The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1)

T
HE
Haunted

by CASSIE ALEXANDER

The Haunted

Copyright
©
2014 by Cassie Alexander

www.cassiealexander.com

This ebook is
licensed for personal use only. Please do not participate in or encourage
piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

This is a work of
fiction. Any similarity between characters or events in this story and with any
other person or creature, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Daphne
stood on the cool white tile of her new entry hall, looking up at her husband
with distress. “But we just got here –“

“I
know, pet, I know,” Richard said, but he didn’t set his briefcase down.

“And
there’s so much unpacking to do — I don’t even know where everything goes.” Boxes
were piled everywhere, their belongings and those the house’s prior occupants
had left behind. She didn’t even know how many rooms their new home had, it was
immense — and how could it feel like a home to her, if Richard left her alone
their first night there?

“You’ll
put it all right. You always do. I’ll be back before you know it.” He reached
out and gently held her chin. “It’s just a week.”

“And
then?”

“And
then I’ll come back and you and I can spend the rest of our lives together.”

“You
always say that. And it’s never just a week.” She stared at him, for once
refusing to back down. They’d bought this place to have a child in, and
children didn’t just make themselves.

The
driver idling outside cleared his throat -- Richard had a flight to catch.
“This time I promise,” he said, turning to leave.

“That’s
what you said last time,” she said quietly to herself, watching him go.

She
sat down on the wide stairs leading to the second floor. It was always like
this with Richard — in the battle between her and his work, work won. She’d
known it going into their relationship. It’d been fine when they’d been nearer
civilization – she’d gone to movies, bookstores, lunches. But now that he’d
moved her here, miles away from the nearest town, with the nearest city far
past that – her sense of abandonment was overwhelming. The size of the house
he’d bought her only made it worse. It was too big, too easy to imagine that
the house was like a mouth, swallowing her alive.

She’d
begged him not to buy it, but he’d been enchanted the moment he’d stepped on
the grounds. Something here had intoxicated him, even though they would never
own enough things to fill it up, that half the rooms would be gathering dust,
never used. It’d given him some old world vision of himself as the lord of a
manor, and once the grandeur had gotten hold of him, there’d been no way to
shake it loose.

No
matter that she couldn’t see herself out here, in this massive place,
completely alone. Or rather, awkwardly not alone. There were servants —
servants! — and Daphne found that distasteful. But there was no way to manage a
home this big without them. The real estate agent had called some of the old
owner’s employees back and only the fact that she and Richard were paying them
handsomely combined with the fact that she planned to require as little from
them as possible made it okay.

Of
course, now they were nowhere to be found, and she didn’t know how to call for
them. Daphne imagined herself wandering the halls, shouting like a madwoman or
wildly ringing bells. Perhaps she could ask them to listen for whistles, like
little Von Trapps.

“Mrs.
Vance?”

She
couldn’t see who asked, but she jumped to standing. She didn’t want anyone else
to see her despairing on the stair.

“Sorry
to startle you, Ma’am.” An elderly man in a black suit bowed deeply. She knew his
name was Arthur. Could she call him that? Or was there some foolish title she
ought to be using instead?

“No.
It’s okay.” Both of their voices echoed in the hallway, uncomfortably loud.

“I
came to ask what time you wanted Mrs. Dudley to serve dinner.”

Servants,
cooking for her -- it was preposterous! But they were getting paid, and she
didn’t even know where the kitchen was yet – or a grocery store. “Seven?” she
guessed, hoping he’d agree.

“Very
good.” He gave her a precise nod. “We’ve unpacked the kitchen — which room
would you like us to work on next?”

She
would need a place to sleep tonight, but couldn’t stomach the thought of
strangers rummaging through her intimate things. “I’ll work on the bedroom —
maybe you can work on the library? That’s if you have the time.”

“Of
course, Ma’am. I’ll just let Mrs. Dudley know about dinner.” He nodded again,
and Daphne turned. The bedrooms were all upstairs. She walked up three steps
and felt something like a warm hand caress the back of her thigh beneath her
skirt.

“Arthur!”
she protested, whirling.

“Ma’am?”
The servant reappeared, trotting back into view from down the hall. “Did you
need something?”

Daphne
put her hand to her mouth in horror, and felt a rising flush of shame — he was
going to think she was one of those people, the kind who shouted — “No — my ankle
twisted —” she pointed at her foot, quickly lying. “I thought I was going to
fall.”

“I
see,” he said, in the same tone of voice he used for everything apparently,
neither frustrated nor surprised. “I can bring tea or coffee to you in a bit,
if you’d like. Mrs. Dudley’s got bad knees, she can’t handle stairs anymore.”

“Tea,
please. Thank you,” she said, sheepishly.

“If
I may, Ma’am,” he said after waiting half-a-second more. She nodded to
encourage him to continue. “Moving is stressful, and moving into a magnificent
house doubly so. Rome was not built in a day, and neither was it unpacked in
one.”

She
broke into a soft smile. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“You’re
welcome, Ma’am,” he said, and bowed curtly before going back the way he’d come.

Daphne
spent the whole afternoon drinking tea and unpacking boxes. The bedroom she and
Richard had picked out had a commanding view of the gardens and two closets of
roughly equal size. She decided to take the one nearer the bed that had a
mirror set inside the door.

They’d
chosen it because it was the only room that didn’t have the belongings of prior
occupants inside it – the home’s past owners had left behind massive pieces of
handmade-looking furniture and interesting yet difficult to understand art.
Statues – angels? Demons? The creatures in them were winged and striving --
perched at the top of both of the stairs, as if watching who came up, and
occupied corners in many of the rooms.

But
the bedroom was her domain alone, and the repetitive work of opening boxes,
exposing the contents, deciding what went where and how, didn’t clear her
depression but it did calm her. Keeping busy always did. What would she do when
she ran out of boxes though?

There
was a polite knock at the door, and she went to open it. For a foolish second
she hoped it was Richard, returned to his senses and to her, but instead it was
only Arthur again, as it had been all afternoon.

“It’s
seven, Ma’am. We were going to wait, but then we realized you might not have
unpacked a clock yet.”

“Thank
you, Arthur.” Her cell phone told the time, but not much more, they were so far
from civilization they had to use landlines. “I am hungry.”

He
bowed and prepared to exit the room, as if to give her privacy. “Wait!”

“Yes?”
he paused in the doorway.

“I
don’t know where the dining room is. Can you take me?”

He
smiled at her. “Of course,” he said, and led the way.

It
hadn’t occurred to her to shower or change before dinner — this was her house,
after all — but the dining room that Arthur took her to was glamorous. Seeing a
reflection of herself in a mirror on the way there, looking wan and exhausted,
only made her feel more out of place. The last people who’d eaten here had
surely been gracious-types — she could see the marks on the walls where their vast
portraits must have hung, forefathers and foxhounds looking down on whomever
stole the last bite of cake. Mrs. Dudley’s dinner setting took up only one
corner of the massive oaken table, left behind by the former owner’s family,
who probably hadn’t been able to think of a way to dismantle it to get it out
the door.

Daphne
sat down and realized they were using her mother’s china, something she,
cooking for only herself and Richard, had never done. She stroked a flower
painted on the plate’s edge when the first course arrived.

She
hadn’t been close to her mother, but her mother had kept her nearby, through a
combination of guilt and necessity, as her health took precipitous turns.
Daphne’d been the only one able to care for her, to feed her, bathe her, put
her into clothes and get her back out of them again. She hadn’t gotten to live
a normal life until her mother had died and by then it was too late, her
childhood had passed her by. She’d tried to go back to school, and that was
where Richard had found her, feeling a very out-of-place freshman at college at
the ripe age of twenty-five.

Arthur
brought soup in, and it was delicious — less so the realization that to time
presenting courses, Arthur and the mysterious Mrs. Dudley had to be watching
her. Had they eaten yet? Were they waiting on her? She found herself eating
more quickly as the meal progressed, racing an imaginary clock.

“Would
you like a glass of wine?” Arthur asked, as he came out with asparagus and
steak.

Normally,
no, but after the day she’d had? “Please.”

He
smiled at her, and disappeared.

She
was going to have to talk to Mrs. Dudley — she didn’t eat much red meat, and
Richard needed none of it. But it was a perfect medium rare, just how she liked,
and the asparagus were yielding yet just a little crisp — and the wine, when
Arthur reappeared, complimented the meal perfectly.

“Where
did this come from?” she asked him, after he refilled her glass.

“From
your very generous food budget, Ma’am. There’s a wine cellar off of the
kitchen. I think the former occupants left a few bottles behind.”

She
took another swig of wine. “And where do you and Mrs. Dudley live?”

“Hillside.”

The
nearest town, if it could be called that, one of those places seemingly
comprised of antique stores that erupted at regular intervals once one drove
out far enough into the country.

“And
have you always been a…servant?” She hated using the word, but knew no other
one to call him.

“Ever
since I was a boy. I spent my last twenty years serving the Master in this
house, before the next owners took over and released me. Your agent called me
out of retirement.”

“Oh,
I’m so sorry,” she apologized, and he looked appalled.

“Please,
don’t be. It was dreadfully boring, honestly.”

She
realized the wine had given her an excuse for familiarity -- which clearly made
Arthur uncomfortable. “And you go back to Hillside each night?”

“We
do.”

“I
don’t mean to keep you then. You should go. It’s dark.”

He
measured her with his eyes, trying to tell if her kindness was a test or for
show or genuine reality. “We will do the dishes tomorrow then. First thing.”

“Any
time you like. Honestly.”

“And
you know the code? And have the key?”

Daphne
nodded. Richard had made sure she knew the code for their new home’s security
system. All the better to not have the security system call him with false
alarms in the middle of the night in Abu Dhabi or wherever it was that the bank
had sent him this week.

“All
right then, Ma’am. We’ll see ourselves out the back, it’s where we’ve parked
our car. We’ll set the alarm as we go, so don’t open any windows or outside
doors.”

“I
won’t.”

“What
time would you like breakfast, Ma’am?”

She
ought to say eight, but with as much wine as she’d had tonight? “Nine.”

“Excellent.
We’ll see you then.” He gave her another bow and then withdrew.

She
heard the alarm chirp as Arthur set it on his way out. She was finally alone –
it was a little frightening, but relaxing too, courtesy of the wine she’d
drunk. She gathered her mother’s china and followed Arthur’s path back to the kitchen.
It was more industrial than homey, meant to feed an army quickly if needbe. All
the burners were off and things were clean — Mrs. Dudley was a neater cook than
she’d ever been. Daphne put the dishes into the sink and turned the water on.
She hadn’t seen these dishes since her mother’d died. Everything had gone into
boxes then, too.

Maybe
she’d stay up all night to unpack. Maybe she’d push herself and get everything
unpacked by next week, so that when Richard came home there’d be nothing to
distract him, nothing for him to worry about, just her. She imagined him being
pleased with how much she’d done, impressed with her choices, the angles at
which she’d aligned the couches and chairs — and then imagined him taking her
on one of them, as if to try out its feng shui. There were enough bedrooms here
they could sleep in a new room every night of the week, a new position each
time, until she finally got pregnant.

If
she had a baby it would keep her company. This house wouldn’t be half so lonely
with a child in it -- and half again as lonely after the second one. Until
then, though -- she scanned the countertop and saw the bottle of wine, its cork
replaced -- she could drink, a little. Someone ought to get to celebrate moving
in.