Dreaming Ivy. Rhonda Lee Carver

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      The property was overgrown with weeds and sat back on a dead end road. If a person didn’t know the country roads of Morgan Sites, they wouldn’t know the three-hundred-year-old house existed. Seldom did anyone drive on the gravel road, by mistake or otherwise.

      She drove through the broken, rusted gate and took in the view of the house. The red brick two-story was only a figment of the beautiful house it had once been. The windows were overrun with foliage and years of filth. There was no life, only darkness. Weatherworn shutters hung haphazardly. A place forgotten in time.

      She frowned. Marshall said the owner had the house checked every so often for problems. There was a big problem. The house was missing underneath layers of grime and neglect.

      Ivy climbed out of her car, fighting the urge to climb back in. She inhaled and exhaled through her mouth, gaining the strength she knew she had. Two weeks would fly by. She could tolerate it. At least the place had electricity, water and a roof. It could be worse.

      She grabbed her bags out of the back seat and moved toward the house. “I must enter with an open mind.” Ivy chanted the words over and over.

      She came upon the weathered porch and stopped in her tracks. A few warped planks thrown together didn’t classify as a porch. Many of the boards were missing and she didn’t trust the ones that remained. With the toe of her shoe, she tested the first step. The board seemed sturdy. With slow, deliberate movements, she walked up the stairs and across the dry rotted timber as it creaked in protest.

      Reaching into her front pocket, she pulled out the skeleton key. When Marshall had handed it to her that morning, she’d laughed, thinking it was a joke.

      It took her three tries until the metal slid into the lock, but it still wouldn’t turn. She struggled as irritation swirled in her stomach. She had a second’s worth of patience left when the bolt finally clicked. The heavy door screeched with age as she pushed it open. It stopped halfway. She pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. There was only enough opening for her to slip through.

      Apprehensive, she peeked inside the two-foot-wide crack. She couldn’t see anything through the dark. She skimmed her hand inside the shadows and felt down the wall, hoping to find a light switch. Nothing. Grabbing her flashlight from her purse, she switched it on.

      She left her bags and slid between the door and the frame. Once inside, her lungs were accosted with a deep mildew scent. A string of cobwebs attached itself to every inch of her exposed skin. She resisted the urge to scream.

      Ivy concentrated on the house as she turned, flashing the light around the hallway. Even in its state of decay, it was magnificent. She guessed the hallway, with its antique wood flooring and dark wood trim, was once grand. A stunning glass chandelier hung from the tall ceiling. She’d never seen anything like it before. She wondered if it still worked. She found the switch and lifted it, jiggled it twice, but nothing. Not even a spark. She hoped it only needed a change of bulbs.

      She continued her perusal as she moved along the shadows like a thief in the night. It was so quiet she found herself instinctively walking on tiptoe.

      Stopping at the next doorway, she peeked in and shined her light around the small space. She stepped into the room with caution. A ratty-looking settee, a small wooden chair and a wooden table on its last three legs filled the area.

      She wandered down the hall. The next room was absolutely gorgeous. A huge stone fireplace covered one wall. The massive wooden mantel was lost beneath years of dirt, but a swipe of her finger told her it remained in good condition. There was another spectacular chandelier, not in working order–no surprise–but there was enough light filtering in through the two large windows that she could shut off the flashlight. She dropped it back in her purse.

      Faded and shredded drapes hung from bent rods. She pushed them open and a huge cloud of ageless dust exploded. She stepped back, coughing, and covered her mouth and nose until she could breathe again.

      The sun flowed in, giving the room a golden glow, a new life. The house had so much potential. It was a shame it had stood empty for so long. Her mind conjured up a list of possibilities. It would have made an elaborate bed and breakfast accommodation or the home of a wealthy historical enthusiast, maybe even a home for a family.

      When Marcus Thornton built the house in the early eighteen hundreds it had been a grand place, designed for beauty and wealth. During Marcus’s first marriage to Sarah Mitchell, there had been many social gatherings and parties with the most prestigious invited. When Sarah died, so had the social gatherings.

      Ivy headed toward the modern French doors, guessing they were added by the most recent owner. Through the dirty glass panels she caught a blurry vision of the overgrown remains of a flower garden and a huge oak tree. There were several more small rooms, stripped of furniture, with no hints of past life.

      Back in the hallway, she stopped and looked up at the winding staircase that seemed to sweep upward for miles. She couldn’t wait to explore the upstairs. She climbed each step as anticipation made her heart beat faster.

      In the upstairs hallway the carpet was faded and threadbare. The four bedrooms were beautiful and spacious. One room tucked away at the end of the hallway was locked, which ignited Ivy’s curiosity. She tugged and pulled on the knobs of the double doors. They creaked but didn’t budge. She pushed. No movement.

      Frustrated, she shook the knobs harder. Still nothing. On the verge of giving up, she tried again. It turned. Her mouth dropped open. A prickly sensation coursed through her as she stared at the door in bewilderment. Had it been locked? She checked the knob for a keyhole. There wasn’t one.

      She opened the doors wide and looked in. She held her breath. The master suite. It was without a doubt the most elaborate, beautiful room of the house. The pink walls were faded but remained pretty. The three large windows overlooked the garden and out over the rolling hills. She wasn’t sure how much work the current owner had done, but the massive four-poster, cherrywood bed remained, covered in a green satin comforter. She couldn’t understand why it hadn’t been sold or destroyed along with the rest of the furniture in the house.

      The entire bedroom was in good, moderately clean order. It held a certain warmth–something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

      She found the bathroom through a set of thin-glassed windows. It was fit for a queen. She could have fit her home bathroom into this one three times. The fixtures were lovely in bronze, the ceramic tiled floor and walls decorated with hand-painted flowers. The bath was vast. In curiosity, she turned the knob of the bath faucet. It gurgled twice, spat awkwardly, and then spurted a stream of water. The water was tainted a tan shade but she was sure if it were left running a short time it’d run clear.

      She glanced at her slender watch. Her company would be arriving soon. With a twist of the faucet knob to off, she headed back into the bedroom.

      Downstairs, Ivy turned the corner into the corridor. She stopped when she heard a creak. She listened. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a shadow sweep across the wall. She turned and looked as it disappeared. “Hello?” she called out. No answer. Was it Max Shepard? Hadn’t he heard her? She stomped down the hall and burst into the room. “Hello–”

      The room was empty.

      Ivy swallowed the taste of fright. A shiver raced across her skin. She had seen someone, or had she? She rubbed her eyes and sighed. Maybe the shadows were playing tricks on her.

      Another loud crack in the flooring behind her sent Ivy twisting in alarm. The sun coming СКАЧАТЬ