by Trisha Telep
Matthew frowned. He put the wood on the chair and strode for the kitchen with Hillary at his back.
Matthew paused at the threshold and flipped on the light. They both saw the cat jump off the counter and disappear behind the stove. Matthew dived after it, leaning up over the stove, peering behind it. “A huge hole,” he said. He turned around and smiled at Hillary. “That’s what you heard, baby. Just a cat.”
“Right.” But Hillary was shivering. The kitchen was ice cold and she couldn’t believe a cat could make the sounds she’d heard. Someone had been in here.
“Come on, let’s go light a fire,” Matthew said, and took her hand in his.
Hillary debated saying anything. Was she crazy? Or was something going on in this house?
After he’d built a fire in their room, Matthew sat cross-legged on their new bed and went through the file box. Hillary crawled into bed beside him and nestled closely to him. Matthew put his arm around her, but he did not put the file down. He kept reading Agnes’s note to her parents.
Somewhere in the night, Matthew put his arm across her and pulled her to him. It was as close as they had been in weeks.
For the next two days, nothing happened at the Whitstone House, and Hillary decided her imagination had gotten the best of her. The strange incidents of the first couple of days were all but forgotten, and she focused on renewing a relationship with her husband. She felt remarkably free without her BlackBerry constantly chirping at her, and she felt remarkably attracted to her husband. The man was hot. Had she forgotten that? It was strange; it was as if she’d only just met him and was drawn to him, craving his attention.
She wondered if Matthew felt the same way. She caught him looking at her, his expression different than what she’d grown used to in the last few months. He looked at her with interest, with desire. But he did not act on it. It felt almost as if he was intentionally holding himself back.
The next day, a crew arrived to repair any plumbing or electrical problems. Another crew arrived to buff and shine the wood floors. And yet another pair of elderly gentlemen began work on the yard. Hillary realized she hadn’t thought of her work in over a week. Honestly, she didn’t even know where her BlackBerry was.
One afternoon, Mrs Browning came to the house to have a look at the progress. She and Hillary walked through the rooms together, Mrs Browning exclaiming at the moldings and the crystal doorknobs, the original wood floors and the carved mantles. “It’s a beautiful old house. It will be brilliant when you’ve finished, won’t it?”
“I hope so,” Hillary said. They were standing in the room at the end of the hall where Matthew and Hillary had been sleeping. Hillary walked to the window on the east wall. “Come see this huge old tree,” she said. “How old do you suppose that is?”
Mrs Browning joined her at the window and looked out. The oak tree had long, twisting limbs, but it looked as if it had been harshly pruned away from the house. “I’d wager it is three hundred years old,” Mrs Browning said sagely.
“Really?”
“Certainly!” she said with much authority. “Such a wonderful setting for this old house.” She turned away from the window and moved toward the door. “Oh,” she said, stopping abruptly.
Hillary glanced at her. “Is something wrong?”
Mrs Browning looked up and around the ceiling. “There’s a draft, isn’t there? It’s very cold just here.” Hillary walked to where Mrs Browning stood. She felt it, too. They looked around the room, but could find no vents, no open windows. As they looked, they were surprised by a thud, and both turned toward the mantle. The file box had fallen, its contents scattered across the floor.
“These old houses,” Mrs Browning said with a laugh as she bent to help Hillary pick it up. “So full of drafts and what not.”
But Hillary thought that was an odd thing to have happened. When she mentioned the cold and the falling box to Matthew later, he explained to her that he’d had chimney sweeps out, and they’d felt the air from the hearth. “Probably knocked the box off, too.”
Perhaps. Hillary supposed that made sense. Sort of.
Over dinner that night, Hillary and Matthew talked together like they hadn’t done in months. They discussed plans for selling the house. They chatted about the origins of the place and the Whitstone family. “Isn’t it tragic,” Hillary said as they drank wine by the fire, “that the girl lost her life?”
Something came over Matthew’s face. He looked at Hillary strangely. “She died because she loved completely,” he said.
Hillary laughed. “What a strange thing to say, Mr Sparks.”
“She died because she loved completely,” he said again.
Hillary’s smile faded. “OK . . . are you all right?”
Matthew blinked. “Who, me?” He grinned and stood up, gathering the plates. “I’m great.”
“It’s just that you are usually not that sentimental. Or flowery.”
Matthew’s gaze riveted on her. “I’m not?”
She was surprised by his reaction. She smiled nervously. “No . . . I mean, you don’t think you are, do you?”
He looked puzzled. He put down the plates and put his hands on his hips. “I think I’m a lot of things that you don’t understand. That I don’t understand.”
Hillary sat back. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged.
“You know . . . we’ve been having a great week, Matthew,” she said, sensing a strange change in him. “I don’t want to mess that up. I want to keep it, and try to get back to what we were because I . . . I really miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Hill. I . . . I miss you so much.” His voice quivered with emotion.
Hillary’s heart went out to him. He sounded lost, as if he had lost her irrevocably. Sometimes, she felt that way, too. She stood up and wrapped her arms around him. “How do we get back to what we were?” she asked softly.
Matthew shook his head, as if the question confused him. “I am trying.” He kissed her tenderly. And then he left her.
Hillary watched him walk out of the kitchen with questions and desire raging through her. What kept them from each other? Why couldn’t they just reach for each other and fall into bed as they used to be able to do? What had happened to them?
The rain started the next morning. It was slow and steady, drenching the world around them, forming a curtain between Whitstone House and the world.
Hillary felt as if she were getting a cold – she was light-headed, off balance. She worked in the kitchen, painting the old cabinetry while Matthew replaced some light fixtures throughout the house. She stood up to stretch and happened to look out of the window. A man stood in the front drive, seemingly oblivious to the rain. He was dressed oddly, his coat to his knees. Thinking he must be one of the workers Matthew had hired, Hillary walked to the front door to let him in. But when she opened the door, no one was there.
“What’s up?” Matthew asked, walking into the hall behind her.
“There was a man standing on the drive,” she said. “I saw him out of the window. And now he’s gone.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know. Some guy in a coat,” she said absently.
Matt looked at her. “To his knees?”
“Yes! Who is that?”
Matt grimaced. “I don’t know, but I’ve seen him a couple of times now. He’s always walking around, looking. And then he just disappears.”
“Is he looking for work?”
“I don’t think so,” Matthew said. He looked down at Hillary. “This will sound crazy, but have you seen a woman wandering around?”
Hillary’s eyes widened. “I . . . I saw a face,” she admitted reluctantly. “In the window, looking in. But it was upstairs. I . . . I didn’t tell you because it sounded crazy.”
Matthew didn’t look surprised. “I’ve seen her, too,” he said grimly. “Outside, around that old oak tree.”
“When?”
“A couple of times when I’ve b
een out working. She stands there looking out to the orchard.”
“Matthew . . .” Hillary grabbed his hand. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Ghosts?” He chuckled. “No, baby,” he said, and put his arms around her. “I believe it’s more likely some locals wanting us gone for whatever reason. They are trying to scare us.”
“Scare us? But why?”
“Who knows? Anti-American, maybe.”
Hillary wanted to believe that, too. But, as the day progressed, she felt as if someone were breathing down her neck. Matthew seemed oddly out of sorts too, and, more than once, Hillary saw him staring at her as if he wanted to devour her.
That night, the rain worsened. It was coming down in great sheets, filling the drive and the yard with huge pools of water. Hillary and Matthew had hardly spoken since the afternoon. Hillary felt exhausted, unable to even carry on a conversation. She made sandwiches for them and, as they sat down at the table to eat, something brushed against her leg.
“That cat again,” she said.
“What?”
“That cat. I felt it against my—” Something or someone grabbed Hillary’s leg and she cried out, jumping up from the table.
“Hillary, what is it?” Matthew demanded, but her reply was lost in the flickering of the lights. Outside, a blinding flash of lightning hit the old oak tree. Even as it was happening, Hillary knew there was something terribly wrong – the lights had flickered before the lightning struck.
And in the next moment, the house was plunged into darkness.
“Here’s a flashlight,” Matthew said, finding her and thrusting it into her hand. “I’ll go look at the breakers.”
“Matthew, wait—”
But he’d already gone. Unsteadily, Hillary started for the hallway. She made it as far as the foyer, her whole body trembling with an unearthly fear. “Matthew?” she called out, but the rain made it too hard to hear.
She heard a noise at the door and jerked toward it. The front door flew open, banging against the wall. At the same moment, something brushed past her. Hillary jumped back, knocking against the wall.
She saw her then, the apparition of a woman with wet hair, rushing up the stairs. Hillary screamed.
“Hillary!” Matthew shouted. She saw the light of his flashlight rushing from the opposite end of the house toward her. But she heard footsteps behind her too, and bolted for her husband.
“I saw her! I saw her, Matthew. She went up!”
Matthew looked up the stairs. He let Hillary go and raced up, taking the steps two at a time. Hillary ran after him. Matthew marched down the hall to the room at the end and threw the door open just as another bolt of lightning hit and illuminated the room. Hillary saw what Matthew saw then – the woman hovering above their bed.
She screamed and grabbed his arm; a rush of icy cold hit her squarely in the face, and a sour smell permeated the room. The rain sounded louder, and Hillary looked to the windows. “Look!” she cried, pointing. The windows were open.
Matthew started for the window, but, as he moved, an icy cold invaded Hillary’s body, passing through her. She gasped at the sensation; in the next moment, she suddenly felt on fire. Matthew whirled around and looked at her. His chest was heaving with his breath. His ravenous gaze raked over her and that thing, that hot, lusting thing, was swirling through Hillary, and she held out her hand to her husband. He dropped his flashlight and walked to her in the dark, taking her face in his hands, kissing her hard on the lips.
He lifted his head and pressed his forehead to hers. “I want you,” he said, his voice deep. “Now. This moment. Say that you want me, Hillary. Say it.”
“I want you. Desperately.” She looked at his mouth, his lips. He was a powerfully magnetic, desirable man. “Make love to me, Matthew,” she moaned.
Matthew grabbed her up in his arms. His lips found hers as he stooped to pick her up, then he moved to the bed and deposited her there.
The apparition had disappeared, but Hillary could still feel her cold energy flowing about the room, in and out of her, in and around them. The ghosts, the storm, the lights – everything ceased to be of importance. Nothing mattered but this – knowing her husband again.
Matthew crushed her to him as if he were afraid she would fly away if he let go. Hillary didn’t recognize them – the passion, so absent from their marriage in the last months, flared and erupted between them. The touch of his lips jolted her every bone. She was scorching with need and grabbed for him, filling her hands with his flesh. They quickly removed their clothing, desperate to feel each other’s skin, clinging to the warmth of their lips.
The staccato of the rain seemed to grow; it thrashed the house as hunger thrashed between Hillary and Matthew, all coming together in a perfect storm of sensation.
Hillary’s heart pumped furiously; she eagerly explored his mouth with hers, his body with her hands, as if she’d never known it, her fingers dragging through his hair, stroking his face, cupping his chin.
Matthew’s mouth moved over her, exploring, as his hands caressed her. His body moved lower, his lips searing her skin in their wake. He took her breast in his mouth and a white-hot shiver of anticipation shimmered down her spine. His hand swept the swell of her hips, and he pushed the hard ridge of his erection against her.
Hillary’s breath grew ragged.
Matthew’s hand slid down her leg, to her ankle. He lifted her leg and put it on his shoulder, kissing the inside of her knee. With his other hand, he caressed the soft flesh of her inner thigh, then sank his fingers into her folds and began to stroke her, driving Hillary to a madness she’d never felt before.
She fought for breath as Matthew transported her from Whitstone House, from the rain, from everything but the carnal pleasure he was giving her. She could feel the excitement building in her, groaning with the intensity of it. His strokes grew fevered, his eyes intent on hers as he watched her succumb to his touch.
“Matthew,” she said, her voice rough and hoarse and strange to her own ears.
He whispered something, words she couldn’t grasp, as he moved his hand so intimately between her legs. And just as her body began to shatter, he thrust into her. Hillary cried out with the exquisite sensation, arching into him. She felt the waves of pleasure spilling over her, through her, until Matthew cried out, too, his body shuddering into hers.
In that moment, she knew what it meant to be one, to be loved by her husband. All her doubts about their marriage evaporated. Their lovemaking was surreal, ethereal and powerful. It was, quite simply, the best lovemaking of her life. She stroked Matthew’s head at her breast as they both sought their breath, slowly swimming to the surface of some very deep emotions.
Matthew lifted his head and looked at her. Something swam between them, something intoxicating and uniting. “That was different,” she whispered.
“That was of some other plane, baby,” he agreed, and kissed her.
The rain continued to fall, lashing at the windows and stirring the trees wild with it, but Hillary and Matthew slept in each other’s arms, oblivious. They didn’t fear the apparitions. They both knew, in that way of knowing those things, that the ghosts were gone.
Matthew and Hillary never saw the man or woman, or felt the strangely unsettling energy in the house again. They finished their work on the house and headed back to the States, their marriage revitalized.
Two months later, Mrs Browning sold Whitstone House for two million pounds.
Matthew had enjoyed the work on the house so much that he opened a renovation business and left banking behind. He began to renovate houses that Hillary would sell. Every once in a while, Hillary and Matthew talked about what had happened the night of the storm, and the feeling of being inhabited by something unworldly. They privately joked about their ghosts, yet they never mentioned what had happened in England to anyone else.
But every time it stormed, they would look at one another and smile, and make love with the energy of two l
overs who had waited a hundred years for that very moment.
A Single Girl’s Guide to Getting Ahead
Liz Maverick
“Your replacement ghost has arrived,” the deliveryman said, pulling a clipboard and pen from his messenger bag. “Sign on the dotted line.”
I looked down at the box at his feet.
“Let me.” He hoisted it up with a grunt and lugged it over my threshold.
“It’s so much bigger than the first one,” I said.
He shrugged. “You ordered ‘extra scary’.” Noting my hesitation he added, “You can borrow my box cutter, but I’m not allowed to open it for you. It’s an insurance thing.”
I sighed. Stupid insurance. He was going to have to walk me through the summoning process again anyway. I sliced open the box and began emptying the contents on the dining-room table.
The deliveryman balanced his clipboard against his stomach, checking off the inventory as I lined it up. “What was wrong with the first ghost?”
“He didn’t get the job done. My ex-boyfriend is still here.”
“Touchdown!” the announcer screamed from the television in the adjoining room where my ex was cheering madly. If I never saw the back of Freddie’s head against the glow of the television again, it would be too soon. Every time I passed the sofa on my way to the bedroom or the front door, there was Freddie’s head. I could not stare at Freddie’s head for the rest of my days. I wanted him gone before the summer was over and I had to go back to law school, and it was already well into August.
“That’s it. Ready for the summoning when you are.”
“I’m ready. Although . . . why are there so many candles this time?”
“Probably because you ordered ‘extra scary’,” he repeated. He rummaged in his messenger bag. “Since it’s my first day, I’m going to read straight from the manual. It’s better not to take any chances.”
“Splendid,” I said.
