The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1) (2 page)

Daphne
took the stairs two at a time, until she found herself in her bedroom again.
Her first night in her new home, alone. There were no curtains on the windows
yet, the former occupants had taken them, so she stood in the window and looked
out at the night. Cicadas hummed nearby, or were they crickets? She knew she
ought to know. She dumped the last drops of tea onto the saucer Arthur had
brought her earlier and poured a ration of wine into it, and then drank it so
quickly she might as well have drunk straight from the bottle.

Richard
couldn’t make time for her now. What would change after a baby? Nothing.
There’d be promises made and broken and she would cry, but things would always
be the same. Richard was the kind of man who the world changed for — but he
never changed for it.

She
drank another tea-cup of wine and set the bottle down on her side table,
uncorked, and pulled her clothing off roughly. She’d unpacked enough she
wouldn’t need to find out where the laundry was for at least a week, maybe
more, but she hadn’t found the box with her slips and nightgowns yet. So she
got into bed naked, and pulled the sheets up to her neck.

Her
dim bedside lamp light was filtered through the winebottle’s green glass. She
reached out and grabbed its neck, taking another deep swig, and then set it back.
A woozy warmth suffused her now, emanating out from her belly, all of the wine
caught up to her at last. She turned off the light and just lay there, letting
it carry her, as though she were a passenger on a ship on a tropical day.

For
better or worse, this place was her new home. It creaked and groaned around
her, settling in the night air, and while she wasn’t scared, she felt
incredibly alone. She hugged herself beneath the covers, arms under her own
breasts, nipples rubbing against the sheets she’d pulled tight. Something – the
alcohol, the abandonment, the spinning feeling she got as she let go – her
hands pressed up under her breasts now, taking them one each, feeling her
supple skin, their gentle weight.

She
stroked one thumb over a nipple tentatively, to see if it would answer her, and
it did, becoming pert and sending a line of electricity down between her legs.
She did it again, as though she were strumming a guitar and felt the wave of
pleasure pull and pluck, deep inside her hips, where she was restless and aching.

Even
though she knew what would come next, she opened her mouth in surprise. Her
other hand touched her thigh and started stroking, tracing fingers on herself
like she liked Richard to tease her when he had the time, like she didn’t know
where her own hand would wind up, not even until it tickled between her closed
thighs and they spread open to reveal her pussy like an open book. Her lower
hand waited then, as her higher one pulled at her nipple again, setting things
aglow and then she pressed.

Her
clit was like a button, and Richard the first lover to have found it, showing
it to her again and again in one orgasmic night. Since then, she’d figured out
how to push herself — how hard, how often, how fast. She brought up her hand
and licked her fingertips for lesser friction — and soon she could dive her
fingers into her own heat and use the wetness they found there. Daphne stroked
and pulled and brought her feet up so that her hips could rise as her pussy
tried to match her hand and found that all of her was getting warm. The
temperature, a thermostat somewhere, left on — so much heat that she
interrupted herself to throw the covers off, to writhe naked on the bed. The
feeling of heat became more precise — like hands were pressing on her, her
thighs, her stomach, her breasts, her belly. She knew they were only in her
imagination because now she could see herself by the moonlight, the angles of
her knees, her hips as they canted ever higher, as her ass rising as she felt
the need to come –

“Yes,”
she pleaded with the night and anyone who could hear her. “Yes --” she panted,
to herself, the word like a spell, pushing her closer to the brink, frantically
stroking and pushing and pulling and -- “Yes! Yes -- yes -- yes!”

She
bucked in the bed as she came, sending it rocking, like her orgasm was fighting
her. She gasped and she cried out again, finally freed -- and she heard the
wine bottle fall to the floor.

“Fuck!”
Transcendence was instantly lost, and she fumbled for the light. Dribbles of
wine were pouring out of the bottle onto the hardwood. She cursed and picked up
the shirt she’d worn today and blotted at the wine before it could stain. There
hadn’t been that much left in the bottle, and the room was spinning now — she
should have told Arthur to tell Mrs. Dudley ten at this rate.

Daphne
stumbled into the bathroom with her shirt and clumsily tried to wash it,
between forcing herself to drink giant gulps of water down. Then she crept,
abashed yet still naked, back to bed.

“Mrs.
Vance?”

Daphne’s
eyes blinked open and saw only pillowcase.

“Mrs.
Vance, are you all right?”

Daphne
lurched up right in bed, and it felt like her head was slower than the rest of
her, following two seconds behind. “I’m all right —” she said. The knob turned,
and she realized she was naked. “Hang on!”

She
was a mess, and she didn’t want him to see. Daphne raced to the bathroom to
pull on her robe and smooth her hair down.

“I’m
sorry Arthur –“ she opened up the door just a crack, finding his implacable
face standing a respectful distance outside. “I must’ve missed breakfast.”

“It’s
no matter – but we were getting worried about you. Thought you might have gone
exploring last night and gotten lost.”

“Oh,
no. Just a rough night is all.” The wine bottle was still in her room. Would he
find it when he went cleaning? They had to know it was missing, since it was no
longer in the kitchen…she had no idea where the recycling bin was, she couldn’t
even throw it away without their help.

“Can
Mrs. Dudley make you lunch then?”

She
wasn’t hungry, but she needed to eat something real, to center herself.
“Please. Something easy though -- a sandwich – something light.”

He
nodded. “And then after that, you’ll be unpacking all afternoon, I expect. Will
you be requiring any help today? Or would you like me to continue in the
library?”

“The
library’s fine. I’m not done in here. I was up late night, unpacking, and –“ it
was a better excuse than what had occurred. Besides, he wasn’t going to come in
here and pry, for all he knew everything in her bedroom was already unpacked.

“Very
well, Ma’am. Lunch will be served shortly, thank you.”

“No,
thank you, Arthur. And Mrs. Dudley. Please thank her, too.” Daphne said, and then
retreated back into her bedroom.

What’d
happened last night? She’d drank too much, that was what. She needed to
remember wherever she’d packed the ibuprofen. Daphne stumbled back into the
bathroom and gulped handfuls of water from the sink, to solve her headache the
old fashioned way. Then she brushed her teeth – another chore forgotten in last
night’s bender – and looked at herself. She didn’t look nice enough for the
bathroom, muchless the dining hall. Maybe there was a breakfast nook or
someplace smaller that she could reclaim for eating. She pulled clothing out of
her closet, pulled it on, and went downstairs.

A
steak sandwich with artfully cut radishes and cucumbers and a side of freshly
fried fries waited for her on the long table. She ate in lonely silence,
listening to the quiet sound of her own chewing.

“Are
you sated, Ma’am?” Arthur appeared in the doorway, three seconds after her last
bite.

“Completely.”
She drained her glass of water. If she went upstairs, this might be the last
human contact she had all day. He could bring her tea but she couldn’t invite
him into her bedroom, it wouldn’t be right – and he might see the wine stain.
She was suddenly reluctant to be without company, and glad he was present, even
if he was paid. “Can you show me how the library’s coming along?”

“I’d
be delighted to.”

Arthur
led her down a hall at the back of the dining room, to a massive windowed room
on the other wing.

Looming
over a fireplace set into the wall was a portrait almost as tall as she was. A
handsome yet very stern man stared down, in riding breeches and knee high
boots, holding a short crop in one hand and a snifter of brandy in the other.

Daphne
walked in to stand beneath him and stared up, trying to read the painting’s
meaning, feeling penetrated by his eyes.

“As
you can see, there’s much work to be done,” Arthur apologized, breaking her
communion.

“Hmm?”
She glanced around at the stacks of books lying all across the floor, and could
see how Arthur was trying to come up with a system prior to putting them on the
shelves that ran along the rest of the wall space. Richard had always fancied
himself a reader, but the books they had would only occupy a fraction of the
space the man had once ruled here. Perhaps that was why he looked so displeased
– he was angry over the loss of his own books.

“It’s
going to be another day or two,” Arthur went on.

“That’s
fine. Richard won’t be home for six more days.”

Instead
of looking out the window, or at the spines of books that she’d all seen
before, the portrait mesmerized her. His eyes seemed to blaze with barely
restrained passion – or disgust.

“Who
is that?” she finally asked, as Arthur began to putter.

He
looked up. “The Master, in his prime.”

“That’s
who lived here?”

“Lived
and died here. He was born just down the hall, and died peacefully at night in
his own bed.”

“He…died
here? Not in a hospital or anything?”

Arthur’s
lips drew into a thin line. “The Master always was one to face life on his own
terms. Death was no exception.”

It
was handsome as art for art’s sake – portraits that size were expensive, and
the gilded frame alone had to be worth a few thousand dollars. “Why did they
leave it behind?”

Arthur
briefly shrugged. “I don’t know. The branch of the family that was left in the
will – I hate to speak ill of anyone, but they seemed a little odd. They were
very adamant about what they would take, and what would be left behind, like
the statues and the pieces of furniture. And then the next family kept things
as they were when they arrived, and chose not to take them when they left
either.”

“Did
you work for them?” she asked him, while still staring up.

“Oh
no, only for him. I was retired for fifteen years, until your agent called me
back, but because the interim family left so much behind, the place still feels
much the same. Would you like an official tour?”

She
finally tore her eyes away from the painting. “I’d love one.”

“After
you then, Ma’am,” Arthur said, indicating the direction she should go. It
wasn’t until halfway down the next hall she shook the feeling that the painting
was watching her back.

Arthur
showed her all of the rooms on the first floor, even the kitchen, although Mrs.
Dudley was suspiciously absent. Maybe she was a ghost and Arthur was, in
addition to his other skills, an excellent cook.

Many
of the rooms were airy and light, especially now at noon. They all needed a
good airing out, and different furniture – between the two families, such
strange things were left behind, huge carved couches, desks, a crib, some rooms
empty, one full of the strange statues, clustered together as though huddled
for warmth. Maybe the Master’s family had only been able to afford one moving truck
and had started flipping quarters at the end to see what would fit.

The
most important thing though was that she could imagine a child running from
room to room, and her running after them, both of them laughing along the way.
The epic games of hide-and-seek she could have in this house, once her child –
no, children – were old enough – in the bright light of day, maybe moving here
would be worth it after all.

When
their tour was done, she felt bad for taking Arthur away from his work, and she
wanted to finish unpacking the bedroom, so she begged off.

“What
time dinner, Ma’am?” Arthur called after her.

“Seven.
And – the steak was excellent, but can tonight be chicken?”

“Of
course, Ma’am.”

She
smiled and waved to him like he was a friend, and trotted back up the stairs.

Daphne
found her own room as light and airy as those downstairs, a welcome change
after her overheated claustrophobia the prior night. She whirled in a circle,
making her skirt lift, before falling onto her own bed like a swooning girl.

She
could almost see a future for her here. It would be hard work, but she’d enjoy
it, and with Richard by her side – she smiled and came up onto her elbows to
survey the unpacking she’d already done, and noticed that her closet door was
open – and now she could see herself, frowning in the mirror on the inside of
the door.

She
got out of bed slowly and took deliberate steps across the room. She swung it
on its hinges – it didn’t seem light. And when she closed it again she felt it
latch, like she was almost positive it had been this morning, earlier.

Why
would anyone snoop now? When there was so much more unpacking to do? And why a
closet? It wasn’t like she had anything valuable in there, she didn’t own any
furs – and before they’d moved, Richard’d scooped up all of her jewelry and put
it in a safe deposit box.

It
couldn’t have been Arthur, he’d been with her the whole time. Which left Mrs.
Dudley, and her knees that weren’t so bad she couldn’t snoop.

“My
second day here, and already I have to fire someone.” She sat back down on the
bed, and the feeling of betrayal and invasion didn’t lessen.

Seven
found her downstairs, wondering what to do. Dinner was an entire roast chicken,
far too much meat for one person – a chicken sandwich was mostly likely on the
lunch menu for tomorrow.

Assuming
Mrs. Dudley was still here, then.

“How
was dinner, Ma’am?” Arthur asked, after she finished a small bowl of pudding.

“It
was excellent, again.”

How
far away was the nearest town? Who would she find to replace Mrs. Dudley, and
how? She hadn’t unpacked their computer, muchless installed internet yet, and
cell phone service this far into the country side was a joke. So the only way
she could replace Mrs. Dudley would be to use the old fashioned landline – assuming
that there was a phone book written this century hidden somewhere inside the
house.

“I’m
glad to hear it, Ma’am,” Arthur said, taking her bowl away with a bow. “Mrs.
Dudley says to please not do the dishes again. That is her job, after all. A
servant does like to feel that they’re gainfully employed.”

“Well
tell her to stay out of my closet then,” Daphne said, flustered.

“Ma’am?”
Arthur said, eyebrows high in surprise.

If
Mrs. Dudley was at all like Arthur – and his familiarity and trust in her implied
she was – then – Daphne shook her head at herself. It could have been a
thousand other things. This house was old, it’d settled over time, and maybe
she hadn’t closed the door as strongly as she thought she had this morning,
while still in the grip of her hangover.

“I’m
sorry Arthur,” she apologized, instantly deflating.

“Of
course, Ma’am. But there’s nothing to apologize for.” He looked at her like a
baffled dog. “What time would you like breakfast, Ma’am?”

There’d
been no wine involved in dinner tonight – she wanted to stay well away from it
for now. “Let’s say eight.”

“Very
good, Ma’am. When we leave, we’ll set the alarm and lock the doors.”

Daphne
nodded, stood, and pushed in her chair. Firing Mrs. Dudley would have to wait
for another day, if ever.

Alone
in the house, she retreated to her bedroom again. This afternoon’s efforts had
seen it almost half done – Richard’s closet was organized now in a way that she
knew he’d find pleasing upon his return. Her own was nearing completion and
their antique dresser was now full of mated socks and folded underwear.

She’d
be pleased with her progress, except for the stain the wine had left on the
floor. It’d set by the time she’d gotten up this morning and in her drunkenness
she hadn’t done a thorough job of cleaning it last night. The old wood had
drunk the pinot up and now there was a smeared stain, like a lazy trail of
blood. Maybe she should just pull the bed over three feet to the left, and put
a duster on it. Then no one would ever have to know.

No
matter. She wouldn’t be drinking in here again – bedroom drinking was how
people became alcoholics, she was sure.

Daphne
took off her clothing, brushed her teeth, and pulled on a robe and lay down,
completely awake. She wished she had a TV to watch mindlessly – she knew there
was one somewhere in the boxes downstairs, but which one and where it ought to
go after she found it she was unsure of. But it wasn’t fair that she had to
pass all of her time unpacking – and then she remembered the library.

Daphne
shuffled across the house in bare feet, turning lights on along the way,
realizing how exposed and bright the house would look if there were anyone
peeking in from outside. It was a disturbing thought, how open it was, probably
the only light for miles around, but she was too scared to turn the lights back
off. Curtains would definitely be her next priority.

But
the library felt safe once she reached it. The books smelled of Richard, of
stability and age. And the portrait of the Master looking down – while she
found him pleasantly stern, she thought anyone else would find him threatening.