THE HAUNTING OF RORY CAMPBELL
CHAPTER ONE
It was a beautiful house, Rory thought, with its white clapboard siding, the immaculate, tulip-laden flowerbeds in front, the carefully groomed lawn. Fresh gravel crunched under the tires of Rory’s car as she pulled into the driveway. A brown metal sign in front declared it an historical site.
The place didn’t look the least bit haunted.
They usually didn’t, though, as Rory knew from experience, particularly if they were preserved sites like this one. The last haunted house she’d documented had been beautifully maintained—at least on the outside.
Rory opened her car door and stepped out onto the driveway. The wet heat hit her like a fist. Even after two years back in the States, she still hadn’t gotten used to the climate of a Southern summer. The place didn’t smell right, either. There were rolling hills—it should smell like Scotland. Instead, it smelled like North Carolina.
A second car pulled in behind hers. The driver, whom Rory had followed here, had been waiting in the street for Rory to park.
Peggy MacAllister, head of the Winding Falls Historical Society, joined Rory in the driveway. Rory had actually been hired by the mayor of Winding Falls, but Peggy had been appointed to oversee her work. Rory wondered if it was because the mayor was too busy, or because he wasn’t keen on ghosts.
Peggy apparently did. She pointedly looked right at Rory instead of at the house, her hands twisting her purse strap while she held an artificially bright smile on her face.
"No trouble following me here, I hope." Her voice was too bright, as well. Rory wondered if the woman would even go into the house.
"Not a bit," said Rory. She looked at the house while Peggy looked at the gravel, the grass, the flowers.
"It’s really a lovely house," she said.
"Yes. It was painted recently, and the historical society maintains the landscaping."
"How’s the inside?"
Peggy shrugged, then shuddered. "I don’t know. I haven’t been in since the last caretaker left."
"How long ago was that?"
Peggy looked at her watch. "Four years."
Rory laughed. She couldn’t help it. The smile lingered as she walked up the steps to the porch and noticed Peggy’s reluctance as she followed.
"Goodness," Rory said. "It can’t be that bad."
She stopped on the porch, looking at the pansy-filled window boxes. Her knit skirt swirled against her ankles, and a faint breeze stirred her hair.
Those weren’t the only things she felt.
"This is where he died," she said softly.
Peggy, who had gathered enough courage to join her, stopped short with one foot on the porch, the other on the step.
"How...how do you know?"
Rory turned to answer, but the answer changed when she saw the look on Peggy’s face. Fear—not of the house now, but of Rory herself.
"I read the background material you sent."
"Oh. Oh, right." Peggy laughed, sheepish, and took that final step onto the porch. Rory, pleased, let one hand trail along the porch rail.
She had read the background material. It hadn’t explicitly mentioned the location of Lachlan MacGregor’s death. But the space defined by the porch thrummed with that energy. Fear, shock, ending—all diluted by the passage of time, but enough to send a shiver over Rory’s skin.
"Shall we go inside?" she asked Peggy.
"Must we?" Peggy tried—and failed—to make her comment sound like a joke.
Rory reached out and closed her hand around Peggy’s arm in an automatic gesture. Too late she wondered if the other woman might be offended by the familiarity, but Peggy made no effort to escape Rory’s gentle grasp.
"I have to eventually," Rory said, "and it’d be easier if I didn’t have to do it alone." Not because she was afraid, but because she had questions about the house. Plus she wanted to see Peggy overcome her fear. Why, she didn’t know. It was just one of her many quirks, which she’d learned to accept.
Peggy’s smile quavered, but she squared her shoulders. "All right. It’s not supposed to be too bad in the daytime, anyway."
So they went in together. Opening the door, Rory was struck immediately by the smell of age, of old carpet, old upholstery, old dust.
The smell of ghosts.
Peggy stayed close to Rory’s side, and Rory had the feeling that, if it had been socially acceptable, the other woman would have clung to her hand. Rory wanted to look at everything, feel everything, see if she could trace the energies in the house, to see where the ghost might be most likely to appear. She suppressed her enthusiasm, though, for Peggy’s sake.
"It’s been very well maintained," she said matter-of-factly.
Peggy nodded, her eyes darting around the room as if she expected something to jump out and grab her. "We haven’t had any trouble getting contractors to come in and do this and that—just finding someone who’ll stay in the house full-time."
"The ghost didn’t object to the renovation?"
Peggy looked surprised, as if such an idea had never occurred to her.
"Not as far as I know. One of the electrical contractors said he heard singing upstairs, though, when he was checking the bedroom wiring after dark."
That captured Rory’s interest. "Singing? What kind of singing?"
"Spooky, freaky, nobody-else-is-in-the-room singing." Peggy shrugged, still peering furtively around at the furniture. "I don’t know. I doubt he does, either. He said he didn’t stick around too long after that."
Rory smiled, amused. "I see."
"Well, would you have?"
"Of course I would have. It’s my job."
It was becoming rapidly obvious that Peggy had no idea what to make of Rory. Not an attitude Rory was un-used to. Many people didn’t know what to make of her. In the face of Peggy’s obvious confusion, Rory offered another smile.
"So, there’s electricity?"
"Yes. Electricity, modern plumbing, appliances, a phone, gas heat. It’s all been added unobtrusively, though. The bathrooms are off the areas where you’ll be living—one at the end of the hallway upstairs and one off the kitchen. The upstairs area will be roped off from tour groups, and the downstairs bathroom is intended for guest use." Peggy was crisp and professional now that the subject had turned away from the ghost. "We’re hoping, of course, that your work will make it even more necessary to have a public restroom."
"Well, we’ll hope. Is there anything else I need to know?"
Peggy started to back toward the door. Obviously this was the cue she’d been waiting for. "You might want to go over some of the nitty gritty details, like benefits and salary and how to get around town."
Unlike Peggy, Rory was in no great hurry to leave, but there were some things about the job she needed to go over with Peggy.
"I’ll tell you what. I want to make a quick run through the house and get a few things settled, so how about if I meet you for dinner?"
"You’ll be okay here by yourself?"
"Of course."
Peggy had reached the door by now and was groping behind her for the doorknob. "All right. Then I’ll meet you at the downtown diner at six."
"How do I get there?"
"Three blocks down, take a left, that’s Main Street. Diner’s on the right. ‘Bye!"
The door didn’t quite hit her on the way out, but it came close.
Smiling, Rory turned back toward the interior of the house. Silence settled around her as she stood still, watching dust motes drift in the rays of light coming in from the windows.
The energy swirled here, but it seemed subdued. After a time, Rory walked into the kitchen. Slowly, feeling the soft swirls of energy as they moved over her skin. They pooled here, just inside the kitchen door, then eddied outward. Rory paused next to the kitchen table and again held still, utterly silent, even her breath barely enough to stir the course of the dust in the air.
The ghost was here, but not strong. Daylight sapped a ghost’s energy. Why, she didn’t know, any more than she knew why she could sense the eddies of energy, why she could sense and speak to ghosts when no one else could, why her aid seemed to help them let go and move on to the other side. All she knew was that it happened. It was.
Rory closed her eyes. Without vision to interfere she could feel the eddies even more strongly, but not quite the sense of the ghost.
"I suppose I should introduce myself," she said softly, so the sound of it wouldn’t startle her in the silence. She’d managed more than once to shatter her concentration with the sound of her own voice. "I’m Rory. I’ll be staying here for a while, to get to know you. I won’t bother you tonight, so you’ll have a chance to get used to me. But I want you to understand I’ve been around a good number of ghosts. I probably know more about them than even you do, so don’t try any cheap tricks. They won’t work on me, and I’m sure you’re above that, anyway. I’ll be putting some equipment around the house that will help us talk, so don’t let that bother you.
"And, Mr. MacGregor, I’m looking forward to getting to know you."
Rory opened her eyes. The eddies had changed, though only a little. She thought she saw a streak of red move through the air, like food coloring dispersing through water.
Rory held very still, her heart pounding. The colors moved, shifted, and for a moment she thought she saw the outline of a tartan. Red, green, black, a splash of white.
Rory smiled. "It’s nice to meet you, too."
The color disappeared. A saner person would have attributed it to imagination. Rory went out to the car to get her cameras.
***
"Downtown" hardly qualified for the term, consisting of a small grocery store, a gas station, a hardware store, and a diner. Only the diner and the gas station were open. Peggy waited inside the diner. They picked out a booth and sat down.
"So . . ." Peggy ventured cautiously after their drinks had been served. "How’s it going so far?"
"Fine. I gave myself a tour of the house. It’s really quite lovely." With plenty of little niches and windowsills where Rory could plant microphones. She shook a pack of sugar, tore it open and emptied it into her iced tea.
"You do know that tea’s already sweetened, don’t you?" Peggy asked her.
"Yes." Rory tore open packet number two. "I think I actually saw the ghost last night."
Peggy’s eyes widened. "You saw him?"
"Maybe." Rory reached for packet number three. She liked her tea sweet. It was her only vice—well, except for a few others. "Does he wear a red tartan?"
"MacGregor tartans are red and green, yes." Peggy’s voice came out matter-of-fact, but her eyes were wide. She obviously still had no idea what to make of her new acquaintance.
"Then I’d say it was him." Rory turned her attention to the pasta on her plate. "That’s a good sign."
Peggy poked her fork through her salad without looking at it. "That’s amazing. I don’t think anybody’s ever really seen him before. Heard him, yes, but not seen him."
Rory shrugged. The Alfredo sauce was excellent, light but rich. She loved creamy pasta sauces. It was her only vice, except for those others. "It happens to me all the time. I attract ghosts. I don’t know why." She took another bite of the pasta and closed her eyes, the better to experience the smooth flavor. It really was exquisite.
Peggy had managed to get a bite of salad halfway to her mouth, where it now hung from her fork, dripping Italian dressing. "And that doesn’t bother you?"
"It used to. It doesn’t anymore. It’s just a fact of life. Some women attract animals, some attract babies, some attract undesirable men. I attract ghosts."
"I think I’d rather attract undesirable men."
Rory laughed. "Ghosts are ever so much more interesting."
The conversation lagged for a bit while Peggy gave her salad the attention it deserved. Rory looked at it, wondering if the radicchio was fresh and if the dressing was really as good as it smelled. Peggy had poured it out of its little white cup with a heavy hand. Probably her only vice. That and eating nothing but a salad for dinner. A big salad, yes, but still just a salad.
Finally Peggy soaked a breadstick in the wonderfully odoriferous dressing and looked at Rory. "I can’t believe you actually hunt ghosts for a living. It’s just too creepy." Rory gave her a bright grin. "Ghosts are no problem. They’re very rarely hostile, and when they are, they can’t really hurt you." She took a long drink of her sugary iced tea, supplying herself with an appropriately pregnant pause. "Except for the occasional possession, or sometimes ghosts that are really demons—"
"Oh, good grief," said Peggy. Rory laughed. "Most ghosts are really fairly dull. That’s why my book about the Kentucky ghost went over so well. It was a good, active ghost with an interesting history." "Well, if those are the criteria, you’ve found another one. The mayor will be happy."
"Will I be meeting with him at all?"
"Not very much. I’ll be handling the bulk of the work with you. But if you ever do talk to him, don’t wear a skirt that shows your knees." Peggy laughed. "Seriously. That is not a joke. It really distracts him."
And Peggy thought ghosts were creepy. "What does he expect from me as far as the job?"
"He’s committed to bringing tourist business into this town. The Kentucky story really impressed him. I thought he was nuts at first, but then I figured that, even if there isn’t a ghost, a little publicity couldn’t hurt. Since the textile mill closed down, Winding Falls has really suffered."
"Westbrook Hills was the same way. Now, even with the ghost gone, the publicity generated by the book has been enough to bring in a lot of tourists. Last I heard, they’d opened a small hotel and three new restaurants."
Peggy nodded. "That’s what Carlton said. He doesn’t believe in ghosts except for their economic potential."
Rory grinned. Maybe she could shake up the mayor a little. It wouldn’t hurt him any, she was certain.
"Have you personally experienced anything strange in that house?" Peggy glanced sidelong at the table next to them, as if afraid of being overheard, then leaned over to whisper to Rory.
"I heard bagpipes in there once. And another time I heard someone singing. A man’s voice, and it wasn’t English." "Did you investigate?" Peggy’s eyes widened. "Are you nuts? I left as quickly as possible. Both times were after dark, and I was alone—" She shuddered. "Yeah, I know, you would have been in there with cameras and tape recorders blazing, but it was just a little too much for me."
Smiling, Rory sipped her tea, then stirred it to wake up all the sugar that had fallen to the bottom of the glass. "You’ll never know what you might have missed."
"You really enjoy this stuff, don’t you?" Peggy said. "I mean, the ghosts and the spooks—you really get off on it." "Yes, I actually do. You see, I have a gift. Sometimes I can talk to ghosts when no one else can. It’s almost as if there’s something about me that enhances them." "Really?" Rory nodded. "Take the Kentucky ghost, for instance. Until I arrived no one had been able to establish communication other than using codes for her to tap answers to simple questions. When I arrived, she was able to speak aloud, and even to become visible, which she’d never been able to do before." Peggy’s breadstick dripped dressing while Rory spoke. "Amazing." "I’m hoping something similar will happen with the MacGregor ghost. He has such an intriguing story. I’d like to hear it directly from him."
She dug into her pasta while Peggy stared, apparently unable to stop shaking her head in amazement. When Rory reached for a breadstick, Peggy said, "Nothing bothers you, does it?"
"What do you mean?" "I mean, things that would freak out most people don’t faze you at all." "Maybe it’s just a matter of exposure. The more weird stuff you see, the more normal it begins to seem." "So have you ever seen something that really got to you? Something weird enough to rattle you?" Rory hesitated before answering, looking at nothing as memories surfaced. A strange, dark-eyed man she’d never quite been able to explain—the reason she’d left her studies in Scotland and come back to the States in the first place. "Yes," she said finally, looking directly at Peggy. "Yes, I have."
***
A few hours later, suitcases unloaded, cameras and tape recorders strewn all over the living room, Rory sat at the kitchen table writing out a game plan. Tomorrow she’d set up tape recorders in places most likely to yield results. Based on the background information, she’d already ruled out the pink bedroom, but the kitchen and the library seemed promising. Tonight she’d collate her notes on previous sightings, which would make a good first chapter to her book.
Finally she stopped, eyes aching from looking at the computer terminal. Time to wind down for bed. But she had nothing whatsoever to do with herself. The place had electricity, yes, but there was no TV, no radio, and she was tired of looking at the computer, even for entertainment’s sake.
She’d almost decided just to go to bed and read when she remembered the big, deep, claw-footed porcelain tub in the upstairs bathroom. The thought of a nice, warm bath made her realize just how long a day she’d had, and how much she needed the relaxation.
The water sputtered a bit when she turned on the tap, blowing a nice spray of rust with it, so she let it run until the water was clear before she stuck her hand in to test the temperature. She wondered how old the pipes were, and if they might have lead in them. She’d have the water tested as soon as possible.
The bathroom filled with steam as the tub filled with hot water. Rory went back to the pink room to retrieve the paperback horror novel she’d picked up at the grocery store. She found horror novels vastly entertaining. Devoting her professional life to the paranormal had given her a perspective somewhat different from the average reading public’s, and she often laughed her way through the most gruesome tales of preternatural mayhem. Stephen King could still scare the hell out of her on occasion, though.
Book chosen, tub full and steaming, Rory peeled off her clothes and settled down into the nearly too-hot water. It would cool quickly enough, but right now it was warm enough to turn her pale, freckled skin an interesting lobsterish color. She wished she had bubble bath, but unfortunately she hadn’t thought about it when she’d been at the store.
She read for a while as the water cooled to comfortably warm. The heat and the stress of the day combined to fill her body with lassitude. As the mayhem in the book began in earnest, she found her eyes drifting shut. Finally, after nearly dropping the book into the water, she laid it aside and closed her eyes.
Warm steam caressed her face, and the warm water lapped softly against her thighs and breasts. With her eyes closed, the dampness felt like a hand against her face, each bead of sweat seeming to pop as it rose on her upper lip. She felt as if she were floating, though her body rested securely on the floor of the tub. Giving herself up to the floaty sensation, she let it carry her away.
She didn’t fall asleep. Not quite. She hung suspended between consciousness and slumber, thinking of nothing, only feeling. Sensation filled her, until it seemed nothing existed outside the layers of her own skin.
The heat, which had lain soft and damp against her skin, shifted as her breathing deepened. It was like the caress of hands, moving up and down her body, the imagined touch adding to the deep, pervasive lassitude which had completely filled her. She smiled a little, sank deeper into the water, but her conscious self was unaware of the action.
And heat grew within her. Liquid still, like the heat of the water, but pooling within her body, sinking to lie between her thighs, until that place ached with heaviness. Sticky and hot, she moved, her hips pulsing softly. She didn’t know she did it. She thought she dreamed.
But the dream was all of heat and water, growing and moving as it passed over her body, molded firm around her breasts, slipped soft down her belly, feathered against the insides of her thighs . . .
Rory woke with a start and sat gasping, still feeling the heat, her body teetering on the edge of completion.
What the hell was that?
It had to have been a dream. Certainly the heat hadn’t been real—the bath water had turned almost icy around her. She stood, shivering as she snagged the towel from the sink. Her legs wobbled. She scrubbed herself dry and shivered her way into her pajamas.
She stared at the water as it swirled and glugged down the drain. She’d had strangely intense emotional experiences at haunted sights before, but never anything like this. It had to have been a dream, the result of fatigue and her understandable preoccupation with the possible haunting of the house.
At least, she hoped that was all it was. Anything else didn’t really bear thinking about.
***
For a moment, Lachlan MacGregor thought he was seeing a ghost. Which was ironic, since he was one. Then he saw past the woman’s curly copper hair and realized the face was narrower, more delicate than Christie’s had been. Still, in the bath, through the filter of his ghosthood, she looked strangely like Christie, with her eyes closed and her face relaxed in sleep. Her body was longer, her breasts fuller, her skin spattered with freckles Christie would have abhorred. But Lachlan couldn’t resist the temptation to touch her. He did what he could—which wasn’t very much—moving over her in the drifts of steamy fog, absorbing the sense of her. She was nothing like Christie. She was strong and sure and not at all afraid.
And suddenly he wanted inside her. Not in the way he could be as a disembodied spirit, but in the more ordinary, physical way he could have been as a mortal man. Unfortunately, in his present form, he lacked the proper tools. It was only when she bolted awake that he realized what he’d done. Well, not what he’d done precisely—he wasn’t sure he could repeat the performance if he tried—but what the results were, as the woman sat straight up in the tub, eyes wide, skin flushed, gasping.
What in the world had he done to her? He couldn’t have touched her. Not in two and a half centuries of death had he been able to touch a living person.
He’d done something to her, though, and he couldn’t help thinking it warranted further investigation.