Sinister Sanctuary: A Ghost Story Romance & Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 4)

by Colleen Gleason

  Oscar dragged his eyes away before she came up, and made sure his attention was focused on the plate he held.

  “So it must be tough being a scientist and watching action-adventure movies or reading those kinds of books,” she said, seeming to have no idea of the sight she’d just displayed. “You know too much, and the suspension of disbelief is even more difficult for someone like you.”

  “I can only get through the ones where the author has actually done research,” he said, taking the pencil then turning away before he found himself knocking over something else for her to pick up. “And when the story makes sense, even from a scientific point of view.”

  She looked as if she were about to say something when a song began to play from beyond the door that connected to the lighthouse.

  “Is that the ‘James Bond Theme’?” he asked. “Did you leave the TV on or something?”

  But Teddy’s entire demeanor had changed. “Oh, crap,” she wailed. “Oh no. That’s my agent—her ringtone. Oh, God. I haven’t even opened my laptop this morning.” She looked a little green around the gills, but she squared her shoulders, stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the table, then hurried off into the base of the lighthouse, presumably to answer her phone.

  Oscar expelled a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind her. Good riddance. Assistant or not, he really didn’t need any distractions—especially the female type.

  Especially the chatty female type who was somehow interesting and entertaining even though she was bothering the hell out of him. And harshing his lab-brain mellow. And displaying all sorts of interesting sights and giving off pleasant scents.

  Not that he was in any way attracted to Teddy Mack, with her masculine name and the feminine curves that had been a little too apparent both times he’d interacted with her. Between her swimsuit and the loose tank and shorts she’d been wearing, there wasn’t much left to the imagination. Good thing he preferred a sleeker, more understated, less bountiful look—and personality—when it came to women.

  Marcie, with a smooth blond haircut that skimmed her chin, and a neat, compact body dressed in crisp button-down blouses and slim, flowery skirts or demure slacks, was and had always been the type that attracted him.

  So even if he was sharing a rental property with the audacious writer (who was far more talkative than he’d expected a writer to be), there was no real danger of him being distracted by her.

  Then there was the strange thing that had happened last night…the thing he hadn’t wanted to mention.

  And the thing he’d been hoping she’d mention first.

  For, in the middle of the darkest part of night, a horrible, agonizing sound had had him jolting bolt upright up in bed, shocked from a restful sleep.

  The mere memory of that eerie, wailing shriek still raised the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It sounded like someone was dying. Right outside his window…or maybe it was in the living room. He couldn’t tell—the terrifying sound seemed to fill his ears, fill the entire world with its horror.

  Oscar had stumbled from bed, dazed and disoriented in an unfamiliar place, and still drowning in the last vestiges of deep sleep.

  All he knew was someone was hurt…dying…being tortured—

  In his haste, he’d bumped into a few things—he had telltale bruises on an elbow and a shin, and some porcelain thing had been in shards on the floor this morning—before fumbling out the door and into the living room.

  By then, the night was still. The shriek had subsided. He scrubbed at his head, then rubbed his eyes, and gave himself a little shake.

  It was so silent. Surely he hadn’t imagined the noise.

  Or dreamt it.

  He stepped outside, looking around for anything out of place. His truck, parked way off to the side, was the only vehicle around, leaving him to wonder whether the writer had found another place to stay after all.

  So he was here alone at—he looked at his digital watch—one thirty in the morning.

  The only sound was the rhythmic rush and retreat of waves on the stony, sandy shore only a few yards away, and a light rustle of leaves from a breeze. The night air was pleasantly cool, and it held the fresh scent of summer and lake. Serene and calm.

  He heard the hoot of an owl in the distance. It sounded mournful and lonely.

  There was no indication of anyone or anything that might have caused such a horrible sound, and if the writer was there and hadn’t been awakened, Oscar could only conclude he must have been dreaming.

  Maybe it had been the sound of his soul grieving over Marcie—distant, disconnected, disengaged.

  Though he finally convinced himself that the unearthly shriek had been a product of his dreams (or nightmares, depending on how you looked at it), Oscar found himself unable to fall back asleep easily. At last, just after dawn, he dragged himself from the surprisingly comfortable bed and got to work.

  Thus, he’d specifically not mentioned the horrifying scream he’d heard last night. And since Teddy Mack hadn’t said anything about it—and she didn’t seem the type to hold back on mentioning anything—he was relieved he’d not brought it up himself. It had either been a dream or some wild animal in heat.

  Now, once more left alone to his devices with Teddy off talking to her agent, Oscar was determined to lose himself in his work. With a glance at the clock—it was just pushing nine; so early—he turned his attention back to the distraction of work.

  He had to focus on something, or he’d be pulling out his phone and manufacturing a reason to text his sister. Dina (short for Engadine) was one of Marcie’s best friends—and, unfortunately, had been before Oscar even met her, and somehow continued to be a BFF. Dina was far too sharp to be fooled by any bland excuse her brother might use to “just say hi” to see how things were going.

  But, foolish or not, he figured it wasn’t over until the fat lady sang—and that aria wouldn’t happen until the rings were exchanged at the altar, and the bride and groom were announced as the new Mr. and Mrs. Trevor Baker. That gave Oscar ten whole days for something to go wrong and the wedding to get called off.

  Which was pathetic.

  Which was why he absolutely wouldn’t be texting Dina for any reason.

  If he happened to be scrolling through Facebook over the weekend and saw her page instead, well, that would be an accident. But he wasn’t certain whether he’d want to actually see if there were pictures of the bachelorette party—or not.

  In deference to his unwanted housemate—who was likely going to be tied up doing her own work now, if her expression of fear had been any indication—Oscar dug out his earbuds and shuffled a playlist of The Cure, The Sex Pistols, and The Kinks as he navigated carefully through the process of preparing, recording, and examining the samples. It was a form of mindfulness—something Marcie had talked a lot about after she came home from her yoga classes. He blocked everything out except his work—the routine and the shift from sample to plate to microscope to computer and around and around became a soothing rhythm—and even the pounding music became a mere backdrop to the process.

  He didn’t expect to find anything earth-shattering—not like the Japanese team that had recently discovered a bacterium that eats plastic—despite the fact that his natural hot tub was a unique area to explore. Maybe he’d find an unusual alga or make some interesting observations about a hot spring seeded from a Great Lake. Still. It was a plausible way to spend the month, working on a project just for fun.

  When his playlist turned up “Lovesong” (which he’d forgotten was on there and, of course, reminded him of Marcie), Oscar was jolted out of his lab-brain mellow and came up for air. He was shocked to discover it was well past noon.

  And he hadn’t seen nor heard from the writer since she disappeared to take her phone call.

  Good. The less he saw of her, the less likely he’d be tempted to mention last night’s disruption.

  But after he’d had lunch (tuna salad on wheat, an apple, and some fr
esh tomatoes), and went back to work for several more hours, Oscar began to feel a little…well, concerned was the word, when he realized he hadn’t seen nor heard from Teddy since before nine o’clock. And it was nearly five.

  The woman had to eat, didn’t she? And he knew she hadn’t had anything for breakfast or lunch, because he’d have seen her.

  Not that it was his concern.

  She was probably pounding away on her keyboard like a good writer on deadline and, like Oscar, had lost track of time.

  Still.

  He forced himself back to his project, making notes and fussing with the lab work, checking his email and studiously avoiding Facebook and his cell phone for potential texts, until he realized the sunlight had shifted and he would need to turn on some lamps if he wanted to keep working.

  Blinking owlishly, he looked at the clock and realized it was nearly seven thirty.

  A quick glance toward the kitchen told him it was undisturbed from when he’d been in there making lunch a while ago. The door to the lighthouse was still closed and he was certain he’d have noticed it open, even if he was blasting “God Save the Queen” while engrossed in the microscope.

  A niggling sensation prickled at him, and Oscar removed his gloves, followed by his lab coat.

  I should probably just check on her—maybe see if she wants to share dinner.

  He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them while considering the best approach—after all, if she was in the throes of her novel, like she should be, she might not want to be bothered. Really, he shouldn’t be looking such a gift horse in the mouth.

  Hadn’t he wanted to be left alone?

  He dried his hands, re-tucked his shirt neatly, and squared his shoulders.

  Then, certain he would live to regret it, Oscar knocked on the connecting door.

  Three

  There was no answer.

  Oscar glared at the door. Now what?

  He knocked again, a little louder this time, and even opened it a crack to peek inside. “Hello? Teddy?”

  Again, no answer.

  Maybe she’d gone somewhere. But he hadn’t seen a car, either parked or coming or going.

  She could have gone for a walk, he supposed. But…he’d better check.

  “Teddy?” He stepped through the door and found himself in a small vestibule with two more doors. One, he guessed, would open to the bedroom she was using—that one was ajar—and the other possibly to the outside. Or maybe to the core of the lighthouse, to the presumptive spiral staircase that would lead to the top. “Helloooo? Teddy? It’s Oscar.”

  He was just about to ease back through to the living room when he heard a sound like a low, agonized moan.

  “Teddy?” he called louder, starting toward the door that was slightly open. “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t wait for another response; he pushed open the door. He had a split second of seeing her hunched over a table or desk, headphones covering her ears, before she jolted, turned, and screamed.

  “Ohmigod,” she shrieked in a slightly lower volume, clapping a hand to her chest. “You scared the hell out of me!” She pulled off her headphones and settled them around her neck.

  He blinked, collected his thoughts, and managed to say, “I heard— It sounded like you were in pain. I thought— I’m sorry—”

  “I am in pain,” she said, standing so abruptly that her chair fell backward. “Look at that! Just look!” She stabbed a finger toward the laptop, which was open on the desk.

  He stepped forward cautiously, suddenly acutely aware that he was in her bedroom and that the bed was right there. The sheets were rumpled and the pillows were in a lumpy pile. There was a bra and a pair of lacy pink panties—he averted his eyes quickly—slung over a chair, along with a blue dress the same color as her eyes.

  “Uh,” he said, picking up the chair she’d knocked over and relieved to have that distraction. “What?”

  “Do you see that?”

  “I see…a computer screen.”

  “And what’s on it?” she demanded, hands on her hips, loose headphone cord swinging across her chest.

  “Um…it’s white. And it says Chapter Ten.”

  “That’s right.” Her voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Chapter Ten. Do you know how long I’ve been working on Chapter Ten, Oscar?”

  “How long?” He was already regretting his act of gallantry to check on her.

  “Two months, Oscar. Two bloody months I’ve been working on Chapter Mother-Fracking-Ten.”

  “You—uh—don’t have much written,” he said, feeling his way. “That I can—uh—see.”

  “No,” she replied in that alarmingly quiet voice. “No, I don’t.”

  “Okay, well, then,” he said, backing out of the room. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  “Right.”

  Oscar made his escape and was just opening the connecting door when he stopped and turned back. She’d sounded so…miserable. So defeated.

  “And she’s got to eat,” he said. In his own defense.

  He walked back to her bedroom door. Just before he knocked, he heard another pained moan from within. That removed his last bit of hesitation. “Teddy?”

  He pushed the door open a little and saw her hunched over the desk, head in her hands. She groaned again, low enough that he knew she didn’t think he’d hear her. Since the headphones weren’t back in place, he hoped he wouldn’t startle her this time. “Teddy?”

  She whipped around, but not as wildly as last time. “You’re back.” Her eyes looked suspiciously red, but she straightened in her chair.

  “Hey, I—uh—thought maybe you might want some dinner. I was going to—uh—make something on the— There’s a grill. Since we share a kitchen…” He shrugged, then waited. Either there would be an explosion, or…he wasn’t certain what.

  “What time is it?” she asked, looking around. “I’m probably hungry.”

  “It’s after seven thirty.”

  “Seriously?” Her eyes widened, and they began to glisten with tears—and they weren’t happy ones. “I’ve wasted a whole day? And written—what—a couple hundred words? And then deleted them all?”

  Oscar braced himself for a flood of something—tears, expletives, stomping—but she still had that unsettling calm that he knew, just knew, wasn’t real. Or was a portent of something far worse. “Why don’t you come out and—and get some fresh air.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” She looked around with that vacant expression again, and reached for the blue sundress draped over the chair. “I’ll just put this on really quickly, and—”

  “Great, see you in a few,” he said, bolting back out of the door when it appeared she was going to yank off her tank top and change right then.

  By the time she joined him in the kitchen, Oscar had managed to wipe away all thoughts of the rumpled bed, lacy underwear, and what Teddy might have put on under the bright blue dress she was wearing. He was prepping some chicken breasts for the grill he’d noticed outside—gas, thank goodness, for the one thing he hadn’t brought was charcoal—when she joined him in the kitchen.

  To his surprise, she looked nothing like the dull-eyed, straggly-haired desperado he’d just seen. She’d pulled her cocoa-brown hair up into a loose knot at the top of her head. He noticed hints of gold and honey shining among the dark tresses. Her eyes showed no evidence of tears. The sundress she wore had skinny straps, but was fairly loose around the rest of her body, though it dipped a little low in the front. Her legs were bare from above the knee and her toenails were painted pink, and he admitted both were more than nice to look at.

  “I could use a glass of wine,” Teddy said, rummaging in one of the cupboards. “I was supposed to get some food delivery, which Harriet helped me set up so I could concentrate on writing—hah!—and I told her she’d better include some wine or I was coming back to Manhattan to wring her neck,” she added cheerfully. “Looks like she complied—and that whoever delivered the food
even put it away. White or red? Unless this is all yours?” She spun and gave him a startled, questioning look.

  “No, you’re right. It’s not mine. Must’ve been put away, maybe yesterday while we—I—you—were at the hot spring. I didn’t notice. Uh…white?”

  “Good choice. Ah,” she said with a soft purr as she examined a bottle. “Harriet has good taste in wine. I’ll give her that. Let me chill this a bit first. I like my whites ice-cold in the summer.” She shoved the bottle into the freezer.

  “So, this Harriet. She sounds like a real hard-ass,” Oscar said. He surprised himself by making conversation; he’d figured they’d slap the chicken on the grill, have a salad, and then be off to their own devices—and with as little engagement as possible. But apparently, his brain had other ideas. “A slave driver at best.”

  “No, no, she’s the best.” Teddy sighed as she pulled two wine glasses from the cupboard. “Really. She’s my literary agent, if you didn’t get that. And she’s just trying to help me get over this…hump.”

  “Right.” Oscar didn’t mention how white-faced terrified of the agent Teddy had seemed earlier. “Well, that’s good.” He sounded dubious to his own ears, but she didn’t seem to notice and began to dig around in the fridge for salad makings.

  “I told her about this whole mess,” she said as she backed out of the open door of the appliance with an armload of colorful vegetables. “Laid into her a little, in fact, because, really—the whole point of me coming here was not to be bothered. Not to have anyone around. I mean, hell, I don’t even have a car.”

  She thunked the salad makings onto the counter and began to yank open drawers in search of, he assumed, utensils and bowls. “She said she’d do what she could to find another place for me to go, and apologized for the mistake. Not that I think it was totally her fault—but someone did screw up.”

  “Speaking of not having a car,” he said when she paused for breath, “what time did you get back here last night? Did someone drive you?”