Haunted

  “Where is he?” Aubry asked sharply.

  “He was over by the minister,” Darcy said, pointing toward the church.

  “Thanks!” he told her.

  Darcy leaned against the oak, feeling oddly drained, and once again, uneasy. Aubry pretty much came right out and said what he was feeling.

  Matt Stone had married for money. Then he’d divorced. He needed money.

  His wife had disappeared.

  If he’d murdered his wife, he wouldn’t need the money, would he? But she was his ex-wife. They’d been divorced.

  She gritted her teeth, furious that she was allowing people to let such suspicions seep into her mind. Especially when they didn’t make sense. Matt was simply impatient and angry with the whole ghost concept. And yet, even Matt thought that something was going on.

  He’d loved Lavinia at one time. Been enamored of her. Their relationship had been one of passion—and hate.

  Just like that she had witnessed in dreams, from both sides…

  “Ridiculous!” she said aloud. Just as she did so, the threatened storm came. First, a few raindrops fell on her head. Then the wind kicked up as if the hand of God had indeed reached down to stir up a tempest. The raindrops suddenly became a deluge.

  Darcy started away from the oak. The cars were around in front of the brick wall, but if she leapt over it, she’d reach them far quicker than if she were to walk around. She headed toward the wall, and in doing so, needed to skirt by the open grave awaiting Mrs. Morrison, the centenarian who had passed away in her sleep.

  She wrapped her arms around her chest, lowered her head, and started to run. She shot through the area where the chairs had been arranged around the grave.

  She didn’t hear anything behind her. Nothing at all. But the rain was pounding and the wind was whistling. Footsteps would have been washed away.

  The wind was strong. Very strong.

  And still, she didn’t know what kind of force seized upon her with such strength as she ran by the grave. She only knew that it rocked her to the side with such vehemence that she lost her footing, teetered precariously on the uneven ground, then slammed over to her right.

  Flailing…

  Falling…down. Down, into darkness.

  Six feet down, to be exact. Into the deep, damp earth of the freshly dug grave.

  The rain was pounding hard. Matt saw Penny, her summer shawl over her head but doing little good, come running toward the passenger door.

  He leaned over to open it.

  Penny slid in, moving the shawl, and apologizing. “Oh, Matt, I’ve gotten the car all wet. You would have thought we’d have been prepared for this kind of summer storm! Oh, well, thank God it’s summer. You can go for lunch, right? We’re all supposed to be meeting at the Wayside Inn.”

  “Yeah, I can lunch,” he said. “Where are the others?”

  “In Adam’s car. He drove.”

  “Darcy?”

  “She’s probably with Adam. Or else…”

  “Or else what?” he asked sharply.

  “Max Aubry cornered her. And you know Darcy. She was confident she could take care of herself. I never had a chance to tell her that he was a headline-grabbing monster. Clint tried to come between the two of them, but…Matt, don’t worry. Darcy doesn’t like to tell anything, she hates it when people turn her kind of perception into ooh-aah parlor tricks.”

  Darcy was with Max Aubry. Great.

  He gunned the motor with greater force than he intended.

  “Matt, it will be all right.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “That was a beautiful ceremony!” Penny said. “Wasn’t the Reverend Bellamy just wonderful?”

  “Yep.”

  “Matt, come on. Sure, it will be in the newspapers. They’ll say that Amy was put to her final rest with tender words. What else can they say?”

  “Let’s see—they can say that the sheriff of Stoneyville has become a complete nutcase, bringing so-called ghost busters in to solve problems in his jurisdiction because he hasn’t the skill to makes discoveries beneath his own nose.”

  “Matt, Aubry would never write such a thing,” Penny said.

  He stared at her.

  “Trust me, Darcy won’t give him anything to add fuel to the fire. Isn’t this weather just terrible? Can you see where you’re going?”

  “Yes, Penny, I can drive. Are you sure we’re supposed to go straight there? Everyone is going to be soaked.”

  “It’s summer—we’ll dry,” Penny assured him.

  It was still pouring when they reached the Wayside Inn. Matt gave Penny his umbrella, lowered his head, and ran through the rain himself.

  They were the first to arrive. Not even Mae had returned as yet, but Sim Jones, standing in for her, assured him that they had a number of tables ready, and could put their party together. “Hell, Matt, you all are our regulars anyway. No problemo,” Sim said.

  He and Penny ordered coffee and sat, awaiting the others.

  Darcy’s temple thundered. She had struck hard earth when first going in, and she might have blacked out. For how long, she had no idea, though with the rain flooding over her, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes.

  She was quickly becoming engulfed in a mud bath. The rain and earth were already past her ankles when she made it to her feet.

  “Help!” she screamed as loudly as she could. A sinking feeling told her that no one would hear her—even if they were still around.

  She bit into her lower lip, hugging her arms around herself, and feeling the chill of the rain. The sun had gone completely. In the deep hole in the earth, it was darker than she could have possibly imagined, the sky above her offering nothing but gray.

  What the hell had happened? A massive gust of wind? Or a hand with a tremendous force? And why?

  “Help!” she shouted again. She dug at the earth around her, trying to get a hold on anything. But the grave had been deeply and cleanly dug. There was nothing to grasp.

  She tried to claw her hands into the earth, but it merely crumbed away at her touch. She jumped, trying to reach the perimeter of the grave. She got one handhold, and slid back.

  Gasping for breath, trying to move her soaking hair from her eyes, she paused for a minute. Someone was going to realize that she was missing.

  Weren’t they?

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  An unbidden sense of panic seized her, and she began to shout and try desperately to crawl from the grave again herself. The sky rumbled with a fury. There was a flash of lightning, and then the sky seemed darker than ever. Already shivering, drenched, and exhausted, she lay back against the earth of the tomb, trying to reason.

  The darkness, the depth of the grave, the scent of the earth around her entered into her instinct and made her afraid.

  “I talk to ghosts!” she whispered aloud to herself. “Why on earth would I be afraid, now, in a cemetery?”

  But she was afraid. The mud at her feet was getting deeper and deeper, rising now to her calves. She imagined she felt creepy, crawly things sliding up her flesh. She was cold; it might have been a summer’s day, but she was thoroughly wet and the wind kept sweeping down. Her teeth were chattering, and she felt hemmed in by the darkness, as if she was locked in a coffin as well as a grave.

  Cell phone.

  The two words popped into her mind, and she almost smiled, thinking she’d been an idiot. Except, of course, that she’d hit her head, and it was spinning.

  She dropped down to the ground, trying to find the small black purse she’d carried for the occasion. The ground was pure mud.

  So were her hands by the time she opened the purse.

  And so were the contents of her purse.

  She found the phone easily enough, but it was caked with mud. She pressed on the keys, talked to the phone, tenderly tried to clean it.

  No good. The water had gotten inside. The water—that kept rising around her, joining with the earth, making her pit more and mor
e of a slushy, mucky, mire.

  In fury she threw the phone across the pit. It thunked sickly against the side. The rain was still falling. The day was getting darker and darker. The wind whipped around, creating an eerie noise, as if all the banshees in Ireland howled at once.

  She closed her eyes, hoping for a word from someone, a sense of security, of comfort. She was desperate for an assurance that everything would be all right, she would find her way out of the grave.

  What if…

  She was supposed to have knocked herself out completely when she fell? What if she was supposed to remain there, silent, lost, while everyone assumed that she was with someone else. And what if it had been a real hand that had pushed her, forcing her into the grave?

  And that real person was coming back….

  “Help!” She screamed the word again.

  She closed her eyes. Visions of floating bones swept by her mental vision. Darkness seemed to sweep around her, touching her. The way that panic was setting in, she saw so much more. Rotting corpses, floating to the surface, finding life, swaying before her…darkness, the mud sucking her down, hands of the dead curling around her ankles, pulling her deeper and deeper into the muck.

  “No! Darcy, no!” she chastised herself aloud.

  They would come. Someone would come for her, soon enough.

  “Josh?” she whispered softly.

  She didn’t see him. But she felt as if a brush of warmth came over her. “Josh…help me!”

  Again, a sensation of warmth, of comfort. In her mind, a whisper, You’ll be all right.

  “Stay with me, Josh. I’m afraid,” she said softly.

  But then, a huge bolt of lightning flashed across the sky. She heard an explosion, and didn’t know what it could be until she heard a cracking sound.

  “Josh!” she cried.

  But there was nothing. No whisper of assurance. No sense of warmth. She was alone, entirely alone.

  A massive creaking filled the air then, and she realized what had happened.

  The oak, the giant oak had been hit by the lightning.

  A second later, she screamed as it came crashing down, right on the spot of the open grave that jailed her.

  Adam arrived with his carful of people.

  Clint, Clara and Sam.

  “Where are the rest?” Matt asked Clint.

  “Carter’s driving here with Delilah—they should be right behind us. Mae is parking her truck around back. Jason Johnstone was helping David Jenner with his equipment. Reverend Bellamy couldn’t come—he’s busy making new arrangements for a funeral that was supposed to be this afternoon. Mrs. O’Hara had her own car, and—”

  “Darcy. Where the hell is Darcy?” Matt asked.

  “She didn’t come with you?” Adam demanded, walking over.

  Clint sniffed out a sound of distaste. “That screwball, Max Aubry, probably coaxed her into driving with him.”

  “She left with him?” Matt asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, she walked away with him, at least,” Clint said.

  Matt nodded, rose, and walked over to one of the pool tables. He set up the balls with precision. Aimed to break them, and sent the cue flashing so hard that they distributed across the entire table.

  “Matt? Want me to order for you?” Penny asked tentatively, watching the game he was determined to play by himself.

  “Sure.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Food.”

  “Matt?”

  “Just get me a burger, Penny. Thanks,” he added after a second.

  Clint walked over to the table. “Matt, I can call Aubry’s paper, get his cell phone number.”

  Matt stopped playing and leaned on his cue stick. “For what? So I can demand that he bring Darcy back to us?”

  Clint grimaced. “I should have stuck with them.”

  “It’s all right. The guy’s a jerk, and there’s no way out of it. And hell, Darcy is over twenty-one, and in her right mind. At least, mostly,” he added wryly.

  Clint stared at him for a minute, trying to think of something to say. Then he lifted his hands, and walked away.

  Matt sank the balls, one by one, with the first shot. By the time he finished, he had somewhat cooled down. He remained angry, though. And he wasn’t sure if he was most furious with himself for not being more vigilant, with Max Aubry for being an opportunist, or Darcy for being…

  Darcy.

  He set the cue stick down and returned to the table. Penny was at his one side, and old Anthony Larkin had joined them. Good. Anthony wasn’t talking about the ceremony for the skull. He was excited by the prospect of the battle reenactment.

  “I’ll be riding old Geyser, and though we may both be long in the tooth, I promise, we’ll give the young ‘uns dragged down to the battlefield a damned good show,” he advised. “You riding for your homeland, Matt?” Anthony asked.

  “You bet. I’ll be in my best sheriff’s uniform, making sure the crowds stay under control, and that none of you blows yourself up!” Matt told him lightly. Looking around the room, he saw that everyone he had seen at the cemetery had arrived.

  Carter and Delilah were there. Mrs. O’Hara had made it, and was deep in discussion with Adam Harrison. They were both such history buffs. They seemed like a team made in heaven.

  “Hey, Matt!” Carter called. “Where’s Darcy?”

  “I don’t really know,” he replied.

  “Is she still with that wretched Mr. Aubry?” Delilah asked from across the room.

  “Darcy hardly turned traitor, the way you’re all making it sound,” Adam said. He stared across the Matt, perplexed. “Wait a minute—I don’t think she’s with him at all. He accosted me, right before I headed for the car. And actually, I had assumed she was with you, Matt.”

  “I’ll bet she just wanted to tell Reverend Bellamy what a lovely job he did,” Penny said.

  Darcy needs you.

  Matt nearly jumped a mile, jerking around quickly to see who had whispered at his ear.

  There was no one there. No one. The person nearest to him was Penny, and she was a good three feet away.

  “Who said that?” he demanded.

  Penny, wide-eyed, turned around to stare at him.

  “I just said that Darcy probably went to talk to the Reverend Bellamy,” she said. “Why, is that bad? Why do you look so angry?”

  “Maybe that reporter went back to her,” Adam said, as if he was trying to assure himself. “The rain had started, and I was anxious to get away, but he had just left Darcy, so he probably went back to her, and maybe got her into his car.”

  Darcy…Darcy…

  Her name was like a whisper in Matt’s head. An urgent whisper. He stood so quickly that his chair fell behind him. He gave no notice.

  “I’m going back to find her,” he said, and started out of the room.

  Adam Harrison rose as if he would accompany him. Matt gave him no notice, he suddenly felt such a sense of urgency.

  Alone, he ran out of the Wayside Inn and hurried for his car.

  The old oak’s heavy branches covered the entire opening to the grave and protruded down into it. After her initial terror at the fall, Darcy had tried to use the tree to crawl out. But every time she got a grasp of a branch, it split in her hands, sending her splashing back hard into the rising mud.

  She was soaked clean through, cold, miserable, freezing, and wondering if she could survive an overnight stay in the stygian pit. The afternoon had waned, and real darkness was setting in. Something slithered by her in the water and she choked back a scream. A snake.

  Virginia had rattlers, right?

  Not a rattler. Rattlers rattled.

  A moccasin? What deadly venomous creature might roam the dryness of a cemetery by day, and swim through the flooding of the rain by night?

  She had to get out. She was too cold, trembling throughout her limbs. She was imagining too much again. Ghostly dances before her eyes. Bones reaching out from the ground. Yes
, she spoke to ghosts. But none of them were speaking to her. They were just playing tricks with her mind, adding to the terror of her situation.

  The water in the hole was almost to her waist.

  “I’ll be able to swim out soon!” she told herself out loud.

  Once again, she tried to get a grasp on one of the tree limbs. Her fingers curled around what seemed like a sturdy branch. She braced a foot against the side of the hole.

  Her foot slipped on the mud and the branch snapped at the same time. She plunged all the way down, her head going beneath the surface of the rising water.

  She rose, sputtering, gasping.

  And then, a miracle.

  “Darcy!”

  Had she imagined it? Or had she really heard a voice?

  “Here, here! I’m here! Help!”

  Nothing then, she heard nothing at all. She hadn’t shouted loudly enough, not to combat the wind and the rain. Her voice had grown hoarse, almost nonexistent.

  “Darcy!”

  She wasn’t imagining it. Matt’s voice.

  She jumped, throwing herself as high as she could. “Matt! Here, Matt, here, please!”

  And then, at last, the limbs were ripped from the top of the grave, piece after piece. “Oh, God, yes, thank God, thank you, thank you!” she heard herself gasping.

  The last of the oak was pulled away, and she was standing in the mire, looking up. The sky was dark.

  She saw only his form.

  Huge, hands on hips, glaring down.

  And for a moment she felt a twinge of panic.

  Matt. How had he known that she was here—unless he had pushed her in. Maybe he hadn’t come to save her at all. Maybe he was about to reach down and use his imposing size and strength to press her down, down into the muck and mire, where she couldn’t breathe, where she would slowly struggle and fight until she….

  He hunkered down by the side of the grave.

  She’d thought it before. Maybe she’d been pushed, just shoved into the grave, so that someone could come back….

  And finish her off.

  “Jesu, how in the hell…?” he said. “Take my hand.”