Rhayven House (9 page)

     Regardless of the chill in the house, ice-cold soda would hit the spot—it always did.

     Walking back into the living room with the glass of soda in hand, Ian noticed his papers had been rearranged in the short amount of time he’d been out of the room, moved into piles at the edge of the coffin coffee table. He looked down at some sort of cross. His brain put it into place and he saw the words: something spelled out—in what at first glance appeared to be white grains of sand but upon closer inspection turned out to be tiny fragments of wax from the candles. On the glass over the top of the coffin, it read:

N

E

V

E

R

NEVER FORGIVE

O

R

G

E

T

     Bizarre to say the least.

     Immediately, he checked every door and window and also did a walk-through of the house to make sure there wasn’t anybody else.

     He was alone. His rational mind told him no person of flesh and blood would have had enough time to do this, not in the scant seconds it had taken him to go to the kitchen for a drink and come back. It had been way less than a minute if he exaggerated the amount of time he’d been out of the living room.

     Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he picked up his glass of soda and brought it to his lips before setting it back down on the end table. He rubbed his eyes as vigorously as he dared, just in case they were so tired they were imagining the message in wax. Touching the wax, he concluded it was real and it had come from the pillar candles on the coffee table. Definitely couldn’t have been done by a person who’d broken into the house. Basic math skills and some deductive reasoning ruled that out.

     As he stared at the words spelled out in wax, he came to the only conclusion that made sense: the spirit or spirits—the same one or ones experienced by the contractor and some of his crew and, Ian suspected, himself—was attempting communication.

     Who or what should never be forgiven or forgotten?
There were too many goddamned ways to interpret the message
. Ian couldn’t even fathom where to begin to think. He did have the presence of mind to get his cell phone and take a few pictures, in case the message disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

     The house apparently had its secrets.

     Ian loved the house. Sure, some rooms still needed work done, because he'd done enough to make the house comfortable enough for him to move into and so he could function—living room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and library. The rest would come in time.

     Leaning back on the couch to get comfortable, all thoughts of continuing his research forgotten, Ian laced his fingers behind his head and wondered if there was more than one spirit present and who it was or they were.

     And the piano music started. It startled him. The music was faint, tinkling far in the background but it was there. He’d had the old piano thrown out and hauled away and he didn’t replace it. Someone was tickling the ivories on a phantom piano. He strained his ears and listened but couldn’t place the tune.

    
Maybe I should get up and see if I can follow the music and uncover its source
, he thought.

     He tried to follow the music, but it grew so faint and faded away so quickly he gave up almost as soon as he started.

     Coming back to the room, Ian noticed the lights were low—not turned off, just the amount of illumination had diminished. In the dimmed light he saw a shadow move and walk out from the shadowy corner. Slowly and deliberately it moved, this slim figure, as it walked to the center of the room. Ian waited to see if it would extend its membranous wings, revealing itself to be a creature H. P. Lovecraft called a
Night-gaunt
—before turning around and creeping back into the shadowed corner from whence it had come.

     Perhaps this creature from the Dreamlands, this guardian of
Ngranek,
had revealed itself to tell Ian he'd fallen asleep on the sofa and everything so recently transpired had been nothing more than a dream.

     The lights brightened and he blinked rapidly to allow his pupils to adjust.

     Ian expelled the breath he'd been holding as he realized what it was: one of the wood giraffes had mysteriously and magically come to life and wandered out into the middle of the room for a minute, before returning to its spot and once more becoming a statue.

     Rubbing his eyes, Ian thought maybe his brain had gone fuzzy since he'd stayed up too late even for him. Sleep deprivation and too much caffeine could definitely bring on hallucinations. He knew it was entirely within the realm of possibility the words in the shape of a cross on the coffee table had been an image conjured up by his sleep-deprived brain.

    
Lord, if he didn't call it a night and get some sleep, he'd soon be swearing Cthulhu, in all his tentacle-bearded glory himself, was peering in the window to spy on him.

     “Ian.”

     The voice came so unexpectedly and spoke so softly he wasn't sure he heard his name, but it managed to make his flesh erupt with goose bumps.

     It came again, so soft and faint, like a suggestion of a whisper.

     “Ian.”

     Now that just wasn't normal.

     For all his writing about ghosts and other things that go bump in the night, for all the research he conducted into various subjects like séances and spirits, Ian had never had anything he would label a paranormal experience.

     Until now. Hearing a disembodied voice calling for him in a faint whisper sure as hell qualified.

     He had an analytical mindset, meaning he didn't necessarily believe but he certainly didn't disbelieve, either. Ian's thoughts on the matter lay somewhere along the lines of the old Shakespeare chestnut from
Hamlet
:
“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

     But he didn't know what to think. At least it wasn't enough to frighten him into having a heart attack. If it was indeed a ghostly-type entity, perhaps this was its way of gently introducing itself.

     “Hello,” he said. He didn't know anyone other than Toby, who would just walk into his house unannounced or uninvited. He highly doubted a serial killer would be polite enough to announce themselves. Besides, a serial killer wouldn't know his name. Still, better to be safe than sorry. “Is anyone there?” he called as he crept over to the room doorway and peeked around the corner.

     Nobody.

     He walked over to the front door to make sure it was still locked with the deadbolt in place, so no one could have just nonchalantly meandered in without him knowing. Technically, people who knew him, called first instead of showing up unannounced because they knew he worked from home and hated unexpected interruptions. Looking down at the floor and listening intently, he didn't hear anything that remotely resembled footsteps or whispering. All quiet.

     But that didn't mean he didn't hear his name twice whispered moments before. He wasn't crazy, wasn't going crazy, had no intention of being crazy and had no prior history of auditory hallucinations. If the lack of sleep didn't explain it, then either the house was haunted or somebody was playing one hell of a joke on him. If that was the case, he didn't appreciate it.

     Walking around inside his house, asking if anyone was there and looking in closets and behind doors to make sure there wasn't, made him feel stupid beyond measure. However, it was a necessary step to rule out the possibility of an intruder.

     Shaking like a cold Chihuahua because he'd allowed nerves to get the better of him, Ian felt like smacking himself in the face. Common sense be damned, he wasn't about to hightail it out of his house because there might be a spirit on the premises.

     He'd calm down, think it through, collect potential evidence. Approach it like he would research for a book, and see if any other incidents occurred.

     Back in the living room, Ian went to the window and stared out at nothing in particular as he tried to clear his mind and put thoughts in order. Maybe when he had the security guys in to install sensors and such he would have them put a couple cameras inside the house as well as out. Not only did it make sense to do so from a security standpoint but also from an investigative one; he might catch the flesh and blood person or the ethereal ghost responsible for the odd happenings.

     Get evidence instead of jumping the gun.

     And he wouldn't bring it up to anybody just yet, especially Toby. His friend would never let him live it down if Ian started claiming a haunting and it turned out to have a more mundane explanation—like renegade mice in the walls.

     But could a horde of mice rustling around and squeaking, sound in any way like someone whispering his name?

     On the other hand, it wouldn't hurt to reach out to some people in the know just in case. He'd have to sleep on that thought. Ian didn't want any of those alleged paranormal societies on the property, much less in the house. Having watched a couple programs on television and seeing some of their “investigative methods,” he wouldn't trust them to do anything more than possibly piss off the ghost, if there was one, and leave him in a worse position than he already was. Nope, not permitting any paranormal investigations.

     And speaking of sleep; he needed to catch up on his sleep. Normally he didn't sleep more than the average person; he simply slept at a different time, staying up until three or so in the morning and sleeping until eleven. After functioning on less sleep than usual, he might have to sleep in until the afternoon...if he could.

     His second reviewing/editing process of his new manuscript was nearing completion and would be on its way to the publisher. Jumping immediately into one of his other story ideas or manuscripts didn't sound so great and he decided to take some much-needed time for himself. Ian wanted to save his time off so he could enjoy a leisurely holiday season in the new house; that didn't mean he couldn't take a week or two for himself after he completed this book.

     A great yawn—one which made his jaw crack—reminded him he needed to put the ghost business to bed, no pun intended, and crawl under the covers himself. Between all the hours spent working on his book, the lack of sleep for the last few nights, because of anticipation before the move and then the business with the shadow pacing outside last night, and staying up way past his bedtime again, Ian risked turning himself into a bloodshot-eyed zombie.

     If he wasn't careful, he'd be staggering around and moaning, doing a grand impersonation of the resurrected cadavers in Romero's classic film.

     He didn't bother turning off the lamps when he left the room. Grasping the handrail, Ian practically pulled himself up the stairs. Feeling himself fade with every step, he hoped he made it to the bed before his body decided to just say the hell with it and shut down whether he was ready or not.

     The pillow seemed to become him, all but singing a siren song as soon as Ian walked into his bedroom. Believing he'd fall into a deep coma of sleep if he even came close to the bed before getting undressed, Ian gave it a wide berth as he walked to the other side of the room and closed the drapes. He hated being awakened by the sun shining in and trying to blind him.

     Being so tired, a coma sounded like ethereal bliss, and he grinned at the stupid thought.

     Unzipping his pants and taking off his shirt couldn't be done fast enough. He grabbed a pair of boxers, slipped them on, and climbed into bed. The chill that suddenly arose and just as quickly passed through the room almost didn't catch his attention. It was fall or close enough, and nights got chilly, especially in old houses. So, he laid his head on the pillow, pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and got comfy.

     Closing his eyes, he drifted off before he knew it.

Nine

     The storm raged for most of the afternoon, with the ferocity of a rabid animal, not unusual for fall weather in Western Maryland. Wind whipped around; rain pelted the walls and roof. The old house creaked and cracked, but neither a gust of wind nor a drop of rain penetrated it. Sheets of rain slapped against the house. Gurgling water gushed down the spouts as rain cascaded off the roof. The first strike of lightning caused a clap of thunder he felt in his bones.

     A close one.

     Never one to be afraid of a good storm, Ian rather enjoyed the sound of the rain, the flashing brightness of the lightning, the rolling grumble of the thunder. It not only created a soothing symphony for him to easily fall asleep, it amped up his creativity.

     And Ian again wondered, as he sometimes found himself doing, why he felt like the theme song for his life would be the song “Ave Satani” from
The Omen
. If he closed his eyes and concentrated really hard, he bet he’d hear those chorales echoing.

     It had been raining since he'd gotten out of bed, the storm having started during the wee hours of the morning. Ian had been really tempted to stay in bed, pull the blankets up over his head, and just enjoy the storm.

     Nothing better than books on a rainy day. Ian liked his library. The old built-ins were salvaged for the most part—a combination of revitalizing the ones original to the house and replacing the ones that couldn’t be saved with pieces salvaged from other old homes. Since it was bigger than his former library, he had plenty of room to add books. Very comforting to be surrounded by wood and books. No wonder people sought out older homes.

      When he finally got the fireplace installed, a one hundred-fifty year old find his friend discovered stored in the basement of its original owner, it would heat the room easily; at five feet wide and over eight feet tall, it would dominate the opposite the windows. Flames would be reflected in the new glass and light would fill the room. And the fact it was practically the twin of the living room fireplace was an added bonus.

     Rain splattered outside, helping to create a relaxing ambiance in which Ian enjoyed his book—a large tome about the final resting spots of celebrities—and entertained thoughts of a slice of the vegan German chocolate cake he'd made the day before. Ian reminded himself he’d already eaten a pretty big piece for a late breakfast, not to mention the two yesterday, and the cake wouldn’t last more than another day if he kept eating it. Outside, a flash of lightning was soon followed by the rolling grumble of thunder. Ian enjoyed a good storm, as long as the electricity didn’t go out. His enjoyment lasted only as long as there was power, and he hadn’t had the chance to get a generator yet. He put the thought out to the universe to keep the electricity flowing.

     As he turned the page, he almost had himself convinced he didn’t want another piece of cake. Almost, but not quite. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before the desire would overcome him and he’d find himself in the kitchen, chewing on the pecans and coconut in the icing. German chocolate icing, the closest to manna from heaven he’d ever get. In his mind, he already tasted the cake.

     Unless there was pecan pie. Chilly, rainy days practically cried out for a big slice of pecan pie. He would have bowed his head and lamented his lack of pie were it not for the call of the cake.

     When he felt the hand on his shoulder, Ian didn’t know whether to jump up and run out of the house, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs, or just drop dead of fright right on the spot. Icy cold spread like the wispy roots of Russian Sage down his back, entwined around his spine, and then meandered deep into his chest to wrap around his heart. His heart. It thumped harder than someone buried alive, trying to get out of their coffin. Ian breathed shallow breaths. Afraid to move his head, even barely, he slowly forced his eyes to the right and then down to see if there really was a hand on his shoulder. His eyes discerned nothing out of the ordinary, but he felt the dead weight of it…unmoving…just there.

     Odd didn't begin to describe the sensation.

     Then the unseen hand flexed its fingers. He felt the movement of each one. His eyes caught the ruffling of his shirt. Fabric indented and formed an outline. Ian brought his eyes back up and looked straight ahead, into the mirror hanging across the room. The sight of his own face, his wide eyes, and the nothing that stood behind him was reflected. He saw only himself sitting in the chair, the window behind him, the rain sliding down the glass. No hazy apparition looming over him, no dark shadow hovering at his back.

     But still he felt the hand.

     And then the weight vanished.

     There was no change in light. No cloud drifted across the window. The pressure lifted, a miracle like the Moses parting the Red Sea fable. There was no other explanation, other than the phantom hand being removed.

     Easing himself up from the chair, Ian clutched the thick hardcover book in both hands, ready to wield it as a weapon should the need arise. First objective: Get out of the room. Second objective: Then take the time to wonder what the hell just happened. Third objective: Come up with a rational explanation.

     Calmly, not in a blurry, blind rush, he walked out of the room. He almost said “excuse me” just in case a ghost was there. He didn’t want to appear rude. Grabbing his smokes, a lighter, and a soda out of the refrigerator on his way through the kitchen, he casually strolled out the kitchen door and onto the covered porch, where he plunked down into a chair and promptly lit a cigarette. Ian inhaled deeply.

    
Rational thought
, he reminded himself. Ghosts were possible. He knew this going into the whole house deal. It could have also been any number of things.

     Phantom hands don’t come out of nowhere. An apparition was one thing. Ian could handle maybe seeing a cloudy image from time to time. No biggie. He could even handle hearing some weird noises at night, providing they didn’t interrupt or otherwise mess around with his creative time.

     But if the spirit was going to physically touch him, he was calling foul and filing a complaint. His imagination was creative. That would be a feasible excuse. But he felt it, and saw the indentations on his shirt. Imagination didn’t cause that. He had a ghost. Maybe it was making sure he knew it was there. Kind of just smacking him on the shoulder as its way of saying “hi.”

     He popped the top of the soda can and took a long swallow of the cold stuff. Then, with the cigarette dangling from between his lips, he peeked through the kitchen window to see if he spotted anything out of the ordinary. Not sure what he should be looking for, he looked anyway. He saw the kitchen. Nothing odd about that, except he forgot to close the refrigerator door when he got his soda; so he went in and shut it, then came back out and reclaimed his seat.

     The sound of the rain in the background helped soothe his heart; it slowed back down to normal. Ian sat and smoked and watched the rain come down.

~ ~ ~

     After a few more hours, the rain slacked off for the most part for a while, persisting as more of a sporadic drizzle than actual rainfall. The sun, veiled by bruised-looking clouds, finally sank demurely below the mountain, as Ian smoked his way through the better part of a whole pack of cigarettes, and drank five or six cans of soda. He hoped the overdose of caffeine and nicotine wouldn't make it hard to sleep later when he finally crawled into bed.

     Floating lights in the woods made Ian think of
ignis fatuus
, or the will-o'-the-wisps of folklore. He had a soft spot for the will-o’-the-wisps and jack-o’-lanterns because of the legends behind the terms; both being names for a light-carrying spirit, either a Will or a Jack. Not just for Hallowe’en. He always thought of it with that particular spelling, since it was, in fact, a contraction for All Hallows’ Evening.

     Swirling and spiraling, the little lights climbed up through the foliage and circled around the tops of the trees, before disappearing in the dark sky. Beautiful in a way to watch, he somewhat missed them as soon as they winked out of sight, as if extinguished by something unseen by his eyes. Ghostlights dancing.

     Defied explanation, at least in Ian’s mind. He knew they couldn’t be fireflies. Yeah, things were getting a touch too weird and he thought it best he didn’t dwell on it any longer or he might find himself being carted off in a special jacket that ties in the back.

     He felt the urge to go back inside and read some more. Maybe the body attached to the hand had vacated the premises, or, at the very least, wasn’t going to loom over him again. Ian wanted to stretch out on the sofa and enjoy one of Kamelot’s CDs. Concept albums had always been a favorite because they weren’t just albums of miscellaneous songs.

     They were cohesive and told a story.

     Kamelot’s
Silverthorn
told a tragic tale of a little girl’s death back in the 1800’s. In his opinion, it surpassed their interpretation of Goethe’s Faust on their
Epica
and
The Black Halo
albums. He also liked listening to Tobias Sammet and his project
Avantasia
, especially
The Mystery of Time
album and its sequel
Ghostlights
,
with the glorious storyline of faith versus science.

     But his taste for the symphonic gothic style kept him playing the albums continuously. After all, they could be considered soundtracks. He cranked the volume on a few songs here and there, loud enough to practically rattle the window glass. There was no way around it. Sometimes, louder was just better.

     Up on the bookshelf, along with his two big omnibuses of Lovecraft and Poe, were his signed first editions of
Haunted
by the late, great James Herbert,
The Uncanny
by Andrew Klavan, and
Into the Mirror Black
by Frank E. Bittinger. Ian brushed his fingertips across them, as he walked by on his way to take a seat on the sofa, thinking maybe he would light a fire and curl up with a creepy book for the night.

     He gave up the idea of listening to music in favor of reading. Music always distracted him.

     Propping his feet up on the coffin, the one he’d put a thick piece of glass on top of to make into a coffee table, he reached for the printed out manuscript of the anthology of gothic tales. He was halfway through writing the manuscript—
Evangelium Scarabae
—and made himself comfortable so he could begin his read-through. He knew he should be working on the book his publisher wanted, but he felt like rebelling against always being so freaking responsible; maybe after immersing himself in some of his own short fiction he'd grab the book about Fibonacci sequences (again) and get lost in it.

     Ian quickly glanced at the glass top to see if the message written in granules of wax had mysteriously materialized again, as it did a few nights ago. But it wasn’t there. He almost fully expected it to be, since he’d felt the weight of the hand on his shoulder earlier. Maybe the spirit or spirits could only manifest or communicate in certain ways at certain times.

     It seemed as if the incident had happened longer than a few nights ago, but time did have a way of blurring whenever he'd reached the final stages of a book, and usually spent his time either lost deep in a manuscript or asleep. Coupled with his sleeping not being as it should since moving into the house, Ian hoped it was not foreshadowing a less than stellar book release.

     Usually, Ian shied away from anything heavier than the powder he took every once in a while for a headache, but if his sleeping didn't soon go back to normal, he might have to give in and look into getting an herbal sleep aid to knock him out.

     He could understand the lack of sleep, what with somebody blowing in his ear or putting a hand on him; it was a wonder he didn't flat out bolt from the house in his skivvies, screaming at the top of his lungs about the
haint
in his house.

     Wouldn't that be awfully embarrassing? But he lived all the way out here, so who would see, unless he ran screaming all the way into town and he doubted he'd do that. The thought brought a smile to his face.

     After reading two or three of his own short pieces of fiction, Ian decided to change routes.

     Knowing full well he should be working on his manuscript, Ian took a somewhat perverted delight in putting down his own manuscript and picking the book about Fibonacci sequences back up and opening it. The universe would not cease spinning and expanding, if he took it easy for one damned night.

     Outside, the storm geared up for another round. A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the windows, followed by a near-apocalyptic crash of thunder that rumbled through the house. The lights flickered and died for a few brief—but felt longer—seconds, stranding him in darkness, before springing back to life. He knew he had “for-looks” candles as well as “for-burning” candles he could use in case the electricity did go out. If it did go out, it would stay out until at least morning because no one short of suicidal would be out trying to fix it in this storm. Being in the valley, he might be without power for a day or two.