had barely gotten back to sleep before he heard a ringing sound. He fumbled around to turn off his alarm, but it was the phone instead. One of his officers was on the other end, anxiously urging him to get moving; they had a domestic violence situation threatening to turn explosive.
Matt hurriedly dressed, his thoughts half on the night gone by, and half on the day to come. There it was—the truth again. As his dad had once told him, when he had shivered at the sight of an old cemetery, the dead were the safest people around.
It was the living you had to watch out for.
That day was hell for Matt. He was so tired most of it, he could have toppled over. It began with the situation at the Creek-more house, old Harry threatening to kill his wife and kids, accusing her of sleeping around, claiming he didn’t even know if the kids were really his or not. Thayer had kept the situation under control until he got there. Matt had managed first to get Harry to let him in, then pretended to share most of a bottle of whiskey with him, convince him he could do DNA testing on his kids, finally get the shotgun, and haul Harry off to jail.
Somehow, he endured the rest of the week, staying in the main house, hearing the honeymooners in the pool at all hours, day and night.
Jeannie came to thank him personally for not throwing them out. Her honeymoon, between the pool and the horses and the incredible Jacuzzi in the caretaker’s house, was bliss.
She had forgotten about the ghost. She admitted that she’d had a lot to drink.
Penny kept insisting that there was a ghost, and he was being a blind fool to ignore it. Either something bad was going to happen, or—on the bright side!—were they to prove that a ghost existed, they could get so rich they’d never have to worry about the upkeep of the place again.
Finally the honeymooners departed and everything went back to normal. Then, Penny started at him again. She wanted to have a seance.
He said no.
She persisted.
He begged her to leave him alone. He had too much work on his plate at the moment.
At last, Penny backed off and contented herself with her tours. Matt thought that life was pleasantly back to routine.
Until she came to him with the letter from Adam Harrison, Harrison Investigations.
It was a month later that Clara Issy, one of the five daytime housekeepers, stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a sunny morning. The beautiful old bedroom in Melody House was as it always was. The bed she had just made with its shiny four-poster and quilted cover sat against the right wall. The polished mahogany bureau held the modern touch of the entertainment center within it. The television was off. The French doors to the balcony and the wraparound porch were ajar because it was such a nice day and the breeze was fresh and clean, causing the white draperies to stir and dance. That was natural, and she was accustomed to the smell and feel of fresh air. She loved it, and she wasn’t at all fond of the air-conditioning that ran through the summer months. No, the room itself was just as it always was.
She stood near the open French doors, jaw agape, and stared.
Because she was alone in the room, yet something else was moving. Something that drifted from the bed. Something in a hazy form, something cold, something that felt threatening.
It approached Clara. She felt something touch her face, almost like the stroke of fingers against her cheek. Very cold fingers. Dead fingers. She thought she heard a whispering. Scratchy, against her ear. Something that pleaded…or threatened.
Her hands were frozen in a vise around her broom handle. Her body felt as if it had jelled into ice. Fear raced up and down her spine.
The cold…wrapped around her. Tightly. More and more tightly.
At last, her jaw snapped shut. She broke the sensation of terror. She screamed, not a bloodcurdling sound, but one that barely held a gasp of air.
Then she found life, and ran.
Out to the second floor landing; there was no one there. Down the flight of stairs to the grand foyer, where again, the house was empty. She headed toward the second doorway to the right of the sweeping stairway. Surely, for the love of God, someone would be in the house office—Penny, a tiny bastion against anyone evil, but someone, at the least.
Clara breathed a sigh of relief. Matt was there. Bursting out the doorway before she could reach it. He was in his work uniform, but he hadn’t headed out for the station yet; it was still very early. Thank God.
He hurried toward her, as if he had heard her cry—being Matt, of course, he had heard it!—and had been preparing to rush to her rescue. Except that she had fled the room upstairs with greater speed than a greyhound. And so she was here, spurting into his arms.
“Clara! What is it?”
She was fifty-five. Twenty years older than Matt, at least. But he was Matt; solid as a rock. A tall man in his prime with a way about him that commanded respect which in turn offered her a feeling of security that allowed her to speak when her mouth was still all but completely contorted.
“I—I—quit!” she gasped out.
“Clara, what on earth?” he asked kindly, holding her at something of a distance from himself and searching out her eyes.
“Let me tell you, that bride was not crazy. There’s a ghost in that room!”
“Oh, Clara, please. We both know the silly stories about this place! We’ve both heard them since we were little kids. But come on, we’ve also worked in this house, both of us, for years and years. Clara, I feel like a broken record here, but believe me—ghosts don’t really exist. People want them to exist sometimes. Penny is dying to have a few authentic ghosts to give the place a greater reputation. Seems like being an historical masterpiece doesn’t always cut it these days.” He smiled, smoothing back her graying hair.
“There’s a ghost in the Lee room, and it just touched me.” Clara planted her hands on her hips. “How long have you known me? Forever? Haven’t I always agreed with you, saying that it was just silly airheads who felt they had to make up ghost stories? But you have to believe me—there’s something in that room. It threatened me. Matt, it wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t a memory of ghost tales told over and over. It was real. I could see it. Come up and see for yourself!”
Matt sighed deeply. Still, there was concern for her in the depths of his dark eyes. “All right, Clara, let’s go take a look.”
Clara edged behind him, then followed as he left the office and strode with long footsteps through the foyer, up the stairs, and to the Lee room.
Naturally, there was nothing there.
Clara walked over to her broom. “I was standing right here.”
“Clara, maybe you saw the draperies drifting in. The French doors are open.”
Clara indignantly straightened her five-foot-one frame. She could see that Matt felt as if he was living a repeat of a silly performance. He was trying to be patient; he felt like throwing his hands up
