Ghosts

It's mid-October and now that her divorce is final, Erica Parkhurst is free to return to Spirit Lake and Joe Lakota, the man she left behind. Yet she is riddled with doubts and fears. Can they rekindle their romance of the summer? And can she put aside memories of her terrifying experience at the hands of a coldblooded killer and go back to the small town in Western Pennsylvania?

An urgent call for help from Evelyn Black, proprietor of the Spirit Lake Inn where Erica stayed during her last visit, decides the issue. Accompanied by her best friend, Paula Bascilla, Erica leaves New York City again for the Allegheny Mountains and an uncertain future. But once more, trouble comes Erica's way when she learns that Joe has another dark secret hidden in his past, one that makes him a prime suspect in a new murder case.

Paula Bascilla, a woman with psychic abilities, can feel the spirits surrounding her the minute she steps into the inn. Excited at the prospect of contact with some of the wayward ghosts, she is looking forward to her stay. What she isn't counting on however, is being blindsided by tall, unassuming Cal Motega, co-owner of The Eagle Hill Cafe. 

As Erica and Paula contend with the inn's unpredictable guests, arson fire and at the same time try to clear Joe's name, they discover a valuable link to Erica's past that could tie her to Spirit Lake forever. But there are still many unanswered questions. Will Erica's love for Joe survive this latest test? Who are the ghosts haunting the inn and why can't they rest? Is Paula willing to give love a chance with the mysterious Cal Motega?

Return to Spirit Lake and find out.

EXCERPT:

She moved on to the next painting, which was totally bereft of people. Then she recognized the landscape. It was the hill where the inn now sat and below it the lake, only the dock wasn’t there, just the woods surrounding it.

“I see you recognize it,” Cal observed.

“Was it a burial mound?” Paula asked.

Cal’s hands now rested lightly on her shoulders. When had he put them there? She wasn’t sure, but it felt good. No, it was more than that, it felt natural. Like they belonged there.

“That story has circulated since I can remember, but there’s no proof.”

“Surely there are records somewhere.”

“The Hartsburg Historical Society has volumes of records going back to the 1700s, but I’ve never bothered to go looking. Most of what I know about my own ancestors comes from stories handed down through the generations, and they don’t mention it.”

“There’s no local historical society?”

Cal shook his head. “Combined them years ago. Financial reasons. Hartsburg had more funds available and the one here was dying.”

Paula smelled the aroma emanating from the kitchen. “Hazelnut coffee?”

“Thought you might like it,” he told her.

He withdrew his hands and she suddenly missed his touch. “My favorite. How did you know?”

“Psychic,” he quipped.

They drank their coffee at the small drop-leaf table by the kitchen window and talked some more. She loved the sound of his voice, deep, resonant, masculine.

She’d chosen her outfit carefully for this evening. The skirt was of a rich deep tan chamois, and hit her just below the knees. She had shapely calves, or at least she’d been told that, so she wanted to make sure he saw them. No hose. She had a good tan. Her shirt was emerald green, with three- quarter length sleeves and a scoop neck that showed just enough cleavage to be enticing, but not slutty. At least that’s what Erica had told her before Cal picked her up. Of course there was an abundance of jewelry, including a pair of gold double loop earrings with the smaller loops hanging inside the larger ones.

Cal offered her cookies, she declined. “Got to keep my girlish figure, you know. At least what’s left of it.”

“Your figure looks just fine to me, at least what I can see of it,” he countered, eyeing her with a little more intensity than his tone indicated.

Paula knew, this moment would set the tone for the rest of the evening. Casual and friendly or very friendly, it was up to her. Cal had effectively put the ball in her court to make that decision. “I like you, Cal. A lot. It would be very easy right now to—”

He got up, came around the table, pulled her to her feet, into his arms and kissed her soundly. The minute she felt his body against hers, his tongue probing her mouth, she forgot her little let’s-start-out-slowly-and-see-what-happens speech.

Then, he surprised the hell out of her when he pulled back and led her to the sofa. “I want to hear about you, Paula. How about some more coffee?”

Erica was crossing the foyer headed for the parlor when a tall, dark haired man wearing blue Dockers and an open neck yellow shirt stepped inside. He was tan and muscular. He removed a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and scanned the room. His eyes were the most amazing shade of turquoise she'd ever seen. To say he was good looking didn't begin to cover it. He was hot!

"I'm obviously in the right place. I recognize this foyer from the publicity shots on the website. I'm Andrew Harrington."

"Erica Parkhurst. Welcome to the Spirit Lake Inn. Thank you for agreeing to cancel your other reservation and stay with us on such short notice." She couldn't help but enjoy the view.

"Christine will be along. She's gone around back to take a look at that wonderful lake of yours."

Erica hoped poor Christine wasn't being treated to a view of the Richters making love, or worse yet, renewing their argument. Andrew Harrington seemed to be looking for something as he glanced around and even peeked into the parlor.

"I can give you the guided tour," Erica offered.

"No need. I'm sure we'll see it all in good time. I'll go get the bags, unless you have someone who takes care of that."

"Raymond is out overseeing the work being done in the garden, I'm afraid."

"That tall older man, yes I saw him. He has a dog with him. Don't bother him, I can manage."

Erica smiled. It would seem Mingo and Raymond were bonding after all. "I'm afraid you'll have to move the car, also."

"I figured as much. Just let me get the bags first. Where should I park it?"

Erica stepped around Andrew and went out onto the porch. In passing, she caught a whiff of his after shave--tangy, spicy, and sexy. The Harringtons were driving a sleek, black Corvette.

"You can park on the access road at the bottom of the hill, next to the driveway," she told him. "The workmen should be gone in a couple of hours. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. The rain threw things off schedule."

He smiled, exposing the most perfect teeth she'd ever seen. "You don't have to tell me. We drove through torrential downpours yesterday. Christine hates to fly."

Erica recalled that the Harringtons were from New York City. "Well, it's not that much of a drive. I lived in the Big Apple for many years."

Andrew Harrington's smile faded. "Do tell." His tone showed disinterest. "Oh, there's Christine, now."

The woman who came around the corner of the house was of medium height with short, stylishly cut auburn hair and deep brown eyes. A pair of oversize sunglasses rested on top of her head. She was wearing yellow slacks and a matching blouse. She looked crisp and cool in spite of the humidity.

"That lake is beautiful, Andy, you should look at it. Do you allow swimming?" Her gaze was now focused on Erica.

"No…there's an undertow," Erica said quickly. She never went into the real reason with guests.

"Pity," the woman said. "I'm Christine Harrington, by the way. And you are?" She joined her husband who was now taking two pieces of expensive looking luggage out of the trunk of the Corvette.

Erica introduced herself but didn't offer to shake the woman's hand. Somehow she could sense that Christine Harrington wasn't the type to welcome such an overture. Now that the Harringtons were standing side by side she could fully appreciate what a striking looking couple they were.

"It just feels good to stretch my legs. Why Andy insisted on bringing the two-seater on this trip, I'll never know," Christine said.

"Stop complaining, Chris. It has plenty of legroom and trunk space to boot. That why I like this model. Plus it is a convertible. What more could you want?"

Christine looked around. "Where's your bellman?"

"It's not the Hilton, Chris. We tote our own here," Andrew Harrington told her.

Erica noted that Christine Harrington's nose went up in the air just a little but that the space between her brows didn't move even though the rest of her face played at making a frown.

Botox. No doubt about it.

Just then the Richters rounded the corner of the house from the parking area. Erica was glad to see that things had settled down between them for the moment. At the same time, the cement workers headed down toward the dock, carrying their lunch pails.

Raymond joined Erica and her guests. Mingo was nowhere to be found.

When the Harringtons introduced themselves to the Richters, Erica was surprised to see that Pamela hung back, acting almost shy. Andrew Harrington, however, seemed to take a special interest in her. He was standing very close and even brushed a stray strand of her long black hair off her face when another sudden breeze ruffled it.

Christine Harrington, seemed to be cool with the attention her husband was lavishing on Pamela, but Erica could see that she was seething inside. Her soft brown eyes now had golden flecks dancing in them.

Erica decided it was time to move things along. Laying a hand on Andrew Harrington's arm she said, "Why don't I show you to your room? We have snacks available, nothing fancy, just sandwich makings and a veggie tray," She led the Harringtons inside. Raymond followed, carrying one of their bags.

Christine examined the foyer with a critical eye and insisted on taking the elevator. The men took the stairs.

When Erica opened the door to their room, Christine stood for a moment, surveying things. "It's certainly cozy. Isn't it, Andy?"

Andrew Harrington put his bag on the bed and indicated that Raymond should do the same with the one he carried. He then reached into his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill, thrusting it at Raymond, who backed up and flinched as though he'd been struck in the face. He then left the room without uttering a word.

Erica felt embarrassment color her cheeks. "He's also a guest. He's just helping out with the garden restoration. I'm sorry I didn't make that clear."

Christine Harrington raised an eyebrow. "So you put your guests to work? Maybe we should have checked in at the Hilton after all, Andy."

"It's a Hampton Inn, Chris," Andrew Harrington said idly, then asked Erica, "Tell, me, where's your co-owner?"

Erica turned around and faced him. "She's been ill. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. The website mentions you both," He favored her with that perfect smile again.

Christine flung open the closet door and peered inside. "Where's the bathroom?"

"There are two, at the other end of the hall," Erica told the woman. She was beginning to like her even less than she liked Pamela Richter.

Christine sniffed with obvious disdain. "We have to share a bathroom with the other guests?"

"Is this your first visit to a bed and breakfast?" Erica shot back before she could stop herself.

Andrew laughed out loud. "Is it that obvious? This was my idea, I'm afraid."

Christine sniffed haughtily. "I'd never heard of this place. I didn't even know we were on the cancellation list until Andy informed me we'd be staying here instead of a real hotel." She opened a suitcase and began hanging things up in the closet.

Andrew sidled up to Erica, keeping his voice low. "Christine is more of a luxury hotel person, but I thought that it might be fun to do something different. Don't worry; she'll live right through it."

He kept moving, forcing Erica into the hallway. Before she could reply, the door was closed firmly in her face.

* * * *

After her unceremonious ouster from the Harrington's room, Erica returned to the first floor. Somewhat miffed by Andrew's abruptness, she decided to leave the food in the refrigerator. If they wanted something to eat, they could ask. She wandered out the back door in search of Mingo, only to find him digging in the freshly turned earth where the gazebo would sit. The workmen were gathered around the area, pointing and chattering like excited school children. Raymond was kneeling by the hole, using one hand to brush at the dirt. As she drew closer she could see that he'd uncovered something.

"What's going on?" she called, joining the group. Then she saw what the furor was about.

"It is a gun," one of the men said in a heavily accented voice.

Raymond pulled the object out of the dirt and held it up for all to see. "Indeed it is."

It was a revolver with a barrel Erica surmised was at least six inches long. The handgrip, although caked with mud, looked like wood.

Raymond stood up and examined his find. "I say, this is quite an antique. He brushed it off as best he could. "It's an old forty-five caliber Colt Peacekeeper. Six shot cylinder."

Erica took a good look at the weapon. "How can you tell? It's filthy."

Raymond turned the revolver over and over in his hands. "Guns have been a hobby of mine for a good many years. This baby was manufactured by Colt around 1873. Some call it the single action Army revolver."

Erica didn't like this one bit. What was a gun doing buried in the garden, especially under a cement slab? "Who do you suppose put it there, Raymond?"

By now the workmen had all closed in, wanting a better look at the weapon. Raymond held it away from them and turned to Erica. "I don't know, but we need to get it inside and clean it up. It looks like it's in good shape, in spite of some rust. The handgrip has held up well. I'd say it's been in the ground for a long, long time though."

"Should we report it to the authorities?" She looked nervously over her shoulder and was relieved to see that the Richters were no longer in the driveway. She assumed they'd gone back inside the inn.

"Look….the dog…" one of the workmen yelled, pointing to where Mingo now dug furiously a few feet away.

Erica rushed at the animal then took a sudden step back when she looked down and saw what he'd uncovered. Memories of July when he dragged a skeletal hand into Joe's cabin, and of December when she'd found him just sitting near this spot staring at the place where the gazebo once stood, came flooding back. "Oh God, Raymond, is that a--"

He finished the sentence for her. "Skull?" He knelt next to Mingo and brushed the rest of the dirt off the object. "Yes, it's a human skull."

She ran through the darkness, her breath coming in short rasps, her heart hammering painfully against her ribcage. The lake was behind her and she could hear the water slapping against the dock pilings. She didn't dare stop to look back, although every fiber in her being wanted to do so. She had to get away from him, had to hide somewhere.

Her dress was in tatters, her hair a tangled mess around her face. It was becoming harder and harder to run, her legs didn't want to work, they felt weak and shaky. She could still feel the slap of his hand against her swollen cheek.

Get away…never look back…run…run.

"No! Leave me alone!" Erica Parkhurst shouted. She sat up in bed and frantically looked around her, still half asleep and unable to fully recognize her surroundings.

Next to her, Joe Lakota stirred and mumbled, "Hmm…what's that?" Then he sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, casting a soft, amber glow over the cozy bedroom. From the floor, Mingo whined and yawned, stretching as he stood. His coat was multicolored and thick. The eyes were amber, set in a face that looked like it wore a mask of gray. Part wolf, part dog, he'd been raised by Joe from a pup.

Slowly, Erica took in the sturdy furniture and the thick comforter that was now in disarray around her. She was safe, with the man she loved, in the cabin he'd built with his own two hands.

Mingo laid his head on her leg and searched her face with big soulful eyes. She absently rubbed the canine's head. "I'm sorry, Joe. I had a nightmare. But it was so real."

He scooted closer to her and put a muscular arm around her shoulder, pulling her against his bare chest.

Erica had met Joe when she first happened upon Spirit Lake in July. She'd been running from a broken marriage, looking for a place of refuge and solitude. One night's stay at the local bed and breakfast had turned into something much more, when she found herself embroiled in not only a murder investigation, but a ghost hunt as well. Months later, the inn's owner, Evelyn Black, had asked her to return and run the business while she recuperated from surgery. Erica had done so, bringing along Paula Bascilla, her best friend. Actually, Erica would have come without Paula if it had meant seeing Joe again.

"Want to talk about it?" Joe asked, kissing the side of her head.

She looked at him and smiled. His dark eyes studied her with concern. His Iroquois heritage gave his skin a coppery glow, especially in this lighting. She felt her heart flutter a little as he stroked her cheek with a fingertip.

She shook her head and felt some of her thick, coppery hair tumble over her face. He made no move to push it back. She knew why, he liked the way she looked when she was "bed tumbled" as he called it.

"It was just a dream." She smiled again.

"Maybe I need to hang another dream catcher," Joe whispered, nodding backwards toward the feathered charm dangling above the headboard.

"To catch and destroy my bad dreams?" Erica asked.

Mingo snorted as though in disdain and resumed his previous position on the floor.

"I don't think Mingo appreciates my interrupting his sleep," Erica chuckled.

"Why don't you tell me what's really going on, Erica?" Joe asked, his expression somber.

Erica stroked his chest lightly. "Well, let's see…Christmas is only three weeks away and tomorrow our guests arrive for the inn's very first--"

He interrupted, "I'm not talking about that. You know what I mean." He put a little distance between them and propped himself up on one elbow. He looked at her, waiting for an answer.

Erica sighed. "I've been having this recurring dream. I'm back in time I think, because my clothing is old fashioned. I'm being chased up the hill from the lake. I'm desperate and frightened. It gets all muddled after that." She thought for a moment. "Forget it. It's no big deal. It's probably just the stress of the upcoming events. That and all the research we've been doing on the inn's past."

"You don't think what happened in October has something to do with it?" He eyed her closely, worry creasing his brow.

She had to admit, he had a point. "We had some damage control to do after the murder of a guest, that's for sure. And that is why this Christmas event is so important. I just don't want anything to go wrong."

Joe looked at the window and pointed. "It's snowing again. Should be the perfect atmosphere for your guests tomorrow."

Erica got up, put on one of Joe's flannel shirts, which hit her slender frame mid- thigh, and went to the window. She sat down on the window seat that, just months ago, had held one of Joe's best kept secrets. The snow was falling in large, lacy flakes, covering the two inches that had settled over the landscape yesterday.

"Looks like the stage is set," Joe said, joining her. He'd brought the comforter which he now wrapped around them both.

They sat there for the next hour, snuggled together, watching the snow fall.

The coolness of his skin surprised her. It felt good, after the heat that kept climbing her face and neck. His touch was like a salve to ease that burn. “You’re cold,” she said. As soon as she spoke the words, she bit her lip. How rude of me!

“I’m dead. Remember?” His expression hadn’t changed, but he opened his eyes in slow motion, like waking up from a nice dream. “To me, you feel warm and soft to the touch. You’ve surpassed how I imagined you’d feel.” The awe in his voice touched her heart and made her feel exceptional, appreciated.

And awkward. She glanced around her. “Now what?”

“Why did you trust me so?” he asked. Having physical contact with her had pumped up his self-confidence. He now regarded her with seductively hooded eyes.

Standing next to Jeremy made Stacy want to fluff her hair like a teenager. Hell, she wanted to run her hands through his hair. “I…” She licked her lips. “I really don’t know. There is something about you…it’s as if I’ve known you all my life.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Strange, but that’s exactly how I feel as well. Like I’ve been waiting for you since my death.”

Ipswich, England 1942

Anthony Sinclair raced down the long white corridors of the hospital. The world was a blur, his mind focused entirely on his destination. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself over and over again. He rounded the corner and paused. Henry Griphan, his best friend and closest confidant, sat in one of the hard wooden chairs, his arms folded across his chest and head between his knees. He looked utterly miserable and covered head to toe in guilt.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Henry,” he breathed as he neared him.

The former General of Her Majesty’s Army looked up with tearful eyes and, for a moment, there was no recognition. Then he blinked and the haze slowly moved out of his dark grey eyes. Henry struggled to his feet, still unsteady with his new prosthetic leg. He’d only got it a month ago and still could not seem to function at his former level.

“Andy? Andy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried to save her. I—” he babbled almost incoherently.

Anthony grabbed the taller man’s arms and shook him. “Where is she, Henry? Where’s Xyan?”

Henry gazed to the door he was seated next to with a forlorn look, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Anthony let him go immediately and headed for it in a long, determined stride. He ignored Henry’s apologizes as he opened the door and stepped inside and stopped.

The room was private of course, he paid for nothing less, after all, his family sponsored the hospital and even helped in its construction over a century ago. Such favors were rarely forgotten, even today. The only occupant of the room lay on a sterile metal bed in the center of the room, her head propped up on numerous pillows. A lone sheet covered her pale petite body, her tan long gone by the shock of the accident. Whoever pushed her down the stairs would pay, Anthony silently guaranteed.

He moved cautiously toward the bed, fearful to awaken the small woman, yet unable to stop himself. This wasn’t his beloved. This wasn’t his beautiful wife who never harmed a soul in her life. Her ebony black hair was limp and covered in sweat. The pallor of her flesh was tinged with hints of blue. She looked deathly pale, but there was no doubt she’d given birth and he feared for both his wife’s and child’s well being. Nonetheless, Xyan was still breathtaking.

“Xyan,” he whispered as he stroked her cheek.

Her brows bunched together before her chocolate brown eyes opened. She smiled tiredly up at him. “Antonio…what took you so long?” she teased. Her eyes closed and for a moment Anthony feared she passed out, but then they reopened and she winced in obvious pain before she smiled past it. “So, what’s a hunk like you doing in a place like this?”

Anthony smiled softly at her. Despite her obvious pain, Xyan kept upbeat. For his sake more than her own, he suspected. He brushed her sweat soaked hair from her eyes. “Checking on my baby.”

Her eyes sparkled in mischief. “Naomi’s in the nursery.”

“You know what I mean.”

She sniffed and tried to stretch, only to cry out in pain. Instantly, Anthony bent over her. She shook her head. “No, Antonio. I’m – I’m all right. I just hurt.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked gently.

Xyan reached up and touched his chiseled cheek. His long blue-black hair fell over his shoulder to brush her arm. Her smile broadened. “No, my love. The damage is too severe, even for magick.”

“But—”

Her fingers brushed his lips to silence him. “Our best healers have tried. It is a curse we cannot counter so there is no point to fight it.”

“Xyan,” he breathed. Tears burned at the back of his eyes.

“Lay with me,” she pleaded. For the first time since she awoke, there was real fear in her voice and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

Nodding, he took off his glasses. He placed them on the small nightstand next to the bed, then placed his jacket on the chair. Climbing under the sheet with her, he gently pulled her near, fearful of her internal injuries. Xyan cuddled up close, her head tucked under his chin as he wrapped his arms around her petite frame and drew as close as their bodies would allow. Her slim form shook in his arms, but she said nothing in complaint. Xyan was one of the strongest women Anthony knew. If only he could take her back to Spain, back to her parents so she could be surrounded by her family, but there wasn’t enough time and he didn’t possess the power to teleport her such a distance. He didn’t know what to do.

Her aura fluctuated and patches of black appeared here and there, a sure sign she was poisoned and soon her aura would deteriorate and then her soul would leave as well. This was no mere accident. There must be something he could do to save her, something his magick could do.

She gazed up into his tri-blue eyes and caressed his cheek. “Hey lover, what are you thinking?”

“How much I love you.”

“Liar.”

He laughed but it sounded hollow. “I was, too. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She lifted her lips to his in a gentle but tantalizing kiss. She pulled back but only for a moment. “Make love to me.”

His eyes widened. “We’re in a hospital.”

“So, let’s get out of here.” She winked suggestively. “I was thinking some place warm and secluded. Just you and me.”

Anthony was so tempted. She looked so wanton, so needy and utterly gorgeous no matter how exhausted she appeared. He cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “What about Naomi?”

“She’s safe. Please, Antonio, I need you. I want you. One last time.”

Anthony closed his eyes. He wanted to say no, but he could never deny her. She was his wife, his life and if he was about to lose her, he would see to it she received her heart’s desire before she passed on to the next life. With barely a thought, he teleported them away from the hospital to a small clearing in the woods just outside of town where they picnicked only a week ago. They lay together under an old oak and listened to the sounds of life all around them.

Anthony’s mind worked franticly for a spell to cure his beloved as he slowly stripped her of the plain hospital gown she wore. She lay beneath him and smiled lovingly up at him as she tried to assist in disrobing him, but she was already tired and weak. He stripped off the last of his clothes as she watched with an appreciative eye. She often teased him about his football player build, how perfect his broad shoulders and slim waist were and how pale of skin he was, so unlike his cousins from Spain. Now Anthony felt more awkward than he did the first night they made love. But Xyan only smiled and opened her arms to him with a sultry smile of encouragement.

They made love slowly on the cool, damp grass on into the night with all the passion of any young couple. Anthony made sure to kiss every square inch of her, to bring her as much pleasure as humanly possible and then some. He made it last for hours and her cries of need and pleasure were like music to his ears. She writhed beneath him, clawed at his back and begged for more until finally there was no more to give and they lay curled together on the soft bed of grass.

Xyan’s head rested on Anthony’s chest as they fought to catch their breath. Her breathing was shallow and, if Anthony didn’t know better, he would have thought she was about to fall asleep. But she didn’t. She held him as tightly as she could, but grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He pulled her as tightly to him as he dared and fought the urge to crush her to him.

“We’ll meet again,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ll find you and we’ll be together again. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she breathed, her eyes closed. “It may be life times before we find each other.”

“I will find you, Xyan,” he promised.

She sighed in agreement before her body went limp in his arms and her soul fled. Anthony continued to cradle her lifeless body nonetheless, and repeated the oath over and over again like a mantra. He would find Xyan again, even if it took lifetimes.

She swatted at him. "Yeah, well, if you knew the night I had, you wouldn't question how glad I am to see you." Relief flooded her like sunlight after a storm and she regaled him with the tale of the night before. Manic, she swallowed hard in between sentences and her eyes resembled moon pies, before he interrupted her.

"What happened here?" He scrutinized the side of the cottage where a board hung haphazardly. "Looks like something hit this with a sledgehammer or something mighty heavy."

Simone, feeling discombobulated for a moment, gasped. "Wow, look at that." She drew closer.

Jackson shook his head. "Is this why you were so glad to see me?"

"Jackson, I heard so many bizarre noises last night. I don't know how long that's been there, but I wouldn't be surprised if it happened last night." With him next to her, she reveled in his presence, the night before seemed years ago. A warm morning with air scented by a cluster of nearby lilac bushes, she glanced his way. "How does breakfast sound to you?" She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the back porch.

"Sounds wonderful honey." She dragged him around the side of the cottage.

"Did you notice the steps?" he asked.

"The what?" She stopped and let go of his arm and her head turned toward the stairs. "What the heck!" She hadn't noticed the holes in her excitement to meet Jackson. Not just holes, but giant gaping wounds met her gaze, as if ripped out by someone with colossal, vice-like hands. "Jackson, who would do this? Why would they do this?"

"I don't know, darlin'. It was awful windy last night. Could be the gusts ripped these out. They're old and getting warped."

Simone shook her head.

His face turned serious and he asked, "What exactly happened here last night?"

"Jackson, I told you, I heard noises and locked the bedroom. I didn't have the guts to deal with whatever was around. Whoever it was, came into the cottage. I heard them outside the door. They couldn't get in and they slammed on it so hard it practically knocked it down. I tell you, I was scared to death."

Appearing to appreciate the chance to help, he rolled his sleeves and moved to take out the remaining piece of step. "I'll look at these. They look awfully old. It may be that someone was trying to scare you and purposely jumped to break 'em. Regardless, they need replaced."

Jackson worked outside and Simone went in to put on the teapot. She heard him bang around and smiled when she thought of how afraid she had been the night before and now with him here, she felt so safe, so secure. She brought him a cup of tea and put it on the wicker table while she sipped hers and watched.

"I've got some lumber at my place. I think I have something that will fit these just fine."

A plank came out with one final pull and he turned it over and dropped it. He rubbed his arm to rid it of the gooseflesh that covered it.

"Jackson, are you all right? What happened?"

He didn't answer, but continued to rub his arm.

"Jackson, are you okay?"

He came out of his trance-like state long enough to look at her. "I…I'm…" he cleared his throat. “I'm fine. I thought I saw an animal or something in there. It's nothing though."

"It doesn't seem as if everything is fine." She watched him rub his arm. She walked over to curiously inspect the board. "Look here, there's writing on the underside. What's it say?" She squinted and rubbed at the letters. "It's so faded, but it looks like it says Beyond this point. That's an odd thing."

Jackson stared at her.

Simone, now interested in the new discovery, momentarily forgot Jackson's reaction. "Wait, I'll bet the rest of the writing is on another one." She wore the smile of a detective with a mystery to solve.

"No!" said Jackson, loudly. "Let me measure this and burn it. I'll replace the others later."

Taken aback by his abruptness, slight shock showed on her face. "Oh, okay, fine. I guess you're right. This isn't my place, after all."

Jackson picked the slat up.

“Wow. Very impressive.” The granite statue felt warm and almost lifelike beneath her touch as she caressed the contours of the piece. A tingling sensation started at her fingertips and worked its way up her arm. The feeling continued as though someone were running their hands over Meg’s body, touching her everywhere. She backed away, but continued to stare at the statue. The broad forehead and high cheekbones of the statue gave way to a square, determined jaw. Obviously, a man accustomed to getting his own way. But it was the eyes that drew her attention. Although carved from stone, Meg had the distinct impression that they seemed to follow her movements about the room.

“That’s Captain London.” A voice behind her softly intoned.

Meg jumped and whirled around. Mrs. Boone stood just inside the front door, peeking nervously around the corner. “Captain London?”

Mrs. Boone nodded. “He owned the house back in the 1800’s. He had it built for when he retired from the sea, but alas never returned from the sea to live here. His ship went down in a terrible storm, and now he walks the corridors of Heron House. It’s in the will that the statue must remain in the house, passing from buyer to buyer.”

“Really, I wonder why?” With a last lingering look at the statue, Meg shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Boone, but surely even you must know there’s no such thing as ghosts. Simply one’s overactive imagination at work. Now, where can we sign the papers? I’d like to get settled.”

"The birds hate Arthur," Beatrice said. "Peter and I laugh when the birds try to bite him."

"I'll bite him, if he doesn't stop throwing rocks at 'em," Gina said.

"They're ugly," Arthur replied. "All they do is pick at the dead fish and crap all over."

"So what?" Gina's patience wore thin and she groaned. "Do you expect them to defrag your computer? They're fricken birds!" She rolled over and pushed a folded towel under her head. "This is going to be one hell of a long summer. No boyfriend, no girlfriends, nothing but kids to watch."

"You're not watching me!" Arthur threw another rock, then ran up the stairs and disappeared over the ridge.

Beatrice grabbed a shovel and pail to take to the edge of the water. There she sat piling mounds of wet, brown sand into her bucket to make a sandcastle. Gina enjoyed the peace and quiet, while she and Peter lay on the blanket and read. Later, she and Beatrice looked for shells and beach glass while their brother swam.

After a couple of hours, Beatrice sat on the shore and the waves came up and covered her legs. Her singing caught Gina's attention. The words were barely audible at first, but something didn't sound right. She raised her head to listen, and the lyrics became clearer.

"Came from California to start anew.

My mom fooled around, yes it's true.

My daddy took a hammer, yes he did.

He used it on my mommy, while I hid."

It made her skin crawl. Dumbfounded, Gina sat and leaned on her elbow. "Beatrice, where did you learn that song?"

"My new friends."

"Don't sing that anymore. Why did they..."

"Gina!" Bea screamed. "There they are. There are my friends." She pointed up to the top and Gina quickly turned that way. On the edge of the hill stood two children, dressed as Peter had described.

Peter slowly moved toward Gina's blanket, spread out over the sand, and knelt next to her. Beatrice, on the other hand, moved closer to the incline and called up.

"Hello."

Speechless, Gina stared. Peter moved even closer and she put a protective arm around his shoulders.

The children didn't move. The wind blew their hair and clothing against their bodies, but they simply stared down, their faces as white as sheets.

Beatrice continued her greeting. "Do you want to go swimming with us? My sister will watch you. Go ask your mom."

Gina found her voice. "Bea, don't," she said quietly. "Come here."

Beatrice turned and looked at her sister and brother's faces. She stopped calling and moved closer to them. "What's the matter?" she asked in a whisper.

"Nothing, it's just that those kids are strange. I don't think you should play with them. If they ever come around and ask you, just say no."

The children continued staring down at them. Somewhat unnerved, Gina shivered.

A rush of wind whipped by and she turned her head. Black clouds filled the sky to the north.

"Gather everything up, guys. A storm's heading in." She stood and collected the books, snacks and sun block from her blanket and threw them into her bag, glancing occasionally at the strange kids.

"Let's head in."

They slowly made their way up the steps. Her sights on the children, Gina didn't want to blink lest they run and disappear. Once at the top, their odd behavior matched their attire.

"Where do you live?" Gina asked.

The tiny waifs simply stared at her.

Her impatience grew. "Go home. It's not safe to be here alone."

They continued to stand and gape at her.

"Did you hear me? You're on private property. Leave."

Beatrice ran up and put her arm around her sister's waist. "Don't be so mean to them, Gina." She smiled at the children. "Do you have a mommy and daddy?" Beatrice spoke in a concerned, saccharine-like voice.

The little girl raised her snow-white arm as if beckoning to them.

"Stop it." Gina grabbed Beatrice's shoulder. "Come with me."

Peter hung onto Gina's arm with a deathlike grip, but Beatrice trailed behind. Gina seized her hand and pulled her along.

Gina glanced back and they still stood there. "I'm calling the police!"

Not owning much in the way of play or work clothes, Jaylyn wore one of Eli’s old t-shirts, cut off just under her breasts. The stretched neck slid over her now tan shoulder and her hair, pulled back in a ponytail at the neck, came loose, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her neck and cheeks. Her cut off jean shorts showed off the bottoms of her firm cheeks and she wore no panties or bra in the heat. He sported only a pair of frayed, cutoff jeans himself and she couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand, he looked so good.

“Damn!” Pulling her hand away from the newly boiled jars, she sucked on her finger. “These puppies are hot.” His non-response confused her, so she turned to see why he didn’t answer. When she did, the look of the hungry tiger radiated from his eyes once again. His bare chest and arms glinting with sweat, rugged, masculine her gaze traveled to his hair, strewn about wildly in the heat. His legs, his bare feet, every inch of him oozed sensuousness, manly perfection.

A cool breeze, out of nowhere, came by and her breasts, flat in the heat, rose, showing through the fabric of the thin t-shirt she wore. Mental telepathy played a part in her removing her shirt and after she did, her bare breasts, small, but firm showed off her perfect pink nipples. He licked his lips and she unbuttoned her shorts, pulling the zipper down slowly. They fell to the floor and she removed one leg and then the other. Another breeze, this one stronger, came through the window and whipped her hair around her shoulders and the once light kitchen darkened and she glanced outside.

“I think a storm’s heading in,” she said softly.

“In more ways than one!” He crossed the kitchen as a flash of lightning struck off in the distance and the boom of thunder it produced banked off the walls. He lifted her into his arms and kicking open the back door with his foot, he brought her into the yard and walked far back into a clearing, laying her down roughly.

He smiled shyly at her and gazed into her hazel eyes. He took her hands for the first time. “It’s going to be okay.”

Marie nodded. She knew it would be and she felt better than she had in any recent memory.

David held her hand, rubbing his fingers over each one of hers. He led her down a long hallway on the far side of the house into what looked to be a child’s bedroom. There were cars and trucks and stuffed toys everywhere, baseballs drawn on the walls and a bright blue comforter with race cars on the tiny twin sized bed.

David didn’t speak. He gently laid her down and undressed her slowly like he’d always done when he was alive.

She reached up to touch him and pull the hair from his face. He looked sexy like she remembered. She unbuttoned his long sleeved plaid shirt and revealed strawberry hair that perfectly lay over well-formed muscles.

He sat up on his knees and finished the job of removing the shirt. He hadn’t changed a bit. He still had the same beautiful body and the tattoo.

The Tattoo. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten the time he went to have her name emblazoned on his arm in a deep tribal band. The name itself could only be revealed to the most discerning eye.

Marie traced her fingers over it while memories of all the times they’d shared came rushing back—her fear when she’d first seen it, wondering what it meant for someone to put such a permanent marker on their body for all to see, for all eternity.

Dennis clicked off the TV and followed the noise. He stood at the picture window, which overlooked the backyard. Headstones were shadowed in the moonlight’s glow. Should I dare enter the cemetery after dark? Dennis contemplated this action and then decided against it. He waited, almost afraid to move. Then he felt the quake again. He went to the head of the staircase and listened. Creak, creak. Someone or something moved in the basement. He bit his bottom lip. The footsteps below grew louder. Dennis turned on his heel and entered the kitchen. He stood on the threshold of the entrance that led to the basement. He had to go down. If anything, he had to do this for his son. If Ryan really was in Dead World, Dennis knew he would be the only one who could save him.

Taking a deep breath, he started down the creaking stairs. Once at the bottom, he stood on the concrete floor. He was about to move forward when a cold sensation brushed past him. Dennis stood frozen in fear. A broad wisp of a figure floated toward the bedroom and stopped. It turned around and stared hard at him. The moment it did, Dennis screamed. It was George Traster! Then he turned around and disappeared. Dennis couldn’t remember walking toward the door, but the next thing he knew, he stood outside with his sweaty palm on the handle. “Come on, you can do this.” The knob turned easily in his hand and the door creaked open. With uneasy steps, he entered and fumbled to turn on the light. He pulled the string and the room came into view. Nothing had changed. The old shabby bed and dresser were the only furniture left. Then his eyes scanned the mess on the floor. Rubble from the loose concrete wall lay scattered on the ground.

As the thunderous noise moved near, more concrete rubble fell to the floor. Dennis reached over and pulled on the light string. He stood in total darkness. The small filter of white light he had seen the first time he had entered this room, engulfed it. The tiny peephole had obviously enlarged. Dennis eagerly knelt to the floor and peered through the gap in the wall. The hole had definitely increased in size. An eerie white fog rose from the ground. Dennis adjusted his eyes and peered through again. He thought he saw a shadow pass only inches from where he sat. What the hell is on the other side of this wall?

He took a deep breath and moved in closer for another look. He heard voices and the distinct sound of horse’s hooves. He strained to see more, but the white fog lifted. All he perceived was utter darkness. Another chill engulfed his body.

“Daddy, help me! Where are you? They’re going to find me!”

“Ryan!” Dennis had the sudden urge to knock the wall down. He needed to find the sledgehammer. He had one stored on a shelf in his garage. Dennis slowly backed out of the room and ran up the stairs. Tonight he would enter Dead World and rescue his son from an eternity of hell.

I turned the corner into the bath and stopped in my tracks. The semi-transparent shower curtain encircled the deep tub and the water ran long and hot. The door wide open, I saw what appeared to be the shape of an old person soaping themself up. When I say old, I mean like an ancient, troll-like physique standing in our shower. No more than five feet tall, it possessed skinny arms and legs, was bald and had long fingers and a pronounced, beaklike nose.

It hummed. I froze.

The fear infused me with sudden paralysis of mind, body and spirit. This, this…person, this monster in our shower knew I stood there and knew I couldn't move.

It stopped soaping its misshapen limbs and turned its oversized grotesque head over its bony shoulder and, although I couldn't see its eyes, it stared at me. Without a move of a muscle, the shower stopped and I heard a low growl. Bile rose in my throat, hot and stinging, tasting of Fritos, and I willed myself to swallow it back down.

Whatever you do, don't pass out again. Another growl, this one more sinister than the first, came from the--the entity showering in front of me.

In a voice filled with what sounded like gravel, dirty, gross gravel, a low ominous sound came from behind the curtain. "Do you want to die, Alexis?"

A laugh began. At first a baritone reverberation, but as it continued, it picked up a higher cadence and fell into a full-out childish giggle. High-pitched and squeaky, it repeated itself… "Do you want to die, Alexis? Do you want to die, Alexis?" It didn't stop. In that cartoon character, shrill and penetrating tone, it repeated itself over and over and…

"Alexis?" Mom said from downstairs. I heard the twins run in and go straight for the kitchen as the back door slammed.

"Oh," it said. "They're home." It reached its scrawny hand to the shower curtain and slowly pulled it back. Its face stuck out at me and for a brief second the revulsion I felt at the sight made me shudder and lose consciousness briefly. I shook my head and opened my eyes, staring it full in the face.

Brown, molted fingertips held the corner of the curtain aside and it smiled at me showing yellow teeth. Rancid, fetid skin covered a skeletal facial structure, rotting in places. Its ears gone, a green slime came out of a hole in the side of its neck.

"Gotta go bye bye now." It disappeared. Gone…poof. I hadn't realized how frozen the air surrounding me was until it warmed again. I felt my arms thaw and I moved my hands up to my face. My legs moved next and with my back against the wall, I slowly slid into a sitting position. What in the hell just happened to me?

"Alexis, where are you? Do you want a grilled cheese?" Sara yelled.

My body shuddered uncontrollably, a woman coming back from the brink of death. I lowered my head in between my knees and cried.

They stepped past several shelves and Daniel turned at the last, moving into a spacious corner. Not all of the books had titles on the spines which made Karen’s heart sink. She wondered exactly how they were supposed to know which texts they were supposed to pull or how they were going to differentiate them.

“So…” Daniel cleared his throat. “We’re looking for information about the Reilly family. This area has port journals and some ancient captain’s logs. I’m hoping that we’ll come across something from Colin Reilly, preferably something late in his career. It should have clues to what we’re interested in.”

“But how can we find anything in this?” Karen waved her hand over the books. “Do we have to check every single one?”

“No, they do try to organize them somewhat.” Daniel drew one book from the top left of the shelf. Karen presumed that it was the beginning of the section. “These are port records. You can tell because they’re made of this dark red leather and are often grouped up in threes. They spread them out because they’re easy to spot and organized by what port master was in charge at the time.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to do that by year?”

“That depends on what research you’re doing.” Daniel put the book back. “All of those books have been scanned into a computer and put in chronological order. This is more about the people who wrote in the books than what’s in them.”

“And the log books… alphabetical by author? Or ship name?”

“Good question,” Daniel replied, drawing another book out near the top. “This is the log book of Reginald Alponte of the merchant ship Sequester.” He paused a moment and chuckled. “I wonder if he meant to make that play on words.”

Karen snorted, stepping closer to the shelf and carefully drawing out a text to look at it, on the third shelf down about midway through.

“This one is Bartholomew Lamont of the HMS Dragon.” Karen slid it back carefully. “So we should be close. They really need to put letters on the shelf to give a researcher an idea of where to look.”

“I believe they change things out a little too often for that.” Daniel crouched and began to look through books in the section that Karen motioned to. “And it doesn’t take much to figure out where you’re at. Draw a couple out and you’re in the right location.”

Karen took the other side and worked toward him. “Maybe we should have hit the natural history museum first, especially if they have journals.”

“When and if we have to go there, you’ll see that they’ve got a lot of books. If we had to pour through those, we’d be there for a very long time.” Daniel hesitated a moment. “I found a book by Roberts.”

“Like… the pirate?” Karen looked over hopefully.

“No, his name was Timothy Roberts… worked on a fishing schooner.” Daniel smiled at her enthusiasm. “So you’re a pirate girl, are you?”

“Hmm? No, I… well, I’ve got a passing interest. You know, seen all the movies… read some books… watched the movies again.”

“Ah, a fan of the genre.” Daniel moved on with the books. “I believe they have a rather large section of pirate fare here. You should come back sometime and delve in.”

“I might.” Karen flushed. “It’s just… you know, a guilty pleasure.”

“I know all about them.” Daniel paused again. “Desmond Reilly… 1712. That can’t be a coincidence. I think I found the family’s section here.”

One night, Riley made his journey to the old cemetery and could feel the chill of the night seeping into his bones. “What a night to be out,” he muttered. “I have a feeling about tonight that I can’t shake.” Riley smiled, realizing he was talking, but only the empty cemetery and lonely tombstones could hear him.

He kept looking at an old tombstone a few feet from where he stood. The granite slab acted almost like it was beckoning him. He walked over and leaned down, brushing aside the leaves piled on top. The thick marble slab looked as if it had been there forever. The cut and style of the stone had to date back to the nineteenth century. The tombstone read, Wild Bart Jamison, from out west in Colorado.

Riley decided this gravesite might be an interesting plot to place his recorder on and let the microphone try to pick up any message that may be coming through. Something urged him to do this.

The marker stated that Bart Jamison died in 1850. After his death, the family brought the old prospector back east to be buried in the family plot. A small inscription at the bottom of the marble stone stated that Bart had discovered gold in Colorado right after the California gold rush of 1849. Near the inscription was a carved out picture of a cowboy astride a horse.

“Wow, this looks like a good find,” he stated, his voice carrying across the lonely cemetery on the stiff breeze now sending chills through his bones.

Riley felt excitement stir in him as he placed his recorder on the old gravestone and turned it on. Just maybe he would be lucky tonight and find out a little about this Bart Jamison. He wondered if the man had really struck it rich or died a pauper and his relatives had to bury him in New York City.

Suddenly, Riley saw a light flashing across the deserted cemetery. He didn’t bother removing his equipment from the marker as he hunched down behind the tall gravestone. The light made another pass right near his hiding place.