WALL MEN: A Haunted House (The Wall Men 1)

I’m almost to my front door again when something stops my hand from turning the doorknob.

Guilt.

A deathbed promise is a serious thing.

“Dammit.” I shake my head and stare at my front door. I should go inside and get warm, but something urges me not to leave those books up at the main house.

If I put them on my dining room table, I can tell myself I haven’t turned my back on her or my promise. I can lie to myself and claim I’m waiting for the right moment to read those journals. That moment could take years to come, right? Or maybe never…

I walk back up to the house and grab the stack of notebooks from Grandma’s office. I’m passing through the kitchen, just about to exit the back door again, when a deep voice vibrates through the wall to my side. “Please, Lake. We are so cold, so hungry. You must help us.”

Bitter terror takes a bite out of my mind. The blood in my body rushes to my legs and heart. I run outside and slam the back door behind me. Shit. Shit! What was that?

I don’t know how long I stand there holding my breath, a pile of notebooks grasped tightly in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I want to run and hide, but I stand there anyway, waiting to hear the voice again. Or worse, find out if whoever’s inside is coming after me.

I blink and find myself on my living room floor, hugging Master, my bedspread covering us both. The morning light is beaming through a crack in the curtains, hitting me in the face.

I rub my forehead. My head is pounding. I don’t remember coming home last night.

I sit up and spot the notebooks on the end table, next to the couch where Bard is sleeping.

What. The. Hell?

CHAPTER SEVEN

“You really don’t remember?” Bard leans his tall frame against my kitchen counter, sipping his mug of coffee. He likes the way I make it—he taught me, after all—and normally his approval would give me a twinge of pride, but not today. Today, I don’t care.

“No, Bard. I don’t remember passing out in the snow.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death.”

No kidding. “Where were you? How did you find me outside?”

With his free hand, he scratches the side of his jaw, his dark whiskers making a bristly sound. He takes another sip from his mug. “Your water was off by one degree.”

I narrow my eyes. “My brewing temperature is perfect, and don’t change the subject.” I pour out the rest of my coffee in the sink. I’ve lost the mood.

“Hey. Don’t throw that away,” he protests.

“I thought you said it didn’t taste right?” Besides, it’s my cup of coffee. I’ll do what I want.

“It’s not as good as mine, but it’s still drinkable.”

I shake my head in disgust. “How long are you going to keep avoiding my question? I came to you last night because I needed help. You turned your back on me. Then you claim you found me outside.”

“I did not turn my back. I was asleep.”

“And now you’re lying. How did you know I was outside in the snow?” I repeat.

He draws a sharp breath and exhales slowly. “I don’t know. I was in bed—maybe a little too much scotch, okay?”

“Okay. And?”

Bard pushes his callused hand through his long salt-and-pepper hair. “I can’t explain it. I knew something was wrong. I got up, put on my boots, and hiked to the house. You were lying there.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“Do you have any idea why you lost consciousness?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why were you up at the house so late?” he asks.

“Like I said, I went to see you and noticed the—”

“Why did you come to see me?”

I’m almost too ashamed to admit it now. What will he think when I admit I heard voices?

“Lake, you can trust me,” he pushes.

“I’m not so sure, Bard. And you know why.” Like I also said, we have history, and ours is complicated.

“I’m not interested in stirring up ghosts from our past, so tell me what you wanted last night, or don’t.” His voice goes deeper, less compassionate, signaling that he’s about to walk if I don’t start talking.

I hate this game, but I need him more than I need my pride right now.

“I heard something in the master bedroom.”

He stares, not a flinch in sight. “Like what?”

“A voice. A man’s voice.”

“It’s an old house. Old houses make sounds,” he says like it’s the obvious explanation and I should know better.

“I’m not some damned tourist, Bard. I grew up here. Remember? I know exactly how old houses sound, and there were voices in that room. Not creaks or settling.”

I’m arguing with him. Why? He’s telling me exactly what I wanted to hear last night: Nothing is in that room. So then why am I pushing him to tell me what I’m terrified of hearing? There are people inside.