The Haunting at Morgan's Rock Page 3

  Right then and there, I decided I would have to talk to Alex about this. At least find out the asking price for the place. I had nowhere else to go. No family, except an ex-husband who managed to steal half my wealth, but at least Glenn had accepted the lump sum I offered him. He wouldn’t receive anything else. For that I was grateful.

  That means he could never steal Morgan’s Rock from you.

  “Did you say something?” I asked Aimee in surprise.

  “No. Did you hear something?”

  I laughed and clutched her folder. “Never mind. If you don’t mind, Aimee, I’m going to disappear for a while. I’ve got to tidy my room and get my writing space somewhat organized.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep as quiet as I can. You want some lunch?”

  “No, I’m not going to have any lunch today. I’m not hungry. Just dinner.”

  She smiled with confidence. “I’ll have it ready at six.”

  “I prefer seven.” Why was I being so difficult?

  “Then you’ll have it at seven. In here or in your room?”

  “I think in my room today. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’m setting up my workstation just in there.”

  She smiled politely but nodded her head toward the left as she searched the cabinets and immediately began clucking her tongue at what she saw. “Have you taken a look at one of the rooms over the gardens? They would be perfect for a nice view, if you don’t mind my saying so. And if you go up to the third floor, you have that ocean view. So, I guess it’s really whatever you want.”

  “I couldn’t have you lugging my food up to me every day on the third floor.”

  “You eat in your office every day?” she asked with a white smile.

  “Not every day but enough to know you might lose your patience with me.”

  With her hand on her hip, she reminded me, “You’re the boss, and you can have your lunch anywhere you like. If you want it on the roof, I’ll make it happen. That is, if I’m hired.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her excitement. I hoped it was genuine and not just a front to get a job. But then again, Alex wouldn’t have referred her if she were shady. “Let’s give it a try. Play it by ear?” I asked cautiously.

  “Great! Thanks, Miss Pressfield. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get this pantry in order before the delivery guy shows up. Do I have your permission to go shopping for other supplies? I think I need to get started with a list.” She was tapping her lip thoughtfully with her finger.

  “Yes, go for it. Make your list. I’ll go check the rooms upstairs. Thanks for the suggestion, Aimee.” I bounced up the stairs, suddenly feeling cheerful. Imagine landing such a great housekeeper on day one. I felt liberated just knowing that I didn’t have to interview a dozen people and make yet another decision. Apparently, the decision had been made for me, and I was happy to go along with Alex’s suggestion. Yes, I felt absolutely invigorated despite the long flight yesterday. So cheerful that the sudden cold spot I walked into didn’t concern me at all. Old houses such as this one were bound to have a few drafts in corners and nooks.

  Aimee was right—there were many suitable rooms on the second floor. The walls were plain; whatever paintings and decorations hung there before were gone, and I could see the stains around the missing artwork. Yes, those had been here a long time. Where could they have gone to?

  I would most certainly have to call Alex tonight. It would do no good to call him now; he was always so busy managing writers during office hours. He sometimes referred to us as a herd of cats and to himself as the cat herder. I thought that was a little ridiculous, but I let Alex think whatever he wanted.

  The air was musty on the second floor. It was my least favorite floor. Looking up and down the hall, I counted eight doorways. I supposed a normal person would want to go to every room and investigate to see what surprises each room held, but I was not a normal person. I had had too many surprises recently. Packages containing vials of blood and then dead animals, curious fans showing up when it was most inconvenient. Glenn threatening to sue me. Well, at least the latter was squared away. Yeah, no more surprises sounded great. I decided not to investigate the house further, not today. But the top floor, I had to go see it.

  When I cleared the top step, I nearly caught my breath. It was as if I had stepped back in time. The whole open floor plan made this section look like one large room, a room filled with old yet interesting things. Just beyond the room to the left was a long stone balcony that was nearly equal to the length of the room. In the room, I could see a once gold-toned birdcage, a grand one, but I saw no birds. Thankfully. It must have been decades since there were living birds inside there, or longer. Potted plants, obviously fragile silk plants, stood upright and dust-covered. Fortunately, the couches had been protected with dust covers. I pulled one off and was amazed to find a perfectly lovely antique velvet couch, a bit moth-eaten in a few spots but nothing major. Nothing that couldn’t be repaired. I uncovered a large Victrola that stood by the couch and was instantly enchanted. I had a weakness for old record players.

  Yes, it was a Victrola for sure. I wound the machine, and it played beautifully. What was this song? I knew this song! Oh yes, Beautiful Dreamer. That wasn’t Bing Crosby singing it but someone else. The record sounded scratchy, and it made the hairs on the back of my arms stand up.

  “What do you know? I thought I heard music up here. This is the perfect room for an office. We could close the windows there to keep the rain from blowing in. I can run over the carpets with a vacuum, or we could just dust them out. What do you think, Miss Pressfield?”

  “It’s Megan, please,” I said as I lovingly touched another record.

  “Not if you’re my employer. I hope that doesn’t bother you. I don’t like to be too familiar with my employer. I prefer things to be done properly.”

  I smiled again and said, “Should I call you Miss Finch?”

  “No need to call me anything special. You can call me Aimee or Miss Finch or Aimee Finch. Any of those suits me fine.”

  “Aimee it is. You know what? Why not? I’m paying for all this. Yes, this will be my office. I’ll use this table for my desk. It’s a fine thing, isn’t it? I should probably polish it up and maybe ease it toward the window a bit. Would you say this is mahogany? That should give me plenty of work space. Would you mind helping me?”

  And from then on, we worked nonstop to get the room together. Dust hovered in the air, but we were relentless and determined to uncover every hidden treasure. Aimee left me only to meet the delivery guy and to begin taking care of her kitchen. And she wasn’t exaggerating about her skills. She could cook creamed spinach like nobody’s business. After my first evening meal, I headed back upstairs, settled into my comfy chair and began reviewing my current manuscript.

  I hated every word of it and suddenly regretted ever accepting the deal to write this sequel. Why was I doing this? I had all the money I needed, didn’t I? Even though I only had half of it now, I was all set for a while.

  But one day the money will run out and people will forget who you are, Megan. They’ll know you are a pretender. Not a real writer. One hit out of fifty books? Yeah, those aren’t good odds. The truth is you probably can’t do it again. Not without writing forty-nine other books first. What then?

  I shut down the computer and took a walk around the top floor to stretch my legs. Yes, I liked it up here. It had an almost magical quality to it. Not like the second floor where it felt cold and stale and dark, for lack of a better word. At least the downstairs was somewhat comfortable. Why was the second floor so creepy?

  Yes, I liked everything about this floor.

  Except that man staring back at me in the mirror. And then I heard that voice again, the one I’d heard in the kitchen. Only it wasn’t in my head this time. It was in my ear.

  Paden, help me!

  Chapter Four

  I couldn’t see his face, for it was obscured by a wisp of white smoke. However, I could see his torso;
he wore a white shirt with high collars and a green jacket. And I could see his waist but not his legs. He had no legs! Oh my God! My hands flew to my mouth, but before I could scream, yell or do anything, he simply fluttered out of existence. He was gone, and I was left to wonder what exactly I’d just seen. I raced all the way downstairs and into the kitchen. There was no one there. No ghostly man, thankfully, but no Aimee Finch either. I ran down the hall to her bedroom, but she wasn’t there. I did not see even a suitcase or a single bag. She hadn’t turned down the bed, and there were no lights on.

  What is going on around here? This can’t be right!

  Overwhelmed with the sensation that someone I could not see was watching me, I backed out of the room and hurried back to the kitchen. That was the only room that felt somewhat safe and, for lack of a better word, normal. I picked up the phone and dialed Alex’s number. He would just have to answer me. He would just have to!

  “Pick up! Pick up!” I whispered furiously into the phone. And to my relief, he did.

  “There’s my favorite author!” His chipper voice did not calm my nerves. I decided to forego the niceties. I didn’t have time for chitchat.

  “Alex, we have to talk.”

  “Sure, Megan. Is there something wrong?”

  “A few things, but first this house. Why did you send me here? I mean, is it possible that… I mean, have there been stories about Morgan’s Rock?”

  He laughed, but it sounded unconvincing to me. “What do you mean? Stories about ghosts? Well, of course there are always legends. There are always stories about ghosts when it comes to old houses, but I know you. You aren’t one to be scared away by a few legends. You thrive on this stuff. You are a writer, after all.”

  I slapped my forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. I had to be seeing things. No way I just saw a ghost. I didn’t believe in this sort of thing. “Yeah, well, just because I write ghost fiction doesn’t mean I believe any of it. It’s entertainment, that’s all.”

  “Do I need to find another place? I need you writing your next book, Megan. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I hate to ask you this, but are you seeing ghosts?”

  “I…I saw something here, something that I can’t explain, but you know I don’t believe in any of that. Tell me the truth, are you having a joke on me?”

  Alex’s voice softened. “I’d never do something like that, Megan. I thought you would love the place because of all the history. I loved it, so I guess I assumed you would too. Morgan’s Rock is old, two hundred years old, to be exact, and that’s just on that location. The stones they built the clock tower with are much older. They come from the Storm family’s home in Kent, England. Knowing all that, it would be easy to drum up romantic ideas about ghosts and such, Megan. Should I be worried?”

  I bit my lip and paced the kitchen. “Well, I didn’t know anything about that tower or the wall, but I can promise you I’ll check it out. What else do you know?”

  He continued hurriedly, as if he had so many more important things to do than talk to me, “After the Revolutionary War, the family moved a wall of their castle from Kent to Morgan’s Rock. There was some kind of deal they had, at least that’s what I heard. To claim the land here, they had to move a property line—rumor has it illegally. The details are all very convoluted, but I thought you would like the place.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t like the place, Alex. It’s just weird. I’m sure I’m just tired.” I tucked a strand of blond hair behind my ear. Why was I backpedaling? “Deal with who? Who made them move their castle?”

  I could hear him hesitate. Why did I feel like he didn’t want to talk about this? “You’re the researcher, Megan. You’ll figure it out, and then who knows? Maybe you’ll write about it. A book about Joanna Storm is a book people would want to read. I think you’re the girl to write it.”

  “Maybe. She’s an enchanting figure, but I didn’t see her. I saw a man.”

  Alex paused. “So you did see a ghost?”

  “No. Yeah. I don’t know.” I shook my head as if to shake the memory away. “Joanna Storm, huh?”

  “Joanna was quite a tragic figure; she lived at Morgan’s Rock until she vanished in the 1930s, right before her wedding day.”

  I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Lots of brides get cold feet.” I wish I’d been one of them.

  “Well, I don’t think this lady got cold feet. By all accounts, she’d been madly in love with her fiancé.”

  “Let me get this straight: you sent me to a potentially haunted castle, and you want me to write about it? What about The Robin’s Cry?”

  Alex chuckled. “Oh, we’ve got a contract, so there’s no getting out of that sequel, Pressfield. But if you were inspired to write something about the Storm family while you were there, that might be a nice extra. Just let me know what you come up with. I could pitch it for you.”

  “Always the agent.”

  “But I’m your friend too, Megan. If you don’t like the place, if you want me to find you something else, I’ll do it. Tell me the truth, how do you like the house, other than the occasional ghost?”

  It was my turn to sigh. “I like Morgan’s Rock just fine. And I didn’t say it was a ghost, Alex. Just my imagination; I guess it’s just all the scenery. Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask, did you send Aimee Finch here?” I waited but heard nothing at all. It was like the line had gone dead completely.

  “Hey! Hello? Alex?”

  Suddenly the back door opened and I nearly shouted for joy. It was Aimee, and she had bags of food in her arms. “Can you give me a hand? I hate to ask, but it looks like it’s going to rain. What’s wrong with the phone?”

  I hung it up and hurried to help her. “Don’t know. It just went dead. Where have you been, Aimee? I was looking for you. I noticed you didn’t even put your suitcase in your room.”

  “Yes, I did. I decided to stay in that room there. It’s closest to the stairs so I can hear you if you need me, and the other room had a chill to it. Hey, are you all right? You look as white as a ghost.”

  What was up with all the ghost references today?

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had a question.”

  “Okay, shoot,” she said as she began to stow vegetables in the refrigerator. I suddenly felt embarrassed for how silly I’d played this all up in my mind. This was ridiculous! Did I think Aimee Finch was a stalker? Clearly, she was a skilled housekeeper, a woman who knew her way around a kitchen.

  “On second thought, it’s nothing. Listen, I don’t expect you to clean this whole mansion. Just the rooms we use. My office, your room, my room and the kitchen, and maybe our bathrooms. But that’s it. Nothing else, Aimee.”

  “Sounds great. It would take a team of people to run this place. By the way, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?”

  “Toast and two boiled eggs. And lots of black coffee.” I smiled at her. “Thanks, Aimee.”

  “No problem. Can you manage to get your bath run?”

  “Of course. I would never ask you to do that. And a bath before bed sounds good.”

  “If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Okay, will do.” I walked back upstairs and bravely stared at the spot where the man had stood just half an hour ago. There was no one there now, nobody at all. Could there have been a reflection from a painting or a picture? No, that couldn’t be it. There were no portraits in here, which raised more questions—why had they all been removed, and were they still here somewhere? I raced back down the stairs and hurried off to my bedroom.

  Time for some light reading and then bath and bedtime. I opened Loretta Bradley’s book and flipped through the first few pages. Actually, her writing was captivating—she was a consummate storyteller. I quickly sank into the chair by my bed and devoured the entire book before I realized the hour.

  By the time I closed the book, my mind was reeling. Joanna Storm’s story read like a movie script…which was ironic since she was a celebrated actress. I couldn’t imagine
living such a life, losing her father tragically and dealing with her mother’s lingering illness until her death. Joanna’s brief but amazingly productive stint as an actress, the fame and fortune she acquired during her work in Hollywood, only added to her considerable wealth. But then there was the sudden withdrawal from that life and her return to Morgan’s Rock. What about her mysterious fiancé and her enigmatic cousin, Vivian? Although Loretta’s book was fascinating, it really raised more questions than it answered. I didn’t indulge in the bath I planned but took a quick shower and headed to bed.

  I fell asleep quickly and dreamed about Joanna Storm.

  Chapter Five

  My mind was awake before my body could catch up. I heard voices and through closed eyes detected that my room was full of light, only opening my eyes felt impossible. Sleep paralysis! I’d never experienced sleep paralysis before, but I had written about it several times. Theorists on the subject explained the experience as a sort of disconnect between the brain and the body. Others who experienced it described it as terrifyingly real and more spiritual than scientific. In Medieval times, physicians called it “Old Hag Syndrome” or the “Night Witch.” Whatever the truth was, it was happening to me and I was completely terrified.

  Think, Megan. Be reasonable. Okay, brain. Time to wake up the rest of the body. Move, damn it!

  I focused on moving my pinky fingers, but they would not respond. Then I turned my efforts to my toes; these were all the practical steps that were supposed to break this “spell,” but nothing worked. Although I could not open my eyes, I definitely felt that someone was here. I felt rage and hatred. The presence wanted very much to do me harm. Then my eyes fluttered open but only halfway.

  Just a sensation, Megan. Not real. Okay, that’s good. Keep going. Open your eyes! Open your eyes, Megan! You should scream yourself awake! Do it! Do it now!

  Terror washed over me. My mouth would not move. I couldn’t even make a sound, not a grunt or a groan, much less call for help. I was completely at the mercy of whomever or whatever leaned over me now. I couldn’t see a face, only a shadow. A slender shadow. I couldn’t say why, but I felt it belonged to a woman.