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Chapter Seventeen
Holly
Inibbled on a granola bar as I tried for the twenty-seventh time to relax on the wicker sofa in the main living room of the house.
After about thirty minutes of fighting with the black box in the corner, I finally figured out how to plug my laptop in and gain access to a satellite signal that allowed me to call Laurel and gain internet access, the signal strength is weak but it’s working, for now anyway.
First world problems. I never even considered food for this evening. Where do you eat when you live in a haunted house in the middle of the forest? What am I supposed to do? Forage in the woods? I think not.
My self-preservation skills are lacking so I can only imagine that I would either a) get lost in the woods b) become a midnight snack for a mountain lion (wait, do you have to be in the mountains to get eaten by a mountain lion?) c) mistakenly eat one of those poison berries that kill you instantly like in that book the Hunger Games – that was a hell of a book, but I’m not trying to volunteer as tribute.
So instead, I found a company that was willing to deliver groceries to the main access road for an exorbitant fee tomorrow morning. It is truly ridiculous the amount of money these people charge for delivery. God forbid I ask them to meet me at the gates, oh hell no, that’s too much to ask.
Unfortunately, that meant I was left to starve to death this evening. I guess I could leave and drive back into Carlton, but that would mean getting out of Ursula to open and close the gates in the dark, and I’m not really about that life. Thank God for the emergency food stash I always keep in my purse. This granola bar expired a couple of months ago, but it didn’t smell funny, and it’s only marginally stale, so I call that a win. If I’m feeling extra adventurous later, I’ve got some double bubble I can pull out for dessert. It’s five-star cuisine around here, really.
The sun was setting before I realized that light was going to become a problem, and quickly. I managed to find a pack of matches on the bedside table and lit the oil lamp in the main living space, since I have to actually be plugged in to get enough signal strength that anything works. My cell phone is still pretty useless, but I was able to text through my browser to check in on the apartment and Noel, who said my building was still standing, and she wasn’t having sex in my bed…yet.
I didn’t get the chance to explore the main house tonight, but I plan to get a start on that in the morning once the sun is up.
The first thing I need to do is assess the fire damage. It was difficult to see from the exterior of the home, but once I get inside, I will be able to get a much better look. I’m actually a little excited, now that I’m here, and I’ve seen this miniature version of the house. If the main house is even remotely in a similar condition, we will have a good starting point to work from.
None of my contracts specify what the house is to be used for, which is pretty atypical for a renovation of this magnitude.
Sylv Wilks has a large, modern residential estate in the city. I’ve never been there, but I know my father spent some time there, just from overhearing conversations growing up. Word on the street, or you know around the country club, is that his wife is very similar to my mother, status is of the utmost importance to her. She believes herself to be among the elite, and everyone else is just a peon meant to worship her every move. My mother would drop dead before moving into what she would consider a used home. She would be mortified at the thought that someone else might have lived there before her, so I cannot imagine Mrs. Wilks is planning to move in and make this their new permanent residence.
I, personally, think this would make a phenomenal bed and breakfast, especially given the history behind it. However, Mr. Wilks doesn’t strike me as the innkeeper type.
When I brought it up to Laurel, she was very adamant that I not ask questions that are none of my business. So, I promptly shut my mouth and referred back to my contract that explicitly stated I am to restore the plantation house to mimic the original home, imploring the historical details that are period specific. Got it.
Taking a break, and desperately wishing I’d brought a book to read, I sat my laptop down on the edge of the sofa and stretched out, allowing my muscles a moment to release the tension from the day. Reaching down, I grabbed at the thick, white blanket that lay at my feet and froze on the spot.
Um.
I heard a heavy booted footstep drop onto the porch, followed by the pained sounds of the old, wooden slats just on the other side of the door. Those old boards have survived over a century of wear and time, but they don’t sound like they take kindly to visitors, and well, right this moment, I can’t say that I do either.
I quickly scanned the room for weapons, coming up empty handed. Unless you count the oil lamp, but then what happens if I miss while trying to throw it at my intruder? I could potentially burn the house down. Or worse, I botch the throw and end up in the dark, blind, with a serial killer.
Because who else would be at an abandoned haunted house this late?
It’s not the boy from earlier, the footstep was too heavy for that. And ghosts or apparitions or whatever don’t have audible footsteps anyway, right? RIGHT?!
They appear and disappear.
Kind of like the boy. Ugh, do not think about that right now.
Another heavy footstep. I stood, quietly, from the couch. If this is fight or flight, I’m about to turn into a damn F-22 Raptor. I know when to stay and when to run, and that foot belongs to someone a hell of a lot bigger than I am.
The door is locked, but this house is so old; I don’t trust it to protect me from whatever is on the other side. There is an exit at the rear of the house that heads back into the woods, which now sound surprisingly appealing, if I can just get to the door…I heard the door handle move as my intruder attempted to enter the house and that was enough to kick my ass into gear. Turning on my sock covered feet, I tore through the living space with tunnel vision…but I wasn’t quick enough…or my intruder already had a key.
???
Reid
She heard me. The moment I stepped onto the porch she was alerted to my presence. She doesn’t realize it’s me…yet, but she knows someone is here.
Her heart is racing, and her bloodstream is filling with adrenaline and endorphins.
This house was built decades before insulation and sheetrock meaning I hear her jump from her spot, assuming that she was sitting, in the front room.
