The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts)

by Steffanie Holmes

  Elinor moved through the house, humming to herself as she fixed a pizza and poured herself a drink. Her hair was dripping wet again, but she didn’t seem to mind. I watched her from behind the stairs as she sank gratefully into one of the overstuffed chairs by the study fire, and lifted her glass to her lips. I hated hiding in the corner where she couldn’t see me. But I didn’t want to frighten her away. She was my only hope. I had to wait for the right moment to reveal myself.

  So I watched. I watched her drop her prim-and-proper lady routine and scoff down her vinegar-soaked chips with gusto, followed by three slices of pizza. I watched her stare at her open laptop with distress, and then watched her pull out her mobile and dial someone’s number. A boyfriend? I couldn’t explain why that thought made my stomach twist with anger.

  I was a ghost. I was dead. It wasn’t as if I had a chance with her. I didn’t want to be involved with her, I just needed her to help me. So it was none of my business who she was calling. Was it?

  I sank back into the shadows, not wanting to find out more than I wanted to know about my new houseguest, and yet, not able to stop myself from listening in.

  Elinor

  I was too wigged out by the front door incident to start work that evening. Instead, I pulled my phone out and called Cindy.

  “Ellie, guuuuurl!” Cindy answered, sounding about as gangster as a cartoon character. “How is life in smallville?”

  “About what you’d expect,” I said, taking another gulp of my drink. At least I felt satisfyingly full now, thanks to the chips and pizza. “I’m staying in a place that makes the House of Usher seem like a sleek modernist cube.”

  “The House of Usher? That sounds like a cigarette brand.” Cindy had majored in film at university, but had scraped by in her classes while spending every spare minute partying. She was great fun, but she didn’t share my love of reading. She would often mock me about being a book nerd. I would retaliate by peppering my conversation with references to my favourite gothic novels. It wasn’t much of a thing, but it was our thing.

  “It’s Poe.” I smiled at Cindy’s ignorance. It still weirded me out that my friend didn’t share my love of dark literature, or any kind of literature for that matter. I couldn’t imagine not reading. If you don’t read, how do you spend stormy winter evenings? What do you do on your beach holiday when the water is too cold to swim? How do you pass the time on the tube? Cindy was an account manager at a major London advertising firm. She was still thin and blonde and gorgeous and always the life of the party, but she still didn’t read. “It’s a crumbling old place, the kind of house that would have the lead role in a horror film. It’s a little bit scary being here by myself, actually. I keep hearing things and—”

  “Oooh, is it haunted? Are you seeing white sheets everywhere? Is a ghostie all up in your grill?”

  “Stop talking like that,” I laughed. “You sound ridiculous. It’s just a strange old house, is all. Are you still going to the party tonight?”

  “Of course. You know I never miss a chance to get my groove on. It’s going to be a good one, I think. Do you want me to keep an eye on Damon for you? I can even do a bit of sabotage if I see him with another hottie.”

  “Thanks, Cindy, you’re a pal. Maybe you could even slip him my number, tell him to call me if he remembers me from the other week. You know, work your magic.”

  “For you, my love, I’ll perform a little hocus pocus.”

  “I appreciate it. Listen, I’m going to be stuck up here for a couple of weeks. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come and stay next weekend? Take a day off work, come out on the train, help me drink a bunch of expensive piss on Clyde’s tab, and just have a girls’ weekend. We haven’t done that in ages.”

  “That sounds amazing, doll. But getting away is going to be tough. We’ve got a huge project due at work, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to swing a day off, let alone leave town for the weekend. Plus, there’s that huge trance festival next Saturday night, and I don’t want to miss it.”

  “Oh.” My stomach sank. I’d forgotten about the trance fest. Two weekends in a row I’d be missing out on the fun. “That’s OK. If you can’t get away—”

  “I want to, Ellie, you know I do. I’ll get back to you, OK?”

  “Of course.” I struggled to keep the disappointment out of my voice. I wished, just this once, that Cindy could pull some strings for me. “I understand. It’s no big deal. Just let me know.”

  “Listen, Bia-tch. I’ve got to roll. Tanya’s here to pick me up. I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know how things go tonight.”

  “Bye, Cindy. Have fun.” I hung up, and flung my phone on to the desk in frustration. It skidded over the edge and clattered against the floor, the back popping off and the battery bouncing under the desk.

  That night, I slept fitfully. I couldn’t seem to settle. The bed I’d chosen appeared soft and warm, but appearances, as I discovered, could be deceiving. Sharp corners poked at me from an object stored underneath, ensuring that whichever way I turned brought forth some new agony. I made a mental note to call Clyde in the morning and ask if a new mattress could be charged to the company account.

  Unlike my flat in London, which backed onto busy railway tracks and was pressed up hard against the wall of a couple who liked to throw things when they argued, which was most nights, Marshell House was quiet. Too quiet. I felt strangely aware of myself, as if someone was watching me, carefully scrutinizing my every movement. But of course that was ridiculous.

  When I did fall asleep, I would wake again after what felt like only a few moments, my skin clammy and my mind racing from dark dreams. I’d left the curtains open over the stained-glass window (because otherwise the room would be too dark), and the moonlight passing through the glass made strange prisms of light dance over the walls.

  Finally, at quarter to five I could take no more, and pulled myself out of bed. I turned the shower on, locked and bolted the door, and stepped under the water. I yelped and leapt back as a trickle of scalding hot water came out, burning my leg. It soon faded into an ice cold stream, and as much as I fiddled with the knobs, I couldn’t get anything more than a lukewarm trickle.

  Weird. This shower worked fine yesterday. I hate old houses. I fumed as I pulled on my favourite pencil skirt, stockings and a fitted jacket over my shivering body, my usual work uniform. At least I’m awake now, I guess.

  Down in the old kitchen, I boiled the kettle on the stove, and dug out an ancient tin of instant coffee from the back of the woman’s cupboard. I slapped some cheese slices onto bread and put the ancient gas oven on grill, then dumped a couple of teaspoons of the amorphous black granules into my mug. I wrinkled my nose as I thought wistfully of the double shot cappuccino from the cafe across the street from the office. I’d be drinking one right now if I was in London, where I belonged. I made a mental note to buy some fancier coffee on my next trip to the store. And a coffee machine. And a blender. Clyde was going to be very sorry he left me in charge of my expenses.

  That is, if they even have proper coffee in this hicktown.

  Now that I had something approaching caffeine in my belly, I could get down to business. I stacked my mousetraps on a chipped china plate and settled myself down in the old woman’s office. First things first. I plugged my iPod into my portable speaker, and turned on some house music. Now I could pretend I was getting ready for a night out with Cindy, instead of sitting in a dusty library in a crumbling old house, going through old bills and bank statements for a creepy old woman.

  At least there were some advantages. In the office I had to wear business suits and heels, and I always felt like a doughnut stuffed into cling film. All the other female lawyers were stick thin, and looked like they belonged in magazines, or at least on TV shows about slutty law firms. Here I could chill out in bare feet and eat mousetraps and listen to music, and no one could lean over my desk and thrust their fake breasts in my face while they dumped their caseload on me so they c
ould go shag the boss in the supply cupboard.

  At least here, the girls from litigation aren’t making snide comments about my weight in the lunchroom.

  Music sorted, I started my work. I began by finding all the files and stacks of paper in the drawers and cupboards around the library, and stacking them in one huge pile on the floor. First, I needed to sort out all the irrelevant papers, of which there would be many. Then I needed to comb through everything carefully, compiling an up-to-date database of Alice Marshell’s assets, as well as any outstanding accounts and possible claims against her estate. All this had to be done before I went over everything with Duncan, the executor.

  After that, I had to contact Ms. Marshell’s bank, insurance companies, investment firms and other companies of interest to get final updated accounts. I had to have meetings with Duncan to make sure he understood his responsibilities. And then I probably had more boxes of papers to go through—I could expect to find some hidden under a bed, or perhaps in a dusty attic.

  It was actually fun exploring the library. I scanned the book titles as I pulled files from the cupboards under the bookshelves. It was a strange mix; Confucius, T.S. Eliot, John Locke, lots of Goethe … They were all bound in thick leather, and many had gold lettering on the spines that looked suspiciously like it might be real. I nodded my head to the music as I worked, and, for a time, I lost myself in the papers. It looked as if this severe-looking woman had led a pretty interesting life.

  One of the ledger books on the desk contained a stack of old newspaper clippings talking about the search for a missing man. GEORGE MARSHELL DISAPPEARANCE REMAINS UNSOLVED, a headline read. Alice Marshell’s husband, and the original owner of the property. It looked as though her husband had run off. Many journalists and expects suspected he had another family in Europe, although nothing was able to be proven. He’d left Mrs. Marshell with nothing except the house, which had been in his family for years and was mortgaged to the hilt. I flipped to the back of the folder and noticed several clippings about Eric Marshell and his band, but I decided to read those later.

  In another ledger I found an auction house record that showed Alice Marshell had sold a long list of antiques from the house shortly after her husband’s disappearance. And it seemed that she’d invested the money in some speculative oil companies. Risky stuff, especially for a single mother with little else to her name, but it had paid off, and Alice Marshell had grown her little nest egg over the years until she could pay off the debt on the house.

  I finished with the last of the files in the cupboards, and tried the desk drawers again. None of them would budge. I jiggled the handle, which had worked on the front door last night, but it was no good. In fact, the drawers looked remarkably solid. Wonderful. Now, in addition to all the other work I had to do, I’d have to search this huge, dusty house for the key. I could just get someone in to break the drawer, of course, but the desk looked pretty old and expensive and heirs tended to get a little bent out of shape when antique desks got ruined.

  Sometimes these locks have a simple bolt you could push open. I grabbed a brass letter opener from the desk and slipped that in the crack between the drawer and the desk. I moved it around until I felt it connect with something metallic. But even as I jiggled it, I could tell it was hopeless. This desk was built solidly, and these drawers were designed to be secure.

  “I wouldn’t bother with that. She only used that drawer to hide her toffees.”

  My head jerked up. In the corner of the room stood a man. Quite a handsome man, actually, as criminals went. He wore a black tailored suit jacket, black shirt, and tight black trousers that accentuated his broad shoulders, thin waist and muscular frame. He had long dark hair that fell past his shoulders, and a strand of tiny ringlets hung over one piercing eye—the iris such a deep, dark brown that it was almost black itself. A smattering of black stubble adorned his strong jaw. There was something about his face that looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t supposed to be in the study.

  “Who … what …” I leapt back in the chair. Because the chair was on wheels, it skidded off the mat and bumped into the bookcase behind me, sending a rather large and heavy volume of Proust’s Swann’s Way down onto my head.

  “Hello,” the intruder said. His voice was rich and deep, like a hot toddie on a cold day. “I’m sorry to have startled you. I’m just so pleased that you can hear me. That you can see me.”

  “What do you want?” I snapped, hiding my shock and fear behind anger. I rubbed my head. Proust had some very sharp corners.

  The man in black smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling up in a way that might have been attractive had he not been there to rob the place or murder me or possibly both. “I was going to ask you the same question,” he said.

  “You’re the one who is breaking and entering. You don’t get to ask the questions.” I knelt down, not taking my eyes from him as I fumbled in my briefcase, my fingers seeking out the hidden compartment where I kept a small flick knife. When you were a lawyer who regularly dealt with death, you had to be prepared to deal a little out yourself. Not that I’d ever stabbed anyone before, but the man in black didn’t know that.

  He looked amused by my comments. It wasn’t good when the villain was tickled by your demonstration of bravery. It meant he knew something you didn’t. My fingers closed around the handle of the knife. I pulled it out and pushed it up the sleeve of my jumper, standing up and inching my way along the bookshelf away from him. If I could get to the door, maybe I could make a run for the street.

  “I’m not breaking into anything. I’m the rightful owner of this house. You’re the one who is sitting at my mother’s desk and pulling out all her papers.”

  I glared at him again, and suddenly realised where I’d seen him before. His face was on the front page of the paper in Clyde’s office, and the newspaper clippings in the folder, and in some of the faded photographs in the hall. He was Eric Marshell, Alice Marshell’s son. He was the famous violinist who had been killed in a car accident the day before his mother died. There was no mistaking him. But if he was dead, then how—

  “But that’s impossible.” My hand flew to my mouth. My heart pounded against my chest. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “I am dead.” To demonstrate, Eric lifted his arm, and swiped it at a lamp. Instead of clattering to the ground, the lamp remained upright, his arm passing right through the shade. He looked over at me, his cheeky grin never leaving his face.

  This cannot be happening. I fell backward, my chair clattering against the hardwood floor. “Don’t come near me,” I breathed, backing up against the bookcase. My hands trembled as I raised the knife, holding it in front of me, the tip pointed at Eric’s face.

  “You can put that down,” Eric said, his voice calm, yet firm. As quick as lightning, he glided across the room, and swiped his hand over the blade, his skin passing through it like air. “It’s not going to do anything to me.”

  Even though his body was non-corporeal, his deep, gravelly voice cut right through my body, sending a shiver of delight through me. I was always a sucker for deep voices, and if you added that to Eric’s tousled black hair and intense eyes ...

  What are you doing? Why are you looking at him like that? Who cares if he’s gorgeous. He’s a … a ...

  “How is this possible?” I asked, more to myself than to the beautiful man in front of me.

  “I’m not exactly sure.” Eric’s hand rested in the middle of the blade. “The last thing I remember was driving from London toward Crookshollow. I was on the way to visit my mother. The next thing I knew, I was trapped in this house, and my body didn’t exist anymore. I’ve been here for ten days now, and I’ve learned I can walk through walls and levitate, and float around aimlessly. But all that is pretty useless since I have no idea why I’m here, and I can’t seem to leave this house.”

  “But what are you?”

  “All signs point to my being a ghost.
I guess technically I’m now haunting Marshell House.” Eric laughed bitterly, his voice reverberating deep into my aching core. I longed to hear that voice whispering something hot against my earlobe. Goddamn, he was one sexy ghost.

  Focus, Elinor. You have a real problem here. “OK, fine. I’m going to try and be calm about this. Let’s say for argument’s sake you are a ghost. Have you come to hurt me?”

  Eric’s eyes flashed with anger. “Didn’t you hear what I said? Even if I wanted to hurt you, which I don’t by the way, I couldn’t. I can’t even pick up a pen. And even though you’re living in my house without my permission, I’m not suspecting you of evildoing. I’d appreciate it if you’d extend me the same courtesy, and stop staring at me as if I’m an axe-murderer. It’s rather disconcerting.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me. I’ve just found out that ghosts are real. I’m trying to process here.”

  Eric’s eyes bore into mine. He looked so real, so solid. If I hadn’t seen his fingers inside the knife blade with my own eyes, I could have sworn I could reach out and touch him, stroke my hands along that handsome jaw, entwine my fingers in that wavy black hair, press my lips to that succulent mouth—

  Ahem.

  What are you thinking? He’s dead. You’re staring at a ghost and all you can think about is sex? I really was desperate. Why, oh why, couldn’t I be in London right now, chasing after Damon, instead of here in Crookshollow talking to the world’s hottest poltergeist?

  “Can you please step away from me?” I managed to choke out. “I need some air.”

  Eric did as I asked, bowing slightly as he glided to the other side of the desk. I sucked in a few deep breaths, screwing my eyes closed. OK, I thought. This can’t be real. Maybe the water in this stupid town is making me sick or something, and I’m just hallucinating the ghost of a dead rock star. Because that can’t possibly be a ghost. Ghosts are see-through and scary and definitely not beautiful and sexy. So, when you open your eyes, he’ll be gone, and everything will be OK.