The House on Serpent Lake (Ghost, Romance, Fantasy) Page 6

  “Oh look!” she cried, pointing to a large bluish-colored bird about three feet tall perched on a half-submerged log near the bank. Its long slim neck was curved like an ‘s’ and its wings were a bluish-gray.

  “A blue heron,” Eric said. “Feeds on fish and frogs.”

  As they approached, the bird took flight and its wingspan appeared six feet wide. Lindsay watched it glide over the far shore and thought again how different this part of the country was from where she grew up. She wondered if she’d ever get tired of exploring, of her delight in discovering something new.

  They passed boats of all sizes, ranging from the smaller fishing ones like they had to the larger cruisers. Exploring the length of Serpent Lake, Lindsay couldn’t get over the pristine beauty that surrounded her, the lush greenery of the untamed forest bordering sections of the water, the puffy white clouds set against the deepest blue sky.

  Farther down the lake, some of the newer log homes as well as older frame houses nestled between trees, some with a sandy beach, others with lawns that simply ended at the water. Lindsay noted boats of various sizes anchored to private docks and felt in awe over life around the lake, how certain things had changed—the newer log and glass homes, larger and sleeker trucks pulling boats, yet other things had stayed the same—the wildlife, the sun’s rays glistening on the water, the sadness and nostalgia for something she couldn’t name.

  Chapter Ten

  Back at the house, the first thing she noticed was that spicy scent lingering just under the furniture polish. It wasn’t as strong as her first time in the house or even the night before, but it was there, so familiar yet so elusive. It was almost as if it welcomed her home.

  “What is that smell?” Sniffing the air, she wandered from the foyer and into the kitchen.

  “What smell?” Eric trailed her.

  “You don’t notice anything?”

  He shrugged and opened the refrigerator door. “You want to have dinner here?” he asked, pulling out some cheese. “Or do you want to try that fancy place north of Brainerd? One of the guys told me they have great seafood there.”

  Lindsay was opening cupboards and sniffing inside. “Makes me think of a kitchen spice.”

  Munching on a chunk of cheddar, he watched her. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to find where that scent is coming from. Did your aunt have a garden? Perhaps I’m smelling traces of that.”

  “Most people had them, but I doubt anything’s still there, though. It’s been too long.”

  Lindsay straightened and sniffed the air. “Oh well. It’s gone again.”

  Later that afternoon the mortuary called and said the cremains were ready. They decided to go ahead and pick them up instead of waiting.

  After sunset, Eric carried the octagon oak urn to the beach and Lindsay carefully stepped directly behind him. Although the porch light and the high round moon helped to illuminate their way through the blackness, she had never before seen such black nights as she experienced on the lake. Her eyes began to adjust and she could make out Eric’s outline next to her.

  “Come on,” he told her. “Let’s find a better spot.” He moved to the far end of the property where the sand ended into the brush. Finding a spot on the bend, almost on a point, he stopped.

  “Shouldn’t I say something? I’m not particularly religious, but I can’t just dump her ashes without anything.”

  “Say whatever’s in your heart.”

  They silently stood looking out over the water and listened as it gently lapped the shore. In the distance the faint buzzing sounds of a boat motor carried over the water.

  Eric opened the urn and held it upside down over the water. Just then the moon slipped from behind the clouds to light the water with shimmers of silver.

  “Goodbye, Aunt Frida,” Eric whispered. “Thank you for sharing your life and showing me that even when my father was taken away, I could still have family and love. May your journey to the heavens be a wonderful one. I wish you love.”

  Lindsay’s eyes misted. “That was beautiful.”

  Just then his phone rang. Cursing softly, he let it ring.

  “Who could that be?” Lindsay asked.

  “Mark, probably. Remember it’s two hours earlier on the coast.”

  Although he didn’t answer the phone, the mood was broken and they headed back to the house. She heard him sigh before punching in Mark’s number. Once again she wished he could get away for good.

  That evening while Eric busied himself in his office, Lindsay soaked in the bathtub, luxuriating in the steamy hot lavender-scented water. Her favorite novel and a glass of champagne sat on a tray next to tub. She tried to read a few pages but was too exhausted to concentrate, and the three glasses of the bubbly had left her floating in a soft cloud. She set the book down.

  Lying back, she rested her head on the rim and closed her eyes, dreaming about relaxing summer evenings of roasting hot dogs and marshmallows over a campfire when the children and grandchildren visited, of fishing and boating, perhaps even skinny-dipping with Eric in front of the house when they were alone. As she drifted into sleep, she dreamed of making love in the gazebo under the full moon, just like they’d done …

  The air in the bathroom changed, became heavy and faintly crackling as if charged with electrical tension. The light flicked off and a faint spicy aroma grew until it filled the room. In her drowsy state Lindsay breathed in the familiar scent of her lover and smiled a welcome.

  The bath water gently splashed and two faint thuds sounded, then she felt the slight touch of lips on hers. Strong arms went around her and pulled her to a muscular body. She felt his smooth skin against her breast and her nipples hardened. The kiss deepened and a tongue slid into her mouth and in the twilight of sleep and awareness, she greeted it with her own. He laid her gently against the back of the tub and nuzzled her neck, just below her ear, and sent shivers to her toes. When he took a nipple into his mouth, she sighed and her legs fell open.

  Still drifting between sleep and awakening, Lindsay ran her hands over his broad shoulders and down his body to his erection.

  “Let’s go to bed where we have more room,” she murmured.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her, sucking her bottom lip into his warm mouth and placed her legs around his lean hips. Desperately wanting him, she ran her palms around his neck and down his chest, luxuriating in his smooth skin … smooth skin? She stiffened and made a small sound.

  Eric had chest hair.

  The touches stopped. Her eyes opened and she was full awake.

  “Eric?”

  No one answered.

  Blinking, Lindsay peered into the semi-darkness and didn’t see her husband, didn’t see anyone in the bathtub with her. She could see right through where Eric should have been to the tiles on the bathroom wall.

  But that was impossible. He hadn’t had time to get out. Besides, she would have heard him or heard the water splash or the door opening. As if not trusting her own eyes, she groped for him, feeling the air all around her, but there was nothing.

  If it hadn’t been Eric kissing and touching her, then who had been in the tub with her?

  Chapter Eleven

  Lindsay screamed and scrambled out of the water. Footsteps pounded in the outside hall and the door flew open.

  “Honey, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Eric held her wet body close and grabbed a towel.

  Weeping, she held onto him. “Don’t let go,” she begged, frantically looking around the bathroom. “Please don’t let go.”

  He gave her a quick inspection. “I don’t see anything wrong, no blood, so you didn’t cut yourself. Did you fall?”

  Crying, she shook her head. “There was a man …”

  “A man where? Let’s get you dried off.” He ran the towel briskly over her.

  “In the water with me …”

  Eric stopped drying her. “In the water with you? Just now?”

  Sobbing, Lindsay nodded. �
��He disappeared.”

  “Honey, no one’s here. I would have heard someone come up the stairs.”

  “But Eric, I felt him.” Her face flamed. “I thought it was you.”

  One arm still around her, he grabbed her robe and put it on her as if she were a child, then led her out of the bathroom.

  “Look, honey, see my office door? It’s open. Not only would I have heard someone come in, but I would’ve seen him as well.”

  Lindsay checked his open office door and even sat at his desk. He was right. If anyone had entered the house, especially the bathroom, Eric would have seen him.

  But who had been making love to her? Surely it wasn’t her imagination; she could still feel his touch.

  In their bedroom, he helped her under the covers and sat down beside her.

  “Now tell me everything.”

  She began from when she set her book down and told him everything except the intimate details of the lovemaking. It was lovemaking, she realized, remembering the gentle touch that made her feel more alive than she could ever remember. Whoever he was, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, she was sure of that. Instead, he was offering pleasure.

  Pleasure? He? He who? That was crazy. No one had been there. She shivered and pulled the covers to her chin.

  “And when I opened my eyes—”

  “When you opened your eyes,” Eric repeated. “That’s the key. You’d had several glasses of champagne, and since you don’t drink much—”

  “I only had two glasses, Eric. I hadn’t even touched the third one yet, so I was not tipsy.”

  “Okay, you must’ve fallen asleep and been dreaming. Couple that with the champagne. That’s the only logical explanation.”

  “Not everything was a dream! I woke up when he, when—” she broke off. She didn’t want to tell Eric she’d felt an erection.

  “Think back, honey. You said you tried to read but put the book down, and you lay back and closed your eyes. You even said you dozed.”

  “Search the house, Eric, please. Search everywhere. Just to make me feel better.”

  She listened closely while he checked every bedroom and even the bathroom once more before going downstairs. She heard him open and shut the front door, then she heard nothing more until he yelled from downstairs that everything was locked up for the night. When the sound of footsteps ascended the stairs, she tensed.

  “Eric? Is that you?”

  “It’s okay, honey.” He walked around the landing to their bedroom. “Nothing there.”

  “Did you check the attic?”

  “There’s no one here, Lindsay. I assure you.”

  “Please, just for me.”

  He sighed. “All right. Then I’m coming to bed.”

  In a short time he was back in the bedroom peeling off his clothes. “I don’t know what it is about the attic, but I just don’t like it up there.”

  “Maybe it’s because the lighting’s different. Or it could be the sloping roof.” She held the covers for him, and after he undressed, he climbed in beside her.

  “Honey, I’m beat.” After giving her a quick kiss he wrapped his arms around her and was soon snoring softly.

  She cuddled into him, secure in the safety of his arms, but she couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t think of anything but what had happened in the bathtub.

  The amber numbers of her bedside clock read one in the morning, then two.

  Was it actually possible she’d had been dreaming? Could something that had felt so real been a dream?

  Since no one had been in the house, it had to have been a dream, although she didn’t fully believe it. She had felt him, felt his lips on her breast, had felt his erection—and she’d wanted him with a passion she had never known.

  My God, what was wrong with her?

  Was she so sex-starved that she’d invented a phantom lover?

  She and Eric hadn’t made love in months. Yet, while she was curious about his decline in interest, she had to admit her desire for him had faded as well. She still loved him dearly, and she believed he loved her, so what was the problem? What had caused both of them to lose their desire for each other?

  She’d felt exquisite desire in the attic that first evening, and then again tonight in the bathtub, desire so intense she nearly climaxed, something she didn’t experience with Eric.

  But no one was there—at least anyone she could see.

  What was going on? Something was. It couldn’t all be her imagination.

  It had to be something about this house.

  Starting tomorrow, she’d find out everything she could about the history of the Peterson home.

  Finally at daybreak, when the birds started their morning chirping outside her window and the dawn brightened their bedroom enough so she could see that no one was in the room with them, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Lindsay opened her swollen eyes, her stomach was rumbling. She pushed off the lavender coverlet to rise, but discovered her legs were too weak to stand.

  Was she coming down with something?

  She lay back and burrowed under the covers.

  From outside her window, she could hear the birds singing, and in the distance a motorboat buzzed.

  She loved this room with the pastel wallpaper, the faded purple posies and green leaves against the crème background. Even though it was faded and peeling in places, she loved the pattern. She remembered pouring over patterns with Mama to select just the right one.

  “You don’t want the flowers too big,” Mama had said, tendrils of her graying-blond hair escaping from her chignon, “or you’ll get tired of it too quickly.”

  “Just as long as it has lots of lavender,” she’d answered.

  She admired the plaster medallion surrounding the ceiling light fixture, pleased that it was still in one piece and not all chipped like in some homes that had been neglected. She used to pretend to see patterns in the swirls, and even as a child, drew what she’d imagined. What wonderful features these old houses had, she thought now, extras that were full of charm that most new homes couldn’t duplicate.

  Eric had wanted the larger master bedroom but she’d felt more at ease in the smaller room with the purple posies. She would have liked the bigger bedroom; after all, it looked out onto the lake and should have been preferred. But to her, it would always be Mama and Papa’s room. Perhaps if she and Eric redid it, stripped off that awful old mauve wallpaper and bought new furniture, she’d feel more at ease in there.

  She glanced at the digital clock. Nearly one in the afternoon. Good Lord! She’d never slept that late in her entire life. Feeling decadent, she stood, but her wobbly legs forced her back on the bed.

  Must be the flu.

  Picking out patterns with Mama? Starring at the ceiling medallion as a child?

  My God, was she going insane?

  She’d always been chided for her stories of a long-ago time. Was her subconscious bringing those stories to life?

  She thought about last night. Had it all been a dream as Eric said? Or more of her imagination?

  But why bring the old stories to life now? She’d successfully repressed them for years, so what was causing them to resurface now?

  She’d research the history of the house just as she resolved to do last night. Maybe there was some connection, something Eric had told her about the house that stirred up the old stories. Or perhaps it was something she’d read.

  There had to be logical explanation.

  Otherwise she was lost.

  Still, sitting on the edge of the bed, she hesitated, dreading entering the bathroom.

  Well that was just great. Now what was she going to do? Revert back to using the old outhouse in back of the house?

  When the pressure of her bladder urged her on, she felt for her slippers, grabbed her robe, and zipped it up to her chin. She wasn’t going to face anything unknown in just her gown.

  She crept across the landing to the bathroom,
paused at the stairs leading to the attic, and looked up, breathing in the air, searching, yet desperately hoping she wouldn’t detect that certain spicy scent.

  Please let it all be nothing but her imagination.

  After a few deep breaths, she detected nothing but fresh air from the open window, so she continued on to the bathroom.

  Outside the closed door, she braced herself and pushed open the door—to a sparkling clean bathroom. Eric had scrubbed everything, and all she could smell was the lavender from her favorite scented soaps. What a sweetheart!

  Fifteen minutes later, feeling slightly stronger, she dressed in lightweight cotton slacks, and, holding onto the banister, took the stairs to the kitchen.

  She wanted to grab a quick sandwich and get to the library. Should she tell Eric why she wanted to research the house? She wasn’t sure how he’d feel, especially when she didn’t want to tell him why it was so important.

  He stood cracking eggs into an iron skillet, and when she heard them sizzle in the hot bacon grease, she realized she was hungry.

  “Decide to join the living?” He turned the eggs with a spatula. “I heard you upstairs and thought I’d surprise you with breakfast.”

  It was such a sweet thing for him to do that she couldn’t help but be pleased. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she reached up to give him a light kiss. “Eggs and bacon will do it every time. You just now having breakfast?”

  “I had some cereal earlier but thought I’d make my special BLT with fried eggs. Got enough for two if you’re hungry.”

  “Starved.” Leaving the security of his arms, she turned to rummage through the grocery sacks for paper plates and napkins when she noticed the dish drainer, coffee pot, and toaster from their California home standing on the counter. Looking around the kitchen, she realized all the moving boxes were gone. “You unpacked the kitchen?”

  “Open the cupboards and see.” While he said it in a nonchalant way, pride filled his voice.

  She opened the cupboards and everything, including the silverware and pots and pans, was neatly put away.