A Night to Die

by Kinsley Burke

Chapter One

 

 

AUTHOR NOTE: This is a stand alone short story that takes place in Book 4, A Time to Reap, between Chapters 8 and 9. 

 

At the age of eight, I discovered it was only my aunt who held annual séances at dusk on All Hollow’s Eve and not the other kids’. Speaking to the dead, who never appeared despite the beseeching summons, was followed by the most exquisite masked ball. The kind where the women wore elegant gowns, and the champagne flowed like water. Not that I was allowed a drop of alcohol at my young age. Nor was I even supposed to be witnessing said event. Instead, I was commanded to remain inside the shared bedroom that my aunt kept reserved for both my brother and me, tucked safely into bed next to my already snoozing sibling. I had problems with staying put. The covers were always shoved back two seconds after Aunt Kate closed the bedroom door and the first strains of music drifted back to my ears.

I was smart enough to remain hidden from the peering adult-sized eyeballs, staking my claim to a set of large draperies in the living room, and peeking out in wide-gazed astonishment at the scene taking place before me. This was how my Halloween night was spent for three years in a row.

Then school happened. Gossip reached my small ears one day about all the loot the other kids had scored on that fateful night. No séances? No elegant waltzes? There was… candy? Halloween was a night of unlimited chocolate supply? And it was free? All that a bag could hold? Why hadn’t my mother ever informed me of such a sacred custom?

The next year, I convinced my parents that I was ill and they needed to cancel their annual plans of ditching my brother and me at Aunt Kate’s while they trotted off to a friend’s party. Then I dressed up as the devil, grabbed two extra-large pillowcases, and crawled out my bedroom window. I’d made it through three neighborhoods before my mother finally caught up to me. Pushing aside four-year-olds from the front of the candy line may or may not have occurred before a tight grip clamped down on my bony arm and dragged me away.

Now, at the adult age of twenty-seven, trick-or-treating was frowned upon by the grumps dispensing the chocolate at every house door. Gatekeepers to my sweet tooth because Checking Account still preferred the goods to be set to a price of free. Fortunately, my chocolate cravings had been soothed by the pristine, sparkling glasses of bubbly. Aunt Kate was to thank for that, after her annual Halloween Ball invitation had landed inside my mailbox at the age of twenty-one. Invites that still continued to arrive to this day. Although this year’s invitation had slightly strayed from the norm. It began as usual, addressed to Miss Kiara Blake… and that’s where everything went off track.

There was an and this year. There was never an and. No plus one was included on my invitations because normally Aunt Kate invited a young man who she found to be charming, and my potential soulmate, and she hoped that romantic sparks would fly from love at first sight over the champagne fountain. Exactly like they did in the romance novels that she hoarded underneath her bed like a squirrel. They never did. Sparks flying with the chosen man, that was.

And now… Now, apparently, there was no Kiara’s Perfect Man invited to this year’s bash since the invitation was addressed to Miss Kiara Blake and Her Sexy Detective. Discreet, Aunt Kate was not.

It was now Halloween, and I’d yet to mention the ball to Wilcox. I was on the side of being afraid to show him the official invite. Serious concerns were held that the detective would flee screaming down the street upon proof of my aunt’s less than appropriate thoughts about his appearance. Fleeing was the reaction Officer Menendez often had whenever Aunt Kate showed up at the police station, and I was worried that Wilcox was one Cougar glance short of joining the patrol officer on his runs.

My aunt had that effect on most handsome young men. I wasn’t certain if it was due to her obsession of checking out manly biceps or rating male asses on a scale of one to ten. There were also valid concerns that one day I’d be bailing my troublesome aunt out of jail because someone filed sexual assault complaints despite the woman being harmless. Mostly harmless, at least. She primarily just liked to look, not touch. But still, Aunt Kate never seemed to understand why her flirtations could be taken offensively. Unfortunately, I was pretty certain she happened to be missing the appropriates gene, which meant there was no cure for making her realize that some things simply shouldn’t be said aloud or done. Which was my mother’s second reason for taking up alcohol. I was the first reason, which made no sense, considering that Aunt Kate was older than me.

Despite my mother and her over-imbibing of spirits that she denied doing, but was often the cause of her crashing my aunt’s annual ball for a proper scolding in decorum, and despite my man-obsessed aunt who had a knack for the inappropriate, or even the nagging guilt to the fact that my boyfriend was unaware he had evening plans that might contain a spot of family drama, there was one other matter that had me dreading the night. Attire. Or the lack of. It was a night for classy ball gowns and beautiful masks, and I had only one dress. One. Uno. The exact same gown I’d worn the past two Halloweens. My fairy godmother was missing in action, and I was getting pissed off by her disappearance.

That left only one person who could help. Hadley. Thanks to her law school demands, she only had time to utilize one selected dress from her crammed-packed closet per year. My aunt’s masked ball was always the recipient of her, and her dress’s, presence. And I was pulling the BFF card and demanding that my bestie lend me an unused gown that was doing nothing more than collecting dust. Preferably one that she hadn’t worn in the past three years to the event. Not that I could afford to be picky about the selection.

With cell phone in hand, I startled as it chirped a familiar number. One that was not Hadley’s. Ignoring the associated name a particular prim and proper ghost had attached those six digits—Note to self: change contact listing before Wilcox thinks I call him Sexy Butt—I answered the call.

“Kiara?” Wilcox asked. “We need help.”

“Uhhh…okay.” I looked around at the contents of my closet that currently covered every surface inside my bedroom. “But you should know that we have plans tonight.”

“What?” He paused. “That will have to wait. This is police business.”

My eyebrows rose. “What do you need for me to do?”

“Stop a murder. And Kiara?”

“Stop a…?” My gaze halted its attempt to glare a pair of yoga pants into Dolce & Gabbana couture. “Yes?”

“Bring your sword.”

Chapter Two

 

The Carroll House was located at the edge of town. Built in the late seventeen hundreds, the mansion had ceased being a private residence a few decades prior and was now commandeered by the local historical society. Used primarily as a wedding venue, or as a historical tour house complete with period actors, I hadn’t a clue as to why I was being summoned to its location.

Twilight neared as I approached. The sky above was a backdrop of reds, golds, and deep blues. The harness strapping the sword to my back chafed against my side with each step. Sucking in a sharp breath of cold air, my thoughts focused on Aunt Kate. For the first time in seven years, I would miss her annual dusk séance. Heck, forget the séance. It appeared that I’d be missing the whole damn event. The sweater and jeans I’d hastily shoved on after Wilcox’s ominous phone call would stand out horribly amongst the glitter and gowns. Well, the fake glitter, that was. None of my aunt’s friends were all that well off for their sparkle to be very authentic.

“Good,” Wilcox greeted, his eyes briefly closing in relief as I neared. “You’re here.”

Andrew took a step forward, a worrisome frown tugging at his lips. “Can your sword send any ghost to hell, or only those assigned to you?”

“Wow.” My gaze darted back and forth between two concerned faces. “That was not a question I expected. I’m pretty certain I can send any ghost to Hell. Not that I’ve ever tried. Why?”

“What do you know about the haunting of Carroll House?” Wilcox asked.

“That it’s hunted?” I shrugged. “I recall several kids in seventh grade claiming to have broken into the place and running out scared after spotting a ghost.”

“William Carroll and his wife, Agatha, were the original owners of the property. The couple was young, but very wealthy, having come from merchant families. They’d had no children. On Halloween night in 1796, Agatha Carroll was found murdered on her living room floor. Her murderer was never caught.”

“Is she the one haunting the house?”

“That is what’s believed.”

“So you want me to talk to the ghost?”

“No,” Wilcox’s head shook. “We want you to send the ghost to Hell before she kills again.”

“What—”

“What Ty is trying to say,” Andrew said. “The ghost murders a woman every five years.”

“We don’t know the significance of the five-year period,” Wilcox cut in. “But on Halloween night every five years, a woman is found stabbed to death on the living room floor. The same spot Agatha Carroll was reported to have been found.”

“And stabbing is how Agatha died?”

Wilcox nodded his head.

“Everything is quiet for a few years after a murder, but then the hauntings begin all over.” Andrew glanced at the house before returning his focus to me. “The staff has had multiple unexplained occurrences happening daily for weeks now. The last victim, Jessica Price, died five years ago tonight. We’re certain the ghost is planning to claim another victim.”

I gulped as a cool breeze picked up, sending a wave of shivers down my spine. Tugging my jacket tighter around me, I stared up at Wilcox. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t faced violent spirits before, but can’t you simply lock up the building and not allow anyone inside?”

“We did,” Wilcox said. “Actually, they’ve had the building closed for the past two days and all staff have been told to stay home as a precaution.”

“Sooooo…” I tapped a foot. “What am I missing here?”

“Security cameras caught one of the period actresses, Emily Briggs, entering the house about an hour ago. She’s not yet come back out, and the Commission Chair of the historical society is too scared to go inside himself.”

“Oh.” A heavyweight fell on my chest as I looked back at the house. The white washed limestone building standing two stories high suddenly took on a menacing appearance. One that I could have sworn wasn’t there a moment ago. “I can’t believe I haven’t heard of these deaths until now.”

Andrew nodded toward a group of men standing near the front door. “Sergeant Peterson over there is in charge of keeping it quiet. He’s worked on these cases for the past twenty years. It seems that no matter what precautions are taken, the house always manages to claim another victim. You’re our best hope at stopping this, Kiara, but obviously, we can’t let them know what you are.”

“What do they think I am?”

“A psychic,” Wilcox said.

“All right then, if this Emily Briggs has already been inside for an hour, I need to get inside there like now.” I began walking toward the front entrance, with both Wilcox and Andrew flanking me. The temperature dropped the closer we drew to the door. I halted my steps. “Wait, a second.”

“What?” Wilcox asked, his eyes scanning the area for threats.

“This stupid harness I wear for my sword.” My attempt to reach behind me and tug it into a better fit was futile. “I put it on wrong and now it’s killing my side whenever I walk.”

“They can’t see your sword, Kiara.”

“I know.”

“I’ll keep them distracted.” Andrew moved toward the waiting group before calling back, “Hurry!”

Wilcox and I edged to the side of the house. Tugging off my jacket, I handed it over to his available hands. My sword was withdrawn next.

“I’m not touching that.”

My gaze shot up to meet his weary expression. “Why?”

“What if it’s only those with demon blood who can touch the blade? I might burst into flames the moment my skin touches the handle.”

I snorted. Not much seemed to faze Wilcox, but the fact that the man was too scared to hold my sword made laughter bubble up inside of me. I bit back my amusement, recalling the situation, and instead shoved the ancient blade into his not-so-accommodating hands. “It’s fine. You’re fine. I have to hurry if I’m going to save Emily.”

Wilcox’s breath stilled for a couple of seconds before a sigh finally exhaled through his lips.

“See?” I smiled. “That’s not so bad.”

“Ty? Hey, Ty?”

“Detective Wilcox? We need you.”

The sudden burst of voices yelling for Wilcox startled me, and the sword harness slipped through my fingers, falling to the ground. Wilcox took off at a run with both my sword and jacket still firmly tucked into his arms. I had no choice but to follow.

“What is it?” Wilcox asked, reaching the small group of men. “What happened?”

Andrew nodded at a woman who’d stepped forward to join the huddle. “This is Emily Briggs.”

The petite brunette gave a shy smile.

Wilcox’s brow furrowed. “Ms. Briggs? I’m glad you’re okay, but why did you go inside of the house when you were informed to stay away?”

“I didn’t.”

“She wasn’t in there, Ty,” Andrew said. “She pulled up right after we made another attempt to call her cell phone.”

“I’ve been home all day,” Emily said, her uneasy gaze turning toward the building. “I know the rumors.”

A tall, lanky man held up an iPad. “Here’s the security footage from earlier tonight.”

Standing on tiptoes, I managed to peek over Wilcox’s shoulder and watch the recording of the surveillance video that had clearly captured a woman with Emily Briggs’s features entering the house. The camera had then lost connection, the image turning to black.

“That isn’t me,” Emily said. Her head shook back and forth in denial. “I promise.”

“We believe you, but we now must figure out who it was that went inside the house.” Andrew said. His jaw tightened as his eyes slid up to stare over my shoulder. “The door’s open.”

Everyone turned, almost in unison. No doubt each of us dreading the sight that we all knew we would witness. The front door to Carroll House, which had appeared tightly shut ever since my arrival, now stood wide open. Beckoning us to enter. Unease settled in the pit of my stomach. Something about this… the vibe in the air… the anxiety griping the back of my neck… it all felt wrong.

“Well?” Lanky Man asked, staring at me. “You’re the psychic. Aren’t you going to see what it wants?”

Feet began moving, but I wasn’t certain who’d given them the permission since common sense said to run. Like in the opposite direction.

“Kiara?”

I’d just stepped into the dark entrance when I heard Wilcox call my name. Turning back to face him, I saw him nod down toward his arms. My sword. It was still in his hand, but now covered by my jacket. Before I could take a step forward to retrieve my weapon, the front door slammed shut. Trapped was I. Because the door latch? It refused to turn.

 

Chapter Three

 

“Kiara?” Pounding sounded through the heavy wooden door. The same damn door that my demon strength wasn’t strong enough to pull open. “Kiara? Open the door.”

Like I haven’t tried? Shoving aside a heavy set of draperies to a window left of the front entrance, I peered outside with my nose pressed against the glass. Wilcox rushed over, and never before had I seen the man appear so panicked. His dark eyes were intense as he met my gaze.

“Kiara, unlock the door.”

My head shook. “I can’t. It won’t unlock.”

“The window. Try the window.”

Reaching up, I felt for the metal latch, but that too remained frozen in place. Shrugging helplessly, I stared at Wilcox. “Nothing will open…”

Cold pressed against me. A slight touch, and then it was gone. So fleeting that I questioned that it’d even happened. Stepping back from the window, I turned and saw her… A woman who was young and petite. One who had similar features as Emily Briggs, except for one glaring difference. This woman was dead. Agatha Carroll, if I had to guess. Most likely the breaking and entering culprit who was captured on the security camera. The house felt too still for another living human to be lingering inside of it.

“Mrs. Carroll?” I asked.

The ghost drifted restlessly around the room, and it wasn’t until then that I noticed her transparency. Odd. The ghosts that terrorized the Earth resided within the veil, the void between realms, instead of having moved on to the ghostly plane of existence or a spiritual afterlife. Not that most spirits wanted an eternity involving extremely hot temperatures and pitchforks, hence why I had a job with the devil. Mr. Fire and Brimstone himself.

Thanks to my demon blood, I could see clearly into the veil, as if the ghost I sought was standing on the human plane of existence. But Agatha wasn’t solid. Her transparency was odd. Very, very odd.

Pale hands shook as the woman paced, nervously flicking at her skirts while she walked. Pausing in front of a tall grandfather clock, the ghost turned and stared across the room. Following her gaze, I noticed a small writing desk standing in the back corner. Parchment was scattered across the surface, held down by a quill pen. Not something I would have thought the historical society would leave out to be tampered with. Or was it mere props? Turning back to the window, I drew back the drape and peered out to a wide expanse of green. In the last rays of light, I could make out green trees and green fields that were contrasted only by dirt paths. There were no cars, no surrounding buildings, and, most importantly, no Wilcox.

Holy shit…

The drape dropped as my hands shook. Mind blanked while I attempted to absorb the situation. With jaw clenched in sheer determination—the kind where, as long as I believed it to be true, it would happen—I turned back to the window. Wilcox would be standing on the other side of that glass. That would be a fact. Except the scenery hadn’t changed when I took my next peek through the crack in the heavy curtains. Damn. The twenty-first century had simply vanished.

No… oh, hell no. I stepped back, instinct urging me to flee. There was no way I could be in the seventeen hundreds. Not possible… Ice encased both sides of my head, squeezing hard. A scream tore from my lips as I jerked forward, away from the unexpected tight clasp that came from behind. Agatha. She stood, staring at me with wide, desperate eyes as I turned and faced her. Cold hands were still raised, as if she was seconds away from reaching out to touch me once again. Pounding sounded against the door behind me, and the ghost vanished.

Knocking? Wilcox? Lurching toward the sound, I pulled hard at the latch. The heavy wood refused to budge. My eyelids drifted shut in defeat.

“Okay, Kiara,” I mumbled, edging toward a wall. Leery was I of anyone else who had a desire to pop up behind me and freeze my brain out of my skull. “Don’t ever take off that damn sword again.”

Although the question begged: if the ghosts were translucent, what use would my sword be? I didn’t know, and a lot good talking to myself was doing in this situation, but hearing the sound of my voice in the otherwise silent room gave me a smidgen of comfort. That was until I realized it was the living room in which I stood. The place where Agatha Carroll was murdered on this same night in 1796. Or perhaps it was this actual night? If my worst fear was true, and somehow I’d been sucked back in time, I damn well wasn’t about to take the ghost’s place for the impending homicide.

The writing parchment on the desk caught my eye as I surveyed the surrounding area for another room to reside in until my escape could be plotted. Damn curiosity, I’d never owned any cats to be warned of the consequences for that particular flaw. Now I might very well pay the price. Hopefully, I had eight more lives to spare.

My gaze scanned the materials scattered across the surface of the desk as I approached, confirming what I had suspected. These were not props. A letter in an elegant, but old-fashioned, script that no twenty-first century inhabitant could imitate filled the top portion on a sheet of parchment. Hard was it for me to read with its tight, flowing swoops and curves, but finally the words began deciphering.

Dearest Alexander,

I am concerned about my prior correspondence not being returned. Your father wrote to my husband about Miss Stewart. Please, darling, tell me the gossip is not true. Have you had thoughts regarding my proposal? You must come quickly. Elizabeth will

The brief letter abruptly ended, providing only questions, not answers. Agatha’s husband had been named William, not Alexander. And who was Elizabeth?

A piercing scream shattered my thoughts, the sound of it cutting off short. The ghostly image of Agatha reappeared, and then dropped to the floor mere feet from where I stood. The smell of a scent brushed past me. Musky… something that no doubt belonged to a man. Just as I thought I could make out the mysterious spirit’s image, he vanished.

Well, damn.

Not that I actually cared about the identity of the new addition to this haunted house. I had my priorities, and those were for me to not be standing around when Agatha awoke from death and began her vengeful killing spree. Victim was not something to boast on a resume, and the only way to keep from having to update my qualifications was to escape. Heck, it wasn’t the house, but the entire century I needed to flee.

No help waited on the other side of that door. My fate was up to me, and I wanted my sword. My technology. I wanted my…

Phone.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my cell. A blank screen stared up at me. Pressing the power button didn’t resolve the not working thing it had going on. Damn. Lot good that did. Apparently, cell phone towers didn’t offer signals through different centuries. Hell, they barely offered proper signals throughout my neighborhood.

Replacing the phone, I searched for options. Any option would do as long as I walked out of the house alive and in the correct time period. My gaze returned to the desk, noticing a disturbance that hadn’t been there seconds before. The ink quill had rolled to the opposite end of the surface, and the parchment was gone. After the ghost with the musky smell had passed… Whoever murdered Agatha Carroll had taken the letter.

Alexander. William.

An affair?

Plausible scenario for when a letter had been written to a dearest who hadn’t shared her husband’s name. Agatha was cheating on William, and he must have killed her in a fit of rage. That was the most plausible scenario. But, again, who the hell was the Elizabeth mentioned?

Walking over to the ghost of Agatha, I studied her transparent figure. Still not understanding why she wasn’t a solid mass like I was accustomed to seeing. Especially since I’d somehow been transported back to her time period. A knife jutted from her chest. Dark stains of blood seeped into the brown wool of her garment.

Only once before had I been to this house. It was during a class field trip while in middle school. The female period actors didn’t wear dresses like what Agatha currently wore. The ghost’s dress reminded me of a riding habit. Not that I was an expert on 18th century fashion, but I’d seen pictures of riding habits a time or two. Agatha’s gown was tightly fitted with the skirt bunched up at one side, similar to the images I recalled. The only problem with my analysis? It was night. Pitch black outside. Why did a woman appear ready to travel when moonlight and horses served as the mode of transportation instead of automobiles and street lamps?

A hard, stinging smack struck my cheek, knocking me to the floor. Musky odor filled my nostrils. The man. He was back, and my ability to see him hadn’t improved during his short absence.

“Mr. Carroll,” I said, pushing to my feet. It had to be the man of the house who was the latest haunting inhabitant, and after what I’d read in his wife’s letter… “I know you killed your wife.”

A hard push from behind shoved me forward. Landing on my hands and knees, a cry escaped my lips as a sharp tug pulled at my scalp. Physical, this one. Violent. And I couldn’t even see the damn ghost. What the hell was going on with my abilities?

Every hair on my head felt as if it were being yanked out. Reaching up, I dug my nails into the wrist of the invisible man until his grip loosed. Pushing up to my knees, I stumbled to my feet and then ran. Because while fighting off my vicious tormentor, I had exactly one thought.

It wasn’t Agatha Connelly who’d been killing innocent women over the last few centuries. It was her husband.

 

Chapter Four

 

I’d bolted up the staircase but didn’t even realize I’d done so until reaching the top step. Panting, more in fright than exertion, I looked down to the entry foyer below. Silence greeted me back. William hadn’t followed. I felt his energy centered around the living room. Near his victim. His strong emotions leaving me feeling a sense of dread. His night of rage was not yet complete.

My hands trembled, and I gripped them tight, trying to stop the shaking. Helplessness was how I felt. Trapped. Emotions I wasn’t accustomed to feeling. An escape plan had yet to formulate inside my mind, but I was now certain of one thing: William Carroll was still downstairs, so I damn well was remaining upstairs. Unless he decided to join me. Then all bets were off.

The sound of a piano drifted to my ears. Not a melody, more like the tinkling of high-pitched notes that left a haunting echo. Childish laughter floated above the sound. Child? Wilcox had said William and Agatha Carroll never had children.

Hesitantly, I approached a closed door; the music becoming louder with each of my steps. As my sweaty grip turned the handle, the music came to an abrupt stop. I entered into a dark room as cold as Antarctica in winter. Moonlight poured through uncovered windows, allowing enough light to see that I stood alone. However, something was not as it seemed. Why the sounds of a child inside a house that was childless?

Rubbing my arms, I realized that my sweater was no protection against the chill. Stepping back into the hall, I knew that my time was sacred. Questioning the existence of a child was nothing more than a deterrent to my mission. The house claimed another victim every five years, and I suspected that William would gladly accept my sacrifice this night. My scalp still felt raw from the reminder.

Finding a back stairwell became my new objective. First escape the house and then worry about leaving the 18th century. That was the new plan.

Once I returned to a world of iPads and Starbucks, Wilcox would discover that all future placed phone calls would be screened. Request for dates—as in the wine and dine kind—being the only ones answered. Because this police business crap? There was a reason for why I’d been working as a receptionist instead of taking a job that required a badge and came with murdering ghosts. I was done. My assigned marks from Hell provided enough drama, and I didn’t need to take on Wilcox’s invisible felons. I was spoiled by dealing by ghosts I could actually see.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t the desired back staircase that I stumbled upon after reaching the end of the long corridor. A large room lit by a single candle greeted me instead. A heavy wooden four-poster bed filled most of the space. Clothing was scattered across the bedding. A trunk stood propped open near a wall. Women’s clothing. Riding garment… Perhaps it was more than just an affair, and Agatha had planned to leave her husband. The combination being too much for William’s fragile ego to handle.

Pulling the door shut behind me, I peered down the hallway before taking a step. Sniffing, I was relieved to find there was no musky scent like the one that had invaded the downstairs. A smell that I now associated with murder. Rage. Hate.

Raising my fingertips to my sore cheek, I felt the tenderness. A bruise. I couldn’t see this murdering bastard, yet he had the capability of killing me. The slap of his hand had been real. One more thing to add to the never-ending list of peculiarities occurring that night. Ghosts using their energy against me was what I was accustomed to. My body being shoved into walls by a whirlwind of air. But physically striking me with a hand? Never.

The tinkling sound of piano keys drifting to my ears. Screw the survival instinct demanding that I leave the house pronto. Like I could… If a child resided within the childless home, I was curious to know why.

Same as before, the music stopped when I pushed open the door. Stepping into the frigid room, I took inventory of my surroundings. White wainscot gleamed in the moonlight, lining the lower half of the walls. A large Grand Piano was the focal point, located front and center. Fabric covered benches were arranged for seating. And there was one noticeable difference from earlier. Someone else was inside the room. I felt certain of it, and my senses were never wrong.

A soft sound broke the quiet. Scratching. Like nails against wood. Perhaps from behind the panels of the wainscot? I heard movement as I approached the noise. The sound was slight, as if a body had shifted its position. Trying to remain silent but failing in the attempt.

What the… Moonlight showed a deep groove gouged into the molding of one panel. Tugging at the decorative slab, the wood pulled apart. Opened rather like a door. A secret cubby hole, and inside the small space sat an even smaller girl who looked no older than three or four-years-old. Her blond curls were matted, and the white dress with a wide blue satin sash that she wore appeared to be smudged with dirt. Her tiny finger lifted up to pale lips.

“Shh… Mama said to be quiet.”

“Mama?”

The little ghost girl nodded, and then her eyes widened. Happiness lit her pale, transparent features. I turned around and found Agatha Carroll standing in front of me, complete with a knife protruding from her chest. Shock had slackened her face as she gaped at the small child. A smile began tugging up the woman’s lips, but then her expression stiffened into rage as her gaze fell upon me.

Well, hell. That was never good. The count was two to one. Two ghosts now had it out for me, and the odds of my survival were not in my favor. At least this spirit I could see.

Dodging around the angry woman, I raced for the music room door, refusing to look back. Pounding down the staircase, the musky smell of William Carroll drew me up short. The sudden stop had me wobbling for balance. The ghost’s anger remained present, allowing me to sense his location. He was still standing inside the living room, yet Agatha had escaped.

Back door. The thought chanted inside my head. That exit had to open. I wasn’t giving up on my goal of escaping this nightmare, no matter how many doors were supernaturally locked. With an angry ghost upstairs, and a murdering one downstairs, outside was my only option.

Turning to my right, I looped around the staircase just as a heavy tread of footsteps approached the front entrance from the living area. William was on the move, and I had no desire to be found.

I ducked into the first room I came across and shut the door. A candle had already been lit, providing me with light. The wick hadn’t burned down far, implying that someone had recently left the desk. The room appeared to be a study. And based on the time period, it certainly wasn’t Agatha’s belongings that I surveyed.

The tread of footsteps moved in my direction, baffling me as to why I could suddenly hear the ghost that I was certain I still couldn’t see. I pressed against the wall behind the door. If William entered…

My mind became frantic with conjuring up yet one more escape plan. I’d been doing good enough with making the decision to find a back exit. I had no idea how my brain planned to figure its way out of this mess unless I discovered a chainsaw to cut through the walls.

Now there was an idea…

The sound of feet moved past, and I allowed a soft sigh of relief to escape my lips. But it wasn’t over. I was trapped. The living room was a no-go while William was still near. Otherwise, my night would finally end… by being stabbed and left dead on the floor. In the wrong freakin’ century. The back of the house was now off limits. I also didn’t want to take my chances with Agatha upstairs.

This room it was. Walking over to the desk, I sank down into a chair. Exhaustion was rearing its ugly head, and I bit hard on my lip as I studied the contents scattered across the wooden surface. By all appearances, the study had been ransacked. But why? Was William searching for something in haste so he could flee? My intuition screamed that the theory was off. William had hung around far too long to indicate that he was in any hurry to leave.

What was I missing? My gaze drew to a stop on a letter. It was addressed to William. Again, the old-fashioned script was hard for me to decipher, but one word stuck out. Alexander.

My son, Alexander, has done a fine job as my law clerk this past year. He will make an excellent solicitor, and will take over upon my death, which I fear may be sooner than expected.

My gaze dropped down to the signature line as I read, “Your humble servant, Jonathan Smith, Esquire.”

Was this the same Alexander from Agatha’s letter? And Elizabeth… could she be the little girl upstairs? Rubbing at my head, I realized my temples were starting to pound. Nope, it wasn’t my head making that horrible racket, thank goodness. It was once again the heavy tread of footsteps. The sound passed the study door without pause, and then turned upward, smacking hard against each step of the staircase. William had moved to the second floor. Now was my time to escape.

Heading to the back of the house was logical, but I was too near the front entrance to not give it one last shot. I kept my tread light as I tiptoed to the door. The latch still refused to budge. Damn. Tears pricked my eyes as I moved over to the window. The same one that had given me my last sighting of Wilcox. Now I stared out at 1796.

“Chin up.” I squared my shoulders. I was tougher than this. Defeat was not an option. To the back of the house, it was. If that back door latch wouldn’t turn, then somehow those windows were going to break because I was crawling out.

Agatha’s blood stain on the rug caught my eye as I turned to make my exit from the room. She’d lain prone after her murder, yet for some reason she was now wandering about the house. Searching. Looking for something… or someone?

Strands of white contrasted against the dark blood. Dismissing my thoughts on Agatha’s motive, I reached down and picked up the threads. Based on the texture, it felt like the fibers of a wig. Which was typical, considering that men had worn wigs in the seventeen hundreds.

A memory tugged, and I reanalyzed my thoughts. During the sixth grade field trip to the house, the period actors hadn’t worn wigs. By the late seventeen hundreds wigs were out of fashion… except for barristers. Lawyers… and solicitors.

My gaze swept back toward the writing desk with the now missing letter. Miss Stewart. Agatha had referenced a Miss Stewart. Alexander…

A horrified scream sounded, and despite all common sense, I raced towards the staircase. It wasn’t as if there was anyone for me to save. Everyone inside the house was dead, except for me. But now I knew. I knew what had happened on that night in 1796.

The music room was the stage setting for the confrontation, I interrupted. Except this encounter hadn’t really occurred. In 1796, Agatha would still be downstairs, blood seeping out of her lifeless body as it waited for discovery. Yet here Agatha stood as a protective shield in front of the small child, facing off the man responsible for her death.

“Alexander, why do you wish to harm your daughter?” I asked.

My words were like magic. A key unlocking all the secrets, because before my eyes a man appeared. With him no longer invisible, I studied my attacker. Agatha’s murderer. The father to the young child with the matted hair.

A white powered wig covered his head, dark hair peeping out from underneath. The smooth lines of his face indicated that he was young. Less than thirty-years-old if I had my guess.

“Alexander?” Agatha asked. Her voice was quiet, yet I could hear her words as clearly as if she had yelled. “You betrayed me.”

“You and that brat would’ve ruined it all.”

Rage filled the ghostly woman’s eyes. With one pale hand, she ripped the knife from her chest and lunged forward. Surprise had been in her favor, and Alexander crashed to the floor. I watched the blade be plunged repeatedly into his upper torso, the scene worthy of any slasher flick.

Queasiness hit my stomach, and it no longer had anything to do with nerves. Because on this strange night, even the ghosts could bleed.

With a final stab, the knife buried into Alexander’s chest, and Agatha stood. The floor shook. Clutching the doorframe for balance, I wondered what the hell could happen next.

Oh, Hell. Literally. Hell. As in the location where Satan called home. My sword was not a requirement as the floor split apart and flames spiked high, filling the room with light. The heat from it pierced my bones. The ghostly body of Alexander Smith fell down into the depths, joining the sounds of voices screaming out in torturous pain. Begging for mercy. Then the gaping hole closed.

Holy fudge…

I’d seen some pretty crazy shit since I’d became a Praedator. But this… This… My mind blanked, and I was at a loss for words.

“Mama.” With a bright smile beaming across her young face, Elizabeth flung herself into her mother’s arms.

“Don’t ever hide from me again,” Agatha whispered.

Then they both faded away.

 

Chapter Five

 

“Kiara? Kiara, where are you?”

Wilcox’s voice. The best sound I’d ever heard. “I’m in here.”

The detective appeared inside the doorway to the music room and flicked on a light switch that hadn’t existed in 1796. His shirt sleeves were rolled back, and his hair was a finger-induced mess. One of these days, I was determined it would be my fingers creating that disaster. Soon. Very, very soon.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. His expression reflecting a combination of both annoyance and relief. “We’ve searched this entire house, and you were not here.”

“Would you believe that I was in 1796?”

“What—”

“Kiara, thank God. You had us scared.” Andrew appeared in the doorway behind Wilcox.

I sucked in a breath. “Tell me about it.”

Before I could move, I found myself enclosed in a strong embrace.

“You are not pulling this stunt again,” Wilcox whispered into my ear.

“Yeah.” I looked up to a strong jawline. “We need to talk about that, because if I recall correctly, this was all your fault.”

His answer was to squeeze me tighter.

“What happened?” Andrew asked.

I shook my head. “This house has a lot of secrets.”

“And you know them all?”

“No… but perhaps most of them.” I smiled as I pulled away from Wilcox’s embrace and crossed the room. Finding the groove in the molding, I pried open the secret cubby hole. The most nauseating smell emanated from the small space. Gagging, I lifted my hand to cover my nose.

“What the hell is that?” Wilcox asked.

“Elizabeth,” I said, studying the grim remainders of the small child, still encased in a tattered and aged dress that had once been white with a with blue sash. “Agatha Carroll’s daughter.”

The soft sound of a child’s laughter echoed inside the room and then faded away. The constant chill inside the room evaporated, and the temperature warmed.

I faced the detectives. “I’m certain the Carroll House haunting days are over.”

“Good work, Kiara,” Andrew said. “I’ll get Sergeant Peterson. They’ll need to get a forensic team out here for… Elizabeth.”

Wilcox walked over and squeezed me against his side. “Let’s get you home.”

I took comfort in the arm placed around my shoulders and looked up at his familiar face. “First, we must make a stop.”

“To where?”

I grinned and pulled him toward the door. Some things were best left to be discovered, not said. Like Aunt Kate’s annual Halloween ball.