Chapter Ten

As he drove up the driveway, Angel Rose by his side, Richie should have been looking forward to exploring the basement. Instead, he felt a sense of foreboding. Something wasn’t right. He glanced to his right, and saw she could feel it too. Her face was ashen, and she had a death grip on the purse strap in her lap. When they rounded the last corner and the house came into view, Richie slammed on the brakes, forcing Angel Rose to relinquish the death grip on her purse to brace herself against the dashboard.

“Son of a bitch,” he swore.

It may just have been a trick of the light, but it looked like the sun was shining directly on the window to the room he could not open. What’s more, there was a figure in the window that quickly disappeared when he peered through the windshield to get a closer look.

“Holy shit – do you see that?” Richie asked Angel Rose. “Someone is in my house.”

He slammed the gearshift into park, and bolted from the car before Angel Rose could answer. Richie was racing up the porch, and bursting through the front door, throwing a “Stay in the truck!” over his shoulder.

“Wait!” she called back, but it was too late.

Richie skidded to a stop in the great room. Nothing looked amiss; everything looked exactly as he had left it. Heart pounding, he bolted up the stairs to the third floor, and stormed up to the door that wouldn’t open. This was where he had seen the figure in the window; he was sure of it. How the hell did someone get into that room before he did? Angel Rose came up the stairs behind him and stopped just out of his reach. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to see who the hell is in there,” he answered, and started pounding on the door when the knob wouldn’t yield. “I saw you in there,” he shouted through the thick oak-paneled door. “Open this door or I’ll break it down!” His chest was heaving, and he was ready to crash through the door when he heard a faint scraping, and felt something hit his boot. He looked down and saw a key lying on the floor.

When Kirstin heard the pounding of feet on the hardwood stairs, she was scared. She could feel his anger – he must have caught a glimpse of her in the window. She’d have to be more careful. Clearly he wasn’t ready. When he pummeled his fists on the door demanding entry, she channeled her energy to the key lying on the floor, and gave it a shove. It slid effortlessly under the door. She heard his muffled curse, and sensed him bending to pick up the key. She also sensed that he was not alone.

Richie swore. “What the fuck game is this?” he yelled, as he bent down to pick up an extraordinary looking key. It was long and slender, with an iron ring on one end and three misshapen teeth on the other. A real old-fashioned skeleton-looking key. He showed it to Angel Rose. “I don’t have a key like this in the jumble Marty gave me,” he said. “And I know there was nothing on the floor here earlier when I tried to get into this room.” He turned the key over a few times in his hands and shouted through the door again. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but you’re trespassing, and I won’t have it!” He fit the key in the lock and turned, satisfied at the loud snick of the lock. The knob was all but crushed in his hand, but it turned easily, and Richie flung the door open.

Kirstin watched with a mixture of anticipation and fear as the knob turned, and the door slammed open, bouncing off the adjacent wall, sending a spray of plaster chips to the floor.

Richie barreled through the door and stopped; a strangled gasp slipping through his half-opened mouth. The room looked like it had just been furnished. There wasn’t a mote of dust to be found on any of the surfaces. Richie was almost afraid to step any further into the room. He wasn’t sure he was actually awake. Maybe when he came running up the stairs, he tripped and fell and hit his head, knocking himself out cold. That had to be it. This just couldn’t be happening – the room was immaculate.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” he asked Angel Rose.

“I see a very well put together room,” Ang answered softly. Her eyes were locked on Kirstin, and she refused to step into the room. “I see linen wall paper with a rose pattern, roll-top desk, rocking chair, other furniture – everything looks clean and new.”

“Yeah,” Richie said. “That’s what I see too. What the hell?”

The floral wall coverings were pristine, and when he reached out hesitantly to touch one wall, he was surprised to feel the warmth and texture of the fabric. He saw the fireplace with its grate in place, and not a cobweb in sight. The leather chairs on either side still looked soft and supple.

He took a step further into the room. The floors were solid; no squeaking like in some of the other rooms on the third floor. He turned toward the old-fashioned roll-top desk and frowned. There were papers in the little pigeon holes, and when he moved closer, Richie could see a delicate, feminine script on some of them. He was reaching for one piece of folded parchment when he felt a breeze and turned toward the window.

The sunlight was streaming in, illuminating perfectly a gently-swaying rocking chair. There was no reason for the chair to be rocking at all – the window was closed. Richie’s blood drained from his face, and he stumbled backwards into the hall, bumping into Angel Rose in the doorway and sending them both sprawling against the wall.

He pointed at the rocking chair. “Do you see THAT too?” he asked, his voice trembling. “The chair,” he said, pointing a shaking finger at the seat in question. “It’s moving.” He didn’t even so much as slide his eyes over to Angel Rose. He was too afraid to look away from the chair.

“I do see it,” she said. And so much more. Damn – so much more.

“What does it mean?” he asked. “What is happening?”

Angel Rose didn’t answer, just watched as a woman rocked slowly in her chair. The woman had a hard grip on the ends of the arm rests and Ang thought she appeared to be staring at her. This was the woman from the articles. Her ancestor. Kirstin.

“What is going on here?” Richie persisted. He gulped and finally turned to face Angel Rose. “That’s a ghost, isn’t it?”

All Ang could do was nod.

The scratches on Richie’s arm started to burn a little, and he rubbed absently at them. When he realized what he was doing, he stared down at them. “Is it the woman from my dreams?” he asked. “Is this Kirstin?”

Kirstin made the scratches on his arm. She was his ghost. Richie’s legs gave out, and he slid to the floor. He wasn’t afraid of many things. Not anything he could think of, for that matter, but he was scared now. He didn’t think he was in any real danger, but she did scratch his arm up, and he just really didn’t understand what was going on. That scared the shit out of him more than anything else did. From his spot on the floor, he watched as the rocking chair stopped moving.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “The chair stopped. Does that mean she’s gone?”

Ang swallowed hard and watched the chair start back up again. Her fear was a nearly tactile thing, and Richie scrambled up from the floor to take her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Ang, are you okay?”

Angel Rose nodded, though she couldn’t pull her eyes away from Kirstin, nor could she pull her hand from Richie’s grasp.

Kirstin frowned, and wondered why the woman was staring so intently at her, but was overjoyed that she and the man hadn’t run. She continued rocking slowly, and waited to see what the pair would do next.

Richie and Angel Rose looked petrified, but slowly, cautiously, started to take tentative steps toward the room. As they crossed the threshold, Kirstin slowed her rocking. Richie’s eyes locked on hers, though he couldn’t see her, and his boots made a hollow sound as he crossed the whiskey-colored floors to sit on the couch by the window.

“Are you real?” Richie asked softly.

“Yes,” Kirstin said emphatically, rocking again. She suspected that since Richie couldn’t see her, he couldn’t hear her, but she had talked to him anyway. She thought about making herself seen, since he did apparently see her in the window earlier, but was afraid of sending him running. He seemed to be able to handle the rocking, so that’s all she would do for now.

Her attention turned to the young woman. The pale girl couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from Kirstin. She acted as though...

“Miss, can you hear me?” Angel Rose held perfectly still and tried not to flinch at the sound of Kirstin’s voice. Kirstin sat forward in her chair to squint at Angel Rose.

“Jesus,” Richie said, seeing the chair perch forward on the very edge of its rockers and hover there, and tentatively reached out to touch the back of the chair. Feeling a coldness unlike anything he’d ever felt before, he snatched his hand back and cradled it to his chest. He flexed his fingers and turned his hand over, but saw nothing wrong. He once again reached out, this time to the armrest.

Kirstin closed her eyes, and concentrated. For a minute, Richie felt his palm warm up, and he’d swear he felt silk or satin under his fingertips. Just as quickly as the feeling came, it was gone.

“Jesus,” he said again. “Angel Rose, there is a ghost. It has to be Kirstin, right?” he whispered. “She’s really here,” he said in wonder. “What do I do?”

That was the million dollar question.

“Go,” Angel Rose breathed. Her skin was pasty and clammy, and the room was starting to spin. “Please, let’s go; take me back.”

Richie turned to Ang and gasped at her complexion. “Oh hell, Angel Rose, why didn’t you say – yeah, let’s get you out of here.” He led her back toward the door, though Riche couldn’t help but stare over his shoulder at the rocking chair. When he came to the door, he carefully took the key from the lock and slid it into his back pocket.

“Kirstin,” he whispered. “What happened to you?” Shaking his head, he led Ang out into the hall and closed the door behind them.