Authors: Kathy Carmichael
“See what?” asked Maury innocently.
Perhaps too innocently.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. Maury couldn’t have had anything to do with her luggage taking wing. It had been an optical illusion. But it was a
really
odd optical illusion.
“Never mind. So, what did you say an MFD is used for?”
A little over forty minutes later, she found herself standing on a sidewalk with the three ghost hunters and the biggest pile of luggage she’d seen in her life. They’d need a van to cart them to Haliday Hall, because no regular-sized taxi could hold them and their baggage. Hell, they probably needed a semi.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed goth boy from the bus. But wait a second! He couldn’t be the same kid. Now he was dressed in exactly the same type of suit as John Travolta had worn in
Saturday Night Fever
. That was her foster mom’s favorite movie. The resemblance to goth boy was uncanny, though.
She shot a look at Maury, who stood beside her. His eyes were lit with mischief. He elbowed Thomas and pointed to goth boy.
What kind of weirdness was going on here?
Disco?
Until the moment they pulled
past the creepy lion-statue-adorned entrance gate
at Haliday Hall, Frannie hadn’t given much thought to the idea of ghosts.
She hadn’t considered, one way or the other, whether they actually existed. Since she’d personally never been exposed to one, she’d always presumed that people who honestly believed in them were likely to have a screw loose. So, when Harold had given her the assignment to cover the ghost investigation at Haliday Hall, she’d thought the story would run along the lines of what the ghost hunters did, and then a little history of the mansion, ending with an open question as to whether the place was actually haunted.
But now, as their over-loaded taxi van headed up the drive to the ominous-looking mansion, Frannie had second thoughts. Behind her, the three stooges couldn’t be seen beneath the luggage spilling from the rear storage area and piled on top of them.
Outside, sharp blades of afternoon sun rays pierced through dark storm clouds, bringing every cornice, every pinnacle, every crenellation of the mansion into stark detail. Mansion was such a deceptive word. In fact, Haliday Hall looked like a medieval castle. While her research had indicated it was Gothic Revival, she hadn’t realized how it would impact her senses until now, when she was confronted with it.
To say Haliday Hall was asymmetrical would be a vast understatement. Constructed of Sing Sing Marble, with intricately detailed carvings, the mansion was a mish mash of towers, gables, gargoyles and dormers. It was incredibly lovely, down to the veranda draped around one front corner, and despite its beauty, it looked exactly like a haunted house of nightmares.
If ghosts existed, they most definitely would make their home in a place like Haliday Hall.
Frannie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. What would she do if she actually ran into ghosts? How would she react?
Would she be brave and rational? Would she live up to her reporter instinct to record as much and as factually as possible? Or would she turn and run? Because now that she faced the dominating majesty of Haliday Hall, the biggest thing on her mind was escape. Her heart pounded and every raw instinct screamed: “Run!”
But here she sat, cramped in the front seat of the taxi, buried beneath her carry-on, uncomfortably aware of the notebook burning a hole in her pocket because she should be capturing these moments for use in her article.
With determination, she turned her concentration away from the mansion and worked on gaining access to her purse, which was wedged between her thigh and the taxi door. Someone had to pay their driver, and if she had the money in her hand, perhaps she’d be less tempted to ask him to turn around and take her back to the bus station.
Menacing mansions were all well and good in fiction, but not so much in real life.
For the moment, she truly regretted her secret addiction to Victoria Holt and Phyllis Whitney novels. Why couldn’t she have been into science fiction instead of gothic romance?
Just as she managed to slip a bill out of her wallet, the ghost hunters in the backseat caught sight of their destination.
“Th-th-this is it?” asked Maury in a frightened voice.
Thomas emitted a low whistle.
“It’s big,” said Frannie.
“No need to let it overwhelm us,” replied Willie Jo. “We’ve got a job to do, and if it means covering every inch of the place, from the turrets to the dungeons, we’re up for the task.”
Did he have to mention dungeons?
The taxi turned to navigate the circular drive. Inside the grassy area were no fewer than three statues and a huge fountain that could compete with Tivoli. The taxi rolled to a stop at the apex of the circle.
“Big?” repeated Thomas as he slid the rear van door open. “You call this place big? Some entire countries are smaller than this dump. Big? I call it an effing coliseum. We’re going to be too tired to take any readings, just because we’ve walked from one wing to the next.”
“I think I forgot to pack my Centrum Silver,” said Maury. “Maybe we should go back.”
Frannie felt a deep kinship with Maury at that moment. Going home would be her favorite thing in the world to do right now. But if she’d learned one thing in life, it was to face her fears. She shook off her reaction to the house, handed their driver the fare and climbed out of the van.
“I’ll go let them know we’re here,” she said.
“I have a bad feeling about this place.” Maury glanced up at the house suspiciously.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Willie Jo replied in a voice as sad as he looked. He made a scooting motion at her. “Ignore him.”
“If we don’t hear from you in five minutes, we’ll send out a search party,” Thomas said reassuringly, his wild white hair dancing in the breeze.
While the ghost hunters sorted out their luggage, she headed up the long walkway to the split stairs encircling yet another statue, this one of Cupid hovering over some unsuspecting headless, Venus-like, half-clad female.
There were fifteen steps. She counted them. As she reached the landing, she glanced ahead at the dark and cavernous entryway culminating in a lone arched wooden door. It looked like it belonged on a medieval castle.
Pausing to regather her courage, she glanced back at the ghost hunters, who were still unloading the taxi van. The scene reminded her of the TV commercial where tens of children kept stepping out of a mini-van, except instead of kids, the ghost hunters pulled out suitcase after suitcase.
Shaking her head, she looked around for a doorbell, then gave herself a mental kick for thinking she might find one at a place like this. She eyed the elaborate door knocker, a sense of foreboding holding her back from grabbing it. She almost felt as though she’d traveled back in time to when door knockers, elaborate or otherwise, were the norm.
Slowly, she raised her arm. She touched the smooth metal surface of the knocker. When at last she took hold of the semi-circular arm and lifted it, she didn’t see how it could make enough noise, in a place of this size, to alert the occupants to someone’s arrival. But what the hell. She allowed the arm to drop.
A deep boom resonated from the knocker. She jumped. The racket echoed all around her. So that’s how they managed to hear it.
Enjoying the momentary sense of power, she grabbed the knocker and this time used a little force in sending it down. The resulting cacophony sounded like thunder, and, as she glanced about to see the results of her efforts, she noticed she’d drawn the attention of the cab driver and the ghost hunters, who had paused in their labors to look up at her. She grinned at them and held up her fingers in an “OK” sign.
When she turned back, she discovered the door had been silently opened and Heathcliff, Mr. de Winter, Mr. Rochester or some other gothic hero materialized before her, with a perfection of both sulkiness and arrogance and, yeah, a deadly combination of masculine beauty and gut-wrenching sexiness. Aristocratic, broody, moody and sexy as sin.
O.M.G.
He raised an imperfectly shaped eyebrow, the corner of which turned up in an unusual fan shape, and like the mansion, there was a lack of symmetry in his other eyebrow as well as the features of his face. But most notable of all, besides a patrician nose, sensual lips and the mossy-green of his eyes, was his jaw.
Frannie didn’t usually think about a man’s jaw, and certainly, she’d never thought about a jaw in terms of poetry. But, good lord, this man’s jaw was something to behold. It anchored his face and features and gave him a look of nobility of purpose and spirit. Wowzers.
Said jaw, also, however, appeared to be angry.
Frannie gulped, speechless for once under the scrutiny of this man. Somehow, she had to find her words. She cleared her throat as he waited impatiently for her to say something. “I’m Frannie Fielding with
The Global Spy
.”
There. She’d managed to say something. And she hadn’t made a fool of herself. Yet.
The man eyed her, slowly traversing from the top of her head down to her Sketchers-clad feet. She’d been checked out in this way before, back in her foster-care days, when some jerk—okay, Mrs. Mahoney of the Child Welfare Division—implied she wasn’t a worthwhile being, that she was below scorn or less than significant. And as then, it made her mad. Furious, in fact.
Her years with Dan and Marge had taught Frannie a deep sense of self-worth. She drew herself up to her full height. She wouldn’t be intimidated. “I believe you were expecting us?”
She didn’t like the way his lip curled into an expression of disapproval. She also didn’t like the fact he had yet to utter a word. Two could play this game. She stared into his eyes, making it clear she awaited a response.
He broke the stare first. “I’m sorry my aunt and uncle aren’t home to
welcome
you. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me as host.”
The way he said welcome made it clear he meant the opposite. But his voice silkily inched its way down her insides like a first sip of effervescent champagne. “And you are?”
“Sinclair Haliday.” He tilted his head as if this were a formal introduction.
By this time, the ghost hunters and their mountain of luggage had caught up with her. Sinclair opened the door wider and motioned for them to come in. It wasn’t a friendly gesture, though. More like cold and angry.
His attitude perplexed her. What did he have to be pissed about?
Willie Jo paused before entering the mansion. He shot an interested look at her and Sinclair, as if aware of the animosity bubbling between them. Thomas followed on Willie Jo’s heels, shooting odd grins at her and Sinclair. Maury scooted right behind the others.
She shrugged and entered the house, too, but stopped in her tracks immediately. On the outside, the mansion was all angles and steeply pointed arches, and she’d expected more of the same inside. And while it was similarly lushly decorated with marble and carvings, the entry hall robbed her of breath.
It was circular.
It was enormous, with openings and doors shooting off in every direction.
The floor was a huge mosaic, simple and without pattern except for the center of the room, filled with a large eagle design.
“Whoa.” Thomas looked stupefied as he stepped mid-way into the room, with Maury shadowing him.
A gigantic fireplace protruded from the opposite side of the palatial foyer. An enormous, gold-leafed table—the kind King Arthur’s knights ought to be seated around—crouched above the eagle mosaic.
Willie Jo stood between Frannie and the table, gawking up in awe at the immense, wrought-iron chandelier.