I’m not a horror-movie fan, but I know the clichés. Even so, I can’t keep myself from calling out, ‘Hello?’
The house swallows my voice and I shrink down in my chair. There’s no answer. I knew there wouldn’t be, but it’s no comfort. Mrs Chalfont-Tate had just been telling Lee about the creepy old mansion where her daughter had gone missing after being dared to spend a night there alone, relating all the by-the-numbers ghost stories people tell about such places. Cynical Lee wasn’t convinced at all and neither was I. Not until now.
‘Peter, is that you? Look, you’re not scaring me.’
My voice doesn’t sound as bold as I hope. And while Lee may be fearless and reckless, I’m all talk.
It’s just Peter, I tell myself. He’s trying to scare me. And distract me. Because he knows I can do this and he’s afraid of losing.
I return my fingers to the keys like a pianist interrupted in the middle of a concert. I make Lee and her client hear the same crash I did, only Lee is much cooler about it than I am. She insists it’s just the wind. Or one of the many cats she saw wandering the old lady’s house. Or someone playing tricks on them both.
There’s another crash. A real one.
This one wrenches a cry from me and I jump away from the desk. Now I’m not so sure it’s Peter after all.
I grab my phone and key in 999, my finger poised above the call button as I venture towards the open doorway.
‘I’m calling the cops,’ I shout. ‘Cops’ sounds tougher than ‘police’. More like I mean business. ‘So you’d better show yourself now or get out of here.’
I listen, straining to hear. What I want to hear are frightened footsteps retreating through the front door, some kids having dared themselves to do what my characters did. I do hear footsteps, but they’re the slow, purposeful kind. And they’re coming towards me. Headed straight for the library from a room somewhere down the corridor. My blood runs cold at the notion that someone had already been here when I arrived. Waiting for me.
‘Don’t be frightened.’
Despite the words, the deep male voice makes me jump and I drop my phone. It hits the wooden floor with a clatter and I scramble madly for it. By the time I snatch it back up and start to re-key the nines, I am no longer alone.
A man is standing in the doorway, smiling. ‘Hello,’ he says.
I stumble back a couple of steps at the sight of him, wondering suddenly whether I’m dreaming or hallucinating. He’s dressed like a character from a BBC costume drama, in a lavish blue velvet frock coat and silk cravat. And oh, my God, he’s gorgeous. Aristocratic face, chiselled features, glittering blue eyes. Everything about him speaks of decadence. No doubt there’s a portrait stashed in his attic he wouldn’t want me to see. I hated Fifty Shades, but this is a Mr Gray I can lust after.
My foot catches on the edge of a rug and I fall, landing hard on my backside and dropping my phone again.
The man reaches for me and I accept his proffered hand, desperate to reclaim my dignity.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, sounding concerned.
I dust myself off, my face burning. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Then, swiftly changing the subject from my clumsiness: ‘Who are you?’
He smiles like the roguish villain in a period piece, a sexy, wolfish grin. ‘Christopher Blackwood,’ he says, his voice silky and cultured. He even gives me a little bow.
‘Seriously?’
He cocks his head at that, as though uncertain whether I’m teasing him. I’m not really. I’m just mortified at having fallen on my bum in an ungainly heap.
‘Seriously,’ he says, sounding very serious now. ‘You’re – ah, in my house.’
I flash back to the time as a child when I was cornered in an abandoned house by a stern-faced constable. My friends had fled, leaving me to face the music by myself. Yes, I’d been told the place was dangerous. No, I wasn’t stealing anything. There wasn’t anything to steal, was there? No, sir, I’m not being sarcastic. I’m sorry, sir.
This time I’m not a child and I have every right to be here. But that childhood incident had planted a seed in me, one that grew into a vine that flowered extravagantly whenever I found myself confronted by good-looking authority figures.
‘I’m here legitimately,’ I told him. ‘I paid to stay. For the weekend.’
‘Did you now.’
‘Well, my publisher did. I’m a writer.’ His expression hasn’t changed and I feel my face growing hot. ‘There was an ad,’ I say, flustered. ‘On the website.’
The word ‘website’ feels out of place here, especially when he only frowns at my babbling. Is he a ghost? An actor? A time traveller?
‘Look, who are you really?’ I blurt out.