Location via proxy:   [ UP ]  
[Report a bug]   [Manage cookies]                
Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    For Sale: Old Manor House (Free Ghosts Included) A Caitlin McLeod Gothic Romance Book 1
    For Sale: Old Manor House (Free Ghosts Included) A Caitlin McLeod Gothic Romance Book 1
    For Sale: Old Manor House (Free Ghosts Included) A Caitlin McLeod Gothic Romance Book 1
    Ebook306 pages5 hours

    For Sale: Old Manor House (Free Ghosts Included) A Caitlin McLeod Gothic Romance Book 1

    By Merabeth James

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Gothic collides head-on with 21st century high tech in the isolated Cornish manor house hunkered on the cliffs above the restless sea, where the dead have their own plans for the living, as American paranormal investigator, Caitlin McLeod, is about to find out, when she accepts the assignment of ‘debunking’ a haunting at Mor Alys Manor.
    Growing up with paranormal entities in all shapes, sizes and species in the Victorian mansion of her eccentric Aunt Penelope Trevelyan, who probably would have been burnt as a witch in another time, Caitlin had been told countless times that she was fated to travel to Cornwall “when the time is right” and find? Her aunt had said it would be love with a happy ending, but Caitlin had her doubts. So far, she hadn’t found any man she was willing to spend more than a few hours with let alone a lifetime.But when she opens the letter from Thane Edmunds requesting her help, she feels a strange, intense pull that shoots a shiver of awareness through her entire being. Deep down, all the way to her toes, she knows the time was finally “right” and destiny had come banging on her door.
    Caitlin’s knack for ghost hunting had started in her college years, when she founded North East Paranormal Investigative Services, largely to protect her Goth friend and then roommate, Moira Smoot, from her own inept dabblings in the occult...something that had almost cost her more than her life. Since then, rules had been set up to help guard their safety in a setting, where anything could happen. Rules an excited Caitlin seems to forget, when she arrives in Cornwall ahead of her team and disregards NEPIS’ first rule of ghost hunting....”never go in alone”... by driving out to the site for a quick look around before night fall. Expecting a caretaker, she is disappointed to find the dilapidated manor locked up tight and no one there, at least no one living, for she senses more than one pair of ghostly eyes witness her arrival.
    Circling the outside, listening to the pound of the surf on the rocks below the cliffs, she finds the lock broken on the kitchen door and enters.Looking around the fast darkening, cavernous room, she notices that a cot had been set up in one corner and the swing door to the rest of the manor both padlocked and painted with a crudely drawn red cross. Knowing that can’t be good...knowing she should get her keister out of there, but fast, and head back to the safety of the village, she finds herself battling an inexplicable compulsion to spend the night...and losing.
    All alone in the dark, she begins to think she may have made a “horror”ble mistake, when she senses not only the usual ghosts and spirits that go ‘bump in the night’, but also the distant presence of Colin, the long dead fifth Earl of Eastwythe, now a restless incubus who plots to ensnare her in his delicious web of dark sexuality, since feeding his lust has been his sole antidote to an eternity he finds both “ducedly boring” and very lonely. But, listening to Caitlin moving about in the kitchen from his attic lair, he feels a twinge of conscience and decides to leave her “unmolested”...at least for the night. And so Caitlin, wrapping herself in the comforting memories of the past...cold...hungry...and more than a little scared, waits out the long, dark night unaware she has been given a short reprieve. One that Colin already regrets.
    But when Thane Edmunds arrives in the morning, and hears Caitlin knocking out the hinge pins in his kitchen door in order to satisfy yet another compulsion to see the rest of the manor before she leaves for the village, the atmosphere heats up quickly in the old manor.
    Confronting an angry Thane on the opposite side of the door, Caitlin manages to hold her own somewhat shaky ground, until the door falls inward and she finds herself just inches away from the most ‘beautiful man’ she has ever seen.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMerabeth James
    Release dateFeb 20, 2011
    ISBN9781458056566
    For Sale: Old Manor House (Free Ghosts Included) A Caitlin McLeod Gothic Romance Book 1
    Author

    Merabeth James

    There are six things important to me...well, most important to me: To love unconditionally, to always keep a sense of 'wonder', to always be kind, to find joy in simple things, to never take myself too seriously, and to make sure I don't leave this earth with a list of "if only I hads".I've taken many 'leaps of faith' in my time and, so far, have landed on my feet or, in one case, on a dilapitated houseboat with my dog, and a lot of enthusiasm. I named her 'Sanctuary Annie' and hoped for the best. I knew nothing about boats, couldn't swim and wondered how long she would stay afloat. In the middle of the night, when my dog jumped up to join me on the antique Victorian bed I had moved on board, I would check to see if he was wet, knowing, if so, we were both in big trouble. But Sanctuary Annie hung in there, even surviving a hurricane, when others around her were not so fortunate.Living in the small marina, with the sea as my back yard, I found a profound sense of peace..and the love of my life....my Jim, captain of 'Wings', a beautiful racing sloop that flies across the water, when the wind fills her sails.I often think how much I would have missed out on, if I hadn't taken that leap of faith and followed my heart. Life is meant to be lived and I intend to keep on doing just that.

    Read more from Merabeth James

    Related to For Sale

    Related ebooks

    Gothic For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      Shoulder Season

      Aug 17, 2017

      Shoulder Season
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Four Poems

      Mar 1, 2024

      I was trying to look a little less like myselfand more like other humans, humans who belonged, so I put on a skort.Purchased in another life, when I had a husband and wrote thank-you notes and held dinner parties,the skort even had its own little poc

      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Loving Lock 30

      Jun 17, 2020

      Loving Lock 30
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Broken Mirror

      Sep 2, 2022

      GONE WERE THE CAMPERS and the counselors. Gone were the Civilian Conservation Corps cabins. Gone were the horses and the corral, the mess hall and the bathhouse. Tall grass and brambles grew in the field between the mountain and the river. Only the m

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Eternal Adventure

      Jun 29, 2021

      The Eternal Adventure
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Symposium on Escape

      Sep 1, 2024

      A Symposium on Escape
      26 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Six Poems

      Feb 28, 2023

      Dear C, At first Virgil’s poem is quite dull; equivocalnames of products at The Container Store: Elfa White Medium Drawer, Mesh NarrowRolling Cart (Medium Solution), Narrow Classic Mesh Box and the number of pirouetting starseach product attained. An

      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Jan Morris

      Jun 15, 2018

      I have always rather envied the poet Ovid, who was banished from Rome by the emperor Augustus, you may remember, to a remote place called Tomis on the shores of the Black Sea. There he died, ten years later, and his exile has gone into legend and int

      17 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Maybe It Won’t Be That Bad

      Dec 9, 2019

      Maybe It Won’t Be That Bad
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      It’s Come to This

      Sep 1, 2021

      It’s Come to This
      16 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Jewel, Complete With A Crown

      Jun 9, 2021

      A Jewel, Complete With A Crown
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tom Cunliffe

      Sep 27, 2024

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tom Cunliffe

      Sep 27, 2024

      Tom Cunliffe
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Guiding Presence

      May 18, 2020

      Guiding Presence
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Table Talk

      Mar 1, 2018

      Table Talk
      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Story Pilgrimage

      Jun 8, 2021

      A Story Pilgrimage
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Beyoğlu Municipality Waste Management Orchestra

      Jun 8, 2021

      Selim the half-wit hoarded everything—that was the story they told me my first day in waste management. Selim had lost his wife, and I guess everyone figured he took up hoarding as a way to fill the void. It started out with stuff his wife might have

      24 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Home

      Dec 27, 2018

      Home
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Forever Wild

      Oct 1, 2018

      When I think of the Scarborough house, I remember the wind whipping through my salt-hardened curls and my little-girl feet bare and crusted with sand as I run through its heavy wooden doors. I was four and wild as the landscape itself. My grandparent

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      A Bolthole In The Bush

      Nov 5, 2020

      A Bolthole In The Bush
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Too Much, Magic Bus

      Dec 9, 2019

      Too Much, Magic Bus
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      In Search of Lost Travels

      Jun 4, 2018

      In Search of Lost Travels
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Stories Of Us

      Nov 24, 2023

      The Stories Of Us
      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Tessa Castro

      May 3, 2023

      IN COMPETITION No 292 you were invited to write a poem called The Walk. How good and numerous were your entries. Congratulations to those printed below, each of whom wins £25, with the bonus prize of The Chambers Dictionary going to Anthony Young. I'

      2 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for For Sale

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      For Sale - Merabeth James

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      This book is entirely a work of fiction. All characters are entirely fictitious and do not represent any persons living or dead. Product business location names used remain the property of any all trademark holders and do not represent an endorsement or association of any kind, either expressed or implied.

      No animals were harmed in the writing of this book!

      Copyright 2011 by Elizabeth Repka

      Smashwords Edition

      For Sale:

      Old Manor House

      (free ghosts included)

      By

      Merabeth James

      CHAPTER 1

      I would really like to clarify my position right from the start. I am not a helpless, romantic heroine in a diaphanous white gown fleeing from an unimaginable horror in some Gothic mansion. I am Caitlin Trevyn McLeod, president and co-founder of NEPIS, North East Paranormal Investigative Services, and it’s my job to ‘find’ not ‘flee’! Investigating reported hauntings and either verifying or debunking them is what we do. And, since I have been dubiously gifted with the ability to see ghosts…spirits…entities, call them what you will, I am considered rather good at it.

      And I am far from ‘helpless’. I can tune a carburetor, fix any number of leaky pipes, and rewire anything not too complicated or hazardous, though the last part I had to learn the hard way.My domestic skills are limited to basic cooking and cleaning, and I wouldn’t touch an iron unless my life depended on it, which, thankfully, so far, isn’t often.

      I stand about 5’ 9" in my bare feet...a bit more in my usual sneakers and close to 6 feet in heels, which I seldom wear unless I have to, mostly because I then dwarf nearly every male of my acquaintance, which seems to make them very uncomfortable. Thanks to my Scottish father, my hair is red...coppery I’d like to think ...and my eyes are green with gold flecks. ‘Witch’s eyes’, according to my friend Moira, though I’ve never felt so inclined. To be a witch, that is, though it may well run in the family, if I looked back far enough.

      I am a bit over imaginative...well, maybe more than a bit... and reasonably intelligent, though who, looking at me now, would believe that? Here I am, all by myself, thousands of miles away from small town USA, in a place that no one...absolutely no one in their right mind...would be caught dead in after dark. No pun intended. Usually sane and sensible, I broke one of NEPIS’ cardinal rules by arriving alone at Mor Alys Manor, a great stone mansion seemingly carved from the very rock to which it clings high above the churning waters of the Atlantic in Cornwall of all places...the land of my maternal ancestors.

      I had booked an earlier flight than my team members, Moira and Wendell, who were unable to get away till the weekend. Why not use the extra time to explore my roots, I had thought, as I boarded the red-eye flight to Heathrow Airport in London. Arriving there, too excited to be tired, I leased a rental car and pointed it toward Cornwall, avidly, enjoying the history steeped countryside I passed. ‘Quaint’ and ‘picturesque’ hardly began to describe the centuries old villages huddled around ancient churches, jealously, guarding their gardens of moss covered stone...village greens where ducks and sheep waddled and grazed...and cottages with their own neat gardens bright with flowers. Everywhere, signs beguiled me to take the road less traveled, which, I soon found, ate up way too much time. Time I couldn’t spare, if I was to reach my destination before nightfall.

      So, I back burnered my impulses, and focused on getting there. Driving down narrow lanes between tall hedgerows topped with stunted yews and hawthorns, and twisting back road, where two cars could barely pass (especially when I couldn’t seem to remember which side I was supposed to be on!), I headed over the barren moors, rolling hills and onto the broad uplands. It was several hours later, before I reached the remote stretch of Cornwall I had come all the way from Pineville, Indiana to find.

      Late as it was, there was still plenty of daylight, when I passed through the tiny Cornish fishing village, that time forgot, embedded in a valley between steep granite cliffs, that offered protection from the violent winds that often blew in off the Atlantic. Whitewashed stone cottages with moss covered slate roofs hunkered together like old friends. Long ago, according to the tour book I kept next to me, they had been built by fisherman...simple rectangles, bracketed by chimneys, that lined the narrow cobblestoned street. Flower boxes added splashes of color, as I passed the pub, chemist, grocer and a small historical museum.

      In the cobalt water of the harbor below, brightly colored boats bobbed at their moorings. I had read that fishing had once been one of Cornwall’s principal industries. The cry Heva would go up when a school of fish was spotted and the entire village turned out. Times had changed and the large schools of fish were hard to find. And with the mines closing many years ago, Cornwall’s economy now relied heavily on tourism. I guess that’s what I was, a tourist, but I didn’t feel like one. I had the strangest feeling that I had come home. But maybe it wasn’t strange at all.

      I smiled in appreciation. The village was beautiful and I would be back later to explore, but, for now there was barely enough daylight left for a quick trip to the site, which, according to the directions I’d received from Mr. Hudson, wasn’t all that far. Or so I hoped.Afterwards, I’d head back to the inn, where I’d booked a room on the internet.

      I passed the last of the cottages and headed into the countryside, which spread in a flat patchwork of open fields in all directions. A flock of bleating sheep driven by a black and white border collie fanned out across the road just ahead of me. An old man followed more slowly. He wore a slouch hat low over his eyes and a baggie tweed jacket that bulged at all the pockets. In one hand he carried a staff, while the other cradled a pipe. His eyes were bright with curiosity, as I pulled up next to him and asked for directions. His soft burr was not too difficult to understand. Gorthugher da, lass, good evening to yaw. Yaw need go straight ahead to the fork in the road and bear left till yaw come to the end. Iffn yaw ga over the cliff, yaw mayn have gawn a wee bit too far, he had told me with a dry chuckle. I reckon I wouldna be advisin’ it though, lass. My Gar! Mor Alys Manor bain’t na place for the likes of yaw nor anyone...especially now that dark be comin’ on. Too many strange goin’s on. I could tell yaw a time... I knew he could and at another time I would be happy to listen, but it would take longer than I had, so I smiled and thanked him, assuring him I would be just fine. He was still shaking his head, as I drove away.

      He was right about dark comin’ on. The sun was settling low, when I turned the last sharp corner that skirted a tree filled ravine, fingering its way to the edge of the cliffs. The sound of the surf, the salt tang of the sea air met me, as I drove out onto what could best be described as a large plateau, culminating in a rocky headland that jutted out into the Atlantic. Surrounded by stone outbuildings in various stages of ruin, the manor house sat close to the edge of the cliffs, skirted by the sea on all sides except for the stretch of open land that brought the road to its ‘u’ shaped drive. I stopped the car and simply stared. It was bleak, austere, forbidding...and magnificent!

      Probably early to mid Georgian, I thought, remembering that meant sometime in the 1700’s. It had the characteristic ornate fanlight above the door bracketed by twin columns and a slate mansard roof topped by tall chimneys. Six prominent dormers marched across the third story. The deeply set windows on the second level were almost square, while those at the ground level were nearly floor to ceiling with no ornamentation of any kind. The manor was built of the same granite as the cliffs on which it crouched and there was nothing to offset its grim gray contours except the the moss on its roof and the dying green ivy that crept up its sides. It had presence. Enormous presence! And I knew Moira would fall in love at first glimpse. It took me less than that.

      The sound of the sea grew louder, as I nosed my car up the long drive. The setting sun, reflecting off the windows, set them ablaze with orange-red light, as though the house itself was burning hotly from within. At that moment, Mor Alys Manor had seemed to come alive. A prickle of goose flesh covered my arms and lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I wasn’t afraid...at least I didn’t think so, but I sensed this ghost hunt was going to be quite different from anything we had ever encountered.

      I parked the car close to the raised terrace that met the drive and climbed the shallow granite steps to the double front door. It was impressive...heavily carved and paneled, but time faded and scarred. And locked! It was supposed to be open with a caretaker there to greet me, but my pulls on the bell cord went unanswered, though I could hear their clang echoing about inside, announcing my arrival to whatever might be there. Which somehow made me feel very uncomfortable.

      I climbed down from the portico and looked in the closest window. It was already too dark to see much more than sheeted furniture, shadows and dark paneled walls. A fireplace gaped blackly along one wall. I drew back, as seagulls, white wings burnished gold by the dying sun, cried raucously overhead. I knew the Cornish believed they embodied the souls of drowned sailors and, as I watched them wheel and dive, somehow in this place, I could well believe it. I followed them to the edge of the cliff that was no more than a hundred yards from the house.

      It was a sheer drop to the bottom, where waves smashed against the huge granite boulders scattered about like stranded whales. The water was a deep shadowed blue in the cove untouched by the setting sun that gilded the sea beyond in brilliant opalescence. The power and the beauty struck a chord in me...almost like a memory scratching at the door like a restless cat.

      I turned back to the house that seemed to be waiting expectantly. My ‘gift’ warned me that someone or something no longer living was watching me from behind those now dark windows. Shrugging off my unease, I skirted the outside and arrived at the back through what had once been a garden...probably herbs and vegetables, but was nothing more now than a skeletal tangle of dead weeds. The kitchen door was paint peeled and narrow with its small window covered in grime. I tried the handle and was surprised to find it open with only a minor squeak of protest.

      After my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I looked around with interest. It was a huge kitchen...big enough to accommodate a large staff... the flagged stone floor uneven from centuries of wear. A massive granite fireplace with a clay ‘box’ built inside the chimney...a cloam oven, as I learned later...took up most of one wall. Blackened beams crossed the cobweb draped ceiling, then disappeared into the shadows, while along the back an ornate wood burning stove from another age was juxtaposed with a more modern electric range and a refrigerator that might have been new twenty or more years ago. A cot covered with a jumble of old blankets rested in the far corner, close to the scarred wooden work-table that dominated the center of the room. Everything spoke of neglect and a sense of something else I didn’t want to examine too closely. Especially, when I saw that the swing door from the kitchen was secured with a large padlock. A crude cross in bright red was painted on its front. Hmmmm, I thought, that can’t be good!

      I had planned on taking a quick look around, then, sensibly, driving back to the village inn, where my room waited. A hot bath, dinner and a soft bed sounded very inviting, but as I looked about I felt a strong compulsion to stay. I know that makes me sound certifiable, but I just couldn’t seem to leave. And that alone should have worried me enough to get my keister out of there. But it didn’t.

      I flipped the switch by the door. Nothing happened. Mr. Hudson, the very man who had told me the caretaker was still here, had also assured me the electricity would be on. I was beginning to have some serious doubts about the man who was in charge of ’all the arrangements’! A little light would be very welcome right about now, I said outloud, trying to ignore the clamor of my internal warning bells and whistles. The very ones I usually listened to.

      I returned to the car to grab what might be useful...my store of granola bars and a bottle of water, a plaid throw I’d found in the ‘boot’, an extra sweater, and Moira’s ‘just in case’ flashlight that she’d packed in my suitcase. A short time later, I settled on the edge of the cot, wishing I had thought to bring in the guide book I’d left lying on the front seat, but I didn’t really want to go out again in the dark unless I absolutely had to. Besides, even with the candles I’d found in a drawer, the light was too dim for reading and I already had the beginnings of a nasty headache.

      To take my mind off my growing sense of a dark presence taking shape in the corner by the fireplace, I began to make plans for exploring the mystical sites of Cornwall in the morning, and maybe, with any luck, finding my ancestral home. That is, if I survived the night, I thought to myself, which I had every intention of doing!I had been in scarier places than this before, though never completely alone, but, then, whose fault was that! I had only myself to blame if something happened to me, which offered precious little comfort.

      The large lump of darkness in the corner stirred and I waited, holding my breath, hoping it wasn’t headed my way. It wavered, stretched, then settled back with a long sigh. I breathed my own sigh of relief.

      I began to hum, which I often did when I was nervous, and peeled back my last granola bar, as I forced my thoughts to morning...the village...a nice big breakfast and a bathroom. Especially a bathroom! Squatting in the vegetable patch earlier was something I didn’t want to do again, even though I remembered, from my overburdened store of almost useless knowledge, that ‘picking a flower’, as it was euphemistically called, had been customary for long skirted women, before undergarments were worn.

      I pulled the plaid throw closely around my shoulders and stretched out on the bunk, trying to ignore the musty smell that made me sneeze violently several times.It was getting decidedly colder...and darker. My meager store of candles and Moira’s flashlight were all that was keeping the shadows at bay, though there were some that seemed to move with their own cadence, unaffected by the beam of light I thrust at them.

      But, thankfully, nothing seemed overtly malevolent. I stifled a yawn.It was almost midnight...the witching hour...and somewhere deep in the heart of this old manor house, I heard a clock chime twelve...no thirteen times. Who could have wound it? Or what? But the deep tones reverberating through the house seemed comforting, somehow, reminding me of my great Aunt Penny and the first time I saw her. Her arrival in my life was the beginning of the long chain of events that brought me here to this ancient manor reportedly filled with ghosts. Her name was Miss Penelope Frances Trevelyan...the most mother I can remember. And I let those memories of her enfold me...protect me...and warm me, as sleep proved illusive.

      ***

      Colin heard the sound of the motor and the crunch of tires on the shell drive, as the car pulled up below. For some unknown reason, he had been expecting someone or something for more than a week, as measured by the the tall case clock he kept wound in the hall downstairs. But the tingle of awareness that teased along his spine suggested something more...something he did not understand.

      Below a car door slammed and he crossed quickly to the dormered window that fronted the drive and looked down just in time to see a flash of sunset colored hair pulled through some sort of cap. The same color as HER hair. The intruder was a woman. But was she the one he waited for? His steel gray eyes narrowed and a grim smile tugged up one corner of his well- shaped, sensual mouth. He dared not hope again. But still, no matter what, she would be someone to ease the drag of endless hours. His smile deepened to a soft laugh.

      It had been a mistake to frighten old Carstairs to the point of fleeing the manor for good, no matter how much fun it had been. After all, the old place needed a caretaker, even one as inept as he. And, at least, he had offered some amusement as well as company, albeit through no desire of his own. After Carstairs had accidentally burned his cottage to the ground, he had no place to live except in the very place he’d sworn he would never set foot in after dark.

      He sighed.If he chose to look...really look...he could see the neglect and decay. No one from the family had stayed even briefly at Mor Alys Manor for a very long time, just a long string of indifferent tenants, who had not the wits to see how magnificent it had once been. He looked around the high ceilinged attic, where he had taken refuge from their constant clamor...their telephones, televisions, squealing children, the dissonant noise they claimed was music...all horrors surely far more frightening than he. He remembered the first time he had seen what they called an‘automobile’ and how the stables, that had once housed the finest blooded horses, had been converted into a smelly ‘garage’. But they never stayed long, he remembered with a chuckle, usually never more than a fortnight after he set about ‘encouraging’ their departure in many inventive ways. And now...once more...he had a caller.

      He listened and the house seemed to listen with him. He could feel her like the soft stir of silk brushing lightly across his skin. He knew she had been unable to enter through the front door and was now circling toward the back, where she would find the kitchen door open...the lock broken in Carstairs’ hasty exit, when he discovered his supposed kitchen ‘sanctuary’ was nothing more than an illusion he had permitted him to entertain.

      He chuckled in remembrance. When Carstairs had become all too smugly ensconced in his burrow, he had floated through the padlocked door with ease, his head tucked ‘neath his arm, flames shooting from his eyes. He had been nothing short of magnificent! It had taken a fair amount of energy to materialize in that form, but it had been well worth the effort. Or so he had thought at the time. But, with Carstairs’ hasty exit, never to be seen again, the tedium of endless time descended. And he was lonely. Something he had never wanted to acknowledge...especially to himself...and, quite frankly, bloody bored!

      Turning his head, he listened to the lift of a latch…the squeak of a distant door opening at her touch. He had a visitor at last. He would make her stay... his now like a rabbit in a snare. And maybe...just maybe she was the one he had waited for all these years...his beautiful, faithless Sarabeth. Never ‘his’, he reminded himself bitterly, then shook himself free of the memories that coiled around him like smoke.

      There had been others, he had hoped was she, though he soon discovered his mistake. Even so, they had served their purpose well enough. Amusing, diverse and delectable...they had been reluctant to leave...appreciative, as they were, of his nightly attentions. But their husbands and lovers had not been appreciative at all, he remembered with a laugh. Abstractedly, he brushed a speck of dust from his immaculate white cuff and raked his fingers through his night dark hair. It had been a long time since he'd tasted the pleasures of the flesh. Far too long! He wanted her and he would have her, whoever she turned out to be. He would enjoy her to the fullest...every delicious inch...every delightful moment!

      CHAPTER 2

      Being different wasn’t a bad thing, or so I’d been told, for as far back as I can remember and I believed it at first. My Aunt Penny was the first one to tell me that. I was only four years old when I went to live with Penelope Francis Trevelyan, my mother’s aunt and only surviving family member except me. I had been placed in foster care following the car accident that claimed both my parents. I remember how dark every day seemed after that and how I would listen for their voices in the hall...their footsteps on the stairs. I knew it was all a mistake. They weren’t gone! How could they be gone? They would come for me and take me with them. So I waited and listened and watched and ignored the poor little mite and "your mommy and daddy are in heaven’. How could they be in heaven? They’d never go so far without me!

      It was a cold gray day and the threat of snow lay heavy over the house like a clenched fist. Dry leaves pelted the glass close to my face, as I stared down the drive. Somewhere voices rose and fell. Everyone was busy with their day. Movement below caught my eye and I saw a large black car pull slowly up the drive. It was different than the other cars I saw and even at my young age I felt its age seeping from its cold metal. I could hear the crunch of gravel, as it pulled to a stop just below my window. I held my breath to keep the window from fogging, as I waited for what happened next. I knew with every fiber of my being that something important was about to happen.

      The door swung open on the driver’s side and two legs, clad in bright purple, slid out, followed by the rest of a tall, woman, wrapped in a black hooded cloak, who leaned heavily on the door frame, as she pulled herself to an upright position. Impatiently, she pushed back her hood and turned slowly to look up at the house. She was old. At least she seemed old to me at the time, though she couldn’t have been much past fifty.Dark hair streaked with gray was massed on top of her long narrow head and her eyes were as black as two lumps of coal. She must have seen me in the window watching her, because she smiled, a slight quirk to one side of her mouth, and winked. I drew back in astonishment....frightened and intrigued at the same time and deadly certain this stranger was about to change my life forever.

      And so I came to live with my Aunt Penny, as she asked to be called, who took the responsibility of a small child just seriously enough, alternating between the prim spinster and the boyish hoyden who slid down the banister, when the arthritis she was plagued with permitted and she thought no one was looking. She taught me many things and I’m sure I tested her many times, especially in the early days, when the world was inside out and upside down for a frightened, confused and lonely child. When I would scream in rage or deliberately spill the soup or decapitate her favorite pink roses, she would simply send me to my room to think about it, where she would join me later and scoop me into her arms.

      Her house was a cavernous Victorian draped with enough gingerbread to do a wedding cake proud. She loved that old house and called it Bluejenn Hel, named after her Cornish childhood home, where she had lived on the west coast of Cornwall until her parents emigrated to America. The house was not a place of light. It was often dark and shadowy, filled with whispers and flitting shapes that kept just at the edge of my vision. But all that changed. I remembered the first time I saw a little girl, made of fog, wearing a white dress with a blue sash, sitting at the foot of my bed. I had run screaming to Aunt Penny, as soon as I could move from under the covers where I’d hid. Aunt

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1