Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) (23 page)

So what if he could make the puff-of-smoke disappearances of a great illusionist like David Copperfield look pathetic?

So what if he stared at a telephone as if he'd just stepped off the shuttle from Mars and sounded like a refugee from a history book and wore an outfit that didn't look like a costume but looked real, and sexy, as hell?

"So what?" Kathryn said weakly, and she groaned and put her head in her hands.

All right. Just for the sake of argument, suppose... suppose she accepted the preposterous idea that Matthew was, in fact, a ghost?

Outside, the wind seemed to take a long, sighing breath, as if to say, Well! It's about time you came to your senses!

Kathryn rose impatiently to her feet. She stabbed her hands into the pockets of her sweatpants and paced back and forth.

It couldn't hurt to consider the possibility, could it? Of course it couldn't. There was nothing worse than a closed mind.

After all, once upon a time people had insisted the earth was flat. Where would the world be if nobody back then had ever said, Hey, wait a minute, let's try coming at this from another angle.

So, all right. She'd do just that, come at this from a different perspective. For the sake of argument, she'd assume that ghosts existed.

And that Matthew was one of them.

Why would he haunt Charon's Crossing? And what did he want from her?

The answers had to be in that journal. Where had she left it? Right there, on that table.

She plucked it up, then sank down on the settee and put her feet up. Where had she left off?

Here,
a voice whispered, clear as a bell.

Kathryn looked up sharply, then stretched her lips in a humorless grin.

"No ad-libbing, please," she said in a giddy whisper.

She opened the journal, flicked the pages until she came to the next entry, and began to read.

October the twenty-first, 1811:

I have spent the last days preparing for our first foray in these waters. We have taken on every possible store, from ship's biscuit for the men to oil for the lamps...

Kathryn yawned. Boy, she was tired. It had been such a long day. She yawned again, blinked her eyes hard, and looked back at the page of the journal.

... oil for the lamps. Mr. Hauser, my first mate, has suggested we redistribute the shot for the Long Nines. I am not sure it is necessary, but have agreed to...

Kathryn stretched out on the chaise. Her eyes felt as if they were gritty with sand.

Maybe she'd just shut them for a couple of minutes. Not that she'd sleep. That was out of the question. Who could sleep in this crazy house?

But a minute's rest would be... would be...

The journal fell from her lap, and she was asleep.

* * *

The night grew darker.

The candles sputtered; burned down to stubs, then died.

The wind, moaning through the trees, snatched at the shutters.

And upstairs, high in the attic, something shifted and stirred in the darkness.

"Catherine," a voice whispers.

Kathryn's eyelids flutter. She doesn't recognize the voice. She doesn't want to hear it, or its summons.

But it is too late. She is already slipping into the dream.

She finds herself in a room. She can see little but she senses that the space is confining.

She is uneasy.

"Where am I?" she says.

A window flies open. Moonlight spills faintly across the floor. It paints an ivory swath across some old furniture, a rocking chair, and an open trunk.

Kathryn's breath hisses from her lungs. She knows where she is. She is in the attic at Charon's Crossing.

Her throat constricts. She doesn't like this place anymore. She wouldn't like it, even if she didn't remember what happened here earlier tonight. The air feels heavy and moist, almost like a weight against her skin. There is a smell in the air, too, one that is musty and unclean.

The faintest of whispers echoes from the puddle of darkness.

Kathryn's heartbeat quickens.

"Matthew? " she says.

Is he going to come to her?

After what happened today, she knows she should be frightened at the possibility. But she is not, even though she remembers everything of their encounter, his rage and his hard, crushing strength.

What she fears is something else, something she senses in the oppressive atmosphere of this attic.

The whispers fuse into sounds with more substance. Kathryn's hand flies to her throat. She can feel the swift race of her pulse under her fingers.

"Matthew? " she says again. "Please, if that's you, come out and show yourself."

There is no answer, but she hears the scuttle of tiny feet behind her. She swings around, heart clamoring, and sees something small dart into a corner. A spider? A mouse? She cannot tell but she has the feeling it is nothing so simple as a frightened fellow creature.

What is she doing here? Everything about this place unnerves her. The cobwebs. The sounds. The smells...

Kathryn shudders and suddenly, the moonlight is gone. She stands in total darkness.

The sound of her pulse drums in her ears. She takes a step back, feeling for the door she knows must be close by.

Something races across her bare toes. She cries out in horror and shudders. The feel of the thing was awful, it was feathery and altogether alien. She could hear it, too, making a high-pitched, chittering sound.

The smell in the air is stronger now. It is sweet, hideously so, and it makes her belly knot.

Kathryn starts to tremble. She can see nothing but she senses evil. Evil...

Something is here, moving in the blackness. Something terrible. And it is coming for her.

"No," Kathryn sobs, "please, no!"

She flings herself towards what must be the door but it isn't there. Her arms flail wildly, she runs her hands across a wall she cannot see...

There it is. She feels it. The door.

Her fingers close on the knob. She twists and twists...

It will not turn. The door is locked, and she is trapped.

Kathryn screams. She beats her fists against the wood.

"Matthew," she sobs, "Matthew, help me!"

"Catherine," a voice whispers, from behind her.

It is not Matthew's voice. It is a voice she has never heard before, and it strikes terror into her heart.

She bites down on her bottom lip. The coppery taste of blood fills her mouth.

"I'm dreaming," she babbles, "I'm dreaming, dreaming, dreaming..."

"Catherine."

She whirls around. The voice reminds her of leathery wings, flapping in dark caves. Of the papery whisper of thousands of insect feet sweeping across the dusty bones in a graveyard.

An eerie light is pooling in the far corner of the attic and, within the light, something is taking shape.

A moan bursts from Kathryn's throat.

It is a man, but it is not Matthew.

He is tall and thin. His hair is white, drawn tightly back from a face that is nothing but a skull over which skin has been drawn.

"Catherine," he says.

He smiles but it is like no smile she has ever seen, bloodless lips stretching evilly to become a terrifying display of sharp, white teeth. He steps slowly forward and raises a pallid arm. His hand is little more than bone and gristle and in it, he holds a sword that drips with scarlet blood.

Kathryn screams and screams, and suddenly the attic door crashes open. Matthew is on the landing just outside and she throws herself, sobbing, into his arms.

He holds her close, then shoves her behind him, towards the steps.

"Run, Cat," he says.

"Matthew," she cries, "don't go in there!"

Matthew's hand is in the small of her back, pushing her. She stumbles away from him.

"Did you hear me? " he roars. "Run, Catherine, and don't look back!"

The attic door slams, she hears the click of the bolt in the lock Matthew has shut himself in with whatever is up there.

Kathryn flies down the stairs, all the way down until she is inside the drawing room. She slams the door, locks it and presses herself against it, arms outstretched, adding the weight of her body to the barrier.

"Matthew," she sobs.

She listens, but there is no sound beyond the rasp of her own breath. After a long, long time, she slumps to the floor and waits.

When she hears the sound of footsteps outside the door, she rises slowly, her body and hands pressed to the wood.

"Matthew? " she whispers.

"Cat. Open the door."

She knows his voice. She has known it, within her soul, from the day she was born. With a sob, she undoes the lock, flings the door open, and falls into his arms.

"It's all right," he says, and holds her close. "Cat, beloved, it's all right now."

"That—that thing..."

"Don't think about it, sweet."

She shudders and clings tightly to him, seeking solace in the warmth of his body, the security of his embrace.

"What was it? " she whispers.

Matthew strokes her hair, soothing her as if she were a kitten.

"It doesn't matter."

"How did you get away from it? " She presses her hands against his chest and leans back in his embrace. "I was afraid it would kill you! "

He smiles down at her.

"Were you?"

"Yes. Oh yes. It was so—so evil!"

"Catherine." He lifts her tenderly in his arms and carries her to the settee. He sits down, still holding her, and brings her head to his shoulder. "Close your eyes now, and sleep."

She gives a little hiccup of a laugh.

"But I am asleep," she says. "I'm dreaming, Matthew. I know that."

He nods and strokes her dark, silken hair back from her face.

"Then shut your eyes, Cat, and dream good dreams."

She shudders. Her arms tighten around his neck "I can't. I don't want to. If I shut my eyes, I might find myself back up there, with that—that thing."

"No. I promise, that won't happen."

"How can you be sure? "

Matthew leans back into the corner of the settee, taking Kathryn with him.

"Because I'll be with you," he says. "I'll stay right here, holding you and watching over you as you rest."

She gives a deep sigh.

"I can't rest," she whispers. "I can't..."

Seconds later, she is fast asleep.

* * *

Matthew looked down at her, lying in his arms. Christ, how beautiful she was, even now. Her face was ashen, the sweep of her lashes as dark as soot against her cheeks. Her hair was tumbled and wild; her eyes were still swollen with tears.

Gently, he reached out his hand and stroked the tendrils of hair back from her cheek.

What had happened tonight? Why did she go to the attic?

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

The Other must have drawn her there. No other explanation makes sense. But why?

At least, now, he knew the identity of the Thing that lived in the darkness. But why would it want to hurt Catherine?

Matthew looked down at her, lying soft and warm in his arms. What would have happened if he had not gotten there in time? The house had been lit up as brightly as if for a ball. He'd been walking in the garden, the wind and rain swirling around him, determined to avoid the house and Cat while he tried to work through his confused thoughts, when suddenly he'd felt the evil presence of the Other.

"Catherine?" he'd whispered.

He'd turned towards the house, his gaze going unbidden to the attic window. An eerie glow of light had been leaking through the shutters, and then he'd heard Catherine scream his name.