The Visitor (Graveyard Queen, #4)(13)

The windows were all closed and locked. By the time I could wrench one open, he’d be on me again. The house was a death trap. I couldn’t hope to hide or evade him for long so I had to take a stand.

All this sailed through my mind as I readied my finger on the pepper spray. I knew where he was in the hall even though he was silent. He knew where I was, too. I sensed his intense concentration and the penetration of his stare through the wall.

Reflex, surprise and that puny can of pepper spray were my only defenses. All I could do was let instinct take over. The moment he appeared in the doorway, I leaped out and pointed the nozzle at his face.

The spray hit him in the eyes and he fell back into the foyer. I used that moment of shock to grab a nearby lamp and swing it at his head. The blow brought him to his knees. He collapsed between the front door and me so I sprinted into the hallway.

His hand shot out and gripped my ankle, yanking me off my feet. I hit the floor hard, air gushing from my lungs as the can skittered across the floor away from my grasp. For a moment I could do nothing but flail helplessly. Summoning my strength, I propelled myself forward on hands and knees, but the assailant grabbed me again.

I rolled onto my back and we were suddenly face-to-face. In that terrifying moment, I could have sworn I recognized the gleam of his eyes through the ski mask. Then I lashed out with my legs, pedaling them frantically until, stunned by the blows and the ferocity of my attack, he fell back into a table. In all that time, in all that commotion, he never made a sound. Not even a grunt.

Clamoring up the stairs to the door at the top, I pounded as hard as I could and called out to Macon. The door had been permanently bolted when the house had been converted into two apartments. He wouldn’t be able to let me in, but if he heard my screams, he’d call the police— Arms snared me from behind, one encircling my waist, the other clamping over my mouth.

For what seemed an eternity, we struggled at the top of the stairs until my feet flew out from under me and I tumbled backward down the stairs. The intruder fell with me and we sprawled side by side on the foyer floor. I must have blacked out for a moment because I saw faces swimming on the inside of my eyelids. Distorted visages that I didn’t recognize but somehow knew. One of them said, “Where is it? Where is it?”

Where is what? I wanted to ask, but the question flitted away as light began to filter through the swirling darkness and my current predicament came rushing back to me.

I blinked several times, trying to clear my vision as I searched for a weapon—a lamp or vase, anything with which I could defend myself. I grabbed a leg from the splintered table as I crawled into a corner and propped myself up, preparing for another attack.

It was only then that I realized I was alone. Through a haze of panic, I heard footsteps stumbling down the long hallway toward the kitchen and Macon’s voice yelling at me through the front door.

“Amelia! Are you all right? Amelia! Can you hear me? The police are on the way.”

Hitching myself up against the wall, I staggered across the foyer, undid the locks and threw open the front door. The last thing I remembered was Macon’s eyes going wide with shock as I pitched forward.





Nine

For most of my life, ghosts moved silently through my world, leaving nothing behind when they floated back through the veil but a lingering chill and a dread of twilight. However, once that forbidden door had been opened by my association with a haunted man, some of the spirits had started to communicate—a development that came with a terrifying suspicion that my gift was far darker, far more dangerous than Papa had ever let on.

The encounters had been mostly with entities that were somehow connected to me. I told myself those bonds were the reason certain ghosts could penetrate my defenses so easily.

But as I lay alone in a hospital emergency room cubicle, the voices inside my head were unknown to me. I had the horrifying notion that the random babble came from the morgue. Confused whispers from the newly departed mingling with the tormented moans of lost souls. The macabre cacophony rose up through the hospital floors, swelling in my brain until I pressed hands to ears to try to dull the sound.

The young resident who had examined me earlier came through the door and flashed a sympathetic smile as he approached. “It always gets crazy during a full moon.”

I stared at him in astonishment as I dropped my hands to the bed. “You hear them, too?” Then I realized he was referring to the rumble of human misery coming from the other cubicles. That was not the sound in my head, I was certain. “How do you stand it?”

“You get used to it.” He pulled up a rolling stool and sat down at my bedside. “You look as if you could do with a little good news.”

“Yes, please.”

“We’ve got most of your test results back and everything looks normal. No broken bones or signs of internal bleeding and your vitals are all stable. For someone who took a tumble down a flight of stairs, I’d say you’re a very lucky woman.”

“That is good news.”

“You’ll be sore and bruised for a few days and you may experience headaches from that bump on your head. I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm, but even mild concussions are nothing to take lightly. I’d like to keep you overnight so that we can monitor your reflexes.”

The last thing I wanted was a stay in the hospital, but I wasn’t foolish enough to second-guess a doctor. And I wondered if a concussion might be the cause of the weird disturbance in my brain. I’d never heard anything like that noise. Not even close.