The Séance. Heather Graham
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this house is haunted, it’s haunted by Granda and Gran. Good people who loved me.”
She had never felt afraid in this house, and she was angry that the night’s events had left her feeling so unnerved.
So she was a redhead. There were lots of redheads out there, natural and otherwise. It was a popular color.
She locked her doors. She didn’t go off with strangers. She was careful.
She looked around her room, the same room she’d always stayed in as a child. It had changed a great deal over the years. She had a new bed, for one thing—a Christmas present from a few years ago. It was a queen, with a handsome cherry-wood sleigh-style frame. Her dresser and wardrobe matched, as did the artfully concealed entertainment center.
She headed straight to it, turning on the television and finding a channel with nothing but sitcom repeats.
“So there. I will have no news tonight,” she said.
Her voice rang strangely loud in the empty house. She was glad when the sound of the television filled the space.
She was even more pleased when a commercial with a jingle she had written popped up on the screen. “Ever soft, ever silky, ever gentle to the touch, oh, dear Biel’s Tissue, we thank you very much.”
Not poetry or even her most brilliant lyric, but it was a good, catchy tune.
She smiled, walked into the bathroom and slipped into the cotton sleep shirt that hung on the back of the door, then washed her face and brushed her teeth. A few minutes later she drew back her covers and settled beneath the clean, cool comfort of her sheets.
And she stared at the television, not seeing a thing.
She rose again and turned on the lights she had turned off earlier. She was certain that from the street, her house was lit up like a Christmas tree. She turned the television down, plumped her pillow and closed her eyes, hoping that the soft drone of the sitcom would help her sleep. It wasn’t as if she had anything imperative going on early in the morning; she was just going to finish setting up the house and emptying boxes.
But she was tired. She wanted to sleep.
She tossed around for a while, forcing herself to lie still with her eyes closed, half listening to the television.
Then, head on the pillow, eyes closed, she felt a strange prickling sensation. She couldn’t pinpoint anything different about the air around her or the sounds she was hearing. It was an old house, and it creaked. But she knew every creak, and she wasn’t hearing anything she shouldn’t have been.
But the sensation stayed with her.
She felt as if she were a child again, frightened as she watched a spooky movie, closing her eyes…
If this had been a movie, though, she would have felt compelled to open her eyes, but this was real life, and she fought the desire. If she kept her eyes closed, she would be all right. It would be like hiding beneath the bed or taking refuge in a closet.
I won’t. I won’t open my eyes, she thought. And it will go away.
But the feeling didn’t go away, and finally she had to open her eyes and look into the shadows, just to prove that there was nothing there.
She opened one eye slowly.
If felt as if her blood congealed and her heart froze.
She closed her eye again. She must have imagined what she thought she’d seen. A shadow. A shadow in the shape of a man. Standing at the end of the bed.
Her frozen heart began to thunder.
A normal response, she told herself, given that there was a killer on the loose.
This was all nonsense, she thought. No one could possibly be there.
She opened both eyes, bolting up to a sitting position at the same time.
Someone was there.
A tall, solid, yet somehow shadowy figure standing at the foot of her bed.
Christina screamed and leapt out of bed, then practically flew out of the room.
She raced to the door, out to the hall and down the stairs. She burst out the front door, onto the porch and leapt over the two steps that led to the ground. She ran until she reached the end of the driveway, and then she finally turned back, gasping, checking to see if he was in pursuit.
It was difficult to see, though, because it was such a strange night. The fog was still lying low to the ground, while above, shimmering through with an illumination like silver, was the great orb of the full moon.
Instinct was kicking in. Fog or not, she would see him coming from the front of the house, and he clearly wasn’t in pursuit. But she didn’t have her keys. That was okay; she could just go next door to Tony’s house, and she would be safe.
In her mind’s eye, she pictured the figure coming after her, catching her, tackling her right before she could reach Tony’s door.
Then there was a tap on her shoulder.
She froze.
Spun around.
Screamed.
He was there.
It was impossible, but he was there. He’d somehow gotten out of the house without her seeing and ended up behind her.
And he wasn’t a shadow, either. Not only that, she had seen his face before.
It took her a moment to remember where she had seen it, and when.
Then she knew.
She had seen it, plastered all over the newspapers after Beau Kidd had been shot kneeling over the body of his latest victim.
“Christie…”
Did he say her name, or was it the breeze? Or was she only deep in some horrible nightmare where the dew-damp grass beneath her bare toes was ridiculously real and the face of the man before her was bizarrely vivid?
“Christie…”
The world seemed to be fading, getting lost in the fog.
“Please…help me.”
She had never passed out before in her life, but she did then, dropping flat onto soft, wet earth, seeing nothing but stygian darkness.
4
“Hey.”
Christina became aware of the deep, rich voice at the same time as she felt the chilling discomfort of the ground beneath her.
The sun was rising, she realized, feeling completely disoriented.
“Christie?”
She blinked. The sun created a haze as it burned off the last of the fog, so she blinked again, turning her head slightly to make out someone standing above her. For a moment she felt a resurgence of fear. But the sunlight was bright, and when she blinked a third time, her vision cleared and she finally saw who was standing there.
Jed Braden.
He hunkered down by her side.
“Are you all right?” His tone was anxious, harsh.
She realized that she was lying on her lawn and frowned.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded anxiously, his hands on her shoulders, his face close, his features tense.
“No, I’m not hurt. I’m fine.”
She saw relief fill his face.
“Fine? Really?”
“Absolutely. I swear it.”
“Thank God you’re alive,” he murmured.
She struggled to rise up on her elbows. “I guess I…fell asleep.”
“You’re