A smile broke out over her face as she drew near to Bowridge. Home. She couldn’t wait to see her family, to feel the embrace of her husband and the tiny hands of her daughter.
To forget the pain of her mother’s passing.
*
Micah’s eyes opened to the dark night and a steady patter of rain on the window. She lay still on her back, Garrett’s hand resting on her stomach as he slept.
The dream had seemed so vivid, so real. She’d been in the carriage. She felt the cobblestones beneath the wheels, jolting and uncomfortable. She had heard the clip-clop of hooves, the calls of passers-by outside the open window. The smell of southern magnolia.
Was she channeling Adele Jones? The simple but telling images in the Jones’ family album had haunted Micah all evening, preoccupying her mind through a spaghetti dinner prepared by a guilty Garrett, and through a late-night movie with Elliott. Maybe her mind had latched onto Adele—a young woman with a young child.
It had just felt so damn real.
With a sigh, Micah turned over and closed her eyes to go back to sleep, but she snapped them open a moment later when Sticks’s growl ripped through the room.
Micah sat up, rubbing her eyes as she searched for his shadow on the floor. She was surprised to find his silhouette standing at the door to the covered patio—a door that was standing wide open, though it had been closed and locked at bedtime.
She swiveled on her bottom and got out of bed, drawn by Sticks’s low growl like a moth to its demise. She wiped her sweaty palms on her nightgown.
Sticks’s hackles were raised, his four legs planted firmly on the hardwood floor and his nose pointed out through the doorway.
Micah didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to see a ghostly Adele Langley Jones or General Benjamin on the porch, returned to Bowridge in death. But she was drawn to the porch, unable to stop her forward momentum.
She gasped as the porch came into view. A small blonde figure sat primly in the chair, her back to the doorway.
Micah crossed the threshold. “Elliott?” she asked in a low voice, slowly walking up to the chair.
But the face that turned to look at her wasn’t her daughter’s. A face more than a century old peered up at Micah—the face of Beverly Jones.
“May I go play, Mother?” The voice echoed as if it were two different voices combined.
Heart racing, Micah stepped backwards, riveted by the face of a long-dead child. Beverly lifted a hand to point at the window. No, beyond the window. Micah followed her fingertip.
In the park across the street, lit by flickering torches she’d never seen before, a group of children played.
Micah turned back to Beverly to find the girl watching her. The child’s face flickered—a brief image of Elliott shone through, and Micah screamed.
All at once, Beverly faded, leaving a confused Elliott sitting in the chair in her supernatural wake. Elliott reached for Micah. “Momma? Was I sleepwalking?”
Micah fainted.
*
She mounted the steps at Bowridge, her heart singing at the thought of Beverly waiting for her on the other side of the door. Her daughter was her everything; the two weeks Adele had spent away at her parents’ home had felt like a lifetime.
Adele’s key clicked in the lock, and she opened the door. “Beverly? Mother’s home.” She stepped inside, listening for the shuffling run of her five-year-old daughter as she shut and locked the door.
The house was entirely too hot. Adele yearned for the colder north as she opened the front window in the living room in an attempt to circulate some air.
Benjamin appeared in the archway, a smile flitting across his face beneath his bushy white beard. Adele offered him a chaste kiss. “My husband,” she greeted him. “Where is Beverly?”
Her husband’s face darkened. “Beverly sneaked from the house again to play with the…riffraff next door. I punished her by making her sit on the porch to watch them play.”
“Oh, Benjamin.” Adele sighed. “You really must learn to rein in your temper. She is only a child.”
“She must learn early to obey me,” he boomed. “Lest she not obey her future husband.”
Adele bit her tongue. Arguing would do no good. Her husband was arrogant. He always would be.
“Instruct Cook to start dinner,” Adele told him. “Beverly and I will meet you in the dining room shortly.”
Adele walked into her bedroom, tugging her traveling gloves from her hands. “Beverly? Dearest one, I am home.”
She paused as she tucked her gloves into the drawer of her bureau. No reply was forthcoming from the porch. “Beverly?” she called, heading for the door.
Her daughter’s head rested on the back of her favorite wicker chair. Adele smiled. The chit had fallen asleep! She clicked over the concrete floor and gazed down at her daughter lovingly.
The breath caught in Adele’s throat. Beverly’s eyes were wide open, glassy and unseeing.
*
Micah was unsure when dreams became reality. It was dark outside the bedroom window. Garrett wasn’t in bed beside her. The bathroom spilled warm yellow light into the room.
Adele felt as if she were imprinted on Micah’s senses. Panic gripped her at the memory of Beverly’s dead eyes. Beverly? Or Elliott?
The covered porch was hot, still filled with the heat of the day. Tears pricked Micah’s eyes as she saw the small blonde figure upon the wicker chair.
It was Elliott. Her body lay limp exactly as Beverly Jones had died, and her pale blue eyes stared out over the park forever.
*
Micah’s limbs were numb. She felt her way down the staircase one foot at a time. She trailed her fingertips along the wall but didn’t feel it.
Garrett was walking past the steps on his way to the basement stairs when he noticed her ghosting down. “Micah? Honey, what are you doing out of bed?” He came to meet her, gently taking her hands. “You had a nasty fall on the porch. You scared Elliott half to death. You should be resting.”
Micah resisted as he attempted to steer her back up the stairs. She jerked from his grasp and backed away down the hallway. “Beverly is dead.”
Garrett stiffened. He walked away from her, a tight, controlled gait. “That can’t be. I must check with Aida about dinner.”
“How long was she on the porch, Benjamin?” Micah shrieked, advancing on her husband.
Garrett spun around, his back to the basement staircase as his eyes hardened. “No daughter of mine will consort with lower classes.”
“She shall never consort with anyone ever again. You have murdered our daughter with your hubris.” Micah ended the statement on a primal yell, one borne of anger, hate, and grief. She rushed at Garrett, both hands connecting with his solid chest.
He wheeled backwards, his eyes registering his imminent accident, and then he tumbled down the steps.
The ensuing silence rang in Micah’s ears. She waited a moment before she stepped forward and gazed down. Garrett…no, Benjamin… Her husband lay prone on the black-and-white floor, blood oozing from beneath his head. His eyes were closed, his limbs splayed.
The numbness returned. First her mother—wait, I just spoke to Jean earlier today about her visit, she isn’t dead—then her daughter…and now, she’d killed her husband.
Micah returned to the third floor and the safe haven of her marital bedroom. She wanted to see her daughter one last time, but the very idea of going back out to the porch and seeing Elliott’s beautiful eyes… A sob wrenched her body.
She slid the sash up on the front window. The Georgia night was cool—A cool night wouldn’t have killed my daughter. Only a hot night. Hot.—and breezy. Tears slid down her cheeks as Micah leaned out over the street.
A flash—this is the window where the water-stained face is—and Micah put one leg out the window.
Micah, wake up.
OhmyGod, Micah NO!
Her torso was through now. Micah struggled to the surface, struggled a
gainst the influence of Adele, but it was a losing battle. Adele’s anguish was too strong.
If I cannot have my child…you shall not have yours either.
Micah tried to hold on, but her fingers let go, and she began to fall.
She didn’t even scream.
*
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Coleman!” Janet Kramer held out a hand, first to the prim and proper Missus, and then to the stout but sweetly smiling Mister. She knelt before the small girl clinging to her mother’s hand. “And you must be Kate! It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Kate smiled shyly. “Hi.”
Janet stood, tucking her clipboard against her elbow as she grinned at the couple. “You will simply love this house, Mrs. Coleman. It is exactly what you were hoping for when we began searching for your perfect southern mansion.”
Mrs. Coleman stared up at the hulking monstrosity. Even beneath the September sun, it seemed dark and menacing. “I don’t know, Janet. Isn’t it… a little run down?”
“Nonsense,” Janet replied. “The former family did quite a bit of clean-up on it, so it’s rather lovely inside. If you’ll follow me.” She mounted the crumbling front steps. “The outside does need a little work, of course. You can see how the concrete façade has a bit of weather damage.”
“An easy fix,” Mr. Coleman said with a succinct nod.
Inside, Janet showed them through the living room and dining rooms, pointing out the staircase to the basement before she led them upstairs.
“This bedroom here at the end of the hall makes a lovely little girl’s room, what with the pink-and-white striped wallpaper. I envision ruffles and teddy bears every time I see it.” Janet tittered.
“It is lovely,” Mrs. Coleman agreed. “What do you think, Kate?”
But the little girl was nowhere to be found.
“Kate?” Mrs. Coleman’s heart skipped a beat. The house was so large and unfamiliar…
They found six-year-old Kate standing on the covered porch.
“What are you doing, dear?” Mrs. Coleman asked, crossing the porch to gaze out over the peaceful street. Across the way, a group of kids clambered about the playground.
“Can you see them?” Kate asked.
Her mother smiled indulgently. “Yes, of course.”
Kate’s pretty face turned up to her beseechingly. “May I go play?”
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Turn the page for a sneak peek at the first novel in the Old Houses series, THE HOUSE!
The House
All Susan Owens wants after getting her Master’s degree is to take a break. Instead, she’s dragged into helping her family of eight move across the country to her grandma’s ancestral home in Florida.
The old house is a mess that goes beyond the aesthetic. Some of Susan’s ancestors aren’t really “gone,” and they’re determined to act out their anger.
Along with her occult-obssessed sister, and a too-cute-to-be-true neighbor sending mixed signals, Susan takes up her grandmother’s search for a way to save the house.
If she can’t save the family home, Susan can at least hope her family makes it out alive.
Chapter 1
The door was falling off its hinges and the house looked like something out of a B-horror movie, but my parents wanted to keep it. I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around the concept.
Granted, hinges were an easy fix. A little putty here, a new bracket there, and we’d have a door that swung back and forth the way it was supposed to with a minimum of horror-movie creaking.
I suppose the thing that bothered me the most was how the whole structure, door included, seemed covered in viscous, sinister darkness.
It was a bright day as we stood outside on the concrete driveway beneath the relentless Florida sun. My oversized sunglasses could barely keep out the rays, but the two-and-a-half story, hulking monstrosity was as dark as a castle on the moors at night. It was more like we were standing in front of The Haunted Mansion in the middle of happy-go-lucky Disney World; the structure shouldn’t have been as foreboding.
Peach shutters and monstrous white columns framing the porch couldn’t make the place look happy. Not even the colorful beds of tickseed, elephant ears, canna lilies, and amaranth flowers, nor the crisp look of the sunshine darting off the old-fashioned, bottle-glass windows helped much. The house tried for “home” but it failed.
Miserably.
And we were supposed to live here?
“So, what do you think, love?” my mother asked. Liz Owens, ex-college professor, now homemaker, ran a hand over the back of her neck, and then frowned at her sweaty palm. “Neoclassical?”
My dad, Tim, pursed his lips and squinted, as if that could help him think better. “Don’t know. Looks more Georgian.”
“Georgians don’t have columns,” Mom argued.
Yeah, my parents are architecture nerds.
Their conversation became muted as they disappeared inside the creepy front door, leaving me and my gaggle of five siblings on the driveway.
Matt, one of my fourteen-year-old brothers, pushed Sam, his twin, onto the lawn. With a short bark of laughter, Matt scurried inside after my parents, shouting, “Last one in’s a loser!”
He was trailed quickly thereafter by the baby of our family, nine-year-old Camille, her tiny form shooting through the doorframe followed by her shout, “Ohmygawd, a STAIRCASE!”
I grabbed Sam by his shirt and hauled him to his feet, but he shoved me away and streaked into the house to inflict bodily harm on his twin.
“I must be adopted,” I told Rachel, straightening my shirt.
My eighteen-year-old sister shoved her Harry Potter-esque glasses up her nose and smirked. “You’re not the one with red hair. Clearly, I’m the milkman’s kid.”
Isabella, sixteen and sulky, pushed past us, skinny hips swishing as she mounted the steps. “If anyone was adopted, it’s Matt and Sam. They’re boys.”
Inside, my brothers’ heavy footsteps echoed off the floorboards, punctuated by “Whoa!” and “Hey, come ‘ere!” I rolled my eyes, and motioned for Rachel to precede me up the steps.
This was the first time my brothers and sisters had ever seen the house where our grandmother grew up and spent the last years of her life; for me, only vague memories remained of the place. I was twenty-four now. Almost twenty years had passed since I last visited.
I stood on the lawn and stared up. Neoclassical or Georgian, whatever, under the dilapidation, there were signs it could be a beautiful house with a little TLC. It was a brick A-frame with a large front porch shaded by four classic columns. A covered porch jutted off of one side, and a screened room off the other. The windows were symmetrically spaced and suspiciously resembled eyeballs. It felt like the house was watching me from those dark, gaping sockets.
It was a real, live mansion, and it was our new home.
I stopped before stepping across the threshold and pressed a hand to the cool, stained glass that lined the wall to the right of the door. It was smooth where it looked rough, textured where it looked smooth. Red, green, and yellow glass waved across the glass like the surface of the ocean under a thunderstorm. I thought it was lovely, lik
e an abstract painting.
Cam skidded into view in the foyer, and then grinned broadly when she saw me in the doorway. She bounced on the tip of her toes. “Ohmygawd, Susan. Matt touched a curtain in the fancy sitting room and it fell on him. There’s dust everywhere. Come see!”
I laughed. “I mean, I know we can’t take them out in public, but seriously. They’re already destroying the new house?”
Cam cackled and disappeared again.
Before stepping inside the house I paused, my attention caught by a flash of color on the porch. To my left, propped against a large, concrete planter covered in peeling white paint, was a bundle of fresh flowers.
I walked closer, my forehead crinkling. Daisies. White daisies. I knew for a fact they were my grandmother’s favorite because they were mine, too. The bundle of a dozen was securely fastened by a dark purple ribbon, the frayed edges of which trailed over the warped porch boards—beauty on decay.
Odd.
“Susan? Sweetheart, are you coming?” Mom’s voice drifted from somewhere within the house.
“Yeah!” I called back, shooting one last look at the flowers. Leaving them where they were, I went inside.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped through the heavy wooden doorway was the way the late afternoon sunlight splashed brilliant colors through the stained glass and across the oak floors. I turned to get the full effect—the glass was aglow. It lit the entrance hall like a hallowed chapel. It was beautiful and so very different from our old house. For a minute, I was almost happy to be moving here.
Then I turned and eyed the foyer. The place felt as empty and unloved as a crumbling, abandoned abbey.
A grand stairway curved up the right wall, the deep brown of the banister worn smooth from use and the steps sagging in the middle with the weight of time. At the top of the staircase, a long, thin window was alight with sunshine over a landing that promptly turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees to continue upstairs. The foyer before me continued under the overhead landing through a single, arched doorway that led into darker recesses of the house. I could hear my family—Dad’s squeaking sneakers and the prissy tip-tap of Mom’s heels over the twins’ shuffles. Rachel and Izzy were already arguing. Big surprise.
I let the door shut with a heavy thud behind me, and the house fell into a near-reverential silence.