Haunted

1

Jeannie Mason Thomas lay in the white expanse of the four-poster bed in the Lee room at Melody House in pure bliss.

Roger was snoring softly at her side. Men, she thought affectionately. Bless ’em. Whatever came, they could sleep.

She could not. She had to keep playing over the day, minute by minute. Her wedding day.

There had been the usual hassles in the morning. Her mom had gotten all teary every few minutes, and insisted on giving speeches about sex and marriage that were totally unnecessary. Alice, her matron of honor, had clipped off two of her newly purchased acrylic nails trying to fix Jeannie’s train. Sandy, another bridesmaid, had gotten too looped on the champagne they had shared while dressing for the service. The limo had been late. Her original soprano had come down with a sore throat leaving Jeannie desperately seeking a new singer at the last minute. But she’d managed to find an Irish tenor through the priest, Father O’Hara, and once she had reached the Revolution-era church just outside town, everything had gone perfectly.

Everyone claimed that it had been one of the most beautiful weddings they had ever seen. Roger had been tall, dark, and glorious in his tux. Her father had been stately, her mother beautiful. Her brother and sister, both part of the wedding ceremony, had been well behaved, joking, laughing, and wonderful. Her first dance with her new husband had been magical, but it was during her dance with her father that she had realized she was one of the luckiest human beings in the world with a tender, tight family, and an incredible groom.

The reception would be the talk of a number of counties for months to come. The Irish tenor had joined with the band. The music had gone from classical to rock and pop to theatrical. The food had been delicious, the cake stupendous.

Then, after fully enjoying their own reception, they had taken off at last for Melody House. And it hadn’t been as if making love had been anything new for them, but making love as man and wife was new and therefore, somehow, more sensual, more erotic, and so deeply satisfying. They’d been hot and heavy, they’d laughed, they’d joked over getting out of clothing, slipping in the shower in their haste, rolling off the bed, and all sorts of little foibles. They’d had a great deal more champagne, finishing the bottle that had been left in the elegant little silver bucket on the antique table set before the fireplace. They’d dined on the delicious little snacks left for them, caviar, quiches, chocolate-dipped strawberries and more. Then they’d made love again, all lazy and slow, and it had been incredibly luxurious as well. Melody House had offered everything they had wanted. In the morning, they could go downstairs and be served breakfast in the sunny little nook off the kitchen. They could spend a day indulging in the heated pool—a recent addition to the colonial manor. They could ride the trails that meandered through miles of forest when the sun was just setting. They could have both privacy and service. Jeannie had every right to be entirely blissful, and also, patient with the fact that her new husband could sleep, while she could not.

She rose, feeling as agile and luxuriously sinuous as a cat, naked in the coolness of the night. She stretched, thinking that the strenuous exercise program she had put herself through before the wedding had been well worth it—she didn’t think that she could be more than five percent body fat at the moment, and Roger had been delighted. She was glad, too, because she liked to think that she had talked Matt Stone into allowing them to use the seldom-rented room for their wedding night because she had just been cute and charming. Stone was known to be something of a hard-ass.

Walking over to the open French doors that led to the balcony, Jeannie almost pouted, then grinned instead. Roger had told her that Matt Stone had given in just because he knew the only way to keep Melody House as a private property had been to allow the house itself to earn some of the upkeep money such an estate so desperately needed. Roger had probably been right. But then again, maybe it had been a combination of Stone’s needs and her charm and persuasion. Whatever! It had all worked, and it had come together so beautifully. She was a lover of history, and to spend her wedding night in such an elegant and historic place was like the most delicious icing in the world on the most wonderful cake—her perfect wedding day. She parted the draperies, glad to feel the breeze against her bare shin, and feeling sensual all over again as it touched her. She was married now. She was Mrs. Thomas. She could slink right on back over to the bed, wake up her slight snoring husband, and live out her every fantasy.

Yet…

Suddenly, the delicious feeling wasn’t quite so delicious anymore. She felt a sudden, quick, bone-numbing chill. She spun around, and saw nothing in the dim night-light pouring out from the bathroom, or even from the faint glow of moonlight and property lights that seeped in from the open French doors to the balcony, just hemmed in by the drifting draperies where she stood.

She felt…

Fear. Deep and irrational.

She swallowed, stepping over to close the French doors and lock them tightly. She glanced at Roger. He kept snoring. She tried to calm herself. If she was feeling a sudden and totally irrational fear, all she had to do was run back to the bed, jump in beside him, and he would cuddle and hold her and everything would be all right.

That was exactly what she was going to do.

But she didn’t. She didn’t move. Because she saw…

The silvery movement in the night.

She blinked, but it didn’t go away. And it wasn’t the darkness, or the reflection of the lights, or a combination of the two. It was something, vague in shape, silvery-white, hovering, moving. It came from the side of the bed, where she should have been sleeping, and it was coming toward her.

She panicked totally. Her vocal cords were frozen. She stared, breathing out desperate little choking sounds, since she could find no voice. It came closer and closer. She felt ice trickles into blood and limbs and then…

It was almost touching her. She felt her hair move…pulled? Cold seemed to slap her right across the face. And she could have sworn that she heard a whisper, mocking, scornful. “Silly little girl! He’ll only kill you!”

Then again…her hair…lifting. On its own, in the grip of the vague, silvery-white substance. A substance that whispered or played havoc with the breeze. There was no breeze. She had closed the doors.

At last, she found voice, movement, and energy. She let out an hysterical, chilling scream, and ran.

She didn’t run for the bed and Roger—she headed straight for the door out of the Lee room. Jeannie wrenched at the knob so hard she nearly ripped it from the wood. The door itself flew open, and banged wickedly against the wall. This had no bearing on her. She barely heard it. She kept screaming, tore along the landing, and down the elegant, curving masterpiece of a stairway to the ground level below.

Matt Stone had chosen to stay in the caretaker’s cottage, fifty yards to the left of the main house. It had been his home for years before his grandfather had died, leaving Melody House—and the responsibility for its upkeep—to him. He had only moved into the main house recently because it had become easier on the upkeep side, and, he had to admit, he had come to like it. The grand master suite he had chosen afforded a lot of comfort. Big bedroom, dressing room, office or entertainment space, and it kept him right on top of whatever was going on with the property.

He liked the caretaker’s cottage, too. Since it had been falling apart so badly due to years of neglect he had rebuilt and refurbished it with every modern convenience. In contrast to the painstaking care they had used in keeping the main house historical, the caretaker’s house was far more state-of-the-art.

When he had given in to allowing the Lee room to be used as a honeymoon suite, he had opted to spend the night in his old haunts.

He had been sound asleep, however, when the scream brought him bolting from bed.

Despite the quiet tone of their small town, as sheriff of Stoneyville he was accustomed to being awakened in the dead of night. Therefore, he was up, into his jeans, and streaking across the patch of lawn that separated the caretaker’s cottage from the main house in a matter of seconds, the key to the huge oak front door in his hands. He burst into the house less than two minutes from the time he had heard the scream.

There was a light on in the foyer; there always was. Just as soft lights eternally flooded the front porch. He was prepared for anything when he burst through the door.

Or, at least, he had thought that he was.

Maybe not.

There was no apparent danger. Instead, there she was, the blushing bride, standing at the foot of the stairway, shaking and screaming in her altogether. Jeannie was a pretty girl, perfectly toned from months industriously spent at the gym in order to look perfect for her wedding day. Hard not to look, but he forced his eyes to hers first, then cast his gaze anxiously around, scanning the area for any hidden threat that might be the reason for this scene. Seeing nothing, his mind working in milliseconds, he wondered if the groom had somehow turned out to be a homicidal maniac or a simple wife-beater. Either choice seemed doubtful.

“Jeannie?” he said, his voice deep with calm and authority. Normally, he would have walked to her, set an arm around her shoulder, and patiently determined the cause of her distress. But she was standing in his foyer stark naked and screaming. “Jeannie, please, talk. What the hell…?”

By that time, her husband was rushing down the stairs as well. He was still half-asleep, and Matt would have sworn in any court that the young man appeared as bleary and stunned as anyone could possibly be. Certainly not fresh from a fight with his new bride.

“Jeannie!” Roger cried out in shock.

Matt crossed over one of the velvet cord barriers into the parlor and swept an antique throw from the fragile old love seat, striding across the room to cast it around Jeannie’s shoulders. She had stopped screaming, but she was still shaking like a leaf, eyes wide, dilated.

Roger, still dazed, and definitely horrified, thanked him briefly. Then he stared at his bride again, confusion once again reigning in his eyes.

“Jeannie, what is it?”

At last, she turned to focus on him, her expression blank at first, then filled with tension. “You didn’t see it? You didn’t feel it?”

“Jeannie, I was sound asleep! What are you talking about?”

By then, Penny Sawyer, in a terry robe, her graying hair frizzled around her handsomely constructed face, arrived. She stood in the frame of the front door, left open when Matt had come bursting in.

“What in the Lord’s name…?” she queried.

Penny managed Melody House. She kept accounts, and ran the tours. She loved the place, probably more so than Matt himself. She had worked as an historian for Matt’s grandfather, and slipped right into the role of managing the place after his death. She was like an aunt to Matt, as well as being incredibly efficient, and all but married to the place.

There was only one area in which they disagreed. And Matt silently grit his teeth then, certain that this episode was about to lead in that direction.

“Apparently, our bride has had a nightmare,” Matt said quietly.

“Nightmare!” Jeannie shrieked. She must have heard the shrill tone of her own voice because she fought to control it. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“So what exactly was the problem?” Roger asked, an underlying irritation rising beneath his concerned exterior.

“I think I should get some brandy,” Penny said.

“I think Jeannie should get some clothes on!” Roger said, his anger starting to crack through.

“Clothes?” Jeannie said. She stared down at herself and realized that she was covered in nothing but the antique quilt.

“I’ll make tea with brandy,” Penny said decisively.

“While she’s making the tea, Jeannie, you can run up and get dressed. Then we can all sit down and you can explain just what you’re doing,” Roger said, a thread of anger in his voice.

“What I’m doing?” Jeannie repeated, frowning. “Roger Thomas, I was scared to death, don’t you understand?”

“Scared enough to run around naked?”

Matt could have groaned aloud. He shouldn’t have been swayed to allow the Lee Room to become a honeymoon hangout. He glared at Penny. She had talked him into it, reminding him that they needed the money for Melody House.

Penny shrugged innocently, giving him one of her knowing looks.

Melody House was reputed to be haunted. Matt always saw the rumors as simply par for the course. The main house was well over two hundred years old. It had survived the American Revolution, the Civil War, and every manner of conflict in between. As he well knew, nothing that old went without a certain kind of history. And apparently, most of the world wanted to believe in things that went bump in the night. People couldn’t just look back on the personal tragedies of the past with sorrow—they just had to make something else out of them.

Matt simply didn’t believe in ghosts. He’d worked in the D.C. area long before he’d taken up working in his old home haunts, and he knew that the things that living men and women did to one another could be so violent, barbarous, and cruel, that there was simply no reason to worry about those who were long dead and buried.

“Go up and put clothes on!” Roger said, his voice almost a roar.

Jeannie, blue eyes still huge, stared at him in rebellion and defiance.

“I am not—get this straight!—not going back up to that room. Ever! There is a ghost up there, and it—it threatened me.”

Matt shook his head, praying for patience. He looked up at the bride and groom. Wow! How quickly there was trouble in Paradise.

“Jeannie,” he said patiently, “there are no such things as ghosts. Hey, I’ve lived here most of my life. I’ve spent nights in the place with no electricity, you know, in the pitch dark. I swear, there are no ghosts. I would know.”

He had tried to say the last lightly. He knew, however, that his voice had an edge. He was sick to death of the whole ghost thing.

“Look what you’ve done,” Roger said to Jeannie. “Great. Really good honeymoon we’re going to have here—you’ve just really pissed off Matt Stone.”

“Sorry, I’m not angry,” Matt said quickly. “I just don’t believe in ghosts. Jeannie, it was a big day for you. I’m sure for you both…I’m not saying that anyone is totally inebriated, but come on, now, you both had a hell of a lot to drink. You’re wired, Jeannie. Excited. Hey, it was the wedding of the century, huh? You don’t have to go back into the room. We’ll get your things. And you and Roger can finish out your honeymoon in the caretaker’s cottage, how’s that? I can clear it out in a matter of minutes, while Penny makes tea.”

Jeannie spun around again. She looked as if she wanted to run from Roger’s side and come flying into his arms.

Don’t do it, Jeannie, don’t do it! He pleaded silently.

“Not one of you has suggested coming up to see if there is something in the room,” Jeannie said indignantly.

Matt lifted his hands. “I’ll go up to the room.”

He strode past the newlywed couple on the stairs. As he neared the upper landing, he could hear Roger whispering angrily to his wife. “Ghost, hell! You’re a little exhibitionist. You’ve had a bit of a thing for Matt Stone your whole life, you know, Jeannie. What, you just had to have an excuse for him to see you naked?”

“Roger Thomas! How dare you suggest such a thing, you bastard!” she whispered back. Then her voice rose. “We don’t need the caretaker’s house! I’m going home. Home—back to my family. They’re not a bunch of idiot jerks!”

“Hey, there!” Penny protested cheerfully. “You know, everyone is really tired, but we’ll get to the bottom of this. Matt, he’s all he-man practical and doesn’t believe in ghosts, but I’m telling you, Roger, don’t you go being hard on your new missus! Lots of folks believe that this house is more than a little haunted, I do tell you!”

Matt walked on into the Lee Room. As he suspected, there was nothing there. The French doors to the balcony were open, and the drapes were drifting in. They must have been what scared the new bride so badly. Either that, or she just wanted the place to be haunted so badly that she had made it so.

He found Jeannie’s peignoir robe, then discarded it as being far too see-through for this situation. Her groom would not be happy with it, he was certain. Striding to the closet, he found a pair of robes with “Melody House” inscribed on the pockets—items Penny had insisted they needed to provide a real luxury touch for those few times when he decided to rent the room. He pulled one from the hanger and headed back downstairs.

By then, Penny, Jeannie and Roger had headed into the kitchen. It was vast. The integrity of the historical aspects had been maintained with the massive hearth and the many copper pots and herbs that adorned wall mounts, but the huge refrigerator, sub-zero freezer, and stainless steel stove were all necessary modern conveniences for the many social events, dinners, luncheons, and meetings that were held at the property.

The newlyweds were seated at the table with Penny. She had apparently moved like lightning, microwaving water and hurriedly supplying brandy, because they were all sipping out of huge earthenware mugs already.

They had been joined there by several of the other residents of the property, probably all awakened by the screaming. Matt’s cousin Clint, who, like Penny, lived in one of the apartments above the stables, was seated at the table. Clint’s eyes flashed with humor as they met Matt’s. Sam Arden, the caretaker, old, thin, and crusty, his white hair wild, was at the table as well. He shook his head and rolled his eyes when he saw Matt. Rounding out the group was Carter Sutton. He was actually an old college friend of Clint’s from the next town over. He owned a lot of local property, and had just bought a house nearby. Since it was still being held hostage by construction workers, he’d taken a room over the stables as well. It worked well. Carter made his living off his investments, and was sometimes “paper rich and cash poor,” so he was happy to look after the horses and serve as stable boy and trail guide when they rented out the horses.

Matt silently offered the robe, and walked around to take a seat at the end of the table. Penny was happily talking about ghosts. Roger was convincing his wife that there had been nothing there at all, other than the excitement of the day.

“And if there was a ghost, it was probably more scared than you,” Clint assured the bride.

“Hell, there are ghosts,” Sam said sagely, nodding his old head.

“Sam,” Matt protested.

“She meant to hurt me!” Jeannie said with certainty.

“I don’t think that ghosts are supposed to hurt people,” Carter said. His mustache twitched. He was as bearded as a goat, since he enjoyed a high military position in the “Rebel” unit in which he participated in many battle reenactments.

“She meant to hurt me,” Jeannie repeated.

“I’ve slept in that room,” Clint said, “and honestly, nothing ever happened to me.”

“I know the Lee Room like the back of my hand,” Carter teased. “It holds the fondest memories in my heart,” he told the bride with a wink.

She flushed and laughed uneasily.

“Matt,” Penny said, “There’s a cup of strong tea for you right there, end of the table.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll reheat it in a bit. I’m going to get a few things out of the caretaker’s cottage, so you two can slip on over when you want.”

“Hey, Mr. Stone, I…I don’t want to put you to any more trouble,” Roger said.

“I can’t sleep in this house!” Jeannie wailed.

“It’s no trouble,” he assured them both.

All he wanted to do right then was get out—he didn’t think he could bear to hear another of Penny’s speeches on ghosts. He allowed her, on Friday and Saturday nights, to give a “Legends of Melody House” tour, during which she liked to go on and on about various stories involving the house, and how it was rumored to be haunted by different characters, including historical figures.

He had adamantly refused to let her call it a ghost tour. But since she did attract dozens and dozens of paying tourists, people staying as diversely far away as Williamsburg, Richmond, Harpers Ferry, and even D.C., he had to allow the endeavor. She served cider, tea, cookies, and pastries in the middle of the tour, and he knew that she was right—they paid a whole lot of bills thanks to those tours. He still didn’t like them, or anything that suggested that Melody House was really haunted. However, he tolerated it all, for the sake of the house.