The Haunting at Morgan's Rock

  The Haunting at Morgan’s Rock

  The Morgan’s Rock Trilogy

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2019 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  The Haunting of Joanna Storm

  The Hall of Shadows

  The Ghost of Joanna Storm

  The Haunting of Joanna Storm

  Morgan’s Rock Series

  Book One

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2018 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Jenny Logan.

  I knew her for a little ghost

  That in my garden walked;

  The wall is high—higher than most—

  And the green gate was locked.

  And yet I did not think of that

  Till after she was gone—

  I knew her by the broad white hat,

  All ruffled, she had on.

  By the dear ruffles round her feet,

  By her small hands that hung

  In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,

  Her gown’s white folds among.

  I watched to see if she would stay,

  What she would do—and oh!

  She looked as if she liked the way

  I let my garden grow!

  She bent above my favourite mint

  With conscious garden grace,

  She smiled and smiled—there was no hint

  Of sadness in her face.

  She held her gown on either side

  To let her slippers show,

  And up the walk she went with pride,

  The way great ladies go.

  And where the wall is built in new

  And is of ivy bare

  She paused—then opened and passed through

  A gate that once was there.

  The Little Ghost

  Edna St. Vincent Millay

  Chapter One

  Morgan’s Rock, Florida, 1922

  Dan Petit never stopped talking, but I easily tuned him out. It was a skill I developed at an early age. I was champion at amusing myself and finding something interesting to observe or study in every situation, including boring interactions like this one. I liked Dan, as a friend, but that did not mean I endorsed his propensity for sharing every tidbit of information with me, every stale fact he could muster on any given subject all the time. Still, in the weeks since my return to Morgan’s Rock, he had proven to be a good friend…or at least an interesting one, and those were hard to find regardless of where I lived. Making friends did not come naturally to me, but then again, I could hardly be blamed for my lack of social skills. I had no siblings and spent most of my fifteen years globetrotting with my parents. They, along with a few faithful paid companions, had been my only friends except for the few occasions when I returned to Kent.

  But we would never go back to Kent. Never. I felt that truth deep in my bones.

  Tonight, Dan’s subject had been my own family history, as if I was not aware of every crooked branch in my genealogical tree. But Dan wanted to impress me, for why else would he go on and on about my grandfather’s legacy and how this place came to be here? One careful stone stacked upon another, he said, and all in a strange zigzag pattern. “Joanna, are you listening? Did you hear me?”

  I nodded and leaned over the stone wall to look down and immediately regretted doing so. I had no stomach for high places. No stomach at all. Dan kept talking even while he briefly attempted to steady me. I clutched my scarab pendant and felt safe again. I wasn’t one to believe in such things as tokens or protective amulets, but I couldn’t deny that this pendant always brought me comfort. This had been a gift from my parents on another birthday, a happier birthday. Five—no, make that six years ago.

  “Just think, Punchanella. This charm could have been worn by a priestess or a queen, and now it’s yours,” my father had said.

  Dan droned on and on. Did I appreciate how simply fascinating the stories concerning the clock tower were and how the lighthouse beyond, just on the rocks there, was rumored to be haunted? Yes, Dan had a good grasp on all of those stories. My new friend didn’t appear to notice that I was shivering in the cold wind. Lace gowns were all the fashion, or so I was told, but they weren’t very warm. Not at all. Oh, how I missed the warm air of Africa! I had always heard that Florida was a warm, welcoming place, but I did not feel any connection to it at all. Not even the ocean view appealed to me, and I had always been one to appreciate the ocean. I shivered again and rubbed my arms to warm them.

  What kind of gentleman fails to offer a lady his coat? A stuffy, forgetful one.

  Dan was no older than I, although I imagined he liked to think of himself as my better. I wasn’t listening to him at all. My eyes were trained on the town below Morgan’s Rock, a small town called Rockville, creatively enough. Nestled below the precipice that my family called home were dozens of homes, happy spots with warm hearths and welcoming windows of light. Not that I could see such detail from this distance, but I easily imagined the town to be a better place than our own cold castle. Those specks of light were windows into another world, a cozier, happier world, or so I imagined. Yes, I was an unhappy young woman, and the shame of it was I could not seem to shake this horrible feeling that life would never be good again.

  I miss you, Magadan.

  I closed my eyes and tried my best to send my horse a silent message using just my mind. Could such thoughts travel as far as to Kent? Did horses receive mental messages? I had read somewhere that you could do such things, send messages with the mind, if you were patient and practiced on a regular basis.

  A fog bank was rolling in from the ocean. It was a slow-moving, otherworldly mist, and I held my breath as I watched it creep toward the village. I was not such a child as to believe that monsters lurked in the fog, but I had a strange sense of something approaching those unsuspecting homes—and me. Yes, the sight of the fog troubled me deeply, although I could not verbalize my feelings.

  “Some call that the dragon’s breath; others say it’s not fog at all but a swarm of ghosts, displaced Indians looking to take revenge against the white settlers who call this place home now—that would be us, I suppose. I know it looks spooky, but you’ll get used to seeing it, Joanna. Especially during this time of year. You will see many things here at Morgan’s Rock. Many ghosts walk the grounds, or so they say.” Dan smiled as if he thought he could scare me. Scare me? The girl who’d traveled thousands of miles, who’d been to more ancient cities than he could name? The idea that he believed he could get one up on me insulted me greatly.

  “I have been all over the world, Dan Petit, and have never seen dragons or ghosts. If those things existed, I am sure I would have seen them by now.” I knew I was being rather unkind, but I could not help myself. To say I was homesick would be an understatement, but as my parents reminded me on a constant basis, Morgan’s Rock was my home now. It had always been home, but we’d been away for quite some time, so long that I could not remember life here before. As the daughter of two adventurers, I’d cut my teeth on library tables, learned to walk in the dusty corridors of old buildings and played in the dirt pits of archaeological sites around the world. I had had a good life, but now we were back in the United States and I felt perpetually cold and deeply lonely. So much so that my parents had gone to the extreme measures of bringing my “cousin” Vivian to live with us, to be a companion to me, they said. When I asked for an explanation of the lineage of said cousin, both my parents—who were only children, as was I—stammered and looked furtively from one to another. That confirmed my suspicion. Our purported famil
ial relationship was a lie that was meant to comfort me, but her presence did not. We were certainly close in age, but that’s where the similarities ended. Vivian was tall and thin with dark eyes that betrayed her Persian roots. If we were to compete in a beauty contest, she would be the clear winner, for she was extraordinarily beautiful. But as far as intelligence went, I had her beat hands down. Even though I interrogated her frequently, Vivian herself was unable to provide me with answers about her family. She had no recollection of her childhood beyond her time at a crowded children’s home in Ankara. It was this association that led me to understand that although Vivian was not blood kin, she was a granddaughter of one of Father’s closest friends and a fellow explorer, Alsi Kemal. To my surprise, Vivian had never met the man, and I was encouraged by Mother not to mention him.

  “Be kind, Joanna. The world could always benefit from a little more kindness,” Mother advised me. I had never forgotten that bit of advice and likely never would. I had made peace with Vivian Kemal eventually, and though we did not spend very much time together, I no longer shunned her or avoided her presence. Despite my own unhappiness, I managed to find sympathy for her…although I suspected she would not have liked to hear such a thing. Vivian was a proud girl.

  Too bad I hadn’t applied Mother’s advice to my current exchange with Dan; there was nothing kind about my demeanor. I couldn’t believe this boy hoped to frighten me with spooky tales about a cloud of fog. And for the first time since I met him, Dan Petit didn’t have anything to say, no clever quips or comebacks. His face flushed a deep red, betraying his embarrassment. No, Dan had nothing else to say, but I couldn’t apologize—I wouldn’t. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and walked back inside, probably to find someone else to amuse him. Someone more agreeable than me. I sighed and studied the fog as it moved and undulated like a living thing. I shivered again at the sight of it. No, I didn’t believe in ghosts or dragons or otherworldly things, but seeing the thick mist advance toward Rockville and Morgan’s Rock made me feel anxious.

  I wasn’t alone for long. Happily, the intruder was Father and not another awkward teenager come to invade my privacy. “Joanna? What are you doing out here? Your friends are about to leave, and poor Vivian is doing her best to entertain them. Did you quarrel with Dan? I thought you liked him.”

  Those are not my friends. As much as you would like them to be.

  “Look at that,” I said as I pointed at the fog bank. It was now entering the town, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “It moves like it has a mind of its own, doesn’t it?”

  Father’s face paled as he watched the fog swell and crawl. “You have seen fog before, and it’s not polite to change the subject, dearest.” I couldn’t look him in the eye. How could I when he could practically read my mind? Although I wasn’t one to believe in ghosts and such things, I did believe in the hidden powers of the mind. He put his hands on the stone wall that encircled the edge of the balcony and said, “Remember the spring we spent in Paris? You were convinced the fog would smother us in our sleep.” Father’s perfect coiffure added to the illusion that he had somehow become smaller. His hands were bony and pale. Nothing like the hands that plucked a golden coin from the Danube or uncovered the Tallas Mummy at Karnak. I did not want to think of him so, but he appeared a man defeated. But not defeated by any relic or artifact or legend…something much more elusive and sinister had conquered my parents. “My own brave girl. Afraid of the fog.”

  “I was only a child.”

  “I know, I know. But may I remind you that to me you will always be that little girl.” Father removed his jacket and hung it around my sagging shoulders, arranging it about me. It had a comforting smell; it smelled like cloves and his dressing powder. Despite my strange mood, I smiled up at him. I breathed in the smell of his coat again and found comfort in it. His coats always smelled of books and fireplaces and dusty places. I could smell traces of vanilla too. Probably from his mustache wax. Tonight, he had taken the time to carefully wax his mustache and his hair was perfectly combed. These were clear indications that this party had been important to him. It was strange to see him like this, like such a gentleman. I rather preferred his curls blowing in the wind, a shadow of beard on his face, the excitement in his eyes when he discovered something forgotten in one of his many books. Father was not an overtly handsome man, but he had a friendly face and a kind manner.

  Mother was the beauty in our home with her exquisite Oriental features and sweet voice. She was the cleverest of us all and had a great propensity for puzzles. Mother liked to explore; she had a curious mind and endless stores of energy. Even during the dig in Egypt, when she shoveled sand along with the men, she outworked them. But that was before she was struck with the mysterious malaise that crippled her from time to time…and more often than not nowadays.

  My parents were two of the most likable people in the world, but much had changed in this past year and none of it welcomed. There were lines on Father’s face now; he never laughed anymore. He spent all his spare time digging in his extensive library in search of God only knows what. Oftentimes he was irritable and pensive. His eyes were etched with lines I had never seen before. He worried about Mother, that much I gathered, but he would never say so to me or speak about it in my hearing. I worried about her too, although I knew nothing at all except that she appeared wan and listless, a far cry from the vibrant soul I knew so well. Endless visitors, all with medical backgrounds, visited my parents in recent weeks in the privacy of their upstairs study. Despite my eavesdropping, I was none the wiser for all my detective work. Vivian could shed no light on the secret either, and my cousin did not appear too eager to help me get to the bottom of it all or understand the meaning.

  I could not bring myself to ask Mother about her condition, but the blanket across her legs could not hide the rolling chair she sat in. More than once I’d seen her collapse on the ground and flop like a fish. Her eyes would roll back, and her beautiful voice became an unintelligible gurgle. Nowadays when I saw her, I turned my eyes away and pretended I did not notice any of these things. How small and cowardly of me! Father should not carry the load of this alone, but he did. No, I could never bring myself to intrude upon Mother’s privacy. So, I remained protected from whatever ugly truth or frightening future loomed before us. I stole another glance at Father, but he wasn’t paying me any attention. His eyes were following the drifting cloud; he appeared entranced by it. See? It’s unusual, isn’t it? I knew it. I could feel that it was. I didn’t speak it but said as much with my mind. To my complete surprise, he nodded his head once, as if he could truly hear me! A dark cloudy sky hovered above us, but I could see a sliver of moon. Did I see fear in his eyes? What could he see that I did not?

  “Father…”

  His winsome smile interrupted my intended protest. “You’d better go before the fog settles in, Punchanella. Visit your mother tonight before you turn in. It might do her good to hear all about your party. She put a great deal of thought into every detail, you know. No one plans a party like your mother.”

  I scowled at being called that childish name, but I did not openly object to it. Punchanella was the name of a feisty marionette, one that we had seen perform many times in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées in Paris. I never liked marionettes or dolls at all, really, but my parents relished the strange performances immensely. Where had all that joy gone? There was too little laughter and far too many shadows around us at Morgan’s Rock. Nor did I believe that poor Mother planned my party, but it weighed down my heart that Father would wish me to believe it. Still pretending that all is well. Nothing is well. Nothing will ever be well. I released my scarab and, fueled by a wave of sentimentality so intense that it threatened to drown my soul in sorrow, threw my arms around Father’s waist and hugged him tight. He held me close and rubbed at my hair and kissed the top of my head. For a few seconds I chose to believe that nothing was wrong. I closed my eyes and willed time to stop, but it did not obey me. I could
hear an owl nearby and even heard the sounds of wings. The magic of the moment was broken.

  “There now, don’t worry so, Joanna. Off you go. Look—your guests are leaving.” He pointed to a car departing the circular drive below.

  “Won’t you come with me?” I took him by the hand as if to lead him inside.

  “Some things you have to do by yourself, Punchanella. This is one of them.” He squeezed my hand one last time. “I’ll be along soon. Be a comfort to your mother.”

  I can’t leave him. Not when he’s like this.

  I lingered by his side, unsure what to do, but his mind was elsewhere. Much like mine had been earlier when poor Dan Petit tried to engage me in conversation. I removed Father’s jacket and held it out to him, but he would not accept it. “You keep it, dearest. You’re as cold as ice.”

  “All right,” I said with sad resignation.

  I put his jacket back on and walked inside with only one last glance over my shoulder. He had not moved from the spot; his gaze was fixed on the faintly luminous fog that approached Morgan’s Rock. Would that fog come here? Would it reach this high? I wanted to go, to flee from it. As I went inside, I instantly felt warmer. I was glad to be out of the fog and wind, but stranger than that, I felt as if I’d stepped out of an enchantment. The balcony had been markedly colder than the grand, open room, and it had been such a melancholy place. Why it should be so, I could not say. Perhaps the sight of the fog had been the source of my gloominess?

  Dan and his older brother said their polite goodbyes. I could tell by Dan’s expression that he was disappointed with my treatment of him. I shook his hand and kissed his cheek, and he smiled as he left. A young woman named Marla promised to visit me again soon, but I couldn’t think why. We had barely exchanged a few sentences during my birthday dinner. But then the sight of her parents’ stern faces told me what I needed to know. I instantly felt sorry for her. I said a few kind words to her privately and wished them all a safe trip home. Ten minutes later, all my guests had left Morgan’s Rock and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. Who knew turning sixteen would be such a stressful experience?