Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (11 page)

That night, none of them chose to appear.

* * *

Allison woke with a start.

She sat up, feeling lost. Then she noticed the blanket around
her and turned to see the pillow she’d slept on. She looked around, realizing
she was in the foyer of the Tarleton-Dandridge House. She remembered seeing
Julian and she remembered passing out.

She didn’t want to be here. She’d
imagined
Julian last night; he was on her mind. She was near the
place where he’d died. She had been an idiot to come here.

Now she had to go.

She rose just as Tyler Montague came walking through from the
salon doorway, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“It’s black. Hope that’s okay. I don’t use cream or sugar so I
hadn’t bought any yet. I didn’t disturb anything historical. I made it in the
pot you keep in your docents’ room. You all might have cream and sugar in there
somewhere? I didn’t prowl through anyone’s things,” he said, offering her the
cup.

She nodded and accepted the cup numbly.

“I, uh, slept here all night?” she asked him.

“Unless you woke up and went tearing around the historic
district while I was sleeping,” he said. “Enjoying the wild nightlife.”

She ignored his attempt at levity. “You didn’t see or hear
anything…odd?”

“No,” he said. “Did you?”

“Ah, no, no. I must’ve been so tired… I’m sorry. I need to
leave now. I have—I’m going to have a doctor’s appointment.”

She gulped down a huge sip of the coffee, which was hot. She
coughed but didn’t scald her mouth, thank God.

“Hey!” Tyler took the cup from her while she caught her breath.
“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Embarrassed. I was just so tired. Thanks for the
pillow and the blanket. You should have woken me.”

“I tried.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You were out like a light,” he told her.

You’ll never know how much!
she
thought.

“I’ll call you later.” She took the coffee cup from him and
drank more carefully, then pushed it back in his hands. “I’ll call you later!”
she repeated.

Allison tried not to run to the door. When she reached it, she
remembered that an alarm was set. She keyed in the numbers to let herself
out.

At the gate, she did the same thing. She didn’t look back. She
ran down the street, not sure at first what she was doing or even what time it
was, just desperate to get away from the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

Eventually, she slowed her gait. She finally checked her watch
and saw that it was still early—not yet seven. She’d go home and shower, then
show up at the university’s medical buildings and hope that a professor friend,
a psychiatrist, would be able to see her.

At her house, she paused, fumbling in her handbag for her keys.
She didn’t want to go into the house alone.

But she couldn’t go anywhere in the clothes she’d been wearing
all day and all night. Determined, she slipped her key into the lock and went
inside. Still, it took her a minute to go farther than the doorway.

She started talking out loud. “Julian, I’m taking a shower.
There will be no crazy stuff going on now, okay? I do not see you and I will not
see you. You are a product of my imagination.”

She ran through the front of the house and up the stairs to her
bedroom, looking straight ahead all the while. She showered as quickly as she
could, dropping the soap several times when it fell through her trembling
fingers.

She wasn’t sure if her shirt matched her jeans and she didn’t
care. Besides, did it matter what shirt was worn with a pair of jeans? She was
so terrified she just about fell down the stairs, but she was almost there,
almost out of the house.

She had to try twice to get the door open. When she did, she
turned back. She could see the top of a head above the upholstered wingback
chair.

A hand rose.

She clearly heard Julian say, “I’ll be here when you get
back.”

6

A
llison drove directly to the university.
Once she’d parked, she headed for the medical compound and found Dr. Marty
Hanson, who was a practicing psychiatrist.

Marty said it probably wasn’t the best thing to work together,
since they were friends. But she was able to send Allison to a colleague she
admired, Dr. Rudy Blount, who was a short, friendly man in his early fifties
with wire-rimmed spectacles and a balding head. He asked Allison to make herself
comfortable. No, she didn’t have to lie down on the sofa but she was welcome to
do so. She could also just sit and talk to him from an armchair.

Allison opted for the armchair and a conversational approach.
Dr. Blount was personable. They talked about their mutual love of the city and
discussed issues in the news. He asked about her daily life; he knew that, like
Marty, she taught at the university. He assured her that anything she said was
completely and totally confidential.

Finally, Allison released a deep breath and explained her
problem.

She told him about finding Julian—and then seeing him in her
house.

“Is it stress?” she asked him.

“What do you think?” he asked her.

“I think it’s stress,” she said.

“Then it’s most likely stress.”

“I’ve never believed in ghosts,” she told him.

He folded his hands and set them in his lap. “Ghosts. Well,
what are ghosts, Ms. Leigh? Maybe they’re memories. Maybe they’re images we
create in our minds. Maybe they’re reminders that we should have done something,
but didn’t. Tell me, were you feeling any guilt about your friend Julian?”

“No, I wasn’t feeling guilty about Julian. He was always
showing up late and we—the group of us—were always covering his ass!”

“Do you feel you need to defend yourself in any way over his
death? Do you think you could have saved him somehow?”

“No, I’m not feeling defensive. I would’ve done anything to
save him, but the second I saw him, I knew he was dead.”

“Did you check for a pulse?”

“I never touched him. I called the police.”

“As you waited were you frightened that something would happen
to
you?
”

Allison shook her head. She hadn’t felt that at all. “No, no…it
looked as if he’d just sat down…wrong. You know how people rest their elbows on
a table and their chins on their hands? Well, it’s as if he thought he had a
table and the bayonet was his hand.”

“Very sad, and terrible for Julian, and for you. At this point,
it has to be difficult to understand what you’re feeling. Guilt is an
interesting emotion. It was fine to be angry with him while he was alive, but
now that he’s dead, you may feel guilty about that anger without being aware of
it.”

“I really don’t think I feel guilty. Whenever he left us in the
lurch, we were always honest about it. He’d know we were angry because we’d tell
him, and he’d apologize and promise not to do it again. He also said that when
he made it big, he’d never forget us or leave us behind.”

“Did you like the young man?”

“As a friend, definitely. When we were away from work.”

“Have you ever had a feeling like this before?”

“A feeling like what?”

“That someone’s still with you. Someone dead. A spirit—a
ghost.”

“Never.” Allison shook her head. “But now…I’m afraid to be in
my own house. I slept on a sofa at the Tarleton-Dandridge last night because I
was afraid to go home. No, that’s a lie. I didn’t start out sleeping. I passed
out. Because I saw Julian. I was with one of the FBI men—Agent Montague, who
wants my help with the history and the people there—and when he went to check on
the windows, doors, alarm system, all that, Julian suddenly appeared. And the
next thing I knew I was sinking, the world went black, and then I woke up this
morning feeling like an idiot.”

“The agent didn’t come to help you?” Dr. Blount asked in
obvious surprise.

“He thought I’d fallen asleep. He gave me a pillow and a
blanket,” she said dryly.

“Didn’t the police have crime tape around the
Tarleton-Dandridge House? When the tragedy was announced on the news, the
reporter said the place was going to be closed for a few weeks,” Dr. Blount
said.

“Yes, they’ve closed the house. But the police—or the directors
or someone—brought in a federal team that’s investigating the house.”

“I see. That’s why you were with an agent. A federal
agent.”

“Yes.”

“Ah!” Dr. Blount said.

“Ah?”

“Do you have something against the federal government
investigation? It doesn’t sound as if you approve.”

“I
don’t
approve.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want anyone making a mockery of the Tarleton-Dandridge
House—with people running around and filmmakers making everyone’s eyes look like
those of a deer caught in the headlights. And going ‘What’s that? Did you hear
that?’ whenever a floorboard creaks. Please! Have you seen those shows? I think
one of the educational channels used to do them with actors re-creating what
happened in the past, and using lights to make a place seem spooky. Then they’ll
have people walk through the building screaming now and then. It’s not fair to
the historical integrity of the house!”

“FBI agents film their investigations with special lights?” He
seemed puzzled.

“No.”

“They publicize what they’re doing?”

“No, no, it’s just that I’ve read up on these particular
agents. They’re called in when there’s something
unusual.
Unusual to them, from what I’ve read, means paranormal. And we’re dealing
with
history
here. Sacred ground. Old Philadelphia
is the site of some of the most momentous events in our nation’s past.”

“I agree. But filming—for the public. Do you think these people
are going to do that?”

“I know they’re bringing in equipment to monitor the house
during the night. And maybe during the day, too. I know that everything about
this government agency is kept as quiet as possible, but information leaks out
and other units of the FBI consider them ‘special.’”

Dr. Blount smiled. “Maybe you
believe
you know
all this but it’s not
quite what’s going on. And maybe you resent these people so much because you’re
afraid of seeing something you don’t want to see—like Julian Mitchell.”

“Is that what you think? That it’s stress over Julian’s death
and
the fact that I don’t really trust these
people?”

“Is that what
you
think?” he
asked.

“I don’t know what I think! That’s why I’m here.”

“There’s an old joke that a patient talks and a psychiatrist
listens and asks over and over again if that’s what he or she thinks. But the
human mind is complex, and in the absence of actual mental illness, we rule our
own thoughts. I can give you a medication—a mild one—that’ll help you sleep
until this is over. You probably need to come to terms with what’s happening in
your life.”

“A friend died,” she said softly.

He nodded. “That’s hard enough to accept. You know the stages
of grief, I’m sure—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally,
acceptance. We all go through these feelings. You found the young man and you
were horrified and perhaps tried to deny that what you saw could be true. You’re
angry he’s dead, and that may be manifesting in the way you feel about a
government group coming into the Tarleton-Dandridge House.
Seeing
this young man in your house may be your way of
bargaining—he’s not really dead if you can see him. And we’re all depressed when
we hear about the loss of someone young, someone who shouldn’t have died. I
think, once you accept what’s happened, you’ll begin to heal. But no one can
really rush the stages of grief. We all go through them.”

“So, I’m seeing Julian in my mind?”

“Is that what you believe?”

She burst out laughing. “Honestly, I want you to tell me that I
am
seeing him in my own mind.”

“If you believe that, will it help you?”

“Immeasurably!”

Dr. Blount grinned. “Do you want to go it alone? Or would like
a sleep medication?”

“I hate taking pills unless I have to.”

“So you don’t want a prescription?”

“No, I definitely want one!”

Allison wasn’t sure what she felt when she left Dr. Blount’s
office; she knew he’d rearranged his schedule to see her, and she was grateful,
but their visit hadn’t really helped her.

She wished he’d just said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Ghosts don’t
exist. It’s all in your head.”

And now, of course, the problem was that, once again, she
didn’t want to go home.

Julian had told her he’d be waiting.

* * *

Ethan Oxford lived in another historic house. His was on
Walnut Street.

The board was ready to meet in Ethan’s dining room. Originally,
Tyler thought, the place had been designed so that it could also function as a
ballroom. A large period table was in the center of the room, and the walls were
covered with portraits of historic figures.

Dolley Madison held pride of place against the far wall.

Oxford was a dignified man. His white hair, beard and mustache
were perfectly groomed. He was gracious as he answered the door himself, setting
an arm around Tyler’s shoulders as he led him toward the dining room. “I’ll
admit, young man, I’m the one who insisted we call Adam Harrison. He and I go
way back. We’ve served on the boards of many fine charities together and I’ve
known many people Adam has helped. Discreetly, of course. Now, I’m not saying
the young man’s death wasn’t completely accidental, but what with that fellow
being in the hospital, as well…I think the house needs investigation.”

“Sir, it’s usually worth some research when there’ve been a
number of…accidents,” Tyler agreed.

Oxford stood back, grinning at Tyler. “You’re not what I was
expecting. You actually look like a real lawman.”

“Thank you,” Tyler said.

“Well, come on in. The others are waiting.”

He’d met Cherry the night before, of course. This morning she
gushed over him as if they were long lost friends. Nathan Pierson seemed
intrigued to meet him. Sarah Vining gave him a limp hand. He had the feeling
that she wasn’t one to create waves. He remembered that Allison had told him
Sarah reminded her of an abused pup at a shelter.

“Coffee?” Oxford asked him. It was already set out in a silver
carafe.

“Thank you,” Tyler said.

He accepted a cup and the seat that was offered to him. The
others joined him at one end of the massive table.

“What have you discovered so far?” Oxford asked anxiously.

“So far, I’m studying the house and delving into what happened
to bring me here,” Tyler said. “I made a point of removing the reproduction
bedding from the room I’m using, which we’ll be careful to do everywhere. I
understand how many objects in the house are priceless, and we will take extreme
care.”

“The house is haunted. You found that out, right?” Cherry
said.

He smiled. “Remnants of the past always remain in a place where
the passions of history ran high, Mrs. Addison. I don’t believe that a ghost
rummaged through the office in the attic or caused Mr. Mitchell to die. But we
will find out what did, whether it was accidental or manufactured.”

“Manufactured. What does that mean?” Pierson asked,
frowning.

“Caused by a person or persons unknown.”

“Oh, dear! He couldn’t have been…murdered!” Sarah Vining
cried.

“There, there, Sarah,” Oxford said in a comforting voice.

“It’s pretty unusual for someone to set his chin on a bayonet,”
Tyler explained. “And a few of the events that have occurred in the past
definitely pose a unique challenge. Here’s the thing,” he said. “No one wants
the public to start believing that the house is
dangerously
haunted. We all know that a good ghost story draws people, but they don’t
want to think there’s something really evil about a house.”

“There’s nothing evil about the Tarleton-Dandridge House,”
Cherry protested. “We have a poignant love story, and a beautiful woman who
haunts the house. Why, the ghost tours would go out of business if the house
were to blow away!”

Tyler doubted that; Cherry seemed to think the house was the
most important building in the historic city. But he lowered his head.

“You don’t need to worry,” he said quietly. “My team can go
through the house quickly.”

“I hope so! The newspapers have gotten wind of that man in the
hospital—and his son swears the portrait of Beast Bradley put him there!” Sarah
spoke tremulously. “I hate this! If there’s anything you can do to restore our
wonderful piece of the past to total respectability, we’ll greatly appreciate
it!”

“I’ll remind you, Agent Montague,
I’m
here to help if you need me,” Cherry said.

“We’re all here. We’ve asked these people in because of the
gossip that was already going around the city. And now this,” Ethan said,
shaking his head.

“Gossip?” Tyler asked.

“I called Adam the second I heard what happened because of the
other deaths in the house.” Oxford shook his head again. “People are saying one
event could be an accident, but…a docent? A college student? And now…a docent
again. Or a guide, what have you. And on top of that, someone rummaging through
the attic. Why, we were all there right before young Mr. Mitchell died—and right
before that attic was raided. Will you be able to tell if Mr. Mitchell was
distressed in some way…if there was a reason he might have torn the attic
apart?”

“We’ll certainly be looking into that. What I need to know from
all of you is whether you have any idea why someone would be searching for
something in that attic. And what that might be.”

He surveyed the table. They all stared back at him.