Grayson Manor Haunting Page 2

  “Why? Because I’m a woman? I can manage. I’ve been on my own for a long time.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just wanted to help.”

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Why? You don’t even know me.”

  He shrugged. “Why does that matter?”

  “I have a phone,” Addison said, her tone confident. “I’ll call a cab if I change my mind. But I do appreciate you offering to—”

  “Check it,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your phone—just do it.”

  Addison plucked the cell phone out of her pocket. The service bars on the screen flickered between one and none. Great. Her new life was already turning out to be a disaster. She knew the house would need to be restored—the lawyer had mentioned it in their meeting—but she never thought it would be this unlivable.

  Luke sighed. “What if I find you a place to stay that’s close to the city but not in a busy area. Would you consider it?”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “It would only be for a few days,” he insisted. “I’ll get the water on and the power and then you can come back. Sound good?”

  Addison hated to admit it, but he was right. She couldn’t stay here. “Do you have a specific place in mind?”

  “A guest house—you’ll have plenty of privacy. Let me make a call first and make sure it’s okay. ”

  “I thought you said the reception wasn’t very good out here?” Addison asked.

  “For you, maybe, not for me.” He winked and stepped outside.

  Addison turned, looked around, and became more aware of how much work it would take to fix up the place. What have I gotten myself into?

  CHAPTER 3

  Two weeks and three days later, Addison returned to Grayson Manor with a new car and a different phone carrier. The guest house Luke had secured for her belonged to his parents, Jim and Bonnie Flynn. It was detached and set back far enough behind the main house that Addison had all the privacy she needed. Still, it didn’t stop Bonnie from stopping by every night with an extra dinner plate and an offer of female conversation. At first, Addison politely declined, saying she could make herself a sandwich, but the word “no” wasn’t part of Bonnie’s vocabulary. Somehow, she always found a way inside Addison’s room and her heart, and by the end of Addison’s time there, she was eating dinner in Luke’s parents’ house every night, often with Luke joining them at the dinner table.

  Over the past couple of weeks, Addison had made several trips back and forth to check on the progress of Grayson Manor. Each new day it seemed there was some kind of a new problem that prolonged her return, but eventually Luke declared the home fit enough for her to move back in. There were months of work to be done, but the shower had water, the lights turned on, and the stove could cook a meal. It was progress.

  Luke was working on the floor in one of the upstairs bedrooms when Addison arrived. He’d tried to get her to stay on the main level, since they were renovating the upper level first, but Addison preferred the upstairs, saying the view from the middle bedroom was one of the loveliest she’d ever seen. There was no convincing her otherwise.

  “It looks great in here.” Addison entered the bedroom, marveling at its transformation.

  “You are looking at a close replica of what this room originally looked like,” Luke said.

  “I can’t believe this house has been sitting here for all these years when it could have been lived in and enjoyed.”

  Luke tilted his hammer toward her. “Maybe you should ask whoever left it to you.”

  Addison had tried not to think about her mother every day since she had died. She tried not thinking about how much she missed her. She tried shutting out the memories of her mother being in the first row for every single one of her volleyball games when she was in high school or when her mother cried when they said goodbye on her first day of college. She tried because trying to forget seemed easier…though she suspected her thinking was skewed. Either way it was like a slow pain, churning and growing inside her body, waiting until the perfect moment to rupture.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he said. “You look upset.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. When I said I’d inherited the house, it was from my mother.”

  “Makes sense,” he said. “She probably wanted to see it put to good use.”

  “What I mean to say is…she’s dead.”

  It was the first time Addison had said the words aloud since her mother had passed away.

  “I’m sorry.” He shifted his gaze away from her, looking unsure about whether to continue.

  “It was an accident, her death. I can’t—I mean, it’s hard for me to—”

  “It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking about it. It’s not easy losing someone you love.”

  Had he lost someone? A woman in his life, perhaps? At thirty-one, it was possible. Both of his parents were alive and well, she knew. Yet, there was a trace of seriousness in his tone, maybe a longing for someone.

  Not wanting to talk about her mother’s death was one of the reasons Addison had yearned for the solitude of the country in the first place. After the funeral, she quickly grew tired of the incessant phone calls and the unexpected drop-ins by relatives or one of her mother’s friends. Her mother was gone. She didn’t need another one. She didn’t want another one. No one seemed to understand.

  Luke’s attitude was different. He wasn’t nosey and insistent like the others. Over the last two weeks, she’d decided he was kind and patient, the sort of level-headed person who never got upset about anything. Being in his presence was a refreshing change from the life she’d just abandoned.

  “Addison?” he whispered.

  She gazed up, pushing the thoughts inside her head as far back as they could go. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Whatever happened, you don’t have to tell me.”

  She walked over to the bed and sat down. “This might sound strange, but I want to tell you, and I haven’t talked about it with anyone. Not even my father.”

  He smiled, wiped his hands on his jeans, and sat on the edge of the bed. “You can always tell me anything.”

  She sat down next to him, choosing to stare at her hands than at him. “There’s no way of knowing what happened for sure, but from what we have gathered, this is what we think happened. My mother was driving home one night after seeing a movie with friends. It was late, around ten o’clock. The street she was driving on wasn’t very well lit. There was a kid on a bike dressed in a navy shirt and dark jeans. The bike he was riding was an old Schwinn. The reflectors had fallen off, and his parents hadn’t bothered to buy new ones, I guess. My mom’s cell phone rang. We think she reached for it, and at some point, it slid off the seat. She bent down to get it, and when she sat back up, she must have caught a glimpse of the kid. She swerved, missing the boy, but in her attempt to keep him safe, she lost control of the wheel. She overcorrected and her car flipped several times before slamming into a ditch. My uncle said when they found her the car looked like an oversized piece of crumpled newspaper.”

  Luke rested a hand on her knee. “No wonder you wanted to get away.”

  “I just want to be in a place that doesn’t remind me of her.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “The city I lived in was the city I grew up in. Everywhere I looked, all I saw was her—in everything. There were so many memories. I wanted to move to a place where I could make my own memories, but as it turns out, this is the house she lived in as a child.”

  “Did you spend a lot of time together?”

  “Not as much as she wanted me to. She tried so hard to see me, but I was always too busy—with my career, with my life, in my relationships. I put her off, saying something like we could always get together “next week.” Then next week would roll around, and I’d reschedule again. I learned my lesson a little too late.”

  “You’re putting a lot of bl
ame on yourself,” he said.

  “One month ago, I was living a completely different life. I thought I knew where I was going and what I wanted. I didn’t know anything. It took her dying for me to see what I should have seen all along. How many people live like that—blindly following the path they think they’re meant to follow?”

  He shrugged. “A lot, I’d guess.”

  “What made you want to work on houses for a living? Out of all the occupations you could have chosen—why this one?”

  “It’s my passion,” he said.

  “Old houses?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. I see things differently than most people.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tell me something,” he said. “What’s the first thing you thought of when you saw this house?”

  “I didn’t expect it to look so…old.”

  “And?”

  “Run-down.”

  “You saw the flaws,” he said. “It’s okay. That’s what most people see. Your eye naturally goes to the things that need to be fixed.”

  “And yours don’t?”

  “I see a piece of fine art,” he said. “I see a house covered in many fine layers. My job is to peel them all back, layer by layer, brick by brick, until I uncover the beauty hidden beneath. There’s nothing more satisfying to me.”

  The way his eyes sparked when he talked about doing what he loved gave Addison hope that one day she’d feel the same way about this place too.

  “What about you,” he said. “What’s your passion?”

  Addison shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it in so long, I’m not even sure I have one.”

  “Everyone does.” He gently poked her shoulder. “You just have to be open to it when it finds you.” Luke tossed some tools into a box and closed it. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll head home. See you tomorrow at eight, unless that’s too early for you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Most of the window latches were broken when I checked them, so I wedged some pieces of wood in between the frame. It’s a temporary fix, but it’ll keep them from being opened from the outside. I also installed the new handle you picked out on your front door, so don’t forget to lock it.”

  Addison smiled. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think there are too many break-ins out here.”

  Luke glanced back and smiled. “It’s always better to be safe.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Luke had only been gone for a minute or two before there was a knock at the door. Addison opened it. “Forget someth—?”

  But it wasn’t Luke; it was an older woman with purplish-white curls atop her head. Her hair permanent was the tightest Addison had ever seen. She had a smile that exposed the wrinkles of someone who’d lived a full life. The woman leaned on a wooden cane with one hand and held a pie out with the other. “My name is Helen. Forgive my intrusion, won’t you?” She turned, peering at a man in the drivers-side seat of the car parked in front of the house. “I’ll just be a moment.” Then she looked back at Addison. “I live in the house next door. May I come in?”

  “I’m sorry…we’re not finished working on the front room, so the furniture hasn’t been set out yet. I have nowhere for you to sit.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll manage.” Helen pushed her way past Addison, depositing the pie into Addison’s hands as she walked by. She glanced around the room and grinned. “I’m glad to see someone is taking the time to fix up this place. I spent many nights in this house.”

  “You stayed here?”

  “Oh no, dear—not overnight. I’m talking about the parties.” She shook her head back and forth. “What fun we used to have. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss it.”

  “The parties?”

  Helen wasn’t listening. Her eyes surveyed the room while she rambled on about dancing in the parlor room with a man named Harold.

  “Did you know my grandmother?” Addison asked.

  The realization of who Addison was stunned Helen into complete silence. She turned, staring at Addison like she was seeing her again for the first time. “I knew Marjorie Grayson very well. Are you—Nancy’s daughter?”

  “You knew my mother too?”

  “When she was a little girl, yes. I used to watch her for your grandmother from time to time. She was quite an active little thing, your mother.”

  “Did she like living here?”

  “Of course she did.” Helen frowned. “How is it you don’t know any of this?”

  “My mother never talked about her life here.”

  “Then how…or why….?” Helen’s voice trailed off in her confusion.

  “She passed away recently,” Addison stated.

  “Your mother?”

  Addison nodded.

  Helen placed a hand on her hip and made a ticking noise with her mouth that sounded like tkk…tkk…tkk.. “So young. How did it happen?”

  “It was an accident—when she died, I learned about the house.”

  “How?”

  “I inherited it.”

  “What are your plans?” Helen asked. “Will you sell it?”

  “I’m fixing it up.”

  “Yes—yes—I can see that, but then what?”

  “I’ll live here,” Addison said. “I plan to make Grayson Manor my home.”

  Helen moved closer to Addison and squinted. “You look a lot like your grandmother. I can see that now.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “We were neighbors…I suppose I did. Shrewd woman, Marjorie.”

  “Did you just say my grandmother was a rude woman?” Addison asked.

  Helen huffed, offended at the implication. “Certainly not.”

  Addison was sure she’d heard her right, but she let it pass.

  “I considered your grandmother one of my closest friends,” Helen said.

  “Can you tell me anything about her?”

  Helen looked around and frowned. “I can, but I’ll need to sit.” Addison led the elderly woman into the kitchen and found a cushion to place on a wooden chair for comfort. Helen lowered herself down with the natural grace of a royal. “Now. What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Surely she’s in your life in some capacity—can’t you just ask her yourself?”

  Addison shook her head. “I’ve only seen my grandmother once.”

  Helen’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Only once? Well, when was that?”

  “I was very young. She showed up at our house. My mother looked out the window and saw her standing on the doorstep, ringing the doorbell. My mother turned toward me, pointing down the hall. She told me to go to my room, but I didn’t. I snuck around the corner, and when my mother wasn’t looking, I peeked.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “My grandmother. I knew it was her because my mother called her ‘mom.’ I’ll never forget it. She was dressed in a long, fur coat that went all the way to the ground. She had red, pointy fingernails, red lipstick, and red heeled shoes with rounded toes. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, and she wore big, round sunglasses. She looked like a model in a magazine.”

  “What did Marjorie say?” Helen asked.

  “She asked my mother if she could see me. She said it was important, and that my mother knew why.”

  “And your mother—what did she say?”

  “She lowered her voice and said something too low for me to hear. Then she slammed the door in my grandmother’s face.”

  “How old were you at the time?” Helen asked.

  “I’m not sure. Five, I think.”

  “So young, and yet you remember?”

  “My grandmother is the kind of woman one doesn’t easily forget—I suppose especially when I realized who she was.”

  “And you know nothing else about her?” Helen asked. “It’s rather odd that your mother would turn her out in such a way.”

  “Several years after her visit, I wa
s told that my grandmother had died. When I asked my mother for details, she didn’t answer. She just said I didn’t need to worry about it. I tried asking my dad, and he just said to talk to my mother.”

  “Marjorie—dead? I hadn’t heard. Of course, I never knew what happened to her after she left this place.”

  “That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why did she leave?”

  Helen opened her mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut. “I need to get going. I just wanted to come over and introduce myself. We’ll talk again. Good luck with your renovations.”

  Addison tried to respond, but Helen was already limping back to the car as quickly as a woman with a cane could. She offered a slight wave before the car disappeared around the corner. Addison stood on the porch wondering what had spooked Helen enough to flee her home in such a hurry and why she looked like she had something to hide.

  CHAPTER 5

  A faint but distinct sound penetrated Addison’s dream, the noise becoming increasingly louder until it forced her eyes open. She pushed the covers aside and stood up, a cool sensation sending chills throughout her body when the balls of her feet hit the cold floor. She scanned the room for the cardboard box she’d labeled “DRESSER,” combing her fingers through it until she found a pair of mismatched socks. She considered rifling around for a matching pair, but it was late, and she was tired. Addison covered her feet and then crept downstairs, listening and waiting for the sound to return again. But the house had gone quiet.

  Addison flipped on the porch light and cracked open the front door, crouching down behind it. “Here, kitty, kitty.” She listened and waited. “It’s all right, kitty. Come on.” Several minutes went by without a sound. Addison eventually gave up, wondering if the sound she heard had somehow been part of a realistic dream. She closed the door, wrapped the blanket around her, and started back up the stairs. She’d only taken a few steps before the faint cries started up again. Only this time, Addison was wide awake, making it easier for her to isolate the sound’s location. And she realized a couple of things in that moment. One, the noise she heard wasn’t coming from the outside of the house as she’d first thought—it was coming from the inside. And two, the noise wasn’t a cat’s disconsolate cry—it was a woman’s. Or at least, what sounded like a woman.