Authors: Rebecca York
Terror Mansion (Decorah Security Series, Book #12): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella
Terror Mansion (Decorah Security Series, Book #12)
A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella
By Rebecca York
Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York
This wasn’t Wyatt Granger’s routine nightmare. Usually he had a clear vision of some unfortunate future event that he might or might not be able to alter.
Instead he saw a confusing swirl of murky images with shadowy figures appearing and disappearing, mostly at an old building near the dock in a seaside town. More confounding were the scenes in what looked like a house of horrors, filled with distorted mirrors, a laughing but menacing clown and places where the floor dropped out from under your feet, sending you to the depths of hell.
But always at the center of the whirlwind was a beautiful young woman with terror in her wide-set brown eyes and her sable hair in a tangle around her heart-shaped face.
When his own eyes blinked open, he lay with his heart pounding, fighting his way back to reality. But the here and now kept slithering away. What he saw instead was the woman’s face floating in his mind, the most indelible image from the nightmare.
“Who are you?” he whispered as he sat up and thrust aside the tangled bedsheets.
Although she wasn’t there to respond, he had no doubt that he was going to meet her soon, and the encounter was going to change his life.
A dramatic way to put it? Maybe, but he knew to the marrow of his bones that the dream had been about his own future—even when his prescient nightmares had never been personal before.
“Crap,” he whispered under his breath. He stood up, pressed his feet against the cold floor and walked naked to the window of his condo, where he stood clenching and unclenching his fists as he looked toward the glimmer of dawn on the horizon.
He ached to shake off the vivid confusion of the dream.
But instead of the bare tree trunks outside, he saw the woman’s face, pale and intense and beautiful.
“Who are you?” he asked again, but he heard only the throbbing of the blood in his veins.
He might not know her name, but he
had
to find her. He could have fought the feeling of urgency that threatened to choke off his breath, but the truth of the dream was burned into his soul, even when he had no way to cope with it on a logical level. All he knew was that he had to go to her. And then he had to take her in his arms and protect her—even when he knew she was going to mount a savage denial that she needed his aid.
Urgency and frustration had him stomping down the hall. In the bathroom, he took a quick shower. In too much of a hurry to shave, he pulled on slacks, a button-down shirt and a sport jacket. Logically there was no way to even know where he was going. But he felt a compulsion to drive east, as though a psychic beacon was pulling him in the right direction, heading toward the waterfront that had flickered in and out of the nightmare.
His destination solidified in his mind when he’d crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to the Eastern Shore of Maryland. There were lots of waterfront towns in this part of the state, but he took the turn to St. Stephens, which had been a thriving port in colonial times. Now pleasure craft bobbed gently in the small harbor, and Main Street was lined with tourist shops and restaurants.
A welter of emotions grabbed him by the throat as he parked in a lot in the heart of the downtown area and strode toward the dock. Yet some part of him still feared the dream had all been a lie.
Relief jolted through him when he saw the shambling gray building from the nightmare. The feeling was nothing compared to what he felt when his gaze fell on the woman standing outside the barn-like door.
His heart skipped a beat, then started pounding in double time when he saw her. In the nightmares she’d been wearing a black cocktail dress, the fabric clinging to her high breasts and gently curved hips. In real life she was wearing scruffy jeans, running shoes, and a light green tee shirt. Her only adornment was a large silver barrette that caught her hair at the back of her neck.
She’d been scanning the area with a worried expression, and Wyatt froze as her gaze skidded to a stop when she saw him. For a couple of charged seconds, their eyes locked, and he absorbed another truth. He had been right about her not wanting his help—his or anybody else’s.
He tensed, expecting her to come striding toward him, demanding to know why he’d invaded her territory. Instead she ducked back inside the building, and he was left with a mixture of confusing emotions. Elation at finding her surged through him, but it came with a cold dose of reality. She was going to hate his first words.
He wouldn’t like them either. He’d learned a long time ago that the dreams he had of the future were rarely something he wanted to share. But in this case, he had to.
He kept watch on the doorway. When she didn’t reappear, he was drawn forward as though by a powerful invisible force—the force that had brought him to this place and time. Only now that he’d seen the woman at the center of the dream—the compulsion was like an electric current humming through his body.
He’d come down here with no concrete plans, other than the conviction that he was the only thing standing between her and death.
Absurd opening lines zinged through his head.
“Hello, I think somebody’s trying to kill you.”
Or, “I’m here to save your life.”
Praying he could come up with something that sounded more reasonable, he walked to the door.
He heard no sounds from the interior. Hoping to get a little more information before he had to explain why he was there, he stepped inside—past a sign that said, “Silversmith’s Workshop. Private Property; Keep Out.”
When his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior, he saw a large open room with a scuffed and scarred wooden floor. Old kitchen cabinets lined one wall, and another held racks of tools like hammers and pincers. He also saw a blowtorch, welder’s goggles, and a scarred white kitchen stove with wire mesh sitting on one of the burners.
Business cards were scattered on a long counter. He picked up the top one and read:
Kate Kingston
Fine silver jewelry
210 Dockside
St. Stephens, Maryland
www.silverader.com
Now at least he knew her name and occupation.
He was about to walk farther into the space to get a better look around when he heard a sharp but feminine voice say, “I have a gun. Hands in the air. Turn around slowly and face me.”
Determination and fear warred inside Kate Kingston as she watched the tall, rangy man turn. For weeks she’d had the feeling that someone was spying on her, even sneaking into her workshop, up to no good. But this was the first time she’d gotten a good look at the guy.
As they stood face to face across ten feet of charged space, she took in a quick impression of dark eyes and hair, a strong jaw covered by a couple day’s growth of beard, and a nose that looked like it had once been broken. It was nobody she knew from around town, and nobody she remembered from her past. Had he come to St. Stephens for the express purpose of harassing her?
But why?
“Why have you been stalking me?” she demanded, struggling to keep her voice from shaking. She was glad to note that her hand looked steady, although she was thinking she should have brought her phone so that she could call the police.
“I’m not stalking you,” he said as he stood with his hands at shoulder level, palms facing her.
“I saw you lurking outside. Then you deliberately walked past a private property sign.”
“I’m not a stalker,” he said again. But what else would he say, under the circumstances? Still his next words surprised her. “My name is Wyatt Granger. I’m a private detective, and I just got to town.”
She kept her voice even. “Prove it.”
“I’m going to reach into my pocket slowly and take out my identification.” As he spoke, he moved his right hand and came out with a wallet, which he flipped open, showing a card that said he was a Decorah Security Agent. “You can call my office if you need them to vouch for me,” he said.
“If you have a phony ID, you can also have a phony employer standing by to confirm your identity.”
He sighed. “Right, it’s an elaborate ploy.”
Ignoring the mixture of frustration and sarcasm in his voice, she asked, “If you’re a detective, who hired you to spy on me?”
There was a surreal quality to the conversation, perhaps because this was the confirmation that she’d made a serious mistake a little more than a year ago.
She’d moved around so much as a kid that she’d never been able to call anywhere home. Then she’d seen a listing for a vacant property in St. Stephens that sounded perfect for her lifestyle. When she’d come down to have a look, it had been even better than she’d imagined, with a big space she could use for a workshop and a smaller apartment blocked off in one corner. She’d signed a long- term lease. But in the last six weeks, she’d started thinking that perhaps she’d been wrong about St. Stephens. Maybe it could never be the home she’d longed for.
“No one hired me to spy on you.” He cleared his throat. “Would you mind lowering the gun?”
A fair question, she supposed. After an internal debate, she tilted the weapon away.
“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
His next words raised goose bumps on her arms. “I have information that you’re in danger.”
oOo
Struggling not to show how much this meeting was affecting him, Wyatt watched the play of emotions on her face. Nobody likes that kind of bad news, but he was sure she wasn’t going to believe him. He might have had an intense encounter with her in a dream, but in real life, she had no reason to trust him. Plus he could tell from the few short minutes of this meeting that she was brave, stubborn and independent. He loved the combination, yet he knew that the character traits had put her life in danger.
“I saw someone watching you.”
“Just now?”
“Yes,” he lied because a bluff seemed like his best option.
“You saw someone? And then
you
sneaked in here? I suggest that unless you come up with something better, you turn around and go back to . . .” She glanced at the card. “Beltsville. If that’s where you’re really from.”
She wanted a better reason to believe him? If he told her the truth, would he just be digging a bigger hole in the shifting sand under his feet?
Judging from her expression, he was pretty sure she was going to laugh in his face. He rarely revealed his ability in a blatant fashion. But now he was thinking it was his only alternative—in the absence of any hard evidence.
He dragged in a breath and let it out before saying, “Okay, you’ve heard of psychics who work with the police?”
She answered with a laugh, confirming his expectation. “And you’re saying you’re one of those?”
“Not exactly. But similar. Like my card says, I work for an agency called Decorah Security.”
She made a scoffing sound. “You picked the wrong person to con with that psychic line. My father owned a carnival, and I know all about psychics.”
That was an interesting revelation.
“Usually he had a fortune-teller, Madame Delilah or Something Else exotic. They were all independent contractors, but they had to pay him for the privilege of fleecing the customers. The fortune- tellers would size up rubes and ask some leading questions that would help them come out with plausible revelations, designed to separate the marks from some of their money.” She laughed again. “And now you’re trying to do the same damn thing to me.”
The cynical assessment made him want to shift his weight from one foot to the other, but he kept his body steady.
“No. Why would I?”
“I’m guessing you want me to pay for your private-detective services.”
He fought the unwelcome desperation rising in his chest.
“This has nothing to do with scamming you. I’m not here to get money out of you. I wouldn’t do that.”
She snorted. “Isn’t that your job—protecting people—for pay?”
“I’m not on a job.” He wanted to add, “This is personal,” but he knew it wasn’t going to help.
She shrugged. “Yeah, well I know you’re playing some kind of game. And now you’d better get out of here, or I’ll call the police.”