The Cursed

A haunted house in Key West

Hannah O’Brien, who grew up in the house and now runs it as a B and B, has always had a special ability to see a pair of resident ghosts. But when a man is murdered in the alley behind her place, she’s dismayed when his spirit appears, too, asking for help.

FBI agent Dallas Samson has a passionate interest in the murder, since the victim’s a colleague whose death is connected to the smuggling ring known as Los Lobos—the wolves. Now Dallas is even more committed to chasing them down.…

Unaware that Dallas has certain abilities of his own, Hannah calls her cousin Kelsey O’Brien, a member of the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters, an elite unit of paranormal investigators. The present-day case is linked to a historical mystery involving salvagers, a curse and a sunken ship. Danger and desire bring Hannah and Dallas together, but to survive, they have to solve the mysteries of the past—and stay alive long enough to solve the crimes of the present!

Praise for the novels of

New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Graham does an amazing job of bringing real-life elements into her fiction worlds….[The] messages are subtle, expertly woven through a story that focuses on solving mysterious crimes using the Krewe members’ unique talents. Graham also brings the surrounding areas of Nashville alive, with vivid details and lush descriptions.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Night is Forever (Top Pick)

“Bestseller Graham launches the third arc in her paranormal romantic suspense Krewe of Hunters series (The Unseen, etc.) with a rousing tale of the intriguing haunted town of Lily, Arizona….Readers will enjoy Sloan and Jane’s interactions as romantic partners and competent professionals, aided by Lily’s ghosts.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Night is Watching

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“The main characters are a great team, both professionally and romantically.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unspoken

“The Uninvited is a saucy romantic murder mystery with ghosts taking center stage.”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest….Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“Great writing and excellent characters make Wicked a terrific read….The undercurrent of mystery and suspense will keep readers riveted.”

—Romance Reviews Today

The Cursed

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Key West—

one of the very special and unique places

that make my home state of Florida so special.

And for Stuart and Teresa Davant and days at the Banyan; Shayne, Chynna, Bryee, Jason and Derek for many trips to the island; Kathleen Pickering, Mary Stella, Connie Perry, Debbie Richardson, Aleka Nakis, Frazier Nivens, Clint Bullard, and so many more friends who make every trip down to Mile Marker 1 a little more amazing.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Prologue

Ghost Stories

“The children screamed in the night as they felt the fire surround them, as they felt the ash...as they breathed in a smell like bad fried chicken that drifted on the air—a smell that must have been the victims’ burning flesh!”

As he emerged from the bathroom, Stuart Bell waved his arms over his head in a ridiculously—he hoped—spooky way. He was trying to be funny. Not that the event had been funny. A dozen children and adults had once been killed in a fire here at their bed-and-breakfast. But that had been a long time ago.

Still, he was apparently not funny at all.

He could see that Shelly was genuinely scared—she had been since they’d embarked on the Key West ghost tour earlier that night.

The friends who’d taken the tour with them had all shaken off anything even remotely scary at their last stop, the haunted Hard Rock Cafe, where they’d imbibed a few island specialties and discussed some of the stories their guide had been telling them—despite having been told that a member of the Curry family had committed suicide in the ladies’ room. Everyone was having a great time—except for Shelly. Judy and Pete Atkinson, married grad students, were living it up away from kids, school and responsibilities. Mark Riordan and Yerby Catalano had kept up, matching them drink for drink. Shelly, however, had sipped at one blue, flowery beverage all night but left most of it behind.

The others had talked about the past and even laughed at the spooky melodramas their guide had recounted.

But Shelly took such stories to heart. She was still nervous.

He and Shelly Nicholson had been a couple since their junior year at the University of Miami, and they both believed they would stay together once they graduated; she was even looking for a graphic art job in the same city, Plantation, where he already had something lined up.

Stuart loved Shelly. He didn’t like to see her genuinely frightened.

She offered him a weak smile. She’d already changed into a pair of Disney pajamas—pretty obvious he wasn’t getting through those cute characters tonight. He didn’t care; he just wanted her to feel better. “I know you’re trying to help,” she said.

He caught her by the shoulders and urged her down on the luxurious bed. “They’re just stories,” he told her. “Sad memories of someone else’s past.”

“Yes, but...I can feel the stories. Does that make sense?” she asked.

In a way, yes, he thought, given where they were staying. The owner of the Siren of the Sea bed-and-breakfast—Hannah O’Brien—believed in doing it up right. The house had been built in 1839, and the care it had received over the years was extraordinary.

He had, he thought, done exceptionally well in choosing a place to stay for their trip down to the southernmost city in the United States.

But Shelly whispered, “If only we hadn’t stayed here.”

Of course. Their tour that night had started out from their bed-and-breakfast. Hannah herself, a lovely young woman not much older than they were, had been their tour guide, and she’d started with the tale of the B and B’s own ghosts.

There were several, supposedly. The most often seen was Melody Chandler, who paced the widow’s walk atop the roof, eternally waiting for her lover, Hagen Dundee, to return from the sea. He had died saving lives rather than cargo when her father’s ship Wind and the Sea had floundered just minutes after striking out from Key West, dashed to pieces on the reef by the sudden rise of a summer storm. There had been rumors of violent fighting with another salvager in the midst of the wicked storm—rumors that suggested Dundee had actually been murdered.

Melody had been convinced he wasn’t dead, that she would have felt it had he perished. Two weeks later, in the midst of another storm, she saw lights on the water and believed her lover had somehow survived in the ocean and been helped by a passing boat that was returning him to shore. She had raced down to what was now Smathers Beach, only to be swept away herself in the raging gale.

Now, Melody was sometimes seen on the beach when the sun set and night came on, while at other times she paced the roof of the Siren of the Sea. Occasionally she was even observed in the backyard, where what had once been a pond was now a small swimming pool surrounded by tiled paths, lush greenery and beautiful flowers.

And Hagen...well, Hagen had been seen opening the doors of the bed-and-breakfast time and again, searching for Melody.

“They’re real,” Shelly said. “I can feel them. I just—I just can’t go to sleep right now. I’m too wound up.”

Stuart felt himself perk up at those words, but the feeling was quickly dashed when she saw the hope in his eyes.

“No, I do not want to fool around,” she said. “Stuart, I’m sorry, but I just...can’t.”

He heard laughter from outside, soft and quiet. There were rules here at the Siren of the Sea. Hannah didn’t close the pool at night; she only asked her guests be quiet and respectful of others.

“Okay,” Stuart said. “That’s okay. But, if you can’t sleep, why don’t we join whoever is out at the pool? There’s even a small hot tub. Maybe that will make you sleepy.”

Shelly’s nod of gratitude was worth a night of not fooling around. He felt like a hero just from the way she was looking at him.

She rose, diving for her suitcase and bathing suit. He quickly grabbed his own trunks and tried not to watch her change. Even though she was scared, he couldn’t help himself and was feeling pretty hot and bothered.

Not much to see, though. She changed quickly then turned and gave him her beaming smile.

“Um, I think there are some beers in our minifridge,” he said.

She shook her head. “No more alcohol, please.”

“Soda?”

“Sure, thanks.”

That was another high point of the Siren of the Sea. Every one of the six large bedrooms contained a minifridge and microwave. Stuart collected two plastic bottles of soda, grabbed a couple of towels and smiled at Shelly, who smiled back, looking a little less frightened.

They left the room quietly and headed down the stairs. Whoever had been there earlier was gone. He set their sodas and towels on the old Victorian lawn chairs by the pool and jumped in. It was a small pool, only fifteen feet by thirty, adjoined by a small circular hot tub.

Shelly followed him in. For a few minutes they swam silently, and then, in unspoken agreement, they slipped over the divide into the hot tub. They sat together for a while, still without talking. The night was beautiful. A full moon rode high in the sky, and nearby hibiscus bushes and tree limbs thick with green leaves moved gently in the breeze.

“You okay?” he asked Shelly finally.

She nodded. “This was good. Thank you.” She smiled. “I love you. Let’s dry off. I think I can sleep now.”

They hopped out and went to get their towels. Stuart loved the period lawn chairs. They made him think of giant mansions and croquet fields, with men in knickers and women in white gowns wearing big white hats to shade their faces from the sun.

“Wanna lie here and dry off for a few minutes?” Shelly asked him.

“Sure, great.”

They stretched out their towels and lay in the moonlight, hands entwined as they looked up at the stars. Hannah kept subtly arranged lights burning in the garden that gently illuminated the lawn with their soft glow. The spring day had been warm, and the night was kissed by a pleasantly balmy breeze.

Stuart closed his eyes. “It’s beautiful here,” he murmured. “Too bad that massive ad agency that wants to offer me the almost-big bucks isn’t down here, because I could live here.”

“Easily,” she whispered.

Peace and serenity surrounded him. He really did love the Keys. There was something magical that happened once you left the mainland behind.

The air was so soft and nice, the lounge so comfortable, that he began to drift off.

Then Shelly screamed. It was a scream of pure and absolute terror.

His eyes flew open as he bolted up and saw...a strange man standing over Shelly. The stranger was gripping his throat with his right hand and making choking noises. Stuart was too startled, too terrified to be sure, but it looked as though something was oozing through the man’s fingers. Blood?

In his left hand the stranger held a knife. A huge bowie knife.

He heard another scream and realized that, just like Shelly, he, too, was screaming in pure, gut-wrenching, primeval terror.

He thought he saw the knife move, glittering silver and red in the moonlight as the stranger raised it and then sent it slashing down toward Shelly.

1

Hannah O’Brien walked into the large kitchen, ready to throw something. The past hour had been pure bedlam—guests hysterical and screaming, she herself completely baffled.

Of course she had offered to refund everyone’s money and suggest a beautiful chain hotel for them to check into.

She opened her mouth, not to scream, but to call out for immediate attention. Because she couldn’t think of anything else that might have happened except that one of her permanent residents had played a not-very-funny trick on her unsuspecting guests.

Melody Chandler was already there, leaning against the refrigerator in her beautiful Victorian glory, staring at her.

“What the hell was that?” Hannah demanded. “Did you bring a friend in? A dying man with his throat slit, carrying a knife and trying to kill my guests?”

“No!” Melody protested.

“That was unbelievable. I’ve never had guests up and leave at 4:00 a.m. before. Never. And I’ve never had to refund anyone’s money before, either.” Angrily, Hannah crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the ghost with whom she had shared this house for as long as she could remember. The original owner had been Hannah’s great-great-great grandfather on her father’s side, but she had actually inherited the house, already a B and B at that point, from her uncle. She had been his favorite niece, and she had loved him and the house. Sadly, he had died in his late forties from a sudden heart attack, and she had inherited the Siren all too soon. He had known how much she loved the place. She’d spent much of her time there with him, since her parents—who had lived a few blocks away on Simonton Street—had both worked.

She knew the house backward and forward—along with its ghosts.

She fought to control her temper. “Melody, a little spooking the guests is fun, but this time you and Hagen went too far. I’m fighting to keep this place, but I can’t do that if I don’t make a profit. You two just scared all our weekend guests away. And Shelly, the poor girl who saw you, was beyond terrified. And from what she described, I don’t blame her.”

“You did not listen to me, Hannah,” Melody protested, staring at her with wide eyes, pleading to be believed. “We did not do it. Hagen would never do anything like that. You know how squeamish he can be. And look at me. Do I look like a bleeding man with a knife? And who do I know? The same spirits you do! I do not know of a single spirit walking around Key West with a bleeding neck and a knife in his hand.”

Melody and Hagen didn’t refer to themselves as ghosts and didn’t like to be referred to that way. Of course, tourists and most locals called the city’s haunts ghosts, but Hannah was usually careful and polite, following their wishes and calling them spirits within their hearing.

And with her temper cooling, now that the brouhaha in the house had died down, she had to admit that she really couldn’t picture her resident ghosts turning themselves into the terrifying apparition described by her now-gone hysterical guests. But if her two known household entities hadn’t been playing tricks...

“Then who...?” she asked.

Someone drifted in through the closed back door and then materialized into an excellent imitation of flesh and blood.

Hannah was accustomed to such comings and goings. Hagen Dundee entered the kitchen and took up a protective stance at Melody’s side, slipping a ghostly arm around her. “I heard, Hannah, and Melody is telling you the truth, I swear it. As if anyone could ever mistake her for a man! And I promise you that it was not me, either. We were not even here. We were at the Hemingway House, playing with the cats.”

“Torturing the poor little six-toed creatures, probably,” Hannah said, still angry. She’d lost business tonight, business she couldn’t afford to lose. And she was fighting to believe it had been someone’s idea of a prank; it was too frightening to think that it might be something else. Something real.

“I love cats. I would never torture cats. You know that I love all animals,” Melody said regally.

Hannah swallowed, then pursued the hope that perhaps the couple had schemed with one of their island spirit friends to scare tourists.

“Honestly,” she said, “we’ve talked about this before. It’s charming and wonderful and helps business when you guys fool around and moan and groan in the middle of the night. Or, Melody, when you make an appearance at dusk, pacing the roof. Or, Hagen, when someone opens a door in the middle of the night and you’re standing in the hallway, looking tall and strong and desperate to find your beloved. But what happened tonight...it was mean. One of those people could have had a heart attack.”

Hagen looked at Melody and then walked over to Hannah and set his hands on his hips. His sandy hair was worn in a queue, and his bleached cotton shirt seemed to billow around his broad shoulders. She could have sworn she even saw specks of mud on his black leather boots. “Hannah,” he said earnestly, “we did not do it.” Then he turned his back on her and addressed Melody. “Dear, I believe we need fresh air—and different company. Shall we go for a bit of a walk?”

She stepped forward and took his arm. Then, heads held high, they headed toward the back door.

“Wait!” Hannah said. “Please. Help me. If you guys didn’t do it...who could it have been?”

“This island has spirits—and spirits,” Hagen told her. “Most of your ghost tourists stay on at the Hard Rock when you are done talking, and maybe they imbibed too heavily of spirits of an alcoholic nature. What I do know is that we did not do it—and you have deeply insulted us by suggesting we would do something so horrible. I really cannot stand here discussing this any further, Hannah. I am sorry. Melody, shall we take our stroll now? Perhaps down to the beach?” he asked, then bowed in a courtly manner and moved as if he were really opening the door for Melody. She sailed out, and he looked at Hannah again then strode off in Melody’s wake.

Hannah watched them go, surprised—and more than a little shaken.

She’d grown up in this house with the two of them for company. Nothing like tonight’s events had ever occurred before. She couldn’t believe they would do anything so vile, but if not them... She didn’t even want to think that a murderous ghost might be stalking the streets of the city she called home.

She sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, exhausted. She’d been sound asleep when she’d been startled awake, stunned and terrified herself, by the sound of screams. And Melody and Hagen were right. They didn’t begin to resemble the knife-wielding apparition that had threatened her guests out by the pool.

She winced. It hurt to lose so much business. Weekdays in the Keys were slow this time of year. The Siren of the Sea wasn’t a major hotel to be found on every travel site on the web, though she did have a great website of her own. During Fantasy Fest and other Conch holidays, she had it made. And she had wonderful reviews on the sites where she could be found. It was still hard to make ends meet, though. She didn’t want to overprice, but she only had six guest rooms.

Her house was worth a small fortune—she knew that. She’d received enough offers for it. But she didn’t want to sell—there was certainly nothing else in the area she could afford if she sold, and Key West was her home. She’d seen a fair amount of the world, many wonderful places, but she loved Key West.

“So...” she murmured aloud, drumming her fingers on the table.

Petrie, her humongous, long-haired, six-toed “Hemingway cat,” leaped smoothly up into her lap and meowed as if in deep sympathy.

“What’s going on, big guy? You’re a cat—you’re supposed to sense things.”

He merely swished his furry tail.

Hannah stood, gently sliding Petrie to the floor, and poured herself another cup of coffee before giving the cat a few treats.

It had all happened so fast. She had heard the screams and shot downstairs to see what was going on. Everyone in the place had been out by the pool within minutes, one college boy wielding a dive knife and Mr. Hardwicke, an elderly regular along with his wife, a heavy boot. But there had been no one there other than Shelly and Stuart, both of them hysterical. Their friends had been less than kind, insisting she’d freaked out over the ghost tour, that was all. But Stuart had been adamant that there had been a ghost—a vengeful ghost—and only their screams had driven him away. Someone had suggested they call the cops; someone else had snorted and said that cops couldn’t arrest ghosts.

The next thing Hannah knew, they were all leaving. And while they’d spent most of the night, she’d decided it would be bad customer service practice not to refund their money.

Now the sun had risen on another beautiful Key West morning. Bright and early, just about 7:00 a.m., a westward breeze was coming in, the foliage was moving gently in the breeze, and the dead heat of midday was not yet burning the pavement.

She went to right one of her Victorian lawn lounges, which had toppled over in the commotion.

And that was when she saw them.

Drops of red that led off through the bushes and...

Disappeared.

She hunkered down to study the spots and froze.

They were blood. Real blood. Not astral blood, spiritual blood, ghostly blood or imaginary blood from an apparition of some kind. Real blood meant that someone or something living had come through the yard—not a ghost. There were outside lights by the pool, but at night these drops would have been invisible.

Hannah pushed her way through the foliage where the blood trail seemed to end, though the drops might have disappeared into thin air or they might have been soaked up by the dirt. She couldn’t really tell. The yard here in back of the pool grew rich and lush all the way up to the bushes that lined the brick wall and the white wooden gate that led to the small alley behind her house. Vehicles couldn’t traverse the narrow way; it was a footpath, normally used only by those who already knew it was there.

The gate was unhooked. There was a bloody handprint on it.

Gingerly, afraid of what she would find, Hannah pushed it all the way open.

And there he was. A man lying just two feet from the gate, sprawled faceup, staring wide-eyed up at the sun.

A brilliant crimson ribbon ran around his neck.

And his fingers curled as if he had been holding something....

Like the hilt of a knife.

* * *

“How did you know there was a body in the alley?” Dallas Samson asked, after introducing himself and flashing his FBI badge.

The young woman who had summoned the police was standing behind the crime scene tape that now stretched across the alley and up to her gate. Detective Liam Beckett was with her. Beckett was a city cop—and a friend of Dallas’s. Apparently Beckett was a friend of the young woman’s, too. She was extremely attractive, Dallas noted almost dispassionately. He filed away everything he noticed about possible suspects and witnesses in the back of his mind, so it was second nature to make a physical assessment. She was about five-five, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, sleek and slim, with deep blue-green eyes and a mane of golden hair. She was, however, tense. She stood straight—almost frozen. Not panicked, but icy. Almost as if she were battling not to show any emotion, doing everything in her power to remain stoic and calm. He realized he’d barely taken his eyes off her. And the tension he was feeling himself was making him come off like a drill sergeant. He couldn’t help it—not with a dead body lying in the alley and her standing there not answering his question.