Better Homes and Hauntings

6 Sending Ghostly Tantrum Throwers to Time-Out

CINDY HADN’T BEEN entirely honest when she told Nina that she hadn’t felt anything out of the ordinary at the Crane’s Nest. Since her initial walk-through, she’d felt eyes sliding over her skin like eels. She was used to people looking at her. You didn’t spend your middle-school years in a D-cup without developing a sort of sixth sense for skeeviness. But in the Crane’s Nest, she felt as if she was being studied, examined like prey from every alcove and cubby in the house. She sensed shadowy blurs at the corners of her eyes, but when she turned her head, they were gone. She tried blaming the unnatural chill of the rooms for the goose bumps and the feeling that someone was standing behind her, but her stubborn fight-or-flight response wasn’t buying it.

Despite her fairy-tale face, Cindy Ellis wasn’t one for flights of fancy. Growing up, she hadn’t had the time to waste. And now she didn’t have the patience for anything that stood in the way of her goals. She’d purposefully ignored the Crow’s Nest’s unsavory reputation while composing her bid, because it didn’t fit her overall agenda to shy away from such a potential career boost. Like every skeptical Newport local, she’d scoffed at the ghost stories connected to the house. Rich people and their nonsense, her father had called it, a waste of a perfectly good house, sitting out in the middle of nowhere, rotting away because of greed and ego. John Ellis had never had time for either. His girl was too smart to let something like “bad vibes” get in the way of doing a job right. An Ellis didn’t back down from a challenge, even when the challenge was accompanied by goose bumps and foreboding. She could get over both with a stiff drink and a mushy Sandra Bullock movie.

But now that she was actually on the island, Cindy couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something very wrong with this house.

And she wasn’t alone. Cindy had lost two day-crew employees within the first three days on the job. She wasn’t about to tell Mr. Whitney. She simply replaced them with other members of her team and continued the preliminary cleanup. She couldn’t blame her employees for their sudden departure. They’d reported inexplicable cold spots, the sensation of being watched, footsteps in rooms where they were the only occupants. On the third morning, Greta and Maria, two of Cindy’s most reliable cleaners, had abandoned the entry hall and run for the dock, purses in hand, to wait for the next ferry—which wasn’t due for six hours.

Greta would only say that she wouldn’t continue working in the house, and if that meant she was fired, she would accept that. Maria was considerably more descriptive, chattering nervously as Cindy tried to coax them back into the house.

“This is a bad place, Miss Ellis,” Maria had told her, clutching the little gold crucifix around her throat. “Watching, everything is watching, waiting, for the right time to reach out. You don’t want to be reached.”

And now, as she was sorting through furniture in one of the second-floor guest rooms, she was moving around the bright, airy room, in the process of whipping a dusty storage sheet off a piece of mystery furniture, and she could clearly hear the faint echo of footsteps moving around on the third floor. And no one was supposed to be working on the third floor.

Cindy stood slowly, staring up at the plastered-medallion ceiling. Maybe it was a worker doing some sort of preliminary inspection? Or maybe it was just the house settling. She’d worked in enough old houses to know what noises they made when they shifted. She’d almost talked herself into ignoring it and continuing on with her work, when the ceiling right above her head groaned under the moving burden of some heavy wooden object. It sounded as if someone was moving furniture up there, something she had specifically instructed Anthony’s crew not to do, as she had to sort through and label everything from its original position, per the requirements of the Whitney family’s lawyer. And they were doing it in Mrs. Whitney’s bedroom, which was one of the most contentious areas of the house. Aside from the dresses, costume jewelry, and antiques, the room contained personal mementos such as a hope chest filled with Mrs. Whitney’s trousseau. Several Whitney relatives were petitioning for the right to run through that room like a Macy’s white sale. So properly cataloging the Whitney boudoir before it could be ransacked was priority one.

Cindy nervously swiped her hands along the burnished gold tendrils that had escaped from her tight French braid. She really didn’t want to go upstairs, particularly by herself, but the possibility of the furniture being moved without her approval was enough to get her feet moving toward the second-story landing. “Hey!” she called. “This is Cindy. I don’t know who’s up there, but you’re not supposed to be moving anything.”

No response.

A cold trickle of sweat ran down her spine, soaking into her blue Cinderella Cleaning T-shirt. Over the faint reports of nail guns and the muffled conversations of the workers, she could hear a strange cyclical humming of air. It was as if the house was breathing. Cindy waited for a long moment, praying that the noise would stop so she could forget about the whole incident. But there it was again, the scraping of furniture against the floor, farther down the hall now.

“Hello?” Cindy called.

The silence seemed to stretch out forever, mocking her. She stepped onto the stairs for the third floor, the air growing heavier, pressing against her from all sides, as if she were climbing through thick syrup. Instinctively, she stepped back and was ashamed that a staircase and a few bumps and thumps had her wanting to bolt for the main floor and the safety of other people.

“Hey!” she called again, her voice pitching higher. “Answer me, damn it!”

And through her shame came a bolstering tickle of anger. She was an Ellis. An Ellis didn’t back down. Whoever was up there didn’t know who they were dealing with. Cindy placed a foot on the first stair, gripping the banister, her knuckles white.

She felt the first impact in her stomach, as if she’d been sucker punched by some unseen fist. She wheezed, barely able to brace herself against the banister and avoid tumbling down the stairs. Her head swam, and her throat closed up, sinking her in a swampy mire of pain and confusion. What was this? What was happening to her?

The world seemed to spin. Her head rolled, and her eyesight blurred. She clung to consciousness, all that prevented her from taking a header down the steps.

“Help—” She started to scream, but a sudden, unexpected pressure at her throat stole her breath. It felt as if she were drowning, strangling, unable to draw air. She stumbled back a step, which made the pressure ease a bit. She rubbed at her throat and gasped, but the moment the air passed her lips, she fell to her knees, fighting the invisible blockage in her airway.

Clawing at the ancient carpeting, she felt her insides go cold. Tears slid down her cheeks as she writhed against the stairs. Somebody help me. She begged no one in particular. Please let someone find me. Anybody, please.

Cindy heard the rapid fire of footsteps on the stairs and a familiar, panicked voice. “Cindy! What happened?”

Anybody but Jake.

Jake pulled her toward him and into the cradle of his lap. The grip at her throat eased, and a small but steady stream of oxygen flowed into her lungs. The spasming in her chest finally relaxed, and she breathed deeply for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and she saw Jake hovering over her, his face awash in concern as he pushed a tangle of hair out of her eyes.

The baby blues hadn’t hurt, of course, but Cindy had agreed to that first date with him because she’d thought he was different from the yacht-club guys. And then, of course, he’d proven her wrong.

Jake was still staring at her. And the house had tried to kill her. Right. Focus on the murderous house.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice coming across as an indignant croak. “I just tripped.”

“In a way that left a bright red mark on your throat?”

Her hand flew to cover the sore strip of skin where she’d clawed her own neck. “Yep.”

“OK, we’ll just pretend I buy that for now.” He moved to help her up, but she shrugged him off, using the stair rail as leverage. She rubbed at her neck.

It was her imagination. She had to believe it. She had to write off that crushing, breath-free vacuum as something innocuous; otherwise, she would have to run screaming from this island and the payday she needed to keep her business prospering for years to come. She just had an overactive imagination combined with dust allergies that made her feel as if she was choking. Of course, she’d never had dust allergies before, but that didn’t mean anything.

And in general, dust allergies didn’t make one so dizzy that one missed a step and tumbled face-forward down a flight of stairs.

“Hey!” Jake exclaimed, barely catching her by the elbows and yanking her to his chest, sending both of them crashing backward onto the staircase. Cindy landed in his lap with an “ungfh,” her head lolling back against Jake’s shoulder.

Jake’s arms tightened around her. And even in Cindy’s woozy state, she noted that he was packing some pretty impressive biceps under the ridiculous pastel-green tennis shirt. It was galling to still be attracted to him, to see him being all concerned and knight-in-Polo-armor when she knew what he was really like. She was woefully familiar with how quickly he lost interest when he didn’t get what he wanted. It made her want to smack that far-too-close-to-sincere anxious expression right off his handsome face.

His stupid, beguiling, handsome-as-all-hell face.

But before the smacking could commence, Jake swept her hair back from her eyes and seemed to check her over from head to toe for injuries. He shifted her in his lap so she was more comfortable and cradled her as if she was made of the same delicate porcelain as the furnishings downstairs. It made her feel safer than she had in years, more cherished since she had during her failure of an engagement, since before her father got so sick—

No.

Cindy peeled his hands away from her arms and would have stood if her legs hadn’t folded under her like a cheap accordion. Jake frowned, and before she could wriggle out of his grip, he murmured, “You really don’t like me, do you?”

The wounded, lost tone of his voice shook her resolve more than she cared to admit. She didn’t like hurting him, no matter what Nina thought. She just didn’t want to be bothered with his feelings. She wanted separation, distance, the objectivity she needed to do her job in a professional, memorable manner that would lead to referrals and further expansion of her business.

Getting out of his lap would probably be a good start.

She grasped the banister, gingerly lifting herself off Jake. He steadied her with a light touch at her spine. She covered the resulting shiver with a roll of her shoulders, as if she could push her vertebrae back into a reasonable configuration and rid herself of her puppyish response to Jake’s touch all in one movement.

“I don’t know you well enough not to like you,” she said, without looking back. “I don’t know you at all.”

I never got the chance, a bitter voice added in her head.

“Well, you can get to know me,” Jake said cheerfully, helping her navigate the stairs without further incident. “And in the meantime, maybe you can get some rest and fluids in your system, maybe a CAT scan just to be safe.”

Cindy snorted but allowed Jake’s hand at her elbow to steady her in her descent to the main floor of the house. Oddly, she wanted Nina. She’d only known the woman for a short time, but she wanted the redhead’s quiet, calming influence to help figure out what had just happened to her.

Not that she would tell Nina about her near-asphyxiation on the stairs—or Dotty, for that matter. Nina was already skittish about the house. Dotty would latch onto the incident as some sort of proof that the house contained restless, hoping-to-be-aided-from-beyond-the-grave spirits. And while Deacon seemed to feel obliged to keep his crazy cousin on the island, Cindy didn’t want to be kicked off this project herself for having a tragic case of the batshit crazies. But she knew that Nina would know how to make her feel better, whether it was a sympathetic hug or some of that soothing rose-hip tea that Cindy was convinced contained some form of natural narcotics.

For now, she could only permit herself to be supported down the stairs by the insistently cheerful Jake.

And when they reached the main floor, Jake damn near dropped her.

Cindy would swear later that she actually felt the fibers of the carpet brush her face before Jake caught her again and set her on her feet. Her already unsteady equilibrium barely registered Deacon standing in the entryway. Nina and Dotty were framed in the doorway, a rare irritated expression on Dotty’s face as she watched Deacon talking to a sleek, reed-thin woman with a shiny bob of raven hair. The strange woman turned toward the staircase just as Cindy stumbled from the stairs.

“Dar-ling!” The newcomer didn’t walk, she undulated, as if the reptiles sacrificed to make her sky-high heels had some sort of sympathetic magic locked in their skin. Her dress—a dizzying black, purple, and white zigzag pattern—was tight and draped precisely to show off a body honed by ruthless attention to calories and a trainer who showed no mercy.

A chain of intricately patterned silver, set with amethyst and onyx, stretched in a sinuous line across her collarbone, matching the stark onyx drops at her lobes. Her makeup was simple yet dramatic. Her boldly painted red mouth curved into a calculating smile. She might have been Snow White to Cindy’s Cinderella. But that smile made her more of an Evil Queen.

“Oh, it’s so good to see you!” the woman cooed, giving Jake an air-kiss that just missed his cheek. It was casual but somehow struck Cindy as staking a claim, an unladylike marking of territory. “It’s been too long, darling, really. Mother was just saying the other day that we never see you! The Lilac Ball at the club. Our annual lawn party. You’ve turned down all of our invitations. If you’re not careful, you’re going to hurt our feelings. I’m going to start thinking you’ve lost interest in me.”

The woman poked out her ruby-stained bottom lip in a perfectly practiced pout. For his part, Jake looked horror-struck, his shocked gaze drifting between this woman and Cindy without managing to land. He started to say something several times and then closed his mouth, only to open it again. Cindy supposed this was one of Jake’s many quote-unquote girlfriends. No wonder he seemed nervous about being seen holding her. Or maybe he didn’t want someone who was obviously a friend of his fancy-pants family seeing him cuddling the “help”?

Seeming reluctant to let go of Cindy’s arm, Jake had little choice when the woman hooked her arm through his and led him back to where Deacon stood.

As the newcomer gushed over how thrilled she was to be involved and that she just couldn’t wait to get started, which was why she’d shown up weeks ahead of schedule to present Deacon with her design ideas for the interior, Cindy rolled her eyes. Typical. Now that this barracuda with the telltale red-soled shoes was in the picture, he’d dropped Cindy and moved on.

Cindy pursed her lips, steadied herself against the banister for a moment. It sucked to be right all the time.

Resolving to forget the entire “tripping” episode, Cindy made her way to the opposite side of the room, where Dotty and Nina were whispering quietly.

“The insecure preadolescent girl inside of me is curled up in the fetal position,” Nina grumbled, noting with inexplicable irritation the way the new arrival was practically standing on Deacon’s feet, murmuring to him in low, familiar tones; until the moment Jake had walked in, anyway, which was the moment she launched herself at him. Poor Anthony had been standing off to the side, intently staring at the blueprints of the house so he could look anywhere besides at his boss getting kitten-whispered. And Deacon looked . . .

Well, maybe Nina didn’t know Deacon well enough to gauge his facial expressions. He seemed impassive, even bored. He hadn’t exactly been leaning into the lady’s aural assault, but his face didn’t give off a Get thee away from me, you fashion-forward she-beast! vibe, either.

In Nina’s mind, Indignant Deacon spoke like a character from Game of Thrones.

“Oh, honey, she doesn’t deserve your head space.” Dotty sighed. “That’s just Regina Van Hauten. We’ve known her since, oh, two or three noses ago.” When Cindy lifted an eyebrow, Dotty clarified, “Since high school. Her family is close to Deacon’s and Jake’s parents.”

“And why is she here?” Cindy asked.

Dotty’s facial expression wasn’t hard to decipher at all, with her mouth pinched into a derisive frown. “Regina’s supposedly an interior designer, but judging by the hatchet job she did on Deacon’s corporate offices, I’m betting she got her training from one of those videos you can order from an infomercial.”

“Uncomfortable seating and abstract art?” Nina guessed.

“There’s an ‘installation’ of discarded Starbucks cups in the lobby by some artist from Hoboken. It’s called ‘The Globalization of Mediocrity.’ The janitor kept trying to throw it away, so Regina’s idea was to put up a sign that says, ‘Please don’t recycle the art.’ ”

Cindy bit her lip before a snicker could escape. Dotty grinned at her, even as Regina sent the pair a scathing look. Nina noted that Regina hadn’t bothered introducing herself to Nina or Cindy.

Dotty muttered, “I told Deacon not to hire her, but he said he ‘has his reasons’ for letting her ruin both his offices and his home. And when I press him, he refuses to answer, which is saying something, because I can always get Deacon to fess up. Just for your information, he is very ticklish.”

“How will that information ever be of use to me?” Nina asked.

Dotty wriggled her eyebrows. “I can think of a few ways.” Nina stared at her, adopting Deacon’s “impassive” expression. “Oh, come on, I’ve seen the two of you together. It’s like watching a nature documentary on scientists trying to get the two most socially awkward people in the world to mate.”

“Not true!” Nina whispered back. “We talk about work-related subjects, that’s all.”

Just then, Deacon looked up from Regina’s papers and gave Nina a lingering look, as if she were the only thing giving him the strength to continue his conversation with his decorator. Nina’s face flushed bright red, and Dotty fanned her cheeks with Cindy’s clipboard.

“Oh, hush, the both of you,” Nina muttered.

“You made my cousin smolder,” Dotty whispered in awe. “Until two years ago, he didn’t wear matching socks half the time. He actually pays someone to match his clothes for him. So for him to throw any sort of swagger at you, that’s sort of a miracle.”

“He probably just had something in his eye,” Nina protested softly. “Now, be quiet before someone hears you. This is a foyer, not a cone of silence.”

“You’re right, he did have something in his eye,” Cindy singsonged. “You.”

Nina groaned.

“Sweetheart, I’m going to insist that you ride that man like a pony,” Cindy added. “For the good of mankind, technological advancement, and America’s place in the worldwide economy. Think of the gadgetry he could come up with if he had a little stress relief.”

Nina poked at Cindy’s arm. “You are all class, my friend.”

“Anyway, back to Regina,” Dotty interjected, although she continued to fan Nina’s pink face with her hands. “She makes a halfhearted effort at seducing Deacon, but the real prize is the house. I’m guessing she thinks revamping the place, emphasis on the ‘vamp,’ will put her on the cover of Town and Country or Architectural Digest.”

Nina shook her head, staring up at the seashell design on the ceiling. It was almost a relief to be back inside the house. Ever since her first visit, on the day of Dotty’s arrival, she’d had a constant, nagging, almost compulsive urge to go back inside. Standing there in the main hall put a stop to the buzzing loop of need in the corners of her brain. She wasn’t frightened. She wasn’t nervous. In fact, other than the weird social pressure of having the living embodiment of all her female insecurities hanging all over Deacon’s arm, she felt pretty darn relaxed. “I’m sure she won’t want to change too much about the house. It’s already beautiful; it just needs to be freshened up a bit.”

But twenty minutes later, as Regina unveiled her presentation boards in the library, all hope for a refurbished masterpiece filled with lovingly restored antiques died a horrific death. Regina’s proposal showed red walls with a vinyl-slick finish for the library. An oversized black lacquer table took up most of the space in front of the entryway fireplace. A bizarrely sculpted brushed-metal light fixture would replace the chandelier in the foyer. The other rooms weren’t much better. Unrelenting supermodern patterns of black, white, and red. White and black plastic furniture that looked like the ugly love child of Danish Modern and Barbie’s Dreamhouse. Spiky modern metal sculptures that would require anyone in a two-mile radius to get a tetanus shot.

Nina didn’t know much about interior decorating, but she knew ugly, expensive, and uncomfortable when she saw it. And Regina’s sketches hit the trifecta.

“Why, Deacon, you’re so quiet. What do you think?” Regina demanded in a teasing tone.

DEACON WAS STARING at the presentation boards, his mouth hanging open like the anguished figure in Edvard Munch’s The Scream. In fact, hanging The Scream in his living room would probably create a much more restful space in his home than the majority of Regina’s designs. He squirmed in his seat, clearing his throat and crossing his arms over his chest. This had been a huge mistake. He’d given Regina this job to settle their debt once and for all, but what she’d produced was completely off the mark. It was as if she had photocopied the designs from his office and simply thrown them up on the imagined walls of the Crane’s Nest. Even if he were only planning to use the house as a showplace, this design was cold, sterile, and completely incongruent with the exterior. What was worse, the designs were lazy and unimaginative, and that was something Deacon would not tolerate. However, he wouldn’t humiliate Regina in front of the rest of the team. Not living on the island full-time, she had already pointedly mentioned, she was at a disadvantage compared with the rest of the team. Giving her designs the much-deserved red X of rejection in front of the others would make her that much more difficult to work with. He just needed to survive this renovation so he could cut the last string between them and move on with his life. He didn’t like loose ends.

“It’s interesting,” he said. “But to be honest, I was thinking of something a little less geometric . . . and less plastic. I’d like to keep some impression of the house’s original design.”

“Of course, of course,” Regina said breezily. “It will take some back-and-forth to refine the plans, but it’s so good to know you like my overall concept. I’ll move forward with this theme in mind.”

“That’s actually the exact opposite of what I just said,” Deacon noted. “If I’m not making myself clear, we can sit down right now and review the parameters of the project.”

“We’ll discuss it,” Regina assured him. “Just let the concept simmer in your imagination for a bit, and we’ll revisit the boards in a week. Now, let’s talk about the plans for the ballroom, because Jake is being very stubborn about the window issue.”

Regina looped her arm through his and sauntered down the hallway toward the ballroom. Deacon glanced over his shoulder at Nina and noticed with some apprehension that she, Cindy, and Dotty had their heads together, whispering animatedly among themselves. He couldn’t make out what the girls were saying, but he was sure that they weren’t planning a session of pedicures and margaritas.

This was going to get complicated.

THE TRIO OF ladies stood before the design boards, and despite the fact that they didn’t share a single gene, they somehow managed matching expressions of horrified disbelief.

“She’s going to turn it into the house from Beetle-juice,” Nina hissed.

“We have to stop her,” Cindy insisted. “Or kill her. Or both.”

“Well, if you want to get away with a gruesome murder, this is clearly the place,” Nina muttered, glancing around the library. “Sorry, Dotty.”

Dotty shrugged. “I’m just trying to figure out how we can make it look like an accident or maybe a shark attack. Jaws was set in New England, so it’s plausible. All we need to do is call in a few fake great white sightings and bend the tips of Nina’s garden tools into triangle shapes so we can make the little bite marks. Then—” She paused when she realized that the other two were staring at her, mouths agape. “I went too far, didn’t I?”

Nina patted her hand. “You had me until the mangled gardening tools.”