The woman reached into the shower, and turned on the water. I heard the gurgle of the ancient heater clicking on. While she waited for the water to heat, the woman scrambled through her toiletries, lining up bottles of shampoo and body lotion along the edge of the bath. Then, she stepped out of her sodden skirt, and peeled off her shirt, revealing round, perfect breasts trussed up in a black lace bra, and a pair of matching panties that accentuated her buxom hips.
Now that erection was pressing against my trousers-that-weren’t-really-there with urgency, but I didn’t feel turned on anymore. I just felt dirty, like a pervert, spying on her without her knowledge. I sank back into the wall and waited in the hall until I heard her switch off the water. I gave her five minutes to put her clothes on, and then I floated back through the wall to see what she did next. I didn’t like spying, but if I wanted answers, I didn’t have a choice.
She glanced around the room nervously as she stepped out of the bathroom. Had she seen me before? Was that possible? She certainly looked like she was looking for a shadow, but neither the woman from Duncan’s company who found my mother’s body, nor the ambulance, nor the police, nor even Duncan himself when he’d come to inspect the house had seen me, even when I wafted right in front of them. The mail lady had looked right through the window at me when she shoved my mother’s catalogues through the slot, and hadn’t seen me. So how could this woman?
I remembered my foot on the stairs, and I stayed hidden inside the wall, just in case it was true. I had to figure out why she was there before I revealed myself to her. Ghosts couldn’t be too careful these days. For all I know she could be here to exorcise the house and send me on into whatever bleak void awaited me.
The woman must have decided the room was safe. She started to unpack her suitcase, folding her clothes and placing them neatly into one of my old drawers. She tossed a pile of my clothes—t-shirts and jeans I’d worn as a kid—onto the chair in the corner, so they hid the Blythe doll’s face. I smiled, remembering how as a kid I used to cover up that doll’s face with a black t-shirt every night so she wouldn’t stare at me while I slept.
Next, Hazel Eyes dumped her bag out on the bed and arranged her things on the nightstand—in seconds it was cluttered with makeup brushes, a paperback novel, and an iPod dock. So she was staying a while, then. But why?
After emptying her suitcase, the woman went back downstairs. I followed her at a distance, sticking to the walls. In the study she pulled at all the desk drawers, one by one. They were all locked. Mother kept all of her things locked away tight.
Next, the woman pulled out a laptop, plugged it in, and booted it up. While she waited for it to load she dumped a second bag out on the desk beside her. There were four chocolate bars inside, and she grabbed one and opened it, lying back in the chair by the fire, her face relaxing as her lips slid over the candy. While she was distracted, I floated over from the wall behind her desk and inspected her open card case—Elinor Baxter, Estate Lawyer. So she was here to take care of Mother’s will. Not an exorcist, a lawyer.
Well, Elinor Baxter, welcome to my home. I hope you make yourself comfortable.
Very comfortable indeed.
Elinor
After dumping my stuff in a room upstairs (complete with creepy doll and strange children’s drawings pinned up on the walls. At least I was certain it wasn’t the old lady’s bedroom. Sleeping where the dead woman had slept totally freaked me out), I returned to the study. As I descended the steps, the upstairs landing creaked loudly.
First the creaks, then that strange shadow in your bathroom … if I didn’t know better, I’d swear this was the opening sequence to a horror film. I hope I’m the plucky virgin heroine, and not the doomed slutty victim destined to die in a disgusting and creative way.
Judging by the amount of sex you’ve had in the last year, I’d say you’d be a shoo-in for the virgin.
I shook my head, trying to ignore Devil’s Advocate Elinor—that loud voice inside my head that always asked too many questions and had a quippy answer for everything that I never said aloud. I needed to rid myself of the unsettled feeling in my gut. It’s just an old house with creaks and drafts. You’re used to living in a modern apartment. It’s natural that it would freak you out a bit.
My stomach rumbled. Ah, finally a problem I could fix. I went to the kitchen to survey the dinner options. The sight that greeted me made my head spin. This kitchen was old. Really old. The oven was one of those imposing, gas-fired devices that looked more like it tortured heretics than grilled cheese. The only thing cluttering the marble bench tops were cow-shaped jars for sugar and tea. A row of ceramic cat figurines lined the windowsill. I peered under the sink. Where was the dishwasher?
This house has no dishwasher. I am going to have to wash my own dishes. What the hell has Clyde set me up for? I am a lawyer, for fuck’s sake, I shouldn’t have to rough it like this.
I pulled open all the drawers and cupboards, greeting each new find with horror. There was no espresso machine, no Vitamix. I couldn’t even find a toaster. How would I make daiquiris without a blender? I wished I’d thought to bring mine from home.
Thankfully, someone had thought to clean out the refrigerator, so instead of several days worth of the old woman’s rotting groceries, all that remained inside were two blocks of butter and a bottle of tonic water. Brilliant. Even though I was starving, a girl cannot exist on water and butter alone.
I would have to go grocery shopping at some point. But right now, I had the company credit card burning a hole in my pocket. Without a car, going out wasn’t really an option (I wasn’t much of a walker), so I whipped out my phone and scanned through the Crookshollow listings for a restaurant that delivered. Pete’s Pizza. That would be perfect. My stomach gurgled in happy anticipation as I imagined a Hawaiian pizza all to myself, piping hot and dripping with melted cheese and BBQ sauce. I hit Pete’s number and raised the phone to my ear.
“Pete’s Pizza,” a youth with a cracking voice answered.
“Yes, I’d like a large Hawaiian pizza, with extra BBQ sauce, please. And a side of chips. Do you do garlic bread?”
“We sure do. Normal or cheesy?”
“I’m feeling gluttonous tonight. Give me the cheesy garlic.” It’s on you, Clyde. I hope you remember to buy me an extra-wide desk chair for that office you’re giving me. “And a large bottle of Coke.” I’d spied a liquor cabinet in the other room. Hopefully that contained some whisky. Or vodka, or anything I could mix to make a sugary alcoholic drink, I wasn’t fussy. With pizza and booze I could almost pretend that being stuck in this house for two weeks was going to be fun. Almost.
“Your total is seventeen pounds-fifty.”
“That’s fine. I’ll pay by credit card. Delivery to Blossom Road, number 22—”
“Twenty-two Blossom Road?” The voice on the other end sounded incredulous. “But isn’t that the Marshell house?”
“Yes, that’s the Marshell House. Now, what’s the delivery time? I’m pretty hungry, so—”
“Is this a joke? Because it’s a pretty lame joke.”
“This isn’t a joke.” I was starting to feel desperate. “I am staying in the Marshell House. I’m a lawyer—”
“Look, I don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit. Have a NICE evening.” The phone went dead.
He hung up. I tore the phone from my ear and tossed it on the kitchen table. He was the maker of the garlic cheesy bread, and he hung up. The bastard.
My stomach practically howled with hunger. My mouth was wet with the promise of cheesy garlic bread. And my stomach and my mouth would not be denied.
There was nothing else to do. I was going to have to venture into town, on foot, in the rain, and find something to eat. This is Clyde’s secretary’s fault for booking my car at some hicktown chop-shop. What kind of rental company doesn’t have any cars available? I thought bitterly, hating this stupid town more and more with every passing minute.
It was too far into th
e main street to visit Bewitching Bites, that little bakery I’d seen from the cab. I’d have to try my luck at the little row of shops on the corner of Blossom Road. I glanced out the window. The wind had picked up, brushing the trees against the windows, scraping the branches along the glass. Behind, I could see black clouds rolling in, swallowing the grey. As if this rain wasn’t miserable enough, a full-blown storm was on its way.
I dug my winter coat out of my suitcase and pulled it on, adding a hat and gloves for good measure. I grabbed a flowery umbrella from the stack in the hall, and stepped out into the madness, pulling the door shut behind me.
Immediately, the wind whipped through the porch, grabbing my Rick Owens knitted hat and flinging it away. “Fine!” I snapped to the weather gods. “You can keep it!” It was a scratchy hat anyway.
I popped the umbrella and made a beeline down the drive, running across the concrete, my ballet flats sliding against the grimy surface and my hair whipping madly around my face. When I reached the end of the drive, I turned left. As I did, the wind grabbed the umbrella and gave it a defiant tug, pulling the ancient frame inside out and snapping two of the ribs.
By the time I collapsed through the door of the dairy/takeaway shop, my shoes were squelching, my hair was plastered to my face, and the umbrella had been turned inside out so many times it was more like some piece of modern sculpture—Umbrella Revisited. The blue-haired old woman at the counter glanced up and clucked in sympathy.
I grabbed a basket and started filling it with every conceivable item of delicious, edible comfort food. Crisps, salsa, bite-sized chocolate bars, salted cashew nuts … mmmm, salted cashew nuts. I’d better get two of those. I glanced down at my basket—I had a diabetic coma in there. I could see why Cosmo magazine recommended never going shopping on an empty stomach. But this was an emergency.
“Is this all, dearie?” The woman asked as she rung up my purchases.
“Give me one fish and some chips.” I panted, staring at the takeaway menu behind her head, my stomach growling with agreement. “And don’t be stingy with the vinegar.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Blue Hair smiled. “Are you having some friends over tonight?” She pointed to my family-sized bag of crisps.
“Oh, sure. Yeah, we’re having a quiet one inside tonight, just watching movies with the girls, you know.” I handed her the firm’s credit card. “How long for the chips?”
“Five minutes, dearie. Can you wait that long?”
“Sure. I’ve got nuts.” I punched in the number and took my receipt. “Does anywhere around here sell alcohol?”
“There’s an off-licence on the other side of the tattoo parlour, although you young ladies should remember that you don’t need alcohol to have a good time.” Blue Hair handed me my bag. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”
I took in the woman’s paisley pinafore and severe bun, and nodded. “I’m from London,” I said, swiping at a strand of hair that was plastered to my cheek. “I’m just up here for a couple of weeks to, you know, get out of the city.”
“Well, Miss London, you take care in that weather tonight. Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before heading out without a hat.”
As I walked down to the off-licence, I stopped in front of the tattoo parlour and peered inside. The sign read Resurrection Ink. In the window were large posters depicting several complex tattoo designs—intricate medina drawn entirely with dots, black-and-white tribal work that curled elegantly around the shoulders, and an enormous chest piece on a man’s toned, muscled torso, depicting an unfurling dragon, its scales gleaming. Its mouth was open, and it had been coloured in such a way that it seemed almost three dimensional, as if it was bursting forth from the man’s sculpted pec. What a joke, I thought to myself. As if there’d be any decent artists in a town like this. It’s probably a front for a local pot ring. But my eye kept being drawn back to the curling dragon, its emerald gaze seeming to follow me as I moved past.
At the off-licence I grabbed a bottle of whisky and two bottles of wine (thank God for expense accounts), went back to grab my chips, and started back toward the house. By now, the black clouds had rolled overhead, and the rain was coming down in sheets, blown sideways by the whipping wind. I tossed the useless umbrella into a rubbish bin, pulled my coat tight around my neck, put my head down, and ran.
Wind pounded against my body, and I had to fight for every step. I ploughed onward, screwing up my face against the frigid assault. The warmth of my chips pressed against my stomach, reminding me there was light at the end of the tunnel. Finally, after what seemed like an age, I reached the gate of the house, raced up the drive, across the porch, and grabbed the door handle. Where did I stash the keys? I patted my coat pockets. No keys.
“Great. Just fucking brilliant.” I mumbled. I put down my grocery bags and checked my pockets again. Nothing. Had I even grabbed them on the way out? Shit. I cupped my fingers over my eyes and peered in through the hall window. Yes, there was the old key ring, right on the table in the entrance hall, where I’d left it.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my teeth clattering together. Now that I was standing still, the wind still assailing me, I was beginning to get really cold.
I peered through the window again, rapping against it with my fingers, wondering if I was going to have to break it. I could call Duncan to come over … no, that wouldn’t work. My mobile phone was charging on the desk in the office. Besides, I’d be a popsicle by the time he got here. There was a cherub statue near the bottom of the steps. If I threw that through one of the windows and then reached through and unlocked the door … it would make a mess, but at least I’d be out of the cold. I didn’t really fancy stepping out from the relative shelter of the porch to grab the statue, but it was looking as though it might be necessary.
One last time, I grabbed the door handle and jiggled it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something flash past the hall window. A black shadow moving as quick as lightning. That was what I saw in the bathroom before. Fear clenched in my chest. I leapt away from the door, twisting the handle spasmodically as I did so.
The door fell open, and I stumbled backward. The wind caught me and spun me around, and I caught my heel on the front door stoop and tripped forward. I sailed across the hall and landed in a heap at the foot of the stairs. The wind grabbed the door and slammed it shut behind me.
I sat up, searching the hall for the shadow. Of course I couldn’t see it anywhere. It doesn’t make any sense. The door was locked. I heard it click when I left the house. I’m sure I did. I tugged on it pretty hard, and it wouldn’t budge. How did it manage to fall open just now?
Maybe the bolt was old? Maybe I broke it somehow ...
I locked the door, then tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge. The lock still worked fine. So what had happened? Did it have something to do with that shadow—
Snap out of it, Elinor. It was nothing, probably the lights flickering in this stupid old house. You are freaking yourself out over nothing because you don’t want to be here.
My stomach rumbled, and I remembered my bags were still outside, getting saturated on the front steps. I opened the door and pulled them inside, careful to jam the door open with my foot so I wouldn’t have any more surprises.
Inside, I pulled off my soaking coat, and went to the kitchen and unpacked my groceries. The dairy had had frozen pizza, and after discovering to my delight that the stove had been converted to work on gas, I popped open the box, pushed the Hawaiian pizza out onto a baking tray, and pulled open a can of pineapple and added a ton of extra slices, then squirted a generous swirl of BBQ sauce on top. I slid the whole thing in the oven. One of the advantages of being single was adding whatever additional pizza toppings I liked. About the only advantage to being single, but hey, a girl takes what she can get.
While the pizza was cooking, I poured myself a whisky and coke (with a particularly generous slosh of whisky), and took this—and my fish and chips—into the study, which was
getting mighty toasty now that the fire was roaring away nicely. I pulled open the package and stuffed several sticks of potato happiness into my mouth. Oh, that is good.
As I sat and munched and dried off and stared into the flames, my mind went back to the strangeness with the door. I remembered jiggling the lock, feeling the bolt stuck. It wasn’t moving. And then, the next time I turned the lock, it opened with ease. Why? How?
Eric
What the fuck was that?
I flew back into the wall cavity, and stared down at my hands. They looked just the same as they always did. Long fingers with hard calluses on the tips from the tough strings of my violin. They looked as solid as ever to me, but I knew from the past eight days that whenever I tried to touch something, my hands fell right through it. No part of my body could touch anything else, not even the floor. It had taken me two full days of concentrating just to learn how to control my floating enough so I didn’t sink back into the basement every time I turned around. Yesterday I’d spent seven hours trying to pick up a piece of lint off the hall curtains. The lint never budged.
And yet, when I’d seen Elinor trapped outside and trembling from the cold, I’d touched the lock—actually touched it—and managed to push it aside for her.
How is that even possible?
One thing was for certain. Whoever this woman was, she was useful to have around. Useful, and beautiful.
I knew I had to find a way to communicate with her. If being around her made me able to touch things—even if it was something as tiny as a lock—then she might be the only person who could help me get out of this wretched house.
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 4
