The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion Read Online Free PDF Page B

my sunny side. “It is awfully hot.”
    Uh-huh. Sure you want to go in there?
    “Either that or I drove up here for nothing.” I reached for the carton of books in the backseat, only to find they’d tumbled onto the floor. “Great.”
    Leave the kindling. Keep your hands free.
    “For what?”
    The ghost did not reply. With an exhale of frustration, I slung my bag over my shoulder and dropped my car keys into my pocket.
    “Okay,” I told the ghost, whether he was listening or not. “I’ll come back for the books. But I’m sure nothing’s wrong.”
    I reassessed that opinion a few moments later, after I passed through the towering Ionic columns of the formal front porch and discovered the mess inside the mansion’s foyer.
    Not good, baby. Looks like signs of a struggle.
    Mail was scattered all over the hardwood floor, and a delicate little black-lacquered table had tumbled onto its side.
    Nervous now, I remained outside and began ringing the doorbell. Its electronic buzz sounded from somewhere deep inside the massive house. I knocked loudly and called out: “Miss Todd!”
    Silence.
    “Jack?” I whispered.
    Go inside, honey, but be careful. Keep your peepers open.
    I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. “Miss Todd?” I called again.
    My voice echoed back to me. I took another step, moving into the hallway. There was nobody on the staircase; nobody lying at the base of the steps, either.
    “At least she didn’t fall and break her neck,” I murmured, recalling a terrible incident, not too long ago, involving an elderly Newport man.
    I glanced into the dimly lit living room next, past the fireplace with the formal portrait of a heavyset man above it, past the Victorian clutter of dark wood furnishings, brass lamps, lace doilies, and knickknacks—and that was when I saw her.
    Miss Timothea Todd was sprawled in the center of a plush, jewel-toned area rug. Crimson stained the bodice of her nightgown. Her hands, blanched almost as white as her gown, were covered with blood and still frozen into a position clutching at her throat. Bloody foam flecked the woman’s pale, still lips, and her white hair seemed to be standing on end.
    I stumbled backward. “My God, I think she’s . . .”
    No thinking, baby. Look at her color. She’s gone.
    I wanted to run, to flee, but I fought the urge, my fingers curling into hard fists. I took a breath and surveyed the scene. The most upsetting thing about Miss Todd’s corpse was the obvious expression of stark fear on the dead woman’s face. Her sightless eyes were wide and staring; her mouth twisted into a final, frozen scream.
    “Look at her face, Jack,” I whispered into the still room. “It’s like . . . like . . .”
    Yeah, doll. It’s like she’s seen a ghost.

CHAPTER 3
    Cold Spot
    Death tugs at my ear and says, “Live, I am coming.”
    —Oliver Wendell Holmes
     
     
     
    I WAS NO stranger to the dearly departed. As a young widow I’d not only seen my share of death, I was beginning to consider myself a magnet for it. Certainly by now I’d witnessed more crime scenes than your average American single mom. So Jack’s next piece of advice seemed almost unnecessary to me—if not a tad insulting.
    Scope the geography, but DO NOT touch a thing.
    “I know,” I told the ghost. “You’re not dealing with a rookie anymore.”
    Don’t get cocky, sister. And get out that Dick Tracy wrist radio of yours.
    “The wha—Oh! The cell phone!”
    Time to call Sheriff Cornpone and his Keystone Kops.
    “Right.” I began fishing around my shoulder bag’s less-than-organized interior.
    Your police chief’s not exactly Boston Blackie, but he’s the closest thing to the law you’ve got in this outpost.
    I shook my head at the sight of the poor woman, my eyes lingering on the blood, the horrible expression of dread frozen on her face.
    “I can’t imagine what Miss Todd experienced that terrified her so much . . .”
    I hate to bring up bad memories,