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CHAPTER ONE August heat baked the lawn of my new Eastern Mississippi home as I unloaded boxes. At ten in the morning the mercury had already hit eighty-five, and I wanted to work fast before the day became unbearably hot. "Ms. Rayburn, are you sure you want to live here during the renovation?" Samuel Hope, or Sam as he insisted I call him, had already tried to talk me out of staying in the home. I'd hired him to renovate just after the deal closed, and he'd been making noises about me getting an apartment since. I guessed this was a last ditch effort, and the reason he was here today. "Sam, my name is Katherine, call me that. As to my living arrangements, I plan to stay in my house. I'll be working alongside you and your crew. I'll be fine." He heaved a sigh before grabbing a box. His demeanor screamed, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." With Sam helping, it didn't take long to get my few belongings into the rambling, run-down Victorian house. I planned to sparsely furnish the place until all of the repairs had been made. "So, how bad is the mold in the downstairs bathroom?" I asked, partially to make conversation. The house had been our only common ground, so it felt like a safe topic. "Bad. Very bad. We'll have to take out the walls, the ceiling and the floor." "Sounds like a whole new bathroom is in order." "But at least you'll have that claw-foot tub. It's in great shape," Sam said with enthusiasm. When he talked about the renovation, his usual businesslike attitude melted. What was left was an almost boyish excitement that lit up his blue eyes. "What about the upstairs bathroom? We won't be building me an outhouse, will we?" "Upstairs just has some water damage. It's usable, but still needs work," he replied with a chuckle. We stepped out to the front porch. Air conditioning would be installed in a few weeks, and the temperature indoors felt ten degrees warmer than outdoors. Sam took off his red ball cap and wiped his forehead. His sandy-blond hair was flat against his head except where it had curled over the edges of the cap. Hat hair. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the sitting room window. I was one to judge bad hair. My strawberry blond curls had turned to snarls. Even though it was held up with a clip, enough hair had escaped to make me look like Medusa. I tried to smooth it back then shrugged when I realized it was hopeless. "I could use a tall glass of ice cold lemonade," I said, shifting into idle chit-chat mode. It was a first for us. "Can you imagine how many pitchers of lemonade were served right here?" "No, no I can't. One-hundred and five years is a long life for a house. I wonder how many families have lived here." "Um, just three. The Carters built it for their brood of six, then the Henrys raised a family, and after that the Bradleys. They just had one child who never married," he answered matter-of-factly. "Berniece." The woman I bought the house from. Sam nodded. Local history was a part of his job as a renovation expert and builder. Of course he knew who owned the house last. "So what do you have planned for the landscaping?" he asked as he surveyed the brown grass and dust that was the lawn. "I thought about some grass seed and shrubbery. I'm not a big gardener." "I could help. You know there used to be a flower garden over there," he said, pointing to the north side of the house. "There's a picture of it in my file. It's from the Carter family photos. There was even one of those reflecting balls in it." "Oh, I used to love those. My grandmother had one on a pedestal. My cousins and I used to stare at ourselves in it." "I loved those things too. The lady next door had one when I was a kid. It was like having a private fun house mirror." "So, what would you think if I made some lemonade, and we took a step back in time?" "I'd wonder where the lemons came from." "Don't. Thinking about it might spoil the illusion," I retorted on my way in to mix up the powdered diet lemonade he'd helped unpack just forty-five minutes before. *** The first evening in my new house was peaceful, although warm. This would be my home and office as a freelance writer for many years to come, I mused as I walked around for the millionth time. The radio played quietly in what had been the sitting room in days gone by. I sank into the couch and closed my eyes. I could see the room as it would be. The natural hardwood floor gleamed with fresh wax. Rugs were positioned in the hall and in the middle of the room. A soft glow from the dining room chandelier gave the place a secure feeling. Rose-patterned wallpaper hung on the walls where I knew paint peeled now. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" a little girl's voice whispered. I jumped, and blinked my eyes several times as I got my bearings. Goose pimples ran up my arms and a chill tickled down my spine. Little girl laughter, though so quiet it was nearly imperceptible, bounced through the air. There was nothing there. Just me and the radio. I'd done an article on hauntings a few months earlier, and I had to admit, I was thinking about the possibility of my new house having at least one good ghost. My imagination was supplying me with one, I told myself before I treaded up the creaky stairs to go to bed. An airy giggle followed me up the steps before I broke into a run. |