A Haunting Experience Read online

  He ignored the question, pushing a pile of paperwork towards her. A ballpoint pen rested on the top of the stack, and every line she needed to sign or initial was highlighted bright yellow for accuracy. She started off reading the contract carefully, making sure it covered all the details they'd discussed. But his constant sighing and huffing pressured her to go faster. In the end, she was signing and flipping to mark each yellow line without a clue as to what she was agreeing to. She'd have to hope he'd written out the terms honestly, because, otherwise, she'd be screwed. When she was finished, she dropped the pen but left the papers sitting right in front of her, just to annoy him.

  The desk was so wide that he was forced to stand and stretch to grab them from her side, and she had to hide a smile. Maybe it was petty of her, but she enjoyed the small power play. He went through each page and, with a satisfied nod, he divided the papers, stuffing one packet into his briefcase while leaving the copies for her.

  Now he was ready to answer her questions, now that she was locked in legally. Backing out would cause her too many problems at that point, so he felt it was safe enough to give her the whole truth.

  "I'm in a hurry because I have no intention of being in this wretched house after dark. In fact, I plan to be well away from here when the sun goes down. Before that time, I need to go over a good many details with you, as well as give you a tour of the place. I would, if I were you, do your best not to delay things because I assure you I will leave whether we're done or not."

  The look he fixed on her was sternly determined, and she tilted her head.

  "Are you really that afraid of this place?" she asked, confused.

  She certainly was apprehensive, but that was because she tended to see things no one else did. And so often, all spirits could do was scare you. Very few had the power to do anything more.

  He gave her a look and ignored the question, instead moving on to the next detail. "You'll be wanting this," he said, half under his breath as he dug around in his briefcase. He dropped a thick manila folder on the desk. "A complete history of the house, with all known residents, deaths, and supernatural incidents. Once you've read it I think you'll understand my—hesitation to be here after dark. There have never been any reported occurrences of consequence during the day, but the nights are—a different story."

  The look he gave her then was almost pitying.

  "I still don't understand what my purpose is. Why am I here? How did you even find me?" she asked. All were questions he'd left unanswered before.

  "Your name was suggested to us, and that's all I'm permitted to say about that. Your job or purpose, as you put it, is to help a team of researchers prove that this house is haunted. As I explained to you on the phone, every room in the house has been equipped with cameras that automatically film when they detect motion. Heat sensors, EVP recorders, all kinds of equipment whose purpose I don't even know, will be recording your stay."

  "E-every room? Even the bathroom and bedroom?" she asked incredulously. Her cheeks flushed as she realized she'd have no privacy at all during her stay.

  "The master bathroom will be unmonitored. I suggest you dress in there, since that will be the only room not filmed. All the cameras are equipped with tamper-proof security, and any attempts to interfere with them will void your contract. I will say that the entities in this house have been known to shut the equipment down when they choose, so there have been periodic outages noted. That's one reason they want someone in the house as a witness," he explained.

  One reason, he said, which meant there were others, but he quickly changed the subject before she could press for details. "As agreed, you are not allowed to leave the grounds for any reason. All utilities are functional, including TV cable, and the kitchen is fully stocked. Members of the research team will be here every day to collect data and record any events you witness. Make a list of any items you need or want, and they will bring them. We want you to be comfortable here for as long as you stay," he said, with the air of someone bestowing a great favor.

  "And the money—" she asked delicately.

  "Oh, yes, almost forgot." He slid a certified check for a thousand dollars across the desk. "Yours just for showing up, as I promised. If you stay a full week, you'll get another for twenty-five thousand dollars. Each week you stay in this house, you'll be paid the same amount for a total of four weeks. If you should manage to last an entire month, cooperating fully with the investigation, my client will, as stipulated, sign this house over to you, free and clear."

  Darkness or no darkness, the house was worth millions. She had expected some excuse to avoid giving her the money, but she had a certified check in her hand. It would cover three weeks worth of work, alone, and if he gave her a bigger one in a week—

  "But why? Why would anyone give away a house like this?" She had to know, needed a reason to believe this wasn't an elaborate joke.

  He sat back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Let me be frank with you, April. My client had no idea what she was getting into when she bought this house. She intended to restore its former glory and then live here. She was only able to last three months in this house before she was compelled to move out by circumstances of which she has shared only the briefest details with me. Afterwards, there were some problems with vandals and a fire. The reputation of the haunting increased until she found she would be unable to even sell it for her initial investment.

  "At this point, she has entered into a deal with a parapsychology department to do some serious investigation of the phenomena that have been witnessed here. They are paying a nominal fee for access to the house, but they have to share all footage and data with her. My employer designs games for a living, and I believe she intends to use all of it for a realistic virtual reality haunting experience. It will be the first of its kind to use actual footage shot in a haunted house. You have, of course, signed a non-disclosure, so all of this is privileged information. You've also given permission for any recorded data that includes you to be used," he added.

  She hadn't realized that, and she'd have to think about whether or not that bothered her. But later; for now she'd focus on getting as much information as she could before he left her alone.

  "But why do you need someone here for that?"

  "Because nothing much seems to happen here when the house is empty. We've tried. The equipment picks up very few readings during the day when people are on the property, and at night when it's empty, it's been the same, except when the equipment suddenly malfunctions, and the whole system shuts down, and that happens frequently. They hope that having someone here will spur some actual spectral manifestations," he said calmly.

  His eyes, though, weren't calm at all. They flickered around the room like he was waiting to be jumped, and she could hear the nervous tapping of his foot under the desk, too.

  All those big words he was using, he said them well, but they felt stiff and rote, as though he were reading a script. Maybe he was, for all she knew. At the very least, she suspected he'd memorized a report made by the researchers. She wondered if he even knew half of what those terms meant.

  "So I'm bait, basically," she mused.

  She had no idea if she'd be able to last a month or even the night. For the money and a chance to own a home of her own, she'd try, but she had no idea if her abilities would make things better for her or worse.

  "In a way. Well paid bait," he reminded her. He got to his feet, briefcase in hand. "It's getting late. You'll want the tour before I go." He waved an arm at the room they were in. "The library, obviously. I doubt you'll find anything on the bestseller list here, but through that arch is the media room. TV, cable, DVD player—a you won't have any trouble entertaining yourself, I'm sure."

  The library, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with old leather-bound books, looked completely appropriate for the house. The media room, when she peeked in, seemed anachronistic, being far too modern for the setting. But it would be a welcome distractio
n over the next week; she was worried about feeling trapped, with the restriction to the grounds.

  Every room seemed to be a window into the past. The only thing missing was the staff of maids and footmen moving around quietly to keep things orderly. She wondered who kept everything clean, if people were so afraid of the house. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen

  "Who cleans around here?" she asked curiously as she ran her fingers over the polished banister.

  "I don't know. Hurry up, please," he snapped, looking uncomfortable as he strode up the back staircase.

  There were, he'd said, several sets, with the wide main stairs being reserved for special occasions, normally. There was an implication that she probably shouldn't use them. She planned to ignore that; how often would she get the chance to make a grand entrance on a magnificent staircase like that?

  "Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom. There are twelve bedrooms on this floor, use any you like, sleep in a different one each night if you prefer. They are all clean and wired, however I thought this one—" He grabbed the handles of a pair of double doors at the end of the hall, and swung them open wide. He stepped back out of the way to allow her to enter first. "Would probably suit you best."

  She moved past him, stopping short and looking around with a little gasp of wonder. The bedroom, for the most part, maintained the historical feel of the rest of the house but added graceful touches of modern technology here and there. The four-poster bed, however, was straight out of the Middle Ages. So tall it had steps to reach it, and thick brocade curtains of a deep burgundy were tied back with heavy golden ropes.

  "I love it," she said in an awed tone.

  "Thought you would," he said smugly. "The bathroom is totally modern. Complete with a Jacuzzi tub and a separate shower. That is the only room in the house that isn't under video or sound surveillance So if I were you, I'd do your personal business there. Unless you enjoy being filmed of course," he said with a hint of a smirk on his lips. He gave her a look that said he was undressing her in his mind, eyes roving down over her body and taking on a certain heat.

  She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. She was used to seeing that look in men's eyes, at least before they got to know her, but this was the first hint of it that he'd shown. It was completely at odds with the professional demeanor he'd cultivated since they'd met, and she wondered what was so exciting about her that it had broken through the veneer. She'd never thought of herself as especially pretty, though men seemed attracted to her body. Despite her short stature of five-two, she was round in all the right places to attract their, sometimes unwanted, attention.

  The rest of her, though, never seemed to fit the beauty ideal she saw in magazines. Her long raven hair was completely straight, refusing to hold a curl no matter what she did, and the muddy hazel color of eyes was certainly never written about in romance novels. Her skin was the desirable tan shade that some women seemed to strive for, but when they noticed she kept it through the dead of winter, it led to a lot of awkwardness.

  What possessed people to tell her they were jealous of her skin tone because "You're so lucky you don't have to lay out to tan!" or demand to know what country she was from, despite her complete lack of any accent but Midwestern? As if she'd had any say over how she looked. Truthfully, she was a mixed bag of genetics; Italian and Irish on her father's side, Native American on her mother's, but she was told she favored her mother the most and not just physically.

  As a child, she just remembered not feeling white enough when every baby doll was blond and blue-eyed. Or too white when they went to visit her maternal family in Oklahoma. Her mother's people were Chickasaw and they'd been forced to move there in the 1800's. They were just one of many tribes who'd lost their land and identity when shoved onto a reservation and forbidden their own ways.

  It had made them protective of their culture and heritage, so there was a certain disdain for mixed children and people they felt were trying to live white, and she'd felt her outcast status keenly. Her mother, she'd heard whispered, was a great disappointment. She'd gone off to college, the first of her family, and on a full academic scholarship, too. But she'd fallen in love and dropped out to marry a white man. And then there'd been April.

  Her grandmother had told her not to mind the sneers and side-talking. "You're exactly what you're meant to be, April. Beautiful and clever, and I love you!"

  That unwavering love had made the visits bearable, but it could never make her believe she was beautiful.

  She frowned, pushing away those memories to focus on the present. She ignored the predatory look in his flat blue eyes and turned away from him.

  "Surprised you gave me any privacy at all," she said with a nervous laugh.

  "Well, between you and me, I doubt you'd have gotten even that, except that ever since the original fixtures were ripped out and replaced, the room's been declared a dead zone as far as supernatural activity." He shrugged; it was the truth, though no one knew why.

  "Odd, but this isn't the only room with modern stuff. The media room—"

  "The media room had things added, but nothing was removed. My client wanted to keep as much of the original design as possible. She even tracked down fixtures that had been sold off years ago and replaced them. A little bit obsessed about it, actually," he said. His tone expressed a certain level of frustration that made her think he'd been tasked with a lot of the work involved in the renovation.

  He showed her around the room, pointing out the features in a bored way, and then he checked his watch pointedly. "I think that's about it. Anything I left out I'm sure you can find on your own. Here are your keys," He handed her a large ring with a mixture of old iron keys and the more modern type she was used to. "These open everything, including the gates, in case you choose to leave. Of course, your departure will be recorded and the contract will be nullified." As he passed her the ring, his hand touched hers in a way that seemed less than accidental, and it lingered until she was uncomfortable.

  "Yeah, I get the idea," she said, rolling her eyes as she took the keys hurriedly.

  His eyes lingered on her for a second, and he seemed like he was going to say something, but then suddenly his professional demeanor was back in place. "The research team will be here between ten AM and three PM most days. The rest of the time is your own. Good luck."

  With that, he turned and left the room without another word. She could hear him clattering down the uncarpeted back stairs, and a couple of minutes later, the front door slammed, and he was gone.

  "Well, that was interesting," she said to herself.

  There had been something about the lawyer that had made her skin crawl, and she was almost glad to have him gone, but now that she was alone, the oppressive aura of the house seemed to increase exponentially. It could have been the solitude or it could have been that the sun was beginning to set. Either way, the feeling of dread was back, and even the gorgeous bed couldn't calm her down when she spent some time examining it.

  She wondered if she could pull the curtains shut around the bed as she slept. She didn't like the idea of being filmed as she slept, even if they couldn't see much in the dark. A tug at the curtains. however, left her disappointed. The bed might have been—probably was—the real thing, but the curtains looked authentic only at first glance. The heavy drapes had been designed to look like they were merely pulled back and tied, but closer inspection showed that the careful pleats were sewn together. Her hand dropped away with a sigh.

  But there were things to do before dark, and first she needed to unload the car. She might not need the camping supplies, but she still needed her suitcases. Unpacking killed an hour or so, and by the time she went to investigate the contents of the kitchen with an eye towards dinner, it was fully dark. She'd entered the house knowing its reputation was at least partly true. The house was filled with unresolved trauma and unhappiness; ghosts, basically.

  What she wasn't sure of was how active they really were. Stories claimed a l
ot of things, occurrences that were highly unusual and not terribly likely. The presence of spirits didn't mean they'd do anything, and physical manifestations were rare. Even though she preferred to forget about her extra gifts, she'd gone through a period of time where she'd researched those abilities heavily. She'd had to in order to convince herself she wasn't going insane. She might not know as much as the team of researchers she'd meet the next morning, but she knew enough.

  She was mulling over a few of the legends as she pulled a can of Coke from the fridge, but as she turned around, it fell from her hand, crashing to the tiled floor with a metallic clatter.

  "Who—who the fuck are you?" she demanded when she could catch her breath a second later.

  There was a man standing in the doorway, frowning. He looked familiar somehow, though she was sure she'd never met him, and she found herself studying him intently.

  "Your language is inappropriate," he said sternly.

  He was handsome in a rough way, with hair longer than most men would feel comfortable wearing. It was as black as her own, but she could never coax her hair to curl like his did, in those long loose coils that looked natural.

  His face was scruffy with a day's beard growth shadowing the hard line of jaw, and it looked good on him. He was one of those men who could skip the shaving and end up looking sexier for it. His skin, though, caught her attention. The pale coloring with an olive undertone reminded her of her father's Italian relatives, but despite his sturdy, muscular body, there was an odd sallowness to the complexion that made her think of illness.

  She realized she was staring and pulled out of it. "Yeah, well English is the only language I know, sorry," she snapped.

  She backed slowly towards the counter without looking in that direction. She'd remembered seeing a wooden block that held a set of large kitchen knives. Whoever he was, she was positive he didn't belong there, and stories of vagrants and vandals went through her head. Handsome or not, he was a trespasser and possibly dangerous.