Nights In White Satin. Jule McBride

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СКАЧАТЬ with radio signals?”

      Dermott nodded. “Wait until we get indoors. Maybe the insides of the phone have been removed, too.”

      She chuckled. “Like in a Twilight Zone episode, cutting us off from the outside world?”

      “Exactly.”

      Her laughter tempered when she thought about their experience at the diner again. In a long line of pickup trucks, Dermott’s SUV had stood out, and as soon as people had discovered they were visiting Hartley House and driving an SUV containing recording equipment, they’d decided she and Dermott had come for the sole purpose of taping ghosts. The people in the diner, of course, would never guess what was really on Bridget’s mind when she thought of spending the night with Dermott in a haunted house.

      The closer they got, the more overgrown the driveway became, and as Dermott slowed, she became more conscious of the sound of shells crunching under the tires. Even though they were inside, she ducked instinctively as they traveled beneath a thick canopy of trees; Granny’s place had gone so long untended that branches were scraping the SUV’s roof. The lawn’s massive trees, far larger than any she’d seen in Central Park, had gnarled, twisted roots that would have done Wes Craven proud. Her eyes followed them as they advanced like marching spiders.

      Her breath suddenly caught. “There it is!”

      Mug went still in her lap, standing at attention, his paws resting on the dashboard as the house loomed out of the darkness like a giant, but possessing none of the usual features that made a house look scary, such as turrets or a widow’s walk or nearby waves that crashed against a rocky coastline. There was, however, a swamp that opened into tidewaters, and lightning that flashed between trees, illuminating a white-painted brick house that was very square and imposing; climbing ivy framed the windows and crawled into gutters, sending a promising quiver through her. The upstairs windows didn’t disappoint, either, gaping down like vacant, empty eyes. A columned veranda encircled the ground floor.

      She inhaled sharply. “The door’s open, Dermott!”

      Having seen the house now, he sounded uncharacteristically pensive. “Sure is.”

      “Should I call the police?”

      He paused. “It couldn’t hurt.”

      Swallowing hard, barely able to believe how haunted the house really looked, Bridget punched in 911. The phone rang and rang. Finally a woman picked up and said, “What can I do you for, hon?”

      Bridget shot Dermott a glance. “Uh…I’m in Big Swamp,” she began, “visiting a relative, Ginny Hartley. And, well, we got to the house and the door’s wide-open.” She paused. “Have I reached 911, or is this a wrong number?”

      “Sure have, honey,” returned the woman. “Trouble is, the sheriff’s on his dinner break, and when he gets back, I already promised Mary Lou Bidden he’d come over and help shut her windows, to keep out the storm. Her house is over a century old and the wood sticks.”

      “I see,” Bridget managed as Dermott brought the SUV to a halt under what was probably a willow tree; it was still raining hard and Bridget could scarcely see five feet in front of the vehicle now. Her heart hammering, she wondered if she was really about to see a replica of the ring she wore. Impossible. Dermott’s right. The old family legends are just stories spun for the amusement of country people on rainy days.

      A beep had sounded on the line. The woman said, “I’ve got another call, but don’t worry, the sheriff will check your premises in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

      As Bridget turned off the phone, Dermott switched off the ignition, and then they both peered at the house. “The cops are coming no time soon, huh?” asked Dermott.

      “Guess not.” As she hugged Mug nearer, the enclosed space of the SUV felt claustrophobic. Suddenly, she was conscious of the silence left in the absence of the motor, and of Dermott’s good looks. Unbidden, she thought of the last time she’d visited the place where the Trade Centers had stood. Twining her fingers through the chain link fence, she’d stared at the workers and said a silent prayer for those who’d died, as she always did. And then she’d tried to remember exactly what the buildings had looked like, but no matter how hard she’d tried, she simply couldn’t. She’d felt just terrible.

      Now a lump formed in her throat, and even though she knew she was being ridiculously maudlin, she wondered if she could ever forget Dermott. He, too, had been a daily part of her life for so long; what if he was gone and she couldn’t visualize his face?

      He was looking at her curiously. “Is something the matter, Bridge?”

      No, except that I’m feeling strangely grateful for the pictures I have of you, just in case you’re serious about Carrie Masterson and I never see you again. “Uh…no.” She glanced toward the house, sucking in a sharp breath. “Granny Ginny said the ghosts open the doors, especially Jasper. You know, my biological dad. Her son.”

      His laughter lifted her mood. “I can’t believe you let that crazy old lady get to you, Bridge.” His expression softened. “Still, you really do blame the curse for everything that goes wrong in your love life, so I can see why you’d want to believe her.”

      Bridget didn’t make the connection. “Huh?”

      “Well, if Granny’s telling the truth, you can find the ring and get on with your life, just like you said.”

      Put that way, it sounded so unlikely. But Granny Ginny was a born storyteller, and when she spoke, Bridget could almost see skinny Lavinia strutting around the parlor, bossing Miss Marissa around.

      “Probably Granny Ginny forgot to close the door,” he assured. “We’ll find some warm, happy field mice that got inside. Maybe a raccoon. Or a skunk.”

      “Oh, fabulous.”

      Dermott’s lips were twitching, making him look even sexier in the dark, his smile just a quick flash of perfect teeth, his eyes catching light that had no source but himself. “You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

      “Of course not.” But she was, just a little.

      Swiftly reaching behind him, he grabbed a flashlight, and gripped his duffel. “That decides it. We’re not waiting for the police. I’m going to prove to you that the only thing to fear is fear itself, sweetheart. We’re going in.”

      “Ghost-busters unite,” she agreed, suddenly giggling, determined to push away the strange feelings warring inside her. So what if she’d taken Dermott for granted? Wasn’t that the case in most long-term friendships? “It’s a long run to the house.”

      “I pulled as close as I could.”

      She peered through the rain. “Ready, Mug?”

      The tawny tail went wild, tapping her arm on its trajectory, and as Mug released staccato barks, Bridget reached for her own bag and pulled up the hood of a dark cape. “Did you bring an umbrella?”

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