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.
“Go on, Matt—we’ll keep them entertained for you,” Clint told him laconically. Matt arched a brow. Clint could be openly lascivious. He had surely enjoyed the spectacle of the bride, wrapped in the antique quilt and nothing more.
“Thanks,” Matt said dryly, and left them all to their arguments on whether there was or wasn’t a ghost.
An hour later, he was moved back into his room at the main house, and he and Penny and Roger had packed up the newlyweds, who were now happily settled in the caretaker’s cottage. Penny returned to her apartment over the stables.
Matt had barely gotten back to sleep before he heard a ringing sound. He fumbled around to turn off his alarm, but it was the phone instead. One of his officers was on the other end, anxiously urging him to get moving; they had a domestic violence situation threatening to turn explosive.
Matt hurriedly dressed, his thoughts half on the night gone by, and half on the day to come. There it was—the truth again. As his dad had once told him, when he had shivered at the sight of an old cemetery, the dead were the safest people around.
It was the living you had to watch out for.
That day was hell for Matt. He was so tired most of it, he could have toppled over. It began with the situation at the Creek-more house, old Harry threatening to kill his wife and kids, accusing her of sleeping around, claiming he didn’t even know if the kids were really his or not. Thayer had kept the situation under control until he got there. Matt had managed first to get Harry to let him in, then pretended to share most of a bottle of whiskey with him, convince him he could do DNA testing on his kids, finally get the shotgun, and haul Harry off to jail.
Somehow, he endured the rest of the week, staying in the main house, hearing the honeymooners in the pool at all hours, day and night.
Jeannie came to thank him personally for not throwing them out. Her honeymoon, between the pool and the horses and the incredible Jacuzzi in the caretaker’s house, was bliss.
She had forgotten about the ghost. She admitted that she’d had a lot to drink.
Penny kept insisting that there was a ghost, and he was being a blind fool to ignore it. Either something bad was going to happen, or—on the bright side!—were they to prove that a ghost existed, they could get so rich they’d never have to worry about the upkeep of the place again.
Finally the honeymooners departed and everything went back to normal. Then, Penny started at him again. She wanted to have a seance.
He said no.
She persisted.
He begged her to leave him alone. He had too much work on his plate at the moment.
At last, Penny backed off and contented herself with her tours. Matt thought that life was pleasantly back to routine.
Until she came to him with the letter from Adam Harrison, Harrison Investigations.
It was a month later that Clara Issy, one of the five daytime housekeepers, stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a sunny morning. The beautiful old bedroom in Melody House was as it always was. The bed she had just made with its shiny four-poster and quilted cover sat against the right wall. The polished mahogany bureau held the modern touch of the entertainment center withi
n it. The television was off. The French doors to the balcony and the wraparound porch were ajar because it was such a nice day and the breeze was fresh and clean, causing the white draperies to stir and dance. That was natural, and she was accustomed to the smell and feel of fresh air. She loved it, and she wasn’t at all fond of the air-conditioning that ran through the summer months. No, the room itself was just as it always was.
She stood near the open French doors, jaw agape, and stared.
Because she was alone in the room, yet something else was moving. Something that drifted from the bed. Something in a hazy form, something cold, something that felt threatening.
It approached Clara. She felt something touch her face, almost like the stroke of fingers against her cheek. Very cold fingers. Dead fingers. She thought she heard a whispering. Scratchy, against her ear. Something that pleaded…or threatened.
Her hands were frozen in a vise around her broom handle. Her body felt as if it had jelled into ice. Fear raced up and down her spine.
The cold…wrapped around her. Tightly. More and more tightly.
At last, her jaw snapped shut. She broke the sensation of terror. She screamed, not a bloodcurdling sound, but one that barely held a gasp of air.
Then she found life, and ran.
Out to the second floor landing; there was no one there. Down the flight of stairs to the grand foyer, where again, the house was empty. She headed toward the second doorway to the right of the sweeping stairway. Surely, for the love of God, someone would be in the house office—Penny, a tiny bastion against anyone evil, but someone, at the least.
Clara breathed a sigh of relief. Matt was there. Bursting out the doorway before she could reach it. He was in his work uniform, but he hadn’t headed out for the station yet; it was still very early. Thank God.
He hurried toward her, as if he had heard her cry—being Matt, of course, he had heard it!—and had been preparing to rush to her rescue. Except that she had fled the room upstairs with greater speed than a greyhound. And so she was here, spurting into his arms.