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

He’s so full of it.

Anyway, he swore over and over again if he could ever do anything for me, he would. So I asked him for this.

Mistake?

Probably.

But the jerk owes me, and I don’t have anyone to turn to for this massive undertaking. River Wall Manor is about fifty miles southeast of Lake Erie and about eighty miles north of Pittsburg. It’s much too far from civilization to attract the high-end antique dealers from, say, New York. So if I want top dollar for any of Grandma’s trinkets—like her silver candlesticks from the late 1800s, it’s better to take everything to Dave’s warehouse in Philly and hold an auction.

A knock at my front door tells me it’s time to face the emotional day ahead. How does one say goodbye to two centuries of family history? But Dave’s paying for the junk hauling, the cleanup crew, and the transportation of my valuables to his warehouse. All this for only a ten percent cut. A bargain.

I wrap a red scarf around my neck, tucking it beneath my long hair. We Norfolk women are known for our cat-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and straight black hair. In my opinion, we look a little witchy. I don’t mean we have warts and hooked noses, but our angular features give off a dramatic appearance under certain light. Then there’s the fact we are always named after things having to do with water—Rain, Storm, Lake, Snow, River—but that has more to do with tradition. According to Grandma, there’d been a drought the year after the house was built, and crops were failing everywhere. Then my great-great-great-grandmother was born, and they named her Rain. The next day, it rained.

I don’t know if the tradition is cute and old-fashioned or just plain weird because, let’s face it, there aren’t a lot of words having to do with water that can be used as girls’ names. Monsoon? Wave? Glacier? Tributary? Much too weird. I think that’s how our tradition became a recycling of names, too: Rain, Storm, Lake, Snow, River. Repeat.

I head through my cozy living room with the stone fireplace and deep maroon sofa. I love to paint watercolors, so I have a setup by the window overlooking the wildflower garden in front.

From there, I also have a view of the mansion’s kitchen entrance around the back and the rose garden, totally overgrown with weeds. I used to spend hours there reading when I was younger—no TV to watch. But Grandma did have a library. Two, in fact. Her personal book collection in her study, which I was never allowed to touch, and the big library in the parlor. Or what used to be a parlor. At one point, that room was converted to accommodate my great-grandmother’s book collection. Now, it’s just a big room filled with moldy books that turn to toxic dust when you attempt to pick them up. Leaky roofs and books don’t go together.

I open my front door to find Master on his leash and a scowling Bard in a red plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots.

Confession: Bardolf, who just turned fifty, is twenty-two years older, but I’ve come to appreciate his looks more and more as he’s gotten older. He’s well over six feet tall and has the body of a man who enjoys outdoor labor—wide shoulders, thick muscled arms and legs, and some serious back muscles.

Yes, I’ve seen the man chop wood shirtless. It is a sight to behold.

As far as his looks go, the words “mountain man” come to mind, though I’ve seen a few photos in his cottage from before his beard days. Underneath that thick, wild beard is a strong jawline and fine cheekbones.

But despite the bushy squirrel tail on his face, there’s no denying he’s a handsome man. His sapphire blue eyes and shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair make it hard not to stare.

“Bard. Hey. I thought you were at your nephew’s house for another week.”

“He’s an annoying, snot-nosed pussy. Got on my nerves.”

I try not to smile. “He used a coffee machine, didn’t he?” Bard is completely old-school. He thinks any man who uses electronics has lost touch with his manhood. No microwaves, cell phones, or computers. No cars, only trucks. Only stick shifts. Above all, coffee must be made in a French press or a pour-over cone with water that is a precise temperature. He takes his brew seriously.

“His coffee tasted like soulless piss,” he grumbles.

“Not everyone has your godlike taste buds. Don’t hold it against him, Bard.”

He grunts.

“Okay, well, I’m glad you’re back. I can use some extra help cleaning out that big house.” I rub my hands together. “Ready to get down to work?”

“The snow will be here soon. I have my own work to do,” he says in that deep serious voice that means he’s not negotiating. Pretty much his go-to voice.