reached up to turn off the light – when it shut off by itself. Without hesitation she moved closer to Mitch. Not close enough that their bodies touched, but close enough so that she could feel him there beside her.
When the bedroom door slammed forcefully shut she nearly crawled on top of him.
“It’s never closed like that before,” she whispered in his face and realized that her breasts were plastered to his chest and her leg was wrapped tightly around his. She reluctantly eased herself off him, and he didn’t stop her. And foolishly enough, it disappointed her.
“At least we know he’s not happy with my presence,” Mitch said.
“Have you ever known a ghost to do harm?”
He turned on his side to face her in the half-light and she noticed that he kept both hands tucked beneath his pillow. Didn’t he trust himself not to touch her? It was a crazy thought she had no business thinking, though she did recall reading in one of his books that he wasn’t in a relationship. He had claimed his work made it difficult to find a woman who didn’t mind that ghosts visited him at odd hours of the day and night.
“I’ve never come across one,” he said. “It’s the fear that ghosts instill that causes the biggest problems, though if your grandmother had seen the ghost he certainly hadn’t frightened her.”
Amanda smiled. “Grams once told me that after being on Broadway for years there wasn’t anything that could frighten her.”
“I would have liked to have met her,” he said, “though perhaps I still will.”
The thought of seeing Grams as a ghost made her want to move closer to Mitch again, though not for protection – for comfort. He struck her as a man who wouldn’t mind consoling her, but she had never been with a man who offered to console without wanting something in return. Somehow she thought Mitch would offer her comfort without strings attached.
They exchanged a few more words before drifting off to sleep.
Amanda didn’t want to leave the dream. And it had to be a dream, for she had never felt such an all-consuming passion. Sex had never swept her away to the point where nothing else mattered, where nothing else existed and you surrendered everything, every bit of yourself to his touch, to his kisses and to a climax that built to such a fever pitch that you screamed out his name over and over until . . .
Amanda woke breathless and naked with Mitch rising over her ready to . . .
She let out a yell and he jumped off her with a shake of his head. She did the same, shaking her head, trying to get rid of the fuzziness.
Mitch paced the floor beside the bed, running his fingers repeatedly through
his hair.
She quickly reached for her clothes and grabbed his bottoms along with hers. She tossed them to him, needing him to cover up, for the more she looked at him naked the more she wanted him.
“Hurry and dress,” he said as he did the same, all the while avoiding looking at her.
If the lights hadn’t been on the task would have been easier, their arousals less evident, though the scent of sex was heavy in the air.
When had the lights gone on and who had turned them on? Amanda shook her head again. She wasn’t thinking straight. She should be demanding to know why he had touched her, but then she had invited him into her bed. But hadn’t he asked her to trust him and hadn’t she done just that?
She stared at him, not sure what to say.
His hands went up to defend himself. “I thought it was a dream.”
“I thought the same.”
“Your scream jarred me awake.”
What had woken her? A clap of thunder sounded and she realized then what had snapped her out of the dream. Thunder.
She shivered and he stepped forward, as if ready to comfort her, then pulled back. She was disappointed. She would have liked his arms around her at that moment, though it probably wasn’t a good idea. She still throbbed with passion, and from the size of him he hadn’t exactly lost his desire.
“I should sleep in another room.”
“No,” she said, not wanting him to leave, though why she wasn’t sure. Was it her fear of the ghost or her fear that she wouldn’t experience his touch again?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I felt your touch and . . .” He shook his head.
“I touched you first?”
“In my dream you did, and I couldn’t help but respond.”
He couldn’t help it. Didn’t that mean he was attracted to her? She wanted to smile but she didn’t, though her stomach fluttered.
“Unless . . .” He stared off into space for a moment. “I’ve never experienced it before, though I’ve read about ghostly possession.”
Was he suggesting what she thought? “You can’t mean that . . .”
