Page 42 of Manors & Mischief

“I will.”

“Bye, Mom. I’ll keep you updated. Respond to my texts, okay?”

“As long as you answer my phone calls. Bye.”

The phone goes silent, and I stand there with it clasped by my side and my eyes closed for a little while. It’s not even that I wanted to get away from them. I’d love to have them visit. It’s a hard thing to explain because I don’t understand it myself. It’s just a knowing in my heart that I need to be here.

I scan the garland to make sure it looks okay. I even walk out to the front gate where weeds used to wrap around the metal and turn to get the whole view. It’s perfect.

Now to focus on other things. I have two items on my to-do list. Write up a proposal for the mayor for the Children’s Haunted House idea, and find a story and costume for the Haunted History Tour.

I could use the internet to look up stuff, but asking the locals sounds like a better plan. I just so happen to have one in the ballroom, and if he doesn’t work out, I can always head to the library, which I’m sure has plenty of information on the manor and its history.

I sweep back inside, grabbing my coffee as I go. Today, it’s pumpkin mixed with vanilla, and it’s delicious. I purchased a bag of Bea’s coffee from Rose’s gift shop before I left the other day, and I’ll have to stock up on some more.

When I waltz into the ballroom, Devon is tearing up a couple of floorboards underneath the furthest window. His shirt stretches across his back, so tight that I can see his muscles working underneath. He has his hat on backward, and I stop in my tracks for a minute, taking him all in.

He’s so far from my ex. Lake was a professional. He went to work in a suit and tie. For a while, I thought that was sexy, but after seeing Devon around the manor, I don’t know why I was ever attracted to that. I like a man with muscles from blue collar work. A guy who can get dirty. Who doesn’t mind if his clothes get a little ripped. It just shows all the work he’s doing.

Guys like Devon are mouthwatering.

I suppose that’s the description of Devon I could have given my mom when she asked.

My feet shift a little and the floorboards creak underneath. Devon peers up, and I start walking like I haven’t just taken a brief interlude to ogle him. “Hey, I need a local’s mind.”

“One sec.” He pulls up with a hammer and the floorboard finally gives way. He stands to his full height, and my senses get overwhelmed again. There’s just something about his manly aura that does it to me. “What can I help you with?”

My brain starts giving me ideas that sound like fun but I would never say out loud. They all have something to do with his shirt being off.

Instead, I shake my head and take a deep breath. “The Haunted History Tour?”

He nods.

“Do you remember any stories about the manor that I could use? Any spirit tales? Clanking chains? People who ran out of the house screaming like their lives depended on it?”

Devon quirks a brow. “I can’t tell if you’re making fun or actually asking.”

“Actually asking. In a couple of days, I have to dress up like someone who used to live here and tell a story in front of people, and I’ve got nothing.”

“Well, the Lewises definitely aren’t ghosts.”

“Thank God,” I state. I like the idea of ghosts. I enjoy reading about them and watching about them on TV, but I would never want to actually be inundated with ghosts in a house that I lived in. Luckily, this place has been completely spirit free since I moved in, or even the call on my heart to live here would’ve had to wait because I’m not dealing with creepy visitations.

“But I heard a story once,” he says, lowering his voice. The tenor deepening until his voice is almost gravelly. I take a step toward him, drawn to move closer. “In the 1800’s, there was a well on the property. The well was said to have magical powers. If you made a wish on the well, it would come true. Everyone in town knew about it. Old and young alike would make the walk through the woods to the circular structure. They would take a penny and throw it in, whispering their greatest desires into the void.

“When the Civil War raged, a local woman trudged through the woods, clasping a dull penny. Her love had gone off to war, and she hadn’t heard from him since. With thoughts of their future life, she reached the well. She prayed. She wished, and with a trembling hand, she held the penny over the well until it slipped through her fingers.

“‘Oh, wishing well. Oh, wishing well. Please bring back my beloved.’”

Devon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The look on his face has turned serious, gaze cutting. A shiver runs up my spine.

“Week after week, the townspeople saw her take the path to the outskirts of town, her fists clenching another coin, an offering to the well. She wished and she wished. When the war ended, the young men from town started returning. Some unscathed except from the mental scars of war. Others still were missing limbs from cannon and musket fire.

“From the day they started to arrive, the young woman started going to the well every evening. Wishing, and wishing.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The ballroom around us has faded, and it’s just me and Devon’s story. My stomach twisting at the heartache.

“Then one day, the men stopped coming back. The war was long over. The family had heard nothing of her beloved, and still they saw her go to the well. Except for one day, they saw her go for the very last time. After a week, the townspeople got curious and asked what her final wish was. She looked them in the eye, and said, ‘I asked that if he be gone, I be gone too. If he be dead, that I go where he is.’ She broke down, wailing, because the well did not give her the wish.