Chapter Nineteen Raine
Chapter Nineteen
Raine
I woke to the house’s death rattle—clanking pipes, rattling windows, and creaking stairs around me.
Houses are living creatures. If cared for, they can last for centuries. If ignored or neglected, they decay within years. Hale House wasn’t dead yet—but she was dying. She was stronger than modern homes, but if I didn’t commit to her, she’d collapse in my lifetime.
Several times, I swore someone was walking up and down the main staircase.
Glancing around the unfamiliar spare room, I stood.
My old bedroom was packed with too many memories, so I’d selected this one.
But the strangeness—the rose wallpaper, Sheraton bedroom set, and window overlooking the back of the property—was unsettling.
The stairs creaked. Step after step climbed each riser.
When I was a little girl, my mother assured me there were no ghosts in Hale House. No specters climbed the stairs every night. I’d clung to her words each time I sat up in my bed and counted the invisible footsteps.
But as Mom was dying, the rasping stairs had turned menacing. They had troubled her deeply. I’d had to assure her that old houses made noises.
“Nothing to worry about,” I said.
“I lied to you,” Mom whispered as she gripped my hand. “I don’t know who walks those stairs every night.”
I’d dismissed her fears. She had dementia. She was always confused after sunset.
But whatever armor I’d built up in the old days had long fallen away. I’d forgotten how unnerving these sounds could be after dark.
“Okay, ghosts,” I said. “Get in line with the others from my past.”
Clicking on a light, I climbed out of bed.
The air chilled my hot skin. Perspiration had flattened my hair. A fever? In and out of the hospital—catching a bug wasn’t a surprise.
Cold floors seeped through wool socks.
The weather apps called for frostier days. Like it or not, snow would soon paper over all the decay.
I’d found my high school sweatshirt folded in a dresser drawer last night. I slid it over my T-shirt and sweats.
In the hallway, I looked left toward my parents’ room. I pictured the bed still stripped as it had been shortly after Mom’s death.
At the other end of the hallway was Amy’s old room. Between the two, my childhood room and another spare.
Down the back staircase, I entered the kitchen. Lights on, I crossed to the coffee maker, set it up with the fresh grounds, and pressed start.
By this time of day, I’d normally have returned from the gym and be dressed for work. I’d bemoaned the grind, but oddly I missed the distraction of bail-skipping clients and the biased judges.
Now I had a blank calendar.
This awkward, in-between time would pass. Lucky, I supposed, that I’d arrived right before Maria had collapsed. If not for Ken and the attack, I wouldn’t have been here. My life would have remained on autopilot with no destination other than a possible vacation in the Bahamas.
But I was here. And one way or another, Hale House and I had to deal with each other.
In the fog, the whiteness shifted. I looked closer. Trespassers were a real and present danger.
I opened the back door. Cold puckered my skin and curled my toes. The mist rippled like a stone in still waters.
Whatever was out there was moving fast. Anxiety tugged. The idea that I’d have to deal with the dangerous unknown made me dread the day less.
And then, a herd of deer suddenly raced across the lawn. My bowstring-tight nerves eased. I smiled at my crazy imagination.
A long run was the best way to wring out my frustrations. But the heavy morning fog obscured too much, and I wasn’t feeling up to it. A day or two off was a good thing, I’d heard.
I made toast, smeared it with butter, and then moved to the table. As I slowly ate, I opened my phone. With no Wi-Fi, my data was sluggish, and websites and apps loaded very slowly. Another frustrating reminder that I’d been ejected from my old life.
My attention returned to the backyard. The fog had melted, leaving faint wisps and a clearer view of the rolling green lawn and the cemetery in the distance.
“I don’t suppose you want me here,” I said to the house. “You’ve been on your own for a long time. I’ve ignored you. And now my ungrateful self is back, my tail tucked between my legs.”
Another deer dashed across the backyard. It was a young buck who paused mid-stride and stared toward the house. He rushed the patio window, coming so close I flinched. And then three other deer followed and the four ran toward the woods.
I was the trespasser now.
My phone dinged with a text.
Ken: How are you doing?
Little texts like this hadn’t bothered me right after the attack. Now they came too frequently, as if we were still close.
Me: I’m good.
Ken: Can I see you?
Me: Not now.
A pause.
Ken: I’m here for you.
He knew when to push and when to pretend that he didn’t have a dog in the fight. But he always had an agenda.
I dumped the last of my coffee and tossed uneaten toast in the trash. Up the back staircase, I showered under lukewarm water that left a chill feathering through my body.
Water off, I towel-dried and coiled my hair. I chose black fitted pants, a bold blue sweater with a delicate V-neck, and chunky ankle boots. The finisher was a leather jacket.
When my phone rang, and the hospital number appeared, I braced. “Raine Hale.”
“This is Dr. Webber. Your cousin is awake.”
“Awake? How is she?”
“Confused. Moving slow. But she’s alert.”
“Have you called her husband?”
“Yes. He says he’s on his way.”
“So am I.”
Maria was awake. This, I hoped, was going to be a good day. A celebration. I hoped.