The Haunting Season (33 page)
“Yeah,” she said smiling up at him. Things might never be the same again, but then, she couldn’t expect them to. “Coffee sounds good.”
He kissed the top of her head and Jess wrapped her arms around him even more tightly. God, he was still as sexy as ever.
“I told you I’d win your heart,” he said, making her feel warm inside.
It was hard to believe he’d stuck around, but he had. He’d even transferred to UNC to be with her. She loved Gage and had no doubt they’d stay together. Unlike Bryan, Jess thought they’d grown closer because of what they’d been through. No one else would ever get that. Still, she thought of Allison and what had happened that last night at Siler House. While they could have all stayed holed up behind the fence until the maids and renovation crew had shown up on Monday, she understood that Allison’s nightmare would never end. It was just one more nightmare Allison couldn’t live the rest of her life running from.
Jess understood what the nightmares were like. They crept in around the edges of her sleep more than she cared to admit. Terrifying ones where Riley had managed to take her for his queen. Nightmares where evil spirits found her. In her nightmares, they found Bryan, then Gage.
Then Lily.
Visions of Allison’s terrified face woke her often. Allison, staring at the mirror. Allison with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
The difference between her and Allison’s situation, Jess thought as she and Gage walked under the unblemished sky, was that Jess had someone who understood, someone who’d always be there to hold her when the nightmares came.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Behind every book, there’s always another story—how the novel came to be. I’ve always wanted to write a haunted house novel. I love haunted house stories. My two favorites are
The Haunting of Hill House
by Shirley Jackson, and Stephen King’s
The Shining
. The premise behind The
Haunting Season
has been in my head for nearly two years. I set it aside to get
The Book of Lost Souls
published, and then again to publish
Don't Fear the Reaper
. But when I sat down to write the sequel to
The Book of Lost Souls
, I dreamed of
The Haunting Season
instead. Night after night. I guess the story itself haunted me.
For influencing
The Haunting Season
, I like to thank Stephen King and the late Shirley Jackson. You guys are my idols. Thanks for writing the gold standard in haunted house novels.
Getting a novel ready for publication is a lot of work and all authors need a great support network. I’m lucky to have such support. Thanks to my husband who by now is used to weird work hours, the insomnia, the tears, the rants, the depression and elation. You are indeed my rock.
Thanks to my dogs who had dinner served to them later than they’d like and walks that were non-existent or cut short, but who stayed by my side, patiently and without complaint.
To D.B. Reynolds and Leslie Tentler, crit partners without equal. You guys have been more than crit partners and friends. You’ve been my lifeline and talked me off a lot of ledges. Thanks to Steve J. McHugh for and Courtney Cole for all their input and suggestions. Thanks to M. Leighton for giving me the thumbs up on the sex scene.
Special shout-out to my fellow authors in The Indelibles and The Paranormal Plumes.
To author Thomas Amo who was also a mortician for nearly twenty years. I could never have accurately written a key part in this book without your input. I truly enjoyed our talk during dinner about embalming and burial methods. Invaluable information, bud. Thanks so much.
To Sarah Hansen who took my breath away with the cover, and to copyeditor L. Peters for all the late nights she put in. I can’t say enough great things about you guys.
And, as always, thank
you
Dear Reader. Because ultimately, every author with a story to tell writes with you in mind.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michelle Muto lives in northeast Georgia with her husband and two dogs. She loves changes of season, dogs, and all things geeky. Currently, she’s hard at work on her next book.
If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review, however short. Of course, telling others you enjoyed the book is also greatly appreciated. Both encourage Michelle to write more novels. Thank you!
Visit Michelle at:
BONUS CHAPTER:
DON’T FEAR THE REAPER
By Michelle Muto
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me?
Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even
was
an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.
I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of
any
sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I
did
want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?
Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.
The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?
No. Stop.
A voice in my head screamed
. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.
“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.
“—okay, Keely.”
Cold. So cold.
“I’m right here.”
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...
blue,
almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me.
No! Too much. Too much!
I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.
Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
