The Undead in My Bed (3 page)

“He really is shameless, isn’t he?” Noelle whispered.

“Yes, but I’m willing to put up with that, and his insistence that he be allowed to hold séances every evening and all of the other shenanigans he pulls, because the public is going to eat this show up with a spoon and ask for more.”

“I suppose so, although I wasn’t aware that reality ghost shows were quite so popular.”

“
Haunted Miles
will be different,” Teresa said with complacency. “We have you.”

Noelle wrinkled her nose. “When I told you I’d help you for a couple of weeks, I meant more along the lines of helping out with the production stuff, not wrangling ghosts for you. Not that Miles has found one yet.”

“He will. While you were gone into town this morning, he said he had a run-in with a poltergeist in the east wing.”

Now, that was interesting. “A polter? Really? How many arms did he or she have?”

Teresa stared at her as if she had turned into a five-foot-five rubber plant. “How many
arms
?”

“Four? Three? I assume if he had two, Miles wouldn’t know he was a polter.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” At a quick but pointed glance from her star, Teresa leaned in to Noelle and said in a softer tone, “I said a poltergeist, not a circus freak. You know, the noisy ghosts? The kinds that knock things around a room and rain rocks and stuff like that.”

“Aports. The rocks are called aports, and—” Noelle bit off the rest, deciding that the truth about polters was probably not what Teresa needed to hear. “Never mind. So he found a poltergeist?”

“One who is very active, according to Miles. That’s who he’s trying to summon forth now.” The two women watched for a few minutes before Teresa added, “Oh, so that footage we were just talking about, the one with you in the nun’s outfit? We’ll need to redo it tonight, if you don’t mind.”

Little nun.
Gray had called her a little nun. Her lips quirked at the thought, even as a warm glow spread out from the depths of her belly. No one had ever given her a nickname, Guardians being, for the most part, feared or avoided by most folk of the Otherworld. “All right, although you have to be sure that it is very clear that it’s being used as a re-creation
and not doctored up to look like it’s ghostly footage.”

Teresa patted her hand. “I told you when you got here that this show is straight-up. We don’t fake anything, not one single spooky minute. It’ll all be real. That’s why this house is so perfect.” She looked around the hall and all but hugged herself. “It’s so gloomy, so Gothicly eerie, it just can’t possibly be without at least half a dozen ghosts and poltergeists.”

Miles, now calling out an invocation to the spirits to come forth, moved toward the door and the better light, causing Raleigh to swing around and film him from the side. Teresa and Noelle hurriedly moved out of the range of the camera, toward the tall, curving stair that led up into the dimness of the second story.

“I am your friend,” Miles said in a rich, BBC-newscaster voice that throbbed with sincerity. “I will listen to you. You are lost and alone, but now I am here. Speak to me. Tell me your tale. Show yourself to me.”

Raleigh sidled out of the way as Miles stepped into the pool of light flooding the marble tiles nearest the doors, striking a pose that was meant to represent humility and caring. Noelle was about to make a whispered waspish comment to Teresa when, suddenly, Miles froze, his eyes alight with excitement as he said, “We have a manifestation! Right here! There is a scent that wasn’t here before! It smells of…” He took a deep breath, his eyes closed. “It smells of hellfire and demons, of the devil itself. It smells strongly
of sulfur. It is a most powerful emanation. Hear me, oh being of the darkest bowels of hell! I feel your foul presence! I smell your nearness! Come forth and make yourself known!”

Noelle clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter that threatened to break free. Next to her, Teresa doubled over, her shoulders silently shaking, while Raleigh, with a mouthed “Sorry” to Teresa, waved a hand behind his rear.

“This is so juvenile, but I can’t… can’t… he smells s-s-sulfur,” Noelle managed to whisper before having to clasp a hand over her mouth again.

Tears rolled down Teresa’s face as she buried her face in the tail of her shirt.

By evening, Noelle could look at Teresa without the pair of them bursting into hysterical laughter, which made for a much easier time when it came to dealing with Miles, who was in one of his prima donna moods when Teresa told him she couldn’t use the footage just shot.

“I don’t see what was wrong with it,” he repeated for the third time after viewing a playback of the footage yet again. “I wasn’t making it up, if that’s what you think. There was a foul odor there, something horrible and truly demonic.”

Raleigh quickly left the room, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Noelle had to bite her lip as Teresa, with a telltale quaver to her voice, tried to explain that the public
might put a different interpretation on the scene, finding it comic rather than dramatic.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miles snapped. “How could anyone help but be impressed by the contact I’ve made so far? We have indisputable proof that some demonic being has been in our presence, and what’s more, I fully intend to have a materialization at the séance tonight. Now, if you don’t mind, I need quiet for my meditation time so that I may attune myself with the spirits found within this house.”

Miles claimed the only comfortable (and clean) chair in the hall, closing his eyes and humming softly to himself. Noelle and Teresa exchanged glances and quietly walked toward the door, making it that far before Miles interrupted his communing to ask, “Where are we sitting?”

“I thought we’d try the west wing tonight, since we’ve been focusing on the east wing the last few days. Noelle thinks the west wing has a lot of potential.”

He frowned. “Your friend is mistaken. This is what comes from letting amateurs mess around with scientific research; they meddle in things they don’t know the first thing about. I will not have this show be made a laughingstock because of your shoddy research techniques and planning. You’re the producer—produce! Leave the research to those of us who are experts.”

Noelle bit her lip again as Teresa tried to calm him. “Noelle’s family lives in a house that is supposed to be
one of the most haunted in the county, so she knows all about ancestral spirits and gray ladies and all sorts of other things that go bump in the night.”

All of which, Noelle thought to herself, were pure fabrication and imagination. She ought to know; her mother was perfectly capable of calling forth a spirit, had any lived in the family home.

Miles refused to be soothed. “The west wing is intact. No ghost in his right mind would stay there. I’ve told you before, woman, spirits love ruins, and it is in the ruined wing that we must look for them. The demonic presence in the hall excepted, all of our contact has been made in the ruined wing.”

Noelle thought of pointing out the fact that Miles’s idea of contact wasn’t exactly especially valid but decided to leave the handling of the star to Teresa.

“We’ll try the west wing tonight, and if we have no luck, we’ll go back to the east side, all right?”

Miles harrumphed. “It will be an utter and complete waste of my time.”

Teresa uttered a few more balms to his wounded pride before hurrying down the unlit hallway toward the inhabitable side of the house.

“Maybe I should bow out of being your temporary assistant,” Noelle said as they passed the music room that presently served as a communal sleeping quarters, where, at Miles’s insistence, they had all set up sleeping bags and air mattresses. Miles claimed it was to minimize their impact on the ghostly beings
in the house, but Noelle couldn’t help but feel he had a less noble reason for wanting to avoid sleeping alone.

“Not on your life! Just ignore Miles when he gets that way. He’s rather protective of his role as ghostly expert. Now, let’s see, what room looks good to you?”

The two women spent some time poking their heads into the various rooms on the ground and upper floors of the wing that remained mostly intact. Noelle kept a wary eye out for imps and other denizens of the Otherworld that she didn’t wish brought to the attention of the general public, making note of which hallways and rooms showed signs of recent occupation by the little troublemakers.

Luckily, the imps had seemed to confine themselves to the first and second floors, not venturing farther upstairs to the servants’ quarters. Noelle, dutifully trying to find the spookiest room possible, finally settled on a small attic room, once belonging to a housemaid and now containing nothing but a broken-down metal bedstead, a cracked washstand, and two partially broken wooden chairs.

“This is it,” Noelle announced after having examined the heavy layer of dust for any signs of tracks. There were none, not even from four-legged rodents.

“This?” Teresa frowned as she looked around the dark, small room. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. This room is haunted right up to my armp—” Noelle had been in the act of raising her
hand to gesture, when a man suddenly appeared out of nothing, grabbed her hand, and pressed a smacking kiss to it.

“Ah, me beauty, ye’ve found me at last, have ye?” the man said.

Noelle stared in shock at him, while Teresa, after freezing for a second, ran screaming from the room.

“Good Lord. There really are ghosts here,” Noelle said, blinking in surprise at the somewhat transparent man. He was clad in a kilt and ruffled shirt, a broadsword strapped to his hip. Despite his ghostly state, there was a distinct roguish twinkle in his eye that left Noelle with the impression that he was greatly enjoying himself.

Teresa reappeared in the doorway, her eyes huge. “That’s a… that’s a… he’s a… holy Mary, mother of God! That’s a ghost!”

“We’re preferrin’ the term ‘spirit,’ ye ken, lass,” the ghostly man said in a heavy Scottish accent. He waggled his eyebrows at Teresa, then made her a courtly bow, losing his translucence as he shifted to a solid form. It took him only a second to sweep up Teresa into a passionate embrace.

“Erm…” Noelle didn’t know if it was polite to interrupt a ghost when he was kissing someone, but she knew this had to be a shock to Teresa. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

The man finished his kiss, setting Teresa upright on her feet again before saying, “Ah, but ye’re a bonnie
lass, too. I’m Jock, Jock McTorgeld. What be yer names, me beauties?”

“A ghost!” Teresa whispered, her eyes never leaving the man as she waved toward the door behind her. “I should film… Raleigh should be here… Miles… holy Mary, a real live ghost! Noelle! Can you see him, too? I’m not going insane, am I?”

“I can see him, too. That’s Teresa,” she told the ghost, “and I’m Noelle.” It struck her that for a Scotsman, his accent was awfully broad, almost exaggerated in its rolling of Rs and gargling of vowels. “Do you… er… live in this room?”

“Here?” He looked around with a curl of his lip. “Nay, lassie. ’Tis but a servant’s room, this. Jock McTorgeld roams where he pleases, when he pleases, and that’s always where the bonnie lasses are.” He leered at her, no doubt trying to drive home his point.

“Teresa,” Noelle said slowly, having taken full measure of their new acquaintance. “Why don’t you go get Raleigh and Miles so they can meet our friend from Scotland?”

“Yes,” Teresa agreed, her eyes huge as she nodded quickly. “Yes, Raleigh, Miles. We should film Jock. A real ghost. We have a real ghost. Holy mother…”

Noelle closed the door as Teresa drifted off muttering to herself. She eyed the ghost, who was striding toward her with a devilish glint in his eye. “All right, she’s gone. Now, who are you?”

“I’ve told ye me name, my heart. Now ye’ll be
thankin’ me, as is the way of me people, and if ye’re as sweet as ye taste, I may be lettin’ ye see what I’ve got on under me kilt.”

Noelle had a hard time not rolling her eyes, but by dint of an almost superhuman effort, she managed it. “You can stop with the phony Scottish bit, too. I’m British, not Czech, and I know what a real Scot sounds like, and you aren’t it.”

The ghost came to an abrupt stop, his eyes narrowing on her. “Ye’re daft, lass. I’m as Scottish as the wild thistle that grows above the burn.”

“You’re about as Scottish as my ass, and I’m not Scottish at all. Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Me name is Jock—”

“Right,” Noelle interrupted, rolling up her sleeves. Before the ghost—who was in corporeal form and thus bound to the same laws as any other living being—could do so much as roll another R at her, she had a binding ward drawn and slapped over him. “Now, let’s have the truth, shall we?”

“What the… Christos, you’re a Guardian, aren’t you?” the ghost said in a completely different voice, one that was slightly French. His form shivered and morphed into that of a tonsured young man in a faded grayish tunic, scapula, and cowl. He remained bound to the spot, held firmly by the ward despite his attempt to move out of it. “Just my luck, a couple of toothsome wenches finally show up, and you’re Guardians.”

“I am, but my friend is perfectly normal and doesn’t know what a Guardian is, let alone what we do, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that. Why were you pretending to be a Scot?”

The ghost sighed and shifted to his noncorporeal state, which left him partially translucent. “Women love a man in a kilt. I learned that… oh, must have been twenty, twenty-five years ago, when a group of women on a historical tour took the house for a week. They loved old Jock and his dashing accent. Tumbled more ladies that week than I did when I was alive.”

Noelle couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a monk, aren’t you?”

“I was,” he said, sighing. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy a lusty wench when I saw her.”

“I think we’ll just let that go. What’s your real name?”

“Michel,” he admitted. “Michel de Nostredame.”

“Nostredame?” Noelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re Nostradamus? I thought he died an old man?”

“He did. He was my cousin. I could have been famous like him, too, you know,” Michel answered with an annoyed twitch of his head. “I had visions all the bloody time, but I never wrote the blasted things down like he did. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have been just as rich and famous as he was. More, because my visions were better than a bunch of vague mumble-jumble. I had visions of beauteous women
performing many and varied acts of much interest.
Much interest!
”