The Housemate
What do you do when you find out the man of your dreams may
just be a creature out of a nightmare? That's what Ryan must decide when
he invites Adrian to be his housemate.
Excerpt:
He heard it again. An
agonized scream coming from somewhere down the hall.
The first time it
happened Ryan was certain it was part of some horrible nightmare whose details
he couldn't remember. Still, feeling stupid but not wanting to take a chance
that might have been real, he called the police. They came, searched the house
from cellar to attic then told him in no uncertain terms that he was the only
one in the house besides his cat, Constable.
"And no sign of
forced entry," the lead officer said. Then he'd grinned knowingly.
"Of course it could have been a ghost. Old houses are supposed to have
them you know."
"And secret rooms
and graves in the basement. Yeah, yeah. Trust me there's nothing like that
here, including ghosts," Ryan had replied sarcastically. Not the best way
to make friends with the cops he'd realized seconds later when the office
scowled at him before turning on his heel and leaving with his partner right
behind him.
So the next time Ryan
had heard the scream—two days later—he went on his own search, starting with
the other bedrooms along the hallway. There was no sign that anyone had gone
into any of them since the cops had been there. He could tell because a fine
layer of dust covered the furniture. Meaning
I'd better get out the dust mop. Or not. I don't use these rooms, or half the
others in the house, so why bother for a bit of dust?
The house was large.
Much too large for one person. But he'd inherited it when his aunt had died at
the ripe old age of ninety-five. Since he'd been about to be kicked out of his
apartment for non-payment of rent, he'd figured he could do worse than move
into a place that wouldn't cost him a dime. Especially since along with the
house he'd also gotten a fair amount of money. It was being held in trust—doled
out sparingly by her lawyer—but it was enough to keep him in food and pay the
utilities if he was frugal.
The third time he'd
heard the scream he searched again with the same results. Whoever or whatever
was causing it hadn't shown their face. He was beginning to wonder if it was his imagination. Or—best case
scenario—there was air in one of the ancient water pipes and the sound of it
escaping just seemed like a scream.
That had been two days
ago. Now it was happening again. With a sigh, and a grumbled, "Can it,
would you?" he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
* * * *
Adrian pounded his fist into his open hand in frustration. What the hell will it take to make him move
out? Do this every damned night?
He paced back and forth,
tempted to scream again out of pure frustration. He wanted the guy gone. This
was his house, not some ne'er-do-well
punk's who thought he'd fallen into the gravy. Nope, wrong way to put it. Was riding the gravy train? Yeah. Whatever. It
was still his home and the fact the man had inherited it wasn't fair. Not at
all.
He knew he could enter
the man's mind and order him to leave. But that would be tantamount to treating
him like a slave. That he was
unwilling to do under any circumstances. Ever.
"If only Ms Abigail
had other family," he grumbled. "Some nice old-maid sister or niece
who would take care of the place. But no-o-o she didn't, and so she willed it
to what's his face. The out-of-work… punk. Ryan whatever."
Twenty-to-one he doesn't know which end of a broom to
use, if he even knows what one is. And a vacuum or a dust rag… Of course I
could do some cleaning I guess, but then he'd know I was here. Not good. Not at
all.
Adrian glared at Ryan's closed bedroom door, tempted to open
it and shout "Boo". He resisted only because he really didn’t want
the guy knowing he had a housemate. Instead he went back to the windowless room
hidden behind the wall at the end of the hallway.
He'd helped built the
house, and secretly put in the wall—which shortened the length of the second
floor by eight feet—just before the Civil War. It was his wedding home, and as
a stationmaster for the Underground Railroad he needed a place to house the
escaped slaves who made it to the town
of Kennett Square until they could safely continue
their journey north to Canada
and freedom. He'd done such a good job with it—and with the stairs that led
from the room down to two secret entrances in the basement of the house—that to
this day no one had found them. Now he resided in the room—as he had since his
'death'. At night he took advantage of the rest of 'his' house, either visibly
or cloaking his presence as the situation warranted.
The house had remained
in the family to this day. Fifty years ago Ms Abigail inherited it when her
parents had died. She was the stepdaughter of Adrian's son Michael, who had had no children
until his second marriage. And those children were only his because he'd
adopted them after marrying the widowed Mrs Bella Connors. Adrian had died
before Michael was two and the ownership of the house had passed on to Adrian's
wife, and then to Michael when he was of age, thus remaining in the possession
of the Devoe family until Ms Abigail willed it to Ryan, who was her nephew by
way of her sister, Michael's other, younger, stepdaughter.
I suppose he's family too, damn it. Even so, he has to
go.
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