Date post: | 23-Mar-2016 |
Category: |
Documents |
Upload: | karen-r-thorne |
View: | 216 times |
Download: | 1 times |
GIVING UP THE GHOST:
THE WALK-INBook One of the Alternate Reality Series
Green thread reality
A Visionary-Metaphysical Novel
KAREN R. THORNE
One story, two endings . . . two realities.WHICH WILL YOU CHOOSE?
Visionary/Metaphysical Novels by Karen R. ThorneSome titles not yet released.
For a complete list and to order, visit the author’s website
www.krthorne.com
where you can also download free samples, read blog posts,and keep up with all the latest exciting offerings!
Paranormal Alternate Reality SeriesGiving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn
BLUE thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkInGREEN thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: WalkIns WelcomeBLUE thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGREEN thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series
Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn The EVPsmp3s – available at www.krthorne.com
Marek: Diary of a WalkIn
Ghost Matter: The Story of OberonA QuantumVisionary Timebending Exploration
MusicGilding a Darksome Heaven (The Orchid)Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of WinterThe Devil’s Caprice
FantasyDartfoilDralácri (Tears of the Dragon)
Supernatural/Otherworldly BeingsReflections of a Vampire
A VisionaryMetaphysical Metaphor
Paradigm Swift
VISIONARY FICTION – FORGING NEW PATHS BY CHALLENGING BELIEFSAre you game?
GIVING UP THE GHOST:
THE WALK-INBook One of the Alternate Reality Series
Green thread reality
A Visionary-Metaphysical Novel
KAREN R. THORNE
Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)COPYRIGHT © 2005, 2015 Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)
5th Edition Copyright ©2015All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts, without written permission from the publisher.
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.ANY RESEMBLANCE TO PERSONS LIVING OR DEAD IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
PUBLISHED BY
VISUALLUSIONS LIGHTSOURCE PUBLISHING
GOLDEN, CO
Printed in the United States of America
Visuallusions logo image: paperball, www.stock.xchng.comInterior title page image: Clouds 1 by artunet http://www.freeimages.com/photo/1429739Cover image: a man against the setting sun http://www.freeimages.com/photo/1088202
Rain texture 2 by koko-stock (http://koko-stock.deviantart.com/)Brushes: Skeleton Key (009) by Faln_Stock http://falln-stock.deviantart.com/
Ornament - http://mouritsada-stock.deviantart.com/Cover and Interior layout by Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)
Created in GIMP
Dedicated to
Renee and Monica,
My sister Anita
and all those who believe.
∞
About the Author
Welcome, Visionaries!
I am on a mission: To inspire the human spirit by challenging the mind and heart. My goal is shifting paradigms, moving from what has been to what can be.
Throughout all my stories you will find a world in which a greater, mystical Intelligence is at play (without the confines of religion), where violence is not the answer and Love restores the wholeness of Who we are.
“My lord, I should be sorry if I only entertained them; I wished to make them better.”— George Frederick Handel
All my stories are given to me by my wonderful Inner Muses. These quirky Messengers introduce me to these amazing otherworld people, and then the people tell me their story. You see, for me, all these stories are real—the people, the places, and everything that happens in them—somewhere, in some plane of existence. (I know this because if I try to change it, they fight me on it!) My job is to transcribe the stories they tell me so I can share them with you.
My Writing is Not for Everyone
I write for Visionaries, people who look beyond to see a better world than this one, not by doing more of the same but by challenging the status quo, often breaking the rules in favor of a new and better way. Those who no longer wait for someone else to tell them what to do or grant permission, but instead are willing to think for themselves, to listen to the Voice within, and go for it.
21st century trailblazers, quantumstyle!
Are you with me?
Karen R. Thorne is a Visionary novelist living in Denver, CO. A graduate of The N. C. School of the Arts (Cello) and former member of the American Association of Electronic Voice Phenomena (AAEVP), she has been crafting Visionary novels since 1994.
Visit her on the web at
www.krthorne.com
A True-to-Life Ghost StoryThe story you are about to read is based on a series of reallife paranormal events and phenomena I myself experienced, or were experienced by others I know.
Almost all the entity dialogue quotes found in this work were taken from actual EVP1 I recorded. The main storyline is a threadingtogether of the various paranormal events, taking great care to ensure they remain both accurate and truetolife.
Electronic Voice Phenomena - EVP
To those unfamiliar with EVP, the repetitive nature of some of the entity utterances may seem strange. Spirit persons are often confused—many don’t even know they’re dead. Some appear to be stuck in a loop, replaying an event or series of events again and again (aka residuals), oblivious that Time has left them behind.
Such is the case with “Tom,” the malevolent reallife entity who haunts the place where I lived during the writing of this book. Tom appeared to be an intelligent haunt2, as he responded to questions put to him (often repetitiously), just as the character who represents him does here. And he was just as stubborn!
Several other entities portrayed in this book are also based on spirits I have encountered, primarily through EVP. Specific details of the lives of these spirits, as well as how they died, have been sketchy and difficult to verify, but firsthand encounters with them have left no doubt they are real. Out of the greatest respect for these tragic souls, I have done my utmost to portray them as accurately as possible.
Walk-ins
The “walkin” aspect was based on the general concept of walkins3, and not on any particular individual.
Aside from the former members of the Morrison Haunted Tour group who have so graciously given their permission to be portrayed here as themselves, any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
1 EVP: Electronic Voice Phenomena, or EVP, are recorded voices or sounds with no known physical origin that were not heard at the time of the recording. 2 Intelligent haunts interact with those of us in the flesh, as opposed to residuals.3 See www.greatdreams.com/walkin.htm
Familiar things may not seem sowhen cast against the backdrop of the Visionary mind.
walk-in:
Two souls who have agreed to switch places,
allowing the spirit of the discarnate to “walk in”
to the body of the person who wishes to leave the earth plane
without experiencing physical death.
As it has been
n the silence, in that proverbial stillness known as the dead of night, came the sound of footsteps. Echoing against walls and ceiling, over and behind pictures covered with dust, down and
around and through the few small tarnished candelabras, beneath the furniture left behind. Solemn as they walked these halls each night, never knowing peace, never knowing rest; neither hurried nor slowed, firm in their resolve (or perhaps their resignation) as they reverberated through the misty stillness, until they came to the end, where they would turn, and go back the way they came.
I
No one really knew how many years the footsteps had echoed. Long years had passed since any living person had lived in this house. None could. From time to time some came, looked briefly, and left. Of those who stayed, none would remain.
For there were cries and there were moans, and even occasional laughter—though it was not happy laughter. Sorrow and anger were what thickened the air, overshadowed at times by longsmoldering rage. Sometimes voices could be heard, whispers at odd hours of the day and night, beseeching, arguing; sometimes, the barest fleeting glimpse (had anyone been present to witness it) of a grey mist, or shapeless form, slipping hastily down the empty corridor. Yet always the echoing footsteps. Even they did not know how long it had been. For what is time to one whose heart has been broken, whose grief has never healed?
What indeed.
1
“I know nothing of buying houses. I only know I want it.” The calmness in Jenny Townsend’s voice echoed the serenity on her face.
“But Miss, you haven’t—”Even as he said it, she was taking out her checkbook. “The
down payment, I believe, was five thousand?” With determined firmness she pressed the pen into the small slip of paper.
“Miss Townsend, please.” The realtor’s bulbous eyes watched as she gracefully wrote Frederick Butterworth Agency and the amount. “I beg you to reconsider.”
“You did say the executors want to sell?”“Well, yes, but—”“And in the last—” she glanced at her watch, “twenty minutes,
they haven’t changed their minds?” Fluidly she signed at the bottom, the handwritten lines as sweeping and elegant as her slender fingers as she tore out the check.
“Certainly not. They’ve been more than eager—”“Then I see no problem,” she said as she handed him the
money.The realtor’s face grayed. “But Miss Townsend,” he said,
waving the check limply, “you must understand. The house . . . well, it has a history.”
Silently she met his bushybrowed stare.The stare became a frown. “For the last twentyseven years,”
the realtor intoned, “no one has lived in it. Nineteen fortytwo, the Brown family moved in, two years after the original owner died. They lasted four years, though not without incident. The house then stood empty until the midfifties, when a man named Thomas Bradley took ownership. He was there the longest, nearly eight
Karen R. Thorne 3
years total, he and later his new wife, or girlfriend, I believe. That ended in tragedy—insanity, two murders and a suicide. After that, it was on again, off again, far more off than on. The last people left before they’d even unpacked.”
Apparently, all this was intended to elicit a reaction.“If nothing else, then,” Mr. Butterworth continued with an
exasperated sigh, “consider its age! Houses as old as this one often require extensive remodeling.” Here he began to tick off items on his thick fingers: “The plumbing needs inspecting, the wiring must be thoroughly checked, the foundation is likely cracked and leaking, and with winter coming on, the furnace will need to be replaced. Most likely the roof, too—it’s at least forty years old. . . .”
As the realtor droned on, Jenny’s mind wandered. How lovely the place was. Lonely, forlorn, sitting tucked off the street amidst overgrown weeds in a longuntended yard—just waiting for someone to love it again. Old, yes, but that was its charm. Newer, modern constructions held no appeal for her. Old houses had history, as Mr. Butterworth said. And this one seemed especially steeped in it. So what if it looked a little rundown? The moment she saw it her heart went out to it, the modest faded woodandbrick house no one seemed to want anymore. Something about it seemed to want her. . . .
“In fact,” Mr. Butterworth said, voice rising, “if it weren’t for an obscure legal technicality, the city would have long ago torn it down. Now here,” he said, opening and turning around an open book of glossy color photos, “is a lovely old Queen Anne. Wellkept in a good neighborhood—”
Jenny did not even glance down. “When can I have the keys? I’d like to move in as soon as possible.”
The realtor sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, bushy brows knotted. “You’re sure you want to do this?”
“I have given you my check.” She leaned forward, pen still in hand. “Now, where do I need to sign?”
4 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Mr. Butterworth’s bulbous eyes stared at her, loud ticks reverberating from the clock on the wall. Then he shook his head. “Very well then,” he said with a sigh, running a hand through his thick graying hair. “If I cannot talk you out of it. . . .”
But she was already reaching for the thin sheaves he had taken out, the Sheaffer making a slight scratching sound as she signed.
The realtor watched from beneath his caterpillar frown, coughing and clearing his throat. “Ahem, yes, well.” Eyeing the yellowing papers, he flipped through the pages, noting the blanks (of which there were few) Jenny had initialed or signed. Clearing his throat again, he harumphed and nodded. “Much of the house still uses skeleton keys,” he said, opening the bottom desk drawer and taking out an old, worn brass keyring, the writing on the tag nearly gone. “You’ll probably want to change them—”
The keys jangled briefly as Jenny took them. “Thank you, Mr. Butterworth. You have my cell number. Please let me know when I can pick up the final papers.”
Ignoring his persistent look of dismay, she calmly got up and left.
Outside, Jenny paused to lean against the gnarled bark of a large halfnaked oak. What had she just done?
You, said an accusing little voice, drawing out the word, just bought a rundown (some would say dilapidated), saggy old Victorian at the edge of Golden, Colorado.
“It’s not saggy!” Jenny argued aloud, giving herself a shake. Striding through the crunch of leaves, she fumbled in her purse on the way to the car. “It’s a beautiful house,” she muttered. “It just . . . needs a little work.” Jiggling the key in the lock, she slid in, her coat getting caught in the door. Stop it, she told herself as she shoved the key in the ignition. The annoying doong, doong, doong of the seatbelt reminder didn’t help.
Karen R. Thorne 5
Backing out, she missed the narrow exit slope, her shiny sixmonthold PT Cruiser jolting over the curb.
You’ve lost your mind, the little voice said, you’ve gone completely crackers. Years of thinking about this, years of planning, and then settling for the first house she saw—a ramshackle old dump. A complete waste of five thousand dollars. . . .
Not listening! she firmly told the little voice. I’m just not listening to you.
All the way up 12th, onto Washington, then 19th Street, the dratted litany continued, growing louder still when she had to stop at the light at the 6th Avenue highway, barely a block from the house she’d just bought.
The house . . . she’d just bought.A flood of heat washed over her. Five thousand dollars—and
that was just the down payment. Maybe she should go back, see the house one more time. After all, it wouldn’t hurt to take another look. And what about those others the realtor had mentioned? That Queen Anne sounded rather nice. Wonder where it was? Mr. Butterworth said it was wellkept, in a good neighborhood. Probably someplace over by the zoo, City Park, or maybe Cherry Creek (though the countryclub set wasn’t exactly her thing). Maybe he still had her check. . . .
Instead she found herself turning left, heading east, away from the mountains, away from the realtor’s office. Just kept driving, kept putting more and more distance between her and the five thousand dollars she’d so glibly handed over for a rundown old house she’d only barely glimpsed, once.
Flakes of snow began to drift across the windshield. Her middle sank—November wasn’t exactly the best time to move, especially in Colorado. Already they’d had several inches, right before Halloween; there could be a fullblown blizzard by the time she was ready to move in. She remembered the time she’d helped a friend move in hipdeep snow. Between the wind chill and the nearwhiteout conditions it’d been what, minus nineteen?
6 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
November could be frigid, maybe even in the single digits like they’d had last year—
At that moment her eye caught a sudden flash of highwaysign green. Crap! Missed the exit. Now she’d have to take busy Wadsworth, and that meant all that wretched construction, plus the long way ’round. Which meant by the time she got home the realty office would be closed. She flicked an irritated glance the dashboard clock. Fivefifteen. Of all times for her cellphone to be on the charger at home! Not to mention her mind being elsewhere. Though with a bit of luck she just might catch Mr. Butterworth before he left . . . oh, when would this truck let her pass? She could hardly wait to get home.
Home.As she edged past the slowmoving semi, the whispers came
again: home, home. As if the apartment she’d lived in for the last two years was now a thing of the past, and the “new” place was hers and she’d already moved in. Why? Because the keys to “home” were now in her purse sitting beside her on the seat? Because she was not the same person who’d left early this morning, taking the first tentative steps of her househunting search, not the last? Because now, barely a scant afternoon later, she was on the verge of moving into her very own house? Hers and hers alone! Why, she could paint the walls any color she liked. She could let the vines grow, and the dandelions (which she still insisted were flowers, not weeds) and the creeping ivy. And she could plant a little garden out back, and hang pictures with real nails, and install some builtin bookcases, and knock out a few walls if it suited her, and—
Sleep in my bed.Jenny hit the brakes.Shaking, staring at the glare of bright red taillights of the Ford
F150, mere inches in front of her. Who said that? A decidedly male voice—definitely not her own. Sleep in “my” bed? What the heck did that mean? Vaguely she recalled Mr. Butterworth
Karen R. Thorne 7
mentioning some furnishings that had belonged to a former owner. . . .
Behind her a car horn blared. Throwing the stickshift into gear, Jenny crept the Cruiser forward, chafing at the several minutes it took to squeeze past the line of stalled traffic onto Alameda. She gave a sniff. Sleep in “his” bed, indeed! Just who was “he” anyway? And what difference did it make? She had a bed, albeit a rather broken down one. Her ex had picked it out: signed the contract at one of those renttoown places where they charge an arm and a leg for cheap furniture that isn’t worth half what they want for it. Without bothering to shop around, without even consulting her. He thought he knew so much, her ex. Ah, but that was past, wasn’t it? And besides, he’d saved her the trouble.
Now, it almost seemed turnabout was fair play. Or had her past come back to haunt her? After all, buying a bed without first shopping around was one thing. Buying a house was quite another.
She took the left onto Kipling Street as fast as the turn would allow. As soon as she got in the door she’d call Mr. Butterworth, convince him to return her check, and then set up an appointment to see some of those other prospects he’d had in mind. Oooh, Jennifer Dove Townsend, if you ever do anything like this again, I’ll—
Pack quickly, leave some things behind. Many beautiful things are waiting.
Jenny swerved, this time barely missing the curb. She glanced up into the rear view mirror, then over her shoulder. She could swear someone had spoken! Right in her ear this time. Of course, it was no wonder she was imagining things; look, even her hands were trembling. Shows you what you get when you don’t take time to think things through. Think first, act later, Mom always says. See what happens when you don’t listen?
You buy a lovely house that loves you.
8 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
The tires squealed as she sped down Kentucky Avenue, then rounded the corner, jolting into the parking lot and zooming into the closest parking space. Please, Mr. Butterworth, please still be at your office. Fumbling with the keys, Jenny practically fell out of the car before tripping her way up the stairs into the apartment.
The moment Jenny flung open the door, she flew for the phone. The keys clattered onto the table, followed by the thud of her purse and a loud zzzip as she dug out the card with the realtor’s name and number.
Oh, answer please! she whispered a moment later, listening to the phone ring, impatiently bobbing up and down.
“Hello?”“Margo! Oh, thank God.”“Jenny? Good Lord, what’s the matter?”“Oh Margo, I’ve done a terrible thing. You just won’t believe it.
I mean, I can hardly believe it myself! I didn’t mean to do it, really I didn’t. It just all happened so fast! I’m not even sure exactly what did happen. My head’s still spinning. Honestly, I don’t know what I’ve done with my senses. . . .”
“All right, Jen, now calm down—”“I mean, I just never meant to do it like this,” Jenny said,
pacing and flicking her hands. “I meant to take my time, check out lots of places, think things through. A month, maybe, or two, or six. Even a year, I don’t know! I mean, there are certain things you simply must do, first. But I just didn’t think. I should’ve talked to Richard—I could’ve taken him with me, to help me keep my head, or Jon. One of them could’ve talked me out of it. Oh, Margo, can you ever forgive me? Here all this time you thought you were dealing with someone rational—”
“Jen, if you don’t stop blabbering, I’m gonna come over there and personally wring whatever it is out of you!”
Karen R. Thorne 9
At this Jenny caught her breath. Biting her lip, she squeezed her eyes shut. Then, taking a slow deep breath she said, “Margo, I bought a house.”
There was a long pause. “You mean to tell me,” her friend said, tone measured, “that
you’ve just had me standing here in utter panic, thinking the absolute worst, wondering who you’ve killed and how many years you’ll get for the crime, all because you bought a house?”
“Margo, are you even listening? A house, for Pete’s sake! You know, hundreds of thousands of dollars, the biggest purchase we ever make?”
“Yes, I heard you.” There was another pause. “And you’re how old now?”
“Oh, come on. Thirtynine and counting. Thirtynine! I mean, you’d think I’d know better. Would you believe I hardly took the time to see whether the plaster was falling off? I didn’t even hesitate, didn’t bat an eye. I don’t know what possessed me. I just took one look at the place, and that was it. Like . . . love at first sight or something. I mean, there was just something about it, I can’t even explain it. Some kind of. . . . Anyway, the next thing I knew I’d plunked down the five thousand dollars—”
“Wait wait wait, hold on. Five thousand dollars? What’dja buy, a kiddie playhouse?”
“I know—crazy, isn’t it? But that’s what the realtor said. He even tried to talk me out of it. He just kept insisting I didn’t want that particular house,” absently she ran her hands through the length of her hair, “said he really shouldn’t have even shown it to me. The only reason we even went to see it was because I insisted on it. I spotted it as he was taking me to see another house, over by Lookout Mountain. Margo, I’m serious, the minute I saw it I knew I had to have it.”
“Why?”“Well—” She halted. The mere thought of it, and the quiet
dark of it again washed over her, as it had when she stepped
10 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
inside. Its oldtimey atmosphere embracing her, filling her nostrils with that lovely oldfashioned, oldhouse smell, and that lovely, whispery beckoning. . . .
“Jen?”She blinked. “Hm? Oh. Well . . . I don’t know why.”Another pause. “Jesus, Jen.” Margo’s voice was quiet. “This
isn’t like you. Me, maybe. But you? I mean, you don’t just run out and buy a house on a whim. You have to have it thoroughly inspected, by a professional—”
“I know, I know. But I’m telling you, something . . . something just compelled me to buy that house.”
There was a long silence.“Margo?”“I’m still here.”Jenny sank into a chair. “No, you’re right. I’ve utterly lost it.
I’m a complete nutcase.”A sigh came over the line. “No, Jen, you’re not a nutcase. You
made a rash decision, that’s all. We all do it sometimes. Heck, I do it pretty much all the time. It doesn’t make us nutty, it just, well, it makes us human.” Margo’s voice was solemn. “But it does come with a price.”
Jenny combed her fingers through the length of her hair. “Yes,” she said with a sigh, “I know.” Getting up, she went into the kitchen, staring out the window at the dense stream of traffic on Kipling Street below. “God, I don’t even want to imagine what Alan will say.” She leaned her forehead against the pane.
“Alan! Why should you give a flying flip about that?”“I don’t, but if he finds out—”“He won’t, so stop worrying about it. You have enough to
contend with without worrying about that jerk. I mean, my God, it’s been two years!” Margo made a sound of disgust. “Besides, it’s none of his business.”
“Yes, but he makes it his business. You know how he is.”
Karen R. Thorne 11
Even over the phone Jenny could feel Margo’s face go dark. “Yes,” her friend said dryly, “I know.”
Just then a car slammed on brakes, skidding into the intersection. Jenny winced. “Anyway,” she said, turning away from the window, “what’s done is done.” She glanced at her watch. “Good lord, Margo, it’s already five past six! Crap—the realtor’s office is closed. Oh, dang it all. I was going to call him straight away, as soon as I got home. But then in all the excitement I missed the exit, which meant I had to take Wadsworth, and you know how traffic is this time of day—”
“And then you called me.”“—and then I called you and . . . oh!” Jenny clapped a hand to
her mouth. “Now how did I do that?“ she said in a softer tone. “I picked up the phone, dialed the number and got . . . you.”
“Yes, that’s usually the way telephones work.”“No, no, no,” Jenny said, opening the kitchen cabinet and
taking down a glass. “I mean I dialed the realtor’s number, not yours.” Drawing herself some water from the fridge, she stared into space, downing half the water in one gulp.
Margo said nothing.“Don’t you see? I dialed the number of the realtor’s office, but
instead I got—”“I heard you the first time. Jen, are you sure you didn’t stop off
for happy hour or something? This isn’t making a lot of sense.”Jenny’s brow knotted. “You know me better than that, Margo.”“Yes, Jen, I know. Sorry. But are you sure you dialed the
realtor’s number? Maybe you just think you did.”“I’m positive. Look, his card is still right here on the table
where I left it. And it’s a 303 number, not 720.”“Well, there goes my next question. Okay, you got me
stumped. How did you manage it?”You are meant to have the house.“I’m meant to have the—wait, Margo what did you say?”
12 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“I asked you how you managed it. Dialing the realtor and getting me.”
“No, I mean after that.”“That’s the last thing I said.”“Then who. . . .”“Who what?”Jenny stood staring into space.“Who what? Jen?”She shook her head. “Never mind, Margo,” she said, “I’ll call
you later.”Still staring, she hung up.
Karen R. Thorne 13
A soft whooshing could be heard, echoing throughout the halls and up the stairs, back and forth, up and down the corridor and into each of the bedrooms. Heard, that is, by any who might have been near enough, though at the moment there was no one. No one to hear the soft sighs, the flurry of dust whorling in this corner and that, the slight creak of a door moving ever so slightly on its hinges. No one to see the barest lifting of the lace curtain dusty and faded with age, when no wind had lifted it. All the windows were closed and the doors were locked, as they had been for countless days and hours that had stretched well on into the years that no one counted anymore.
No one on this side, that is.
2
Barely had Jenny breathed before moving day came.Braced against the freezing cold she stood watching, gloved
hands clasped to her mouth, as her friends Jon and Richard hefted the sofa down the apartment building stairs, slowly and with much debate over which end should be tilted which way. Not that she worried so much about the sofa (it was even more ancient than her saggy old bed), but more about this crazy, seemingly inevitable path she was now on.
“Jen. . . .”Startled, she jumped.“Sorry,” Margo said with a gentle hand on Jenny’s shoulder.
“Where were you?”“Off in another world,” Jenny said, her face lined. “Ohhh—
Richard, watch out!” She covered her eyes as he nearly lost his corner of the sofa. “God, Margo,” she said, hardly daring to peek, “is this really happening?”
Her friend nodded. “Yes, my dear. You’re no longer in Kansas. Or soon won’t be—” and Margo leapt forward to catch the small lamp someone had set atop the cushions. “Now whose brilliant idea was this?”
The boys halted, exchanging glances.“Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying to save a few trips,” Jon
said, “especially in this frigid cold.”Margo shot him a look, and Jenny grimaced as the boys
(Richard was in his late forties and Jon had just turned thirtynine) continued navigating the sofa onto the truck.
Jenny turned away. At least the weather was cooperating—mostly. No snow, but not exactly balmy, either: the last weather report as she was unplugging the TV had said it was a crisp
Karen R. Thorne 15
twentytwo and falling. That she could believe. She pulled her downfilled coat closer, watching as two winterbundled little girls chased each other on the playground, seemingly oblivious to the cold. The youngsters squealed with delight, one girl jumping off the end of the slide just as the other came down it.
Jenny let out a sigh. “I wish this was all done and over with,” she said.
Margo looked over. “Regrets?”The two little girls headed for the swings. “No,” Jenny said
with a wistful look, “not really. It’s just all so weird. Like this isn’t my life or something.”
Grinning, Margo put an arm around her. “Well, it is, so get used to it.”
Once all the furniture was in the truck, the rest of the moving went swiftly. Jenny and her friends formed a tag team to move the smaller items, the more breakable ones going in Jenny’s car. Then Jon and Richard were climbing up into the moving truck, Jenny was getting into her Cruiser, and Margo was sliding into the Cruiser’s passenger seat to hold Jenny’s English ivy, pausing to gather its long endless tendrils before closing the door.
“Okay, that’s it!” Margo said cheerily. “Let’s go.”Jenny gulped.The entire twenty minutes from Lakewood to Golden, every
imaginable thought went through Jenny’s mind. Had she forgotten anything? Did she remember to turn off all the lights? She’d turned in her keys, hadn’t she? What if she’d left the oven on? (Not likely: she hadn’t cooked for three days.) Maybe she forgot to lock the door. . . .
“Hey,” Margo nudged her, “quit worrying, would you? You should be happy. No more apartment living! No more sterile white walls, no more tippytoeing around. No one keeping you from
16 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
playing your stereo as loud as you like,” she reached for the one in the car, “because it might disturb somebody downstairs.”
Music blared from the Cruiser’s powerful speakers.Turning the volume down, Jenny forced a smile. “No more
moving every few years because they hiked up the rent, or your noisy neighbors don’t give a flying flip if they disturb you, or you get scalded or frozen to death in the shower.”
“That’s right. Now you’re a homeowner.”Even the word sounded strange.As they neared 19th Street, Jenny’s stomach dropped. She
glanced in the rear view mirror to be sure the boys were still following. Coming to the light, she turned left, and the truck was right behind. Barely a block and the truck brakes let out a loud squeal as they pulled up in front of the house.
“All ashore who’s going ashore!” Jenny heard Jon call out the window jovially.
Let’s just hope this ship stays afloat, Jenny thought.Margo sat a moment. “So this is it,” she said.Jenny paused. “This is it.”An expanse of overgrown, snowpatched yard stretched
between them and the front porch, a tangle of pale weeds and twisted roots discouraging entrance. Four or five sagging steps led up to an uneven porch, its peeling white paint extending to the bowed railings, the warped eaves overhead, and what once had been molding or trim. Here and there darkened windows nearly hid, their dusty curtainless panes like eyes shut against the world beneath the frown of an aged roof that most surely must leak when it rained.
“Nice place,” Jenny heard Richard say as she and Margo got out. Slowly he walked around towards the side of the house.
Margo was still staring. “Jen?” Her voice was quiet. “This is what you wanted?”
Jenny swallowed hard. Then she nodded. “Yes.”
Karen R. Thorne 17
“Hm. Twentyfirst century Addams Family.” Her friend’s eyes never left the aged structure. Then her expression shifted. “Jen,” she said slowly, “who’s that upstairs?”
“What?” Jenny followed her friend’s gaze. “There’s no one up there. Can’t be—the house is empty.”
Margo’s lips were pursed. “I swear I just saw something move in that window.” She pointed.
“Hey Jen,” Jon said, coming over, “what is it with you and old things? Oldtimey house, oldtimey car—”
“A PT Cruiser is not an oldtimey car,” Jenny said, knotting her arms. “It’s just modeled after one.”
“Yeah, well you would’ve bought the Packard if the guy hadn’t been so steep on the price.” Jon heaved open the moving truck’s rear door with a bang, making Jenny jump. “So,” Jon went on, “you didn’t answer my question.”
Jenny shrugged. “I like old things,” she said, eyes taking in the house. At that moment a loud cawing echoed through the quiet neighborhood, a crow alighting on the roof. “Especially this place,” she added with a small wistful smile.
Neither Jon nor Margo said anything.“Well,” Richard said, rejoining them, “not much to see out
back, unless you like garages. Shall we get started or just stand out here admiring the view in the cold?” Rubbing his arms, he beamed a goodnatured grin.
Jon surveyed the situation. “I think we should back the truck up closer to the door. Direct me, would you, Richard?” he said, hopping back into the cab.
Margo and Jenny moved out of the way while Richard hauled the rear door shut and the boys repositioned the truck. With all the dense overgrowth, it took a few tries to angle the truck properly to fully extend the steel ramp, resting it directly on the porch so they could unload the furniture straight to the front door.
“Wish they’d hurry it up,” Margo said, hugging herself. “I’m freakin’ freezing.”
18 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Rejoining the girls, Richard gave Jenny a fatherly clout. “Well, m’girl, the show’s all yours!”
Glancing at him, then the others, Jenny took a deep breath. Not since the day she and Alan got married had her hands trembled so much, or her knees felt so weak. The old key in the front door lock gave a small metallic groan, and after a momentary tussle the heavy ancient panel swung open—slowly, silently, like a huge yawn, ending on a loud, drawnout squeal at the last.
“Hey, a real haunted house,” she heard Jon joke behind her.Jenny frowned. “It’s just . . . livedin,” she said, staring into the
dim interior. Dank, close air wafted out; reminiscent, oddly familiar. One of those smells that whisks you away to some other time, some other era, when things were different and Golden was a fastgrowing town brimming with the promise of gold; a simpler yet harsher time, when people toiled in the sun and the weather and the darkness to eke out a living, battling the elements and the wild animals and the rugged Rocky Mountain terrain, struggling to survive the decades as they gave birth to their babies and made lives for themselves only to have their young men go off to war, seeking honor and glory bravely defending their country, some returning as heroes, others losing the fight. . . .
“Lived in?” Jon’s voice interrupted. “By who?”Jenny blinked. “You mean by whom. And . . . well, I don’t
know. But it is an old house. So it has to have been lived in, now doesn’t it?”
Margo chuckled under her breath.“Okay, okay,” Jon said, waving a hand and scowling, “by
whom is what I meant.”“Yes,” Richard said, “just because a place has been lived in
doesn’t mean it’s haunted.”A chill skittered over Jenny as he said it; she forced a smile.
Jon hadn’t meant anything, and Richard was on her side, but for some reason she couldn’t shake the sudden inexplicable flare of
Karen R. Thorne 19
irritation. “All right,” she announced in a brusque tone, “let’s get this stuff unloaded. You guys know how I hate moving.”
Two hours saw everything out of the truck and into the house, leaving four weary friends standing around surveying the rather ragtumble results. Jenny’s wellworn furniture was nearly lost amidst the piles of boxes, which teetered in stacks that resembled some sort of odd cubist art.
“Oh, I’ll sort it all out later,” Jenny said, giving a dismissive wave. Turning, she shuffled her friends off for a wellearned chowdown at the nearby Anthony’s Pizza.
Of course the conversation centered on Jenny’s new (or rather old) house, ranging from Margo’s dubious remarks, to Jon pointing out the practical considerations, to nods of appreciation from Richard, whose special interest was all things aged and antique.
“Needs work, of course,” he said, munching down on his pepperonipizza slice, “but it’s got potential, indeed it does. It’ll make a nice place once you fix it up.”
Jenny smiled. “Thanks, Richard. Coming from you, that means a lot.”
“Well, I still can’t figure why you went for that spooky old place,” Margo grumbled. Tossing her crust onto her plate, she shivered. “Gave me the creeps.”
“The house appealed to her,” Jon said before Jenny could come back with a retort, “simple as that. You can’t fault a person for liking what she likes.”
“Yes,” Richard agreed, “you certainly wouldn’t want Jenny criticizing you for liking—what’s his name, Larry?”
“Tim,” Jon said, at the same time Jenny said, “Tyler.” Then she added, “Tim was last week.”
20 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Margo frowned. “Wade,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Tim was two weeks ago. Tyler was one lousy weekend date, if you could call it that.”
Jenny refrained from giving an eye roll of her own.“Y’know, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jen,” Richard said,
leaning forward onto his forearms, “how did you come to find the house?”
“Yeah, Jen,” Jon said, reaching for a second slice, “I thought you were looking further up Lookout Mountain.”
“I was. But on the way to see the other property I looked over and spotted this rusty old For Sale sign, almost hidden in the tall grass. As soon as I saw it I yelled Stop! and the realtor slammed on brakes, so fast it sent the realty folder onto the floor.”
Margo laughsnorted, sending Dr. Pepper up her nose.“Odd thing was,” Jenny went on, “Mr. Butterworth was
reluctant to show me the house. He kept insisting I didn’t want that one, trying to convince me to continue on to our original destination. I told him I really did want to see it. Then he pretended he didn’t have the key,” she paused for a sip of soda, “until I went straight to the false brick where it was hidden.”
“How’d you know where it was?” Jon asked.She shrugged. “I don’t know, something just told me it was
there. So we went in, and the minute I stepped through the door I felt at home. Like I’d been there before.”
“You mean a sort of déjà vu thing?” Richard said.Jenny nodded. “Very much a déjà vu thing. Of course,” she
gave a small laugh, “Mr. Butterworth did his darnedest to talk me out of it, listing off all the things wrong with the place. Made me think of that old ‘80s movie Brewster’s Millions—as if he’d make more money if I didn’t buy it.”
“So why didn’t you listen?” Margo said, scorn obvious.Jon shot her a look, and Jenny shrugged. “I had to have it. It
just . . . called to me. . . .” Her voice drifted off.After a moment Richard gave her a nudge. “Jen?”
Karen R. Thorne 21
“Hm? Oh. Well, I mean, it was just so familiar. Like I could almost describe what was around the next corner. That the door beneath the stairs opened to a little bathroom,” her gaze became wistful, “that there was a goodsized pantry in the kitchen at the back of the house, and two bedrooms upstairs, one master and one smaller one at the end. As if I’d only been away, and the house had just been waiting for my return.”
“Freakin’ creepy,” Margo said, shuddering, briskly wiping at her hands with a paper napkin.
“Well, I think it’s lovely,” Richard said. He tossed the remainder of his slice onto his plate. “Oh, I’m stuffed.”
“Yes,” Jon said, patting his flat belly, “thanks for the pizza.”“It’s the least I could do,” Jenny said, moving to clean up the
crumbs left on the table.Jon waved her hand away. “Leave off, would’ja? Enough work
for you when you get back.” He gave her a sideways grin.“Thanks,” she said, returning the smile as she let him take the
trash from her and deposit it in the nearby bin. “Seriously I really appreciate all you guys did,” Jenny said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Glad to do it,” Richard said, giving Jenny’s shoulder a squeeze. “Though,” he said, voice strained as he stiffly stretched, “tomorrow I may be whistling a different tune.”
They all laughed.A round of hugs was exchanged, Jenny’s arms already feeling
the stiffness as she waved her friends goodbye.
Getting into her car, Jenny felt a wash of realization. She was headed home . . . her home. A home she’d dreamed of having ever since she was a little girl, her very own house that was hers and hers alone. A real place for her furniture, and her belongings.
22 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Which, in the context of the spacious house, suddenly seemed paltry indeed.
“Guess I’ll be doing some furniture shopping,” she muttered, standing in the living room, hands on hips and feeling more than a little overwhelmed. With a long sigh, she hefted the first carton.
There are some lovely pieces in the cellar.She nearly dropped the box.Heart pounding, she looked around. The voice had sounded
like someone standing right next to her, soft yet clear. But aside from the piles of boxes and stale musty smell, the room was empty.
“Ah . . . okaay,” she said in a loud voice, gaze flitting about. “Once I get these things put away maybe I’ll go down there.”
Boy, she thought, stiffly resuming her onerous task, I must really be tired. Now I’m talking to the air.
An incessant ringing woke her.Reaching out, she fell off the sofa, knocking hard against the
coffee table. “Hello?” she muttered, fumbling in the dark with the handset, rubbing at her elbow.
“Jen? Oh, sorry, were you asleep?”She pushed away long strands of tousled hair. “No. I mean,
yes. I guess I dozed off. What time is it?”“Fivethirty.”Jenny struggled to open her eyelids. “In the morning?”“In the afternoon, silly. Sun sets earlier now, remember? We
only left a couple hours ago.”“Margo? Oh man, do I feel tired. I can’t seem to hold my eyes
open.”“Well, it’s no wonder, with all that crazy rushrush packing and
phone calls and arranging and everything else you’ve been
Karen R. Thorne 23
scrambling to do. You’re queen of the castle now, why don’t you just go on up to bed?”
“Can’t. Bed’s still propped against the upstairs wall. And goodness knows where the sheets are, much less the comforter.” Shivering, she hugged herself against the cold.
“How about I come help? It’d be much faster with two.”“Oh, no, Margo, you’ve done enough already”“Nonsense. I’ll be there in ten minutes.
Hauling herself up from the floor, Jenny stumbled her way into the kitchen. Some nice warm tea; that would be good. Brr! It certainly was chilly in here. And the eerie, odd feeling of being in this big, empty house all alone only added to the unease. Years of apartment living had shrunken her sense of space: this place felt enormous! The house felt different, cozier, when others were around. Now it seemed, well . . . desolate? forlorn? Especially when her brain was so foggy she could barely drag one foot in front of the other. Thank goodness she hadn’t packed the kettle away in a box. Tea would help her wake up a bit, yes. At least enough to get the bed put together so she could get some proper sleep, which she sorely lacked. Margo was right. Too many nights of staying up, squeezing a few more hours out of the day to sort, pack, give or throw away. So eager to get moved into her new home and away from the horrid neighbors, their disrespect, their noise, their nasty cigarette smoke, the smallness of her tiny apartment (which had seemed spacious enough once Alan moved out). The ordeal had left her tired beyond belief, but it was all truly worth it. Now she was in her own home, about to have some lovely warm tea to christen it.
Mornings for coffee, afternoons for tea, she always said. “Even when the afternoons look a lot more like night,” she mumbled to
24 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
herself. Running water into the kettle, her gaze roved to the window.
Instantly she froze.In the shadows of the halfnaked trees, a man was shuffling
slowly through her backyard.Jenny blinked. A neighbor, perhaps? Someone taking a
shortcut, not knowing the house was now occupied? She stared until her eyes burned. His dark clothing blended in with the shadows, and he had some sort of odd hat pulled down over his ears. From his posture he didn’t really seem to be a neighbor out for an early evening stroll. She watched as the man continued past the garage, head down, shoulders drooped, as if he were looking for something, or else was lost. Wasn’t there supposed to be a motionsensitive floodlight on the garage? With the yard so dark, it would be difficult to give the police a good description. Though so far the man really didn’t seem to be doing anything—
Except trespassing.She put down the kettle and reached for the phone. At that
moment he disappeared.Jenny sagged against the counter. First Margo thinks she sees
someone in the upstairs window, and now a man just blithely saunters through her backyard in the dark. What was next, a dancing pink elephant?
She gave a sniff. And Alan had been the one to drink.Still shaking (not to mention shivering—wasn’t the furnace
on?), she turned the knob on the stove, watching as the blue flames licked the underside of the kettle. A howl of wind rose up outside; an uneasy feeling settled over her. Her gaze was drawn back to the window. The stiff foothills wind buffeted the yellowing trees in the yard, leaning them to one side, bending their branches and scattering their leaves willynilly into the yawning darkness. High above, a bright moon peeked through the scudding clouds, its crescent sliver more obscured than not, the silvery light not
Karen R. Thorne 25
nearly enough to see anything except the looming hulk of the garage in an otherwise empty backyard.
Zzt zzzng zzzng!Jenny nearly jumped out of her skin. Jesus, what an obnoxious
doorbell. “Coming!” she called, tripping her way through the maze of boxes to the front door, fumbling to open it.
Margo took a step back. “What on earth have you been up to? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jenny frowned. “Don’t joke—for all you know I might have.” She caught hold of Margo’s parka sleeve and pulled her inside.
Stumbling, her friend stared, eyebrows raised. “What are you talking about? You’re white as a sheet. Isn’t that what people say when people are white as a sheet?” She started to take off her coat, then apparently thought better of it.
Jenny stepped over and around the boxes. “Well, you’d be pretty pale, too, if you’d just seen a strange man walking through your backyard.”
“A man? Good lord! Did you call the police?”Just then an insistent whistling interrupted. Jenny maneuvered
her way through the boxes back to the kitchen, the kettle’s shriek nosediving as she removed it from the stove. “I only saw him through the window,” Jenny called out to Margo, who was still in the living room. “Out by the garage. Scared me silly! I mean, there he was, just strolling past like it was a public park or something.” Slowly she poured the boiling water over the tea leaves in the pot. “I was just about to . . . drat! Margo, is there a box out there marked ‘cups'?”
A moment or two passed. “Nope.”“Oh, here it is, never mind,” Jenny said, and tore off the
packing tape.“Jesus, Jen!” Margo’s voice came suddenly from the kitchen
doorway. “Did you forget to turn on the heat in here? It’s absolutely freezing.”
26 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Jenny removed two newspapered blobs from the box. “It’s up all the way,” she said, unwrapping the odd shapes. “I turned it on right before we all left. But the furnace hasn’t been used in a long time. I guess it just takes a bit to get going.” Rinsing the cups, her fingers recoiled from the icecold water.
“Well, I’m gonna go check it again,” Margo said, striding from the room.
A minute or two later Jenny carried the tea out to her friend, who sat huddled on the sofa in the living room. From the look on Margo’s face, the thermostat situation was just as Jenny had described. “Turned on all the way, eh?” she said with a bemused smile.
“Must be busted,” Margo said, rubbing the backs of her arms.Jenny grinned. “Pull up a box and stay awhile.” She handed
Margo her tea. “So,” Margo blew across the steaming cup, “tell me about this
man.”Jenny shrugged. “I didn’t get a good look at him. It was dark,
and I’d no more glanced up and he was gone.”“Could you describe him if you had to? What was he wearing?
Did he look like a convict? I mean, the police might be looking for him or something. Didn’t you see on the news how they’ve recently posted those signs on all the highways about not picking up hitchhikers? Honestly, can you believe it! Dangerous escaped nutcases out casually thumbing rides—too scary.” Margo shuddered.
“You know I don’t watch the news—all that negative programming. Anyway, I already told you I couldn’t see him very well. And he didn’t seem to be doing any harm.”
“No harm? Just trespassing, that’s all.”There it was again: trespassing.“I still say you should call the police,” Margo said, taking
another sip.
Karen R. Thorne 27
Jenny leaned back into the sagging sofa. “No. Whoever he was, he just startled me, that’s all.”
The wind rattled at the window.
Bundled in coats and shivering, the two women sat awhile chatting amiably, finishing off one cup of steaming tea after another. Margo wanted to know of Jenny’s plans for the house, which were, as Jenny put it, “open at the moment.”
That left Margo the chance to talk about her latest boyfriend—in great detail.
“So after that I told him,” she paused for a sip (though hardly breath), “I wasn’t at his beck and call. Just because he’s been staying over every night for a week doesn’t give him special privileges. After all, sleeping with a guy doesn’t mean I wanna marry him. I mean, can you imagine me married? Puhleez!” This last came out with a giggly chuckle and a roll of her eyes.
Thirtysix years old, and still acting like a teenager. Jenny gave her friend a frown. “You know all that bedhopping is not good for you. Wrecks your aura.”
Margo scoffed. “Aura my ass—”“Margo!”“Well! Sorry, it’s just how I talk. Anyway, my aura’s fine, thank
you.” (As if she’d know.) “Besides, God wouldn’t have put so many hunky sexy men on this planet if we weren’t meant to sample the buffet, find out what we like, what we’re suited for.”
“What we’re suited for,” Jenny scolded, “is our soulmate.” At Margo’s dismissive look Jenny pressed her lips together. “You don’t believe in soulmates?”
“I believe in hot romance.” She gave a little browraised shiver.“Soulmates are hot romance,” Jenny said, the frown
deepening, “and more. Hottest romance there is.”
28 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Margo shifted the blanket around her. “And I suppose you’d know.”
“Yes! I mean—” here she faltered a bit, “I know it is. With the right person, that one harmonious soul with whom you get along beautifully,” her voice softened, “without all the bickering and disagreements and incompatibilities. With soulmates things just flow. You understand each other, in a way no one else can.” She glanced over. “Then you’d have no need to jump in bed with every guy you come across.”
Margo gave a snort. “Ha! Fairytale stuff.” She took a sip.“Not fairytale. Though when you find him it feels like one.”“Oh, and I suppose Alan was your soulmate?” Scowling, Jenny clouted her. “Definitely not! I can’t believe
you’d even insinuate—” She halted, then sighed. “No, I messed up with Alan. Got hasty and settled on the guy in front of me just because I wanted so much to be settled down. Look where it got me.”
“Yeah, well,” Margo took a gulp, “I’m certainly not settling. Far too many fish in the sea.” Finishing off her tea, she set down the empty cup. “Like the hottie I saw yesterday over at Safeway. Tall, blue eyes, gorgeous head of curly blond hair. I’m sure he noticed I kept checking out his cute little butt.” She gestured. “He was checking me out, too. . . .”
With a sigh Jenny gave a halfnod.Finally Margo caught on. “All right, sleepyhead,” she said,
giving Jenny’s knee a slap. “Come on. Let’s get that bed of yours set up so you can catch some Z’s.”
Jenny shuddered. “Ohh,” she said as she hauled herself up out of the sagging depths of the sofa, “the mere mention of it makes me want to lie down and sleep for a week.”
A bed already waits for you, she heard a man’s voice say.Jenny blinked.
Karen R. Thorne 29
“Well—” Margo said in a muchtoocheerful tone, “first we have a bit of work to do.” Linking arms with her friend, she gave a broad smile and headed Jenny in the direction of the stairs.
“Now why did you have to say that nasty word work.” Wearily she leaned her head on Margo’s shoulder, dragging herself up the stairs, calves and thighs protesting every step. She paused for breath at the top. “The bed’s propped up in my room, there at the end.”
“Okay, so standing here ain’t gonna get it set up,” Margo said. She gave Jenny’s arm a tug, halfhauling her friend down the dark corridor. “Wait, Jen, what’s this?” She stopped, reaching into one of the rooms to flick on the light. “There’s a bed in here! Linens and all.”
Biting her lip, Jenny halted. “Um, yes. I think it belonged to a former owner. I think . . . they died.” She fibbed, of course; she didn’t know anything about the bed, really. The oddest feeling twisted in her stomach.
“So? It’s already made up, ready and waiting. I mean, I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to get out of helping or anything, but a readymade bed? Surely you can’t refuse!”
Jenny wrapped her arms about herself. “No, I’d rather not.”“What! How on earth can you say that?” Margo’s tone raised
almost as much as her eyebrows. “Tired as you are, and a bigger room besides.” Wideeyed, she gestured. “Have you lost your mind?”
Jenny shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d just, well, I’d rather sleep in my own bed. I mean, it’s my first night here and everything is so new. I’d just feel more comfortable with something familiar.”
“New?” Margo hesitated. “What’s new about this place?” She stared at her friend a long moment. Then, flinging her arms out she gave a forceful sigh. “All right then, if that’s what you want.” She reached in and turned off the light, following Jenny down the hall.
30 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“So this is the offending sleeping apparatus?” Margo said, indicating the limp mattress and set of box springs leaning against the wall. “You grab that end, I’ll grab this one.” Together the girls dragged the heavy pieces into the middle of the room.
“Honestly, Jen,” Margo panted, “I don’t . . . know why . . . you don’t just . . . buy a new one. This thing’s had it.”
“I know,” Jenny said, shoving at the uncooperative frame. “But it’s all I’ve got.”
Margo jammed her fists into her hips. “Not all,” she said, jerking her head towards the other room. “Besides, isn’t this the bed Alan bought?”
Jenny nodded. “Yes,” she said, plopping down on it, “at that ripoff rental place.” She poked at the lopsided mattress. “I still can’t believe he paid three hundred dollars for the thing.”
“And that surprises you?” Margo said with a snort. “Not worth three cents, if you ask me. Him or the bed.” She hefted the other end of the mattress, giving it a shove. “There. Now for the sheets.”
“Ohh, not tonight,” Jenny said, collapsing onto the lumpy surface. “I haven’t the strength to search through boxes trying to remember where I put them.”
“I’ll help you look,” Margo offered.But Jenny shook her head. “I’m so tired, really, I couldn’t care
less. I just want to stretch out. . . .”The words faded almost as fast as her eyes had closed.
Darkness engulfed her. As if in free fall, descending into the depths of sleep beyond all conscious thought.
Then came the uneasy dreams, a slipping in and out of consciousness, all the while acutely aware of . . . something. Screams, or maybe the cawing of crows, and for some reason the bed suddenly felt strange and uncomfortable; no matter how she lay, she could not settle. At one point she sat bolt upright, gasping,
Karen R. Thorne 31
just long enough to realize she wasn’t actually standing atop Lookout Mountain with the wind blowing stiffly and a huge eagle, wings outstretched, coming in to carry her off the summit. It took several heartpounding minutes before she could shake the images. Then just when she felt herself at last sinking back into sleep, her eyes would flutter open at some small sound. Every few minutes something moved or shuffled or squeaked, and sometimes it sounded like someone tapping lightly on the wall or the ceiling—though she could never be sure, for each time she held her breath and listened, the sound would stop.
So by the time morning finally rolled around Jenny covered her head, shielding her eyes from the bright dawning sun that streamed through dustcovered windows not yet hung with curtains. Punching at the bedlumps, she tossed and turned, hoping to eke out just a little more shuteye . . . to no avail.
Finally she sat up. “All right!” she said loudly to no one, flinging off the coat she assumed Margo had laid over her. “You wanted me up, so I’m up! But don’t expect me to be civil about it. I’ve had no sleep and I’m grumpy and I’ve missed my morning coffee.”
Tromping down the stairs she headed for the kitchen, praying she could find the coffee and forestall the throbbing headache that was bearing down on her fast.
Ten minutes later, she was inventing words.“Where—” she shoved yet another moving box aside, “—is my
freaking, flipping, blasted coffee!” Stumbling, she tripped over a halfopen box, knocking her shin. In answer came the clink of silverware . . . then the box slid three feet across the floor, colliding with another box, upending it, dumping the contents onto the linoleum.
Jenny slammed her fists against her hips. “Great. Just great!” Fuming, she stood, head pounding, lips pressed together, with a
32 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
mouth full of stifled expletives it was certainly not her habit to use. Then as she stooped to pick up the mess, she let out a gasp.
Atop the spilled items lay the missing bag of coffee.She frowned. Now how did . . . ? Staring, she groped for an
explanation for how that particular box had gotten overturned: it was nowhere near the one she’d tripped over. The vise in her head tightened. “Ugh,” she muttered, “never mind! So long as I’ve found it.” She grabbed up the coffee, shoving at the mess with her foot. Today it would have to be French press, dang it. The darn stuff just didn’t stay hot long enough in the altitude. Piping hot coffee was what she so needed! But heaven knows where her coffeemaker was, and she hadn’t yet come across the filters, and she most certainly wasn’t going to search for them now. Measuring out the aromatic grounds, she managed to spill half of them, eliciting a few more stifled grumbles and adding to her mounting frustration. With a sigh of disgust she pushed the mess into the sink with her arm and ran the water full force into the kettle, slamming the pot onto the stove.
“A watched pot never boils,” she muttered with a grim expression, impatiently drumming her fingertips on the counter as she waited. Then, finding the sound irritating, she halted her drumming.
But the sound did not stop.Very quiet, very faint, echoing the sound her fingers had made
only moments ago. Then it vanished.“Strange acoustics,” Jenny thought with a frown.
3
By the end of the first week, Jenny had managed to get everything unpacked and put in place, though hardly what she’d call “decorated.” A few pictures hung, her English ivy situated, and what little furniture she had at least somewhat arranged (and rearranged—apartment furniture only goes so far).
Of course, it didn’t help that all of a sudden her things had a mind of their own: she’d put them away only to turn and find them sitting out again, or right back in the box she’d just taken them from.
That, and there seemed no end to the years of dust that had settled everywhere. Each time she wiped at a windowsill or between the stair railings, the dust just came back. After awhile Jenny realized she was really doing little more than just moving it around.
Likewise the dank musty smell that defied her every attempt to get rid of it. No amount of citrus cleanser or good ol' fashioned scrubbing made even the slightest difference, except to leave her arms leaden and sore. Really she only wanted to lessen it a bit: she loved oldhouse smell. New houses never smelled like that, they just reeked of that flat, modernday formaldehyde odor devoid of any history at all. But old houses were full of life and memories, their very fabric laced with the energies of those who had lived (and died?) there.
Pausing a moment, Jenny sank down onto one of the old creaking stairs. So much like people, these old houses, she thought, gazing around. Gathering a lifetime of habits and mannerisms, observing the goingson of day to day life within and without, patiently waiting in endless silence, waiting for someone to tell their stories.
34 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
At least this one seemed to be. A house whose rich tapestry of secrets had beckoned to her from beyond the crumbling façade. It was what had drawn her, she thought with a smile, remembering its silent call.
A waft of warm air swept past her.Jenny sat up. “Hello?”Only the silence answered.With a sigh she hauled herself to her feet, giving the dusty
banister yet another useless swipe. Why on earth had she voluntarily signed up for such a load of work on an old house that needed not only a good cleaning, but a major restoration? Which she definitely could not afford anytime soon.
Pushing at her disheveled hair, she heaved a sigh. Yet another long and strenuous day, and again it felt as if she’d accomplished nothing. Not to mention it was more than a little disconcerting hearing her footsteps echo with every step, often long after she took them. She promised herself she’d go out furniture shopping just as soon as she’d gotten a bit of rest.
Rest, however, seemed but a memory.“God, you look awful,” Jon said on Friday evening when she
opened the front door.“Gee, thanks. You look great, too.” Jenny stepped back to
allow her friends in.“Jon,” Richard muttered, giving the other a stern glance. He
turned to Jenny. “Not the nicest way of putting it,” he said in a gentler tone, “but I would have to agree. You do look quite pale, m’girl. Haven’t you been sleeping?”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “I’ve slept better, that’s for sure.”
“You look like hell,” Margo chimed in.
Karen R. Thorne 35
“I feel like it,” Jenny said. “Well, fellow mughuggers,” she gave a broad flourish, “come on in and have a seat! Anyone for chai? I have some almost ready.” She took a step towards the kitchen.
Richard caught her hand. “No, really, Jen. Your face is drawn, your cheeks are thin, and I can’t remember ever seeing such dark circles under your eyes.”
Leave it to Richard to fuss like a doting uncle. “I’m fine,” she said, subtly tugging free of his grasp. “Moving always just takes so much out of me. I have to be settled, you know?”
Somehow the words came out all cross, not as she intended. Three pairs of eyes stared.
“Um,” Margo said finally, “Jen, if the chai’s not quite ready, why don’t you show us around? Now you’ve gotten all moved in.”
Blinking, Jenny nodded. “Okay, yeah, sure. Though there’s not much to see. Same old furniture, y’know. The living room you’ve all seen,” she said with a wave, motioning for her friends to follow. “In here’s the small bathroom,” she opened the door situated beneath the stairs, “but it needs work, not really usable. This,” she indicated a closed door next to the kitchen, “goes to a kind of dining room or sitting room or something, but it’s full of storage stuff from previous tenants and workmen and I can’t find the key. In here’s the kitchen,” she stood aside in the doorway for her friends to look, “which you guys also saw. Oh, and there’s a pretty nice pantry.” She went over and swung open a reluctant creaky door to reveal numerous ample shelves, most of them empty.
“Guess you haven’t been grocery shopping yet,” Jon said in a leading tone.
“Nooo,” Jenny said, drawing out the word, “I’ve been a teensy bit busy.” (As a former chef, Jon felt it was his duty to make sure her cupboards were amply stocked.)
“Well, in that case you’re forgiven,” he said, casting her a sly eye, “as long as you let me come cook in here.” His gaze took in
36 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
the spacious kitchen. “And provide a map so I can find my way out.”
Margo giggled as Jenny gave Jon a jab in the ribs.He pretended to rub his side. “Well, this one’s what, fourteen
times bigger than the little cockpit galley at your old place?”Inexplicably, the room began to ripple. “Ah. . .” (she hoped no
one noticed her stumble as the floor tilted) “next would be the upstairs.” She motioned with a brisk wave to follow.
The trio trouped along, following her up the creaking carpeted stairs. Jenny subtly clung to the railing; behind her, Margo briefly tripped on one of the many frayed bits of faded carpet.
“Master bath here on the left,” Jenny said, pausing at the top, “in case anyone needs it.” She flicked on the light to reveal a goodsized bathroom, quite a bit larger than the one downstairs. “Of course, it needs some work, too, tile and grout and plumbing and such.” She could feel her cheeks growing warm . . . maybe she should have waited to show them around.
“I love the clawfoot tub!” Richard said appreciatively.That elicited a smile. “Thanks. I love it too.” Turning off the
light, Jenny stepped to one side. “What’s really nice is the linen closet,” she said as she opened the door. “Lots of room to store towels and necessities.”
“I’ll say!” Margo said, gawking. “Helluva lot better than that holeinthewall at your old digs.”
“Margo!”“Sorry. I forgot.” At least Margo had the decency to look
chastised.They continued down the dimlylit hall. “Whoa!” Richard said,
running into Jenny as she suddenly halted.Woozy, she teetered a bit.“Jen, you okay?” It was Jon’s voice.“Hm? Oh, right. Master bedroom,” she gave an offhand wave
at the closed door, “and down here at the end—”
Karen R. Thorne 37
“Wait, Jen,” Margo said, “aren’t you going to show us?” She cocked an eyebrow.
“Um. . . .” She tried to think of something. “It’s kinda messy.”“Phuh! Like we care,” Margo said, pushing open the door and
reaching in to turn on the light. Then she frowned. “That’s funny,” she said, flicking the switch several times, “bulb seems to be burnt out.”
“Yes, well,” Jenny said, hastily moving to shut the door, “I’ll add that to my list. As I was saying, down here is my room—”
“Your room?” Richard said, eyebrows arched. “How come you didn’t take the master bedroom?”
The gulp refused to go down. “Well, um, it’s just that. . . .”“Jen thinks somebody died in that room,” Margo piped up,
expression a tad smug. “So now she’s too creeped out to stay in there.”
At this Richard’s face clouded, but Jon shook his head. “You really shouldn’t worry about it,” he said, laying a hand on Jenny’s shoulder. “You’d be surprised how many homes have rooms where people died, and yet people go right on living in them.”
Not this one, a whispery voice echoed.Jenny faltered. From their expressions, the others hadn’t heard
it. “Ah, yeah, well, so anyway, this is my room.” She gave the knob a turn, then a wrestle. Pushing on the panel, she heaved her shoulder against it until it finally burst open. “Door sticks sometimes,” she said with a sheepish look. “As you can see it’s still quite a mess. I’ve been so tired at the end of the day I just haven’t had it in me to tackle this room, too.”
“And you refuse to ask for help,” Jon muttered.“What?”“Nothing.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and
looked away. “So this is it, then. Well, thanks for the tour.”There was an awkward silence.Margo’s gaze flicked between them. “Hey,” she poked Jenny’s
arm, “I thought we were going to have chai.”
38 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“You know,” Richard spoke up, “chai sounds wonderful right about now. Especially if it’s green tea with not too much spice.”
Jenny blinked. Then she nodded. “Anyone else? Right—four chai’s, coming up.” Glancing at Margo she added, “Now that I’ve finally found all the cups!”
A short time later they were all seated, mugs in hand, Margo and Jon on the ragtag sofa, Richard and Jenny on the large floor pillows that substituted for chairs.
“So, Jen,” Margo said, reaching for a tea biscuit from the tray sitting atop a storage crate, “have you decided what kind of furniture you’re gonna buy?” She crunched into a cookie. “I mean, anything would be better than this old junk,” she said, mouth full, poking at the sofa.
A film went across Jenny’s eyes.“Me, I’d go with something really modern,” Margo went on
blithely, “lots of shiny chrome and bright colors. You know, perk the place up a bit, make it not so gloomy. Though, knowing you, you’ll go with something old. Which of course would mean antiques—”
Jenny nearly choked. “Antiques! Are you nuts? I’ve just bought a house!” Snatching a paper napkin, she irritably wiped at her mouth.
Margo stared. “Sorry,” she said quietly. “I only meant that antiques would look good in here. You know, ’period decor' and all that.”
Both Jon and Richard were eyeing Jenny. She ignored them.“But I guess you’re right,” Margo continued, “antiques can be
pricey. Though not all of them—remember that old sofa and chair you liked at The Brass Armadillo for a hundred sixty?”
Setting her chai down, Jenny stood up. “Yes, I remember it. But right now I’m just a little short on cash.” Miffed by her own
Karen R. Thorne 39
reactions, she went to get more biscuits from the kitchen cupboard.
“Short on cash?” she heard Jon exclaim. “What kind of talk is that? I haven’t heard you say things like that, not in a long time.” He followed her into the kitchen.
Opening the cabinet, Jenny reached up for the box of biscuits, not looking in his direction.
Her friend eyed her. “So what’s all this about your not having any money.”
“Jon, don’t start.” She paused to refill his empty mug from the simmering pot before arranging the biscuits on the plate. “I haven’t done much teaching lately, what with being so busy and all. So at the moment that’s the sad truth.”
Her friend shook his head. “Jen, Jen. How can you say it’s the truth when you know truth is mutable?”
Turning, she cocked a brow. “Jon, are you waxing philosophic on me?”
“No, no.” He suppressed a grin. “I mean, isn’t that what you’re always telling me, that there’s no such thing as absolute truth? That words are powerful and they create our future? You know, all that metaphysicalquantum stuff. Or were you just feeding me a load of bull?” He took up the plate and carried it for her back into the living room.
“Check this guy,” Jenny said, giving a nod in Jon’s direction as he sat down. “I say the cash flow is a little on the lean side, and he gives me a dose of my own medicine.”
“How so?” Richard said.“ ‘Truth is mutable,’ “ Jenny quoted with a flourish, plopping
down on the cushion. “My own words, echoed back to me by The Great Sage Jon.”
“Ah,” Margo said, giving a huge yawn. “How interesting.”“Yes,” Jon agreed, “we’re a really lively group tonight. Don’t
you have some music?” Extricating himself again from the sinking sofa cushions, he went over to the portable stereo perched atop
40 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
two milk crates. “I like your entertainment center. Where do you keep the CDs?”
“In the crates,” Jenny answered, taking a sip of her chai.He leaned down. “Oh, you mean right under my nose? Tch!”
He rolled his eyes. “Now what do we have here, let’s see . . . Josh Groban, Enigma, Johann Sebastian Bach—hey, Oingo Boingo! Gosh, I haven’t heard them in forever.” He pressed a button on the stereo, dropping the CD in the tray and turning up the volume.
“Not too loud, Jon,” Jenny said hastily. “The neighbors. . . .”“Are much farther away now,” Jon finished with a smile. “You
don’t share a wall anymore, remember?”She let out a sigh. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” She smiled at
him, rubbing at the backs of her arms. “Is it just me, or is it chilly in here?”
“I think it’s pleasant,” Richard said, “though you know me, I like the cold.” Then as he looked over he frowned. “Why, Jen, you’re shivering!” Scooting his cushion closer, he began to vigorously rub Jenny’s arms. “Have you any blankets? Margo, check upstairs.”
“Right,” she said, heading off.“She could do with some more hot chai,” Richard said, pausing
to hold out Jenny’s mug to Jon, who hurried to the kitchen. “And heat it up in the microwave if it’s not hot enough,” Richard called after him.
Margo returned with an armful of blankets just as Jon came back with the chai.
“Here,” Richard said, taking one of the blankets and wrapping it around Jenny as he helped her onto the sofa. “You just sit there and—my god, your lips are blue!”
“I’ll call a doctor,” Margo said, reaching for the phone.“No!” Jenny said, her whole body quaking. “I’m ffine. I’ll . . .
bbe okay.”“You don’t look right,” Margo said, unfolding another of the
blankets. “Your eyes look funny.”
Karen R. Thorne 41
“Take a sip of this,” Jon said, kneeling in front of her, holding the mug steady.
Margo layered the blankets around Jenny, tucking them around her legs. “I still say we should call a doctor. It’s cold in here, but not that cold.” She joined Richard in rubbing Jenny’s arms and legs through the blankets.
It was several minutes before Jenny’s face and lips finally returned to normal.
“I’m okay now, guys, thanks,” she said, settling back with a small sniffle. Jon reached for a tissue. “Thanks,” she said as he handed it to her. “I really don’t know what came over me.”
Richard’s eyes were filled with concern. “That was very strange. This room isn’t the slightest bit cold,” (Margo gave him a frown) “yet your lips didn’t turn blue for nothing. Perhaps you’re running a fever—”
Jenny waved his hand away. “Now, Richard. How could I be running a fever and have blue lips?”
“Fever sometimes pulls all the heat into your core, away from the skin’s surface. Though maybe not enough to give you blue lips.”
“In any case,” Jon said, leaning onto one knee, “blue’s not your color. At least not for lips.”
At this Jenny laughed.“Now that’s better,” he said, smiling.“You guys are the best,” she said, taking the mug Jon held out
to her and gazing at each of her friends in turn. “Listen, I have to apologize for being so grouchy. I thought once everything was put away I’d finally get some rest, but I just haven’t.” Her hands were pale and trembling as she brought the mug to her lips.
“Maybe you should come stay at my place tonight,” Margo offered. “You could have my bed and I could get out the air mattress—”
42 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“No, Margo, thanks,” Jenny said hastily. She tried to disguise the slight involuntary shudder. “I mean, I have to get used to sleeping in my new home sometime, don’t I?”
“But if you can’t sleep. . . .”“I’ll be fine.”Margo wrinkled her brow. “You keep saying that. So why don’t
I believe you?”Still shivering, Jenny sipped at her chai and shrugged.The first CD track ended and another one began. All at once
Jon jumped up. “Hey, this is one of my favorites.” He held out a hand. “Come on, Jen. Dance with me?” Grinning, he took a few inviting steps backward. “Dancing will keep you warm,” he coaxed.
Jenny hesitated. Then, flinging off the blankets she stood up. “Sure, why not.” She took hold of Jon’s hand.
Richard looked over at Margo. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”She nodded. “The dance floor’s a bit small for four,” she said
with a wry face, pulling her legs up and scooting back on the sofa to make more room.
Jenny fixed her eyes on Jon’s steps, trying to follow. Jon had had years of dance lessons, starting when he was seven or eight, so she always felt a little selfconscious dancing with him. Not that she wasn’t a good dancer, and she certainly enjoyed it. It was just, well, a little intimidating to be dancing with someone as good as he was: an ostrich paired with a graceful swan.
As the music changed key, Jon swept her up in his arms, swinging her around, never missing a beat, though Jenny had to do a little quickstep to keep up. Still, she found herself laughing for the sheer enjoyment.
“Now that’s a lovely sound,” Richard said to Margo, who nodded.
“Oooooh,” Jon sang, swinging Jenny round again, “don’t you. . .” making her dizzy, “go. . . .”
Karen R. Thorne 43
Jenny laughed again as Jon dipped her, still singing, then spun her away and back, bringing her in close, foreheads touching. Their feet moved in unison now, Jenny having finally caught up to Jon’s rhythm; for a moment the giddiness was almost like flying.
All at once he cried out.Jenny gasped. “What is it? What’s wrong?”“My . . . back,” he rasped, doubling over. “I don’t know—a
stitch or something.” His face contorted.“Come sit down,” she said, leading him to the sofa.With halting breaths he followed. From the way he moved (or
tried not to) it was obvious he was in pain. She helped him lie down. “Can you tell me where it hurts?” she said.
“Agh, it—unh! it hurts here,” he said, pointing. “Between your shoulder blades?” Jon nodded. “Would it help
to massage it? Or would a cold pack be better?”“Not . . . cold—aagh! Dang, that really hurts.”It was awkward to try to reach the knotted muscles from the
opposite side, but she did her best. With each movement Jon’s face registered more pain: the spasms were getting worse, not better.
“Isn’t there anything else we can do?” Margo asked. “Maybe some aspirin, or ibuprofen?”
Jenny shook her head. “No, check the homeopathic kit. It’s in the upstairs bathroom cabinet, lefthand side.”
Once more Margo ran to the second floor, returning with the kit. “Here,” she said, flipping open the lid, “which one?”
“I don’t know, since we don’t know what caused it. Try one of the blue vials with the twist caps, the one marked ‘Chamomilla.’ That’s it.” She stopped rubbing long enough to dispense a couple pellets into the small lid. “Here,” she said, tipping the contents into Jon’s mouth, then capping the vial and handing it back to Margo. “If it’s the right remedy, that should work pretty fast. You’ll feel better in a minute.”
“A minute?” Richard said in surprise.
44 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“More or less. Homeopathic remedies tend to work rapidly. Sometimes in as little as five minutes the pain will be totally gone.”
Richard blinked and shook his head. “Wow. It’s a wonder more people don’t use them.”
“Doctors wouldn’t make any money,” Margo said wryly. “Cure the patient and who comes back, eh, Jen?”
She nodded. “Speaking of back, how’s yours, Jon?”With some effort he pulled himself up. “Much better now,
thanks.” He leaned his head against the cushions. “But man, what hit me? Felt like somebody stabbed me with a knife.”
“Hmph,” Margo said with a frown. “First Jen’s freezing, then you get knifed by an invisible dagger. What’s going on here, anyway?”
Jenny shot her a look. “What do you mean?”“Well, you gotta admit it’s pretty strange.”“Yes, but what does that have to do with my house?” A scowl
knotted her features. “Just because a couple odd coincidences happened doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with my house.”
“I didn’t say it was the house. It was just an observation—”“Well, I don’t like it. And if you don’t like being here, you can
just get out.”“Get out?” Margo’s face was pure shock.“Yes. Get out of my house.”Margo’s nostrils flared. “Well, if you want me to leave, I’ll go.”
Setting her cup down with a bang, she jerked to her feet, striding to the closet for her coat.
For a moment Jenny said nothing. Then all at once she blinked. “No, Margo, wait,” she said, seeing her friend snatching up her purse and heading for the door. “Please—I’m sorry, I don’t even know why I said that. I don’t want you to go. Though maybe you should—all of you. I’m so tired I can hardly hold my eyes open.”
“You seemed fine a minute ago,” Richard muttered.
Karen R. Thorne 45
“What?” Jenny said.“Nothing.” He brushed it off. “But you do look exhausted. And
since you haven’t been sleeping well, we really shouldn’t keep you up any longer.” He stood, motioning to Jon. “Thanks for the chai, Jen. Let’s all plan to get together when you’re fully rested and feeling better, okay?” And he smiled in his warm way.
She gave a weak smile in return. “Yes, let’s. When I’ve not had enough sleep I’m a rotten hostess.” She followed them to the door. “Thanks again, guys,” she said, leaning against the doorframe as they went out. “For everything. And Margo,” Jenny lowered her chin, “I’m really sorry.”
“Ehh,” Margo said with an dismissive wave, “you’re tired, I’ll forgive ya. You put up with my PMS enough, eh?”
Jenny ducked her head and smiled. “Guess so.” She stood watching as they each went down the steps and got in their cars, wishing all of a sudden they didn’t have to leave so soon. Then she called out, “Jon!” He stopped. “Thanks for the dance,” she said.
Tipping an imaginary hat, he gave a little bow. Jenny laughed. “Goodnight,” she said with a wave as she
reluctantly closed and locked the door.Bed, her mind insisted. Her body agreed.
Climbing the stairs felt like lugging two massive boulders uphill. Muscles ached in places she’d never even been aware of, every fiber screaming for sleep, though her mind was in a whirl. Why on earth had she gone so cold? The heat was obviously working, or else Jon and Richard would have felt chilled as well (Margo was always cold). And what had caused the pain in Jon’s back? It wasn’t like he was out of shape. He avidly hiked, biked, and practiced martial arts on a regular basis.
One minute they felt fine, the next they didn’t.
46 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
“Oh, I can’t think about all that now,” Jenny muttered as she reached the end of the hall. She pushed open her bedroom door.
A comfy bed with soft linens, just waiting for you.Jenny paused. Margo’s words, echoing back to her. Or is it my
body, she thought, begging for decent sleep? She eyed the lopsided bed. The covers lay helterskelter, the mattress still bearing the marks of her last struggle. Casting a glance back down the hall, she paused. Maybe she could just . . . no. With a shake of her head, she went in and closed the door.
Going to the dresser, she took out the first pair of pajamas she came to, tossing them on the bed and beginning to get undressed. Oh, she couldn’t remember ever being so tired. Moving had really caught up with her—in spades. Even lifting her shirt over her head was painful.
Just then a cold draft blew across her body. She snatched up the pajama, instinctively covering herself. Nothing in the room moved, not even the feathered hat on the porcelain doll. Yet something felt strange, not quite right . . . as if someone were there.
Watching.She waited. Then when nothing further happened, she shook
herself. Ridiculous, she thought, slipping the pajama over her head. Funny, all the silly things your mind comes up with when you’re really, really tired. She went to close the window.
It was then she remembered the man. Her breath caught; in her mind she could still see him, that shuffling form, slipping through the early evening shadows, hiding in the dark. Edging to the window, she peeked out. No one in sight. The window sash was closed and bolted.
Then the thought came: What if he’s in the room?Gooseflesh prickled all over. He could have slipped in the back,
when Jenny was occupied with her friends at the front door. Slipping off her shoes, she tiptoed over to the closet; then, biting her lip, she flung open the door.
Karen R. Thorne 47
Just her own clothes, swaying slightly in the breeze from the door.
She let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve gone completely crackers,” she muttered. “If I don’t get some sleep soon, they’re going to come cart me away.”
A comfy bed with soft linens, just waiting for you. . . .“Shush, Margo!” She went to brush her teeth.
All was quiet when at last she returned to her room. With a huge sigh she crawled up under the covers and let her eyes close.
Again, sleep refused to come.Restless, tossing this way and that. Not a single comfortable
position to be had. And her mind seemed deadset on conjuring up all sorts of gruesome images, fearful whatifs and harrowing scenarios all designed to keep her from desperately needed sleep.
“Okay, fine,” she said after an hour, flinging off the covers. “I’ll just go sleep downstairs.” Reaching for her robe, she jerked it on, stuffing her feet into her slippers and smacking off the light.
The hallway was cold, more than a little dark and (if truth be told) downright creepy. Shadows made the dark seem darker, and the floorboards emitted odd creaks as she crept warily down the hall. Then as she passed the master bedroom, a warm current of air laced its way around her.
“No way,” she murmured. Not daring to breathe, she waited. The air was still, the temperature chilly. Perhaps she’d only imagined it. With a shrug she continued towards the stairs.
But there it came again: a soft, gentle almostbreeze, warm and slightly moist, as if drifting in from some balmy tropical ocean. Which, of course, was thousands of miles away. There wasn’t even a lake nearby, or at least not near enough to matter. Yet the air definitely had that slightly humid quality. Though really it was more like . . . well, she couldn’t place it.
48 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Pursing her lips, she stood, one hand on the banister, the other lightly against her throat. All was dark and quiet below. Hmph. Margo and her “anything would be better than this old stuff.” Well, it was her stuff, Jenny’s old stuff, and she was fond of it, thank you very much. Like old friends, or wellworn comfy slippers that knew your feet so well. The sofa might be old, but it was still pretty comfortable. Many an hour had she slept on that sofa, drifting in and out in front of the TV when she’d been at home ill and didn’t feel like just lying around in bed all day bored. Not the best way to get well maybe, but at least it made the hours of misery pass more quickly.
A moist scent wafted to her from behind.She looked over her shoulder. “You want me to come in there,”
she said softly, “don’t you.” To whom she might be speaking she had no idea . . . and she was too scared to move. Much as she longed for a nice soft bed, something just felt really weird about sleeping in a bed that had belonged to someone else—someone who had owned your house before you, and had left the bed behind. Why? Was something wrong with it? Maybe the person really had died in it. She’d have to ask Mr. Butterworth about that. After all, most people take their furniture with them when they leave.
“Oh, what nonsense!” she said aloud, pulling at the sash of her robe as she padded down the stairs. With each step the air grew still colder, and as she neared the bottom the hair on her arms began to rise, a little shiver running down the back of her neck. It reminded her of the strange feeling in her room, of being watched.
Probably just nerves, she told herself. Spooking herself out just because she was alone. Though, she couldn’t help feeling as if she weren’t alone.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” Immediately she clapped a hand to her mouth. What if someone really was down here? Jon knew karate; she didn’t. What if it was the man she’d seen walking through the backyard? What if he’d seen her move in, watched her
Karen R. Thorne 49
friends all leave, realized she lived here all by herself? It was too dark to see anything, but she was far too scared to turn on a light.
In a flash she bolted back up the stairs, stumbling as she tripped on her robe. With pounding heart she ducked into the master bedroom, shutting the door. Chest heaving, eyes squeezed tight, she stood with her back against the heavy oak panels, listening for any sound. All was silent.
It was several minutes before she breathed a quiet sigh. Then she opened her eyes.
“Oh my god.”The barest hint of moonlight cast an illuminated glow through
the window, across the hardwood floor of the master bedroom . . . which was entirely warm and comfortable. In the corner an overstuffed chair extended welcome, its beckoning form tucked into the corner nook created by the stately chest of drawers. A few wellplaced pictures of pleasant domestic scenes and landscapes adorned the walls, their subjects only hinted at in the pale light. Yet the whole was but a showcase for the handsome fourposter bed that stood at the center, the top draped by a loose white canopy tied back at each of the carved posts, the bed piled invitingly with pillows. It dawned on her then that this was the room that had most impressed her when Mr. Butterworth had shown her the place. As he was rattling on about the broken tiles in the bathroom and the sagging floorboards in the hall, she’d been thinking how spacious and homey this room felt . . . yet for some odd reason she’d adamantly avoided it.
Tentatively she took a step forward. The mattress stood high off the floor, just like her Nana’s bed when she was a little girl. She could still remember having to climb to get up into it, the mountain of its soft mattress and fluffy pillows like sinking into a huge billowy cloud.
But this isn’t Nana’s bed, she told herself. This is someone else’s bed, someone I don’t even know.
The warm breeze curled about her again, caressing her hair.
50 Giving Up the Ghost: The Walk-In (Green thread reality)
Jenny didn’t move. “What are you trying to tell me,” she whispered, fearing the answer.
Then her body reminded her how tired she was, how heavy her eyes were, how every muscle and fiber ached to the very marrow of her bones. How she longed for sleep.
With nervous hesitancy she moved a few steps closer. You shouldn’t be in here, part of her mind scolded, this isn’t your room. As if that made any sense! Like a child sneaking into a forbidden place where only grownups were allowed. Heart pounding, she pulled the abundant covers back, slipping off her robe and cautiously climbing in. Then as she nestled down into the aged oldfashioned sheets, she smiled. How unusually thick and soft they were, how different the fabric! How wonderfully they smelled of another time, another era, another . . . someone.
With a sigh she let herself sink into the cloud of feather pillows, settling her wearied body, closing her eyes.
Good night, my Jenny, a soft voice whispered as she drifted off.
~End of excerpt~
Want more?
Go to www.krthorne.comto order this and other titles
by Karen R. Thorne