The Ghost Hunter Read online

  A sudden sharp sting ripped across her lower leg. “Awww!”

  She jumped from bed and flipped on the lamp. Empty, the room was empty. It didn’t make Ashley feel any better; she knew they could be hiding anywhere, like cockroaches. She jerked up the right leg of her sweat pants. A thin red scratch marked her pale calf.

  She dropped her pant leg and paced impatiently across the room. The child was a powerful brat, that was for sure. Never had a ghost gotten physical with her. How the hell did a child spirit have so much energy?

  “I hate you,” the girl’s soft voice whispered through the room.

  A cold shiver raised the fine hairs on Ashley’s body. She spun around.

  The child wasn’t there.

  Anger flared through her body, churned in her belly. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. Without thought or planning, she tore open the door and burst into the cool hall. Something warm to drink might help. If that didn’t work, there was always an exorcism. Hell, what would really help is if she’d taken that man’s offer and hightailed it out of this town. She’d never be able to sleep now with that tiny stalker roaming the room.

  But she was just one ghost. One she could handle. She was only a child, for God’s sake. And, according to Mom, she was a figment of her imagination. Then again, Mom had never been slashed across the leg by a figment.

  Floor boards squeaked under her slippered feet, the only sound in the immense mansion. For some reason the noise made her feel better, grounded and in the moment. She made it halfway down the stairs before the soft murmur of voices reached her ears. Ashley paused, confusion freezing her in place. Had she imagined the noise? No, there it was again, the soft familiar murmur of conversation.

  Her heart slammed wildly against her chest. Hadn’t Tabby from the B&B basically said her pub was the local teenage hangout? Had the brats actually broken into her house? Or was something more nefarious at bay?

  Frantic, she searched the dark corridor for a weapon…anything. On the floor in the hall was an umbrella stand with two nasty, weatherworn umbrellas. She grabbed one, her fingers clenching tightly around the plastic handle like it was a baseball bat. Slowly, she made her way toward the back of the house. Damn, but she should have had a telephone installed first thing.

  A dull lamp glowed from the kitchen, spattering the hall floor with a patch of light. Ashley slipped into the shadows, her shoulder blades pressed to the cold, plastered wall. She swore she’d turned the lamp off before going to bed.

  Deep male laughter shook the room. Not boy’s laughter. Men. One? Two? Three? She couldn’t tell how many. She stopped in her tracks, her damp hands regripping the umbrella handle. What the hell was she doing? She should be calling the police, not pretending to be some Wonder Woman wannabe.

  Her mind and emotions reeling, she took a step back right into an icy, winter storm. It surrounded her, whispering through her veins and crystallizing her blood until her breath came out in a fog.

  “Why are you so frightened?” the little girl asked, sweeping in front of her.

  Slowly Ashley’s body heat returned to normal. But her stomach was still in turmoil, lurching and knotting and threatening to revolt. She had to close her eyes for a moment to get her bearings. For some reason, it always made her uneasy when she moved through a ghost, as if she’d just stuck her hand inside their rotting body cavity.

  “Well?” the child asked.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Ashley hissed between clenched teeth.

  The little girl crossed her arms over that pink smock. “You just did.” With that said, she smirked and floated into the kitchen.

  “What nasty business are you up to, Poppet?” a man asked.

  Shocked, Ashley froze. There were others. And if those others could see the child ghost…

  “Teasing the lady,” the girl replied.

  Ashley sank back against the wall, too stunned to move, too stunned to do much of anything. Apparently, they could see and talk to the child which meant…they were ghosts as well. Ashley’s grasp relaxed, the umbrella slipping from her fingers. Coming to her senses, she grabbed at the handle right before it hit the floor.

  “Ah, the new owner?”

  “She’s in the hall, listening to us,” the child added.

  Freaking great! Ashley hunkered down low, resisting the urge to curse the brat for turning her in.

  “Now, luv,” another man said. “We tolds ye, ‘uman’s might catch a flash of us, but they can’t see us all the time and they certainly can’t talk wit us.”

  “She can,” her child-like voice became harsh, annoyed. When the child became angry, she lashed out…at Ashley.

  The room fell silent. She could practically hear their ghostly minds working. Indecision held her captive. She didn’t know if she should race back upstairs and try to hide or stomp in there and prove them wrong.

  “Oy,” a woman finally said. “Let Maggie be. Just looking fer a wee bit of mischief, she is.”

  “I’m not! I can talk to her and she talks to me.”

  Ashley scrambled upright. If they believed Maggie, would they ever leave her in peace? Images of sleepless nights flashed through her mind and she knew what she needed to do.

  She settled the umbrella on the floor and stepped into the kitchen. Her ghostly squatters immediately fell silent, turning to face her. But Ashley focused on the 1970s, olive green refrigerator humming in the corner of the room. She’d pretend she was merely there for a midnight snack.

  “See, I told you she could see and hear us,” Maggie said, plopping onto a stool.

  Around a rectangular walnut table sat two men smoking pipes and playing cards. A woman wearing a long, black gown with a white apron stood to the side, leaning against the wall and frowning. Four? Four ghosts! Sweat dotted her back, clinging to her tank top.

  “Don’t look like ‘he sees us,” the woman said.

  Ashley pulled open the refrigerator door, the blast of cold welcome, and took out the bottle of milk she’d purchased on the way home. From the corner of her eye she could see them watching her. Always watching.

  “Maybe she just sees and hears me?” The child slipped from her stool and swept in front of Ashley, her ghostly body half inside the refrigerator. “Look at me!” she demanded.

  Ashley slammed the door shut right in her ghostly face. Without a glance back, she clenched the cold, damp bottle to her chest and started toward the table, knowing the hardest part was to come. What choice did she have? They’d never leave her in peace if they knew she could hear them. Swallowing the lump of resistance stuck in her throat, she lowered herself to a chair, right on the lap of the man wearing a black vest. She fell through the gust of cold air and landed on the chair with a thud. A chill tiptoed over her skin.

  “Bloody rude, is what that is,” the man said and floated away.

  A manic bubble of laughter pressed against her lips. Instead of giving into her insane desire to laugh, she lifted the bottle of milk and drank. Cold and thick, the cream made her gag.

  “Doesn’t ‘ave very good manners, either,” the woman added. “Use a mug, ye savage.”

  Ashley took it all in stride, ignoring her harsh words, for she’d heard worse.

  “So what’s she like?” the other man asked, his lips moving around his pipe. He wore a brown vest over a beige shirt, an antique looking outfit. Slowly, he stroked his short beard, all the while watching her in a way that made her uneasy.

  Ashley’s grip tightened. God, it was hard not to respond. Not to throw her milk bottle against the wall and scream for them all to get the hell out of her home.

  “She’s mean. And she’s ugly. And I hate her.” Maggie rushed at her. It took all of Ashley’s power not to brace herself. A cold rush of air swept through her very soul, crystallizing her blood. She felt the child’s anger— bitter, freezing, consuming. Ashley fell back against the spindles of the chair and stared hard at the wall. She would not cry out.

  “What the…” she said,
feigning shock by blinking her eyes wide. And her high school English teacher said she couldn’t act.

  The woman floated toward the child. “See, Maggie, ‘he doesn’t see ye.” She brushed the child’s hair from her face, almost a motherly gesture, but Ashley knew better. They didn’t have real feelings. They didn’t care about anyone but themselves. On trembling legs she stood and replaced the milk in the refrigerator.

  Almost done. Just walk casually out the door and leave them to whatever it was they were doing.

  “She’s a ‘andsome lass, I’ll give her that.”

  Ashley wasn’t sure if she should be disgusted or pleased.

  “Ye’d think a boar in a gown was a looker,” the woman snapped.

  Apparently disgusted. Ashley rolled her eyes and continued into the hall, but she could feel someone following her, the cold air that penetrated deep inside her bones would never go away no matter how many sweaters she wore. The coldness followed. Always finding her no matter where she hid.

  “What do ye think she’ll do?” a man asked.

  “Don’t rightly know. Try to turn it into a Pub again, is my bet.”

  “Bow before your magistrate!” A hollow voice echoed around her.

  A split second later a man appeared in the middle of the hall, a sword in hand. In his short puffy pants and puffy jacket, he looked like a circus performer and part of her wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, until she realized she would have to walk through him to get to her bedroom.

  She closed her eyes as the burst of cold air hit her skin, pierced her flesh and crystallized her bones. Ignoring the convulsion of her muscles, she continued on, not pausing until she made it to her room. She could make it, but her knees were practically buckling from exhaustion.

  “How dare you, peasant!” the ghost cried out from behind her.

  She pushed through the door, slamming it behind her. She couldn’t do this; she couldn’t live here with that many ghosts…watching her, always watching her, never leaving her in peace.

  No. She shook her head, determined to regain control. No. They had no power over her. She needed answers. She wasn’t leaving until she uncovered the truth. Ashley stumbled toward her bed. Exhausted, she crawled onto the mattress and pulled the duvet over her body, covering her head.

  “They have no power over me,” she whispered, safe inside her warm cocoon.

  Next to her feet the mattress slumped. Then another slump. Another, and another. “Is she sleeping?” someone asked.

  She resisted the urge to groan.

  “Don’t rightly know.” She felt a stab of cold air as if someone poked her in the leg. She refused to cringe, refused to curse.

  Fanfreakingtastic. It didn’t matter if she spoke to them or not, they were never going to leave her in peace. A warm tear of resentment slid down her cheek. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and cursed her dad to hell.

  Chapter 4

  Digging in dirt was way less fun than Martha Stewart made it look. Plus, way messier. Even though it wasn’t hot, it was warm enough to make the tank top stick to Ashley’s back. She swiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. Yeah, gardening had been a good idea, until she’d started.

  Still crouched, she leaned back on her heels and stared up at the monstrosity before her…the house, her house. Her gaze traveled the windows down to the front stoop. A spot of pink interrupted the dark shadows there in the open doorway. Margaret was barely visible in the harsh light of day.

  Ashley had woken up that morning only to find the child watching her, long after the others had left. Maggie had talked nonstop as Ashley dressed, but she’d refused to respond to the child’s chatter. Eager to escape Maggie’s persistence, Ashley had hightailed it to the garden, thankful the child seemed to prefer the indoors.

  Now that Ashley had plenty of time to think, she realized she’d rarely come across spirits outdoors, and never during the day. Perhaps they couldn’t leave their home; perhaps they were more difficult to see in the bright light. She didn’t know, and frankly she didn’t plan on finding out.

  She took the rusty trowel she’d found in a shed out back and dug it into the earth under a particularly nasty lime green weed that refused to come loose. She gardened because she’d always thought gardening looked relaxing, but Mom said it was unladylike. For some reason, she felt the need to get back at her mother.

  Gritting her teeth, she dug the point of the trowel into the root. “Take that, Mom.”

  “It’s not a weed,” Margaret said.

  Ashley jumped, surprised by the child’s sudden appearance. Damn. There goes that theory right out the window. Apparently ghosts could come outside. She made the mistake of pausing.

  “Ha! I knew you could hear me.”

  Ashley didn’t respond, instead, she continued to chop at the plant, taking out her frustration on the tenacious roots. Until she found answers and could leave this hell, she’d have to find a way to coexist with her spiritual friends.

  “Truly, it’s not a weed.”

  “What is it then?” She cursed herself for asking.

  “It’s a native plant of France. Gets a beautiful pink flower in the spring.”

  Ashley dropped the trowel, annoyed that she’d responded to Maggie, more annoyed that the child seemed to know the difference between a plant and a weed, while she didn’t. The trowel clanged against a rock with a satisfactory ping. “And how do you know that?”

  Her brows drew together. “I think my mum planted it.”

  She hadn’t been expecting that answer. Surprised and bemused, Ashley fell silent. This had been Maggie’s home. At one time, she’d played here with parents and possibly siblings.

  Something feeling strangely like compassion swirled warmly in her gut. She pushed the sickening feeling aside and picked up the trowel. “I thought you…whatever you are…couldn’t come outside.”

  Maggie knelt beside her and waved her hands over the flowers. The blossoms wavered back and forth, moved by her energy. It was amazing and a bit unnerving what this child could do. How much energy did she have?

  “Why did you think that?” Maggie asked.

  Ashley shrugged and patted the dirt back around the French flower, taking the child’s word that it would bloom beautifully in the spring. Would she still be here in the spring? God, she hoped not. But Maggie would be…forever…and ever.

  “We can go outside,” the child continued. “But usually we stay close to our home.”

  Home. How odd that thought was. Ashley lifted her gaze to the seemingly empty building. This was their home. Their eternity. Their safety. She felt almost guilty for asking in Leeds about a priest to exorcise the place…almost.

  Maggie stood. “Someone’s coming.”

  “What?” Ashley turned toward her, but the child was gone as quickly as she had arrived.

  Ashley shifted her gaze to the front door. Maggie stood there, hidden in the shadows, watching the drive. The crunch of wheels over gravel and low rumble of an engine alerted her to the presence of a vehicle. How had Maggie known? Did ghosts have some sort of sixth sense?

  Ashley removed her gardening gloves and dropped them to the ground next to the trowel. She was expecting the estate agent’s gray Saab, not a silver motorcycle. The bike stopped under an old oak that tilted dangerously low to the ground, like a crippled old man trying to crawl.

  The driver stood… tall, broad shouldered, his back to her. The idiot wore no helmet and his long, black hair gleamed almost blue in the rising sun. Ashley frowned. Who was he and what—

  He turned, facing her. The gorgeous features nearly made her knees buckle. Was she still breathing? She couldn’t seem to tell. She’d seen him only once, but that face was now as familiar as her own. His eyes had haunted her all last night.

  “Oh. My. God,” she whispered, shock freezing her in place.

  She wasn’t sure which was more surprising, that he was real, or that he was here. Unless ghosts had started driving mot
orcycles, the man she’d met at the tea shop, the man who wanted her house, was actually living. Relief quickly turned to annoyance. Couldn’t he take no for an answer?

  He pulled silver-rimmed sunglasses from his eyes and hung them from the collar of his grey polo shirt, then started toward her. The wind tousled his hair, making him look boyishly human, instead of otherworldly gorgeous as he’d looked last night. As he was wearing short sleeves, she couldn’t help but notice the way his biceps bulged. And his jeans, dear Lord, the man’s jeans fit well. With his intense gaze, his muscled build and that sexy accent, he reminded her of a Highland Warrior. But he didn’t notice her, no, his gaze was fastened on the house.

  Of course, why would he notice her? In jeans that had the knees ripped and a tank top, she wasn’t exactly Ms. America. Nervously, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and waited for him to reach her. Each step closer made her heart race a little faster. She didn’t know what had happened last night— hypnosis, jetlag on her part— but she swore he’d somehow messed with her mind. She wasn’t about to let him do it again.

  “What do you want?”

  His gaze came to rest on her. He smiled a slow, easy grin that made her heart do a strange little jump. Only a few feet from her, he stopped. Too close. She had to resist the urge to step back. “Ms. Hunter, so lovely tae see ye again.”

  He held out his hand. Afraid if she touched him common sense would disappear, she ignored his offer and crossed her arms over her chest. He seemed to think this highly amusing and his smile deepened.

  “I’ve come to make an offer on yer pub.”

  “I told you, it’s not for sale.”

  She didn’t know if she’d eventually sell it or not, but she sure as hell wasn’t telling this arrogant bastard. She knelt and started to gather her supplies, annoyed with the way her hands had grown damp. Being inside with the ghosts was better than out here with him. He made her feel out of control and she hated that.

  “Five hundred thousand U.S. dollars.”

  She paused in mid-reach for her trowel. Five hundred thousand? Had she heard him correctly? Oh God, she couldn’t seem to breathe. Five hundred thousand would pay off debt, and she could purchase a lovely new cottage by the ocean along with a retirement plan. Five hundred freaking thousand dollars.