Haunted

And there were things that must be said. Things that must be cleared, or ended, between them.

Still…

He stared at the house. And waited. He denied in his mind that he had come with any malice as to his intent.

His heart felt like stone. Seeds of ideas played deep down within his soul, truth and the physical essence of what must be banned from thought. What happened must happen.

At his sides, his hands flexed, eased, and flexed again, as if already slipping around the throat of the lover he knew to be inside.

Because a woman scorned…

Just might as well be dead.

Darcy awoke with a start, shaking. She had felt the past, as if it had entered into her. Felt not so much a person, but the fury and malevolence that had been part of a distant time.

She sat up in bed, and looked around the room, closed her eyes again, and opened them.

Whatever had been with her, whatever remnant of emotion, was gone.

And yet…

Something else was there.

Something, someone, quiet, stealthy.

Watching.

Waiting.

4

“We all know why we’ve come.” Elizabeth Holmes’ voice, though feminine, had a deep resonance. She wasn’t exactly what Darcy had been expecting when she had heard that a local novice—who had found her dedication to the occult in the last year—had begged Matt Stone to allow her to run a seance. She wasn’t theatrical. There was no turban wrapped around her head, and her eyes weren’t dark and deep set and heavily lined with makeup to add to a mystical image. Rather, the woman was about fifty-five or sixty, slender, tall, elegantly slim, with nicely styled silver-white hair and pleasant, powder blue eyes. She looked like a typical businesswoman.

Only her voice might have fit the image of the eerie Gypsy fortune teller.

It seemed to fill the dining room at Melody House with a strange tenor, as if the walls themselves were part of a state-of-the-art speaker system.

And thankfully, the woman hadn’t opted to rename herself. She wasn’t going by Madame Zara, or anything like that. She was Elizabeth Holmes, a native of the northern Virginia area, and a real estate agent by day. Darcy had wondered at first if this medium wouldn’t prove to be a slightly crazy friend who was convinced that she needed only to dress the part to have the powers. She seemed to be a very nice woman, and committed to what she was doing. Whether she really had any ESP or not remained to be seen.

And her opening was intriguing.

“Melody House. She has stood upon this hill since the year of our Lord seventeen-seventeen. And she has, in her years, hosted both joy and tragedy. She is one of the few such surviving grand old homes of our nation still owned by descendants of her original builders. George Washington slept here!” Elizabeth paused, smiling at the group gathered around the dining room table in the muted candlelight. “George got around, it’s a wonder Martha wasn’t a great deal more upset! But I digress. Washington wasn’t her only well-known guest. The likes of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, and others of tremendous renown who lived in Revolutionary times came here as well, and later, she was hostess to many great statesmen and generals of another sad period of war—Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, and then, even Ulysses Grant and Abe Lincoln were thought to have taken rest at this place. Bullets once riddled the walls, and many still remain, from battles fought on the ground. Soldiers perished within her walls. Naturally, there were other sad occurrences here, not having to do with the specific pain of battle. There is the case of the beautiful Melody herself, daughter of the builder, distraught by her suitor’s argument with her father. She is said to have been rushing to his defense when she careened down the stairway, only to die in her lover’s arms on the foyer floor, just feet from where we now sit. There was Eliza, the daughter of General Stone, who might well have been poisoned by her rival, Sally Beauville, who was, when accosted, shot dead by the girl’s father, who then faced the hangman’s noose. Those are not all the stories. There are so many more.

“Melody House has stood for nearly three hundred years, and in that time, we can only imagine all the dramas that have been lived—and the passions and dreams that have perished here as well. They say that we are energy, and energy cannot be destroyed. Just as they say that Melody House is haunted. If ghosts and spirits are those who remained, their energy still fiercely alive due to trauma or tragedy, then there would be nothing more natural than the fact that Melody House indeed be haunted! Throughout the years, many have seen, or have believed they have seen, the ghosts of those tragic souls. In the early eighteen-hundreds, the courageous Andrew Jackson, later to be president of the United States, once spent only half a night here, and mentioned to someone later that he’d rather face the British army again than spend another night at Melody House. Some swear there is a woman in white, still walking the halls. Others have seen soldiers, still, perhaps, fighting their long-lost battles.” Elizabeth paused, something of a rueful smile on her face. “So. We shall all join hands, in the circle here created, and see what haunts or specters might wish to appear, to convey last words, wishes, or needs.”

Electricity had long ago come to Melody House, but tonight, other than the lights attached to the cameras, there was no illumination within the dining room except for a single candle burning in the center of the table.

Darcy had already felt the cold. Whether Elizabeth was able to communicate with any of the “energy” remaining in the house or not, Darcy again felt the sense of being watched. Whatever entity or entities remained at Melody House, they were watching. Across the table, she saw Penny shiver.

Darcy felt herself nudged. Hands, yes, hold hands. She set hers upon the table. She was next to Jason Johnson, a local writer and historian, and, naturally, another friend of Matt’s, and Clint Stone. Carter was on Clint’s other side. Clint covered her hand warmly with his own, and seemed both amused and curious, as if he might have an open mind to the happenings. Matt was across the table, seated next to Elizabeth. He wore a look of carefully restrained impatience on his hard-sculpted features. Mae, the woman who had been welcoming to her when she had first walked into the Wayside Inn, was there, attractively dressed and groomed, her round face split into a smile of excitement as she sat on Matt’s other side. To round out the group, a pretty young woman with the improbable name of Delilah Dey, newly elected to the town council, sat between Jason Johnson and Mae.