offering that.” But she led the way to the porch and settled onto the swing.
He checked the railing—solid—before leaning on it. The house, like the woman in front of him, seemed fraught with contradictions.
“So, what other stories about my house do you know?” She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward on the swing, her expression rapt.
“Just the local lore, really. The Summerfield Curse—if you can call it that. Don’t you know any of the stories about the house?”
“A few. I’m aware of the family side of things and what I read in the books I picked up.” She shrugged. “With the deadline, I haven’t really had time to go through Katherine’s things to learn more about her personally. She was my grandmother’s older sister, one of four sisters. All the girls married but Katherine. I called my mother after the lawyer notified me of the inheritance, and she seemed as surprised as I was that I ended up with the place.”
“Any idea why Katherine would have left Summerfield to a relative she barely knew?”
“No idea. I only met her once.”
She didn’t quite look him in the eye when she said that; instead, her gaze slid past him to the gazebo beyond. It didn’t mean she was lying—but he definitely had the sense that she held something back.
“I have these vague images from a visit here when I was seven,” she continued. “You know, the bland, ordinary, everyone-is-there sort of half-memory of a lot of old people sitting around, and you’re the kid who has to sit on the carpet and hush because the adults are talking.” She hunched her shoulders up. “I feel awful saying that because she gave me this great opportunity. I need to get to know Katherine better. There’s a box of old diaries I’ve left in the kitchen since I moved in that I haven’t gone through yet. It seems a violation of her privacy to read her journals.”
Rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, he stretched. “Well, to get the whole story, I recommend heading down to the diner or the beauty shop. Mrs. Cartwright and Mrs. Beagle are the collective memory of the whole town. The pieces I know are that the house was built for a wealthy landowner’s mistress in the mid-to-late seventeen hundreds. It was all a great scandal. Everyone knew, but most pretended not to. The rumor is the wall was erected to keep the mistress in rather than others out.” A chill curled up his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“That’s creepy. One of the books Andie recommended talked about a love spell gone wrong. Think maybe the landowner had some black magic to go with his mistress?” Mac shivered and stared past him to the wall.
“Witch legends are about as popular as ghosts in these parts. We use them to scare the kids onto the straight and narrow.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I can’t imagine using a horror story to scare a kid into behaving.”
“No?” He shrugged. “You’ve never covered your feet with the blanket in case the boogeyman reached out to grab you? Or made sure the closet door wasn’t shut because of monsters?” For most of Jock’s childhood, either he or one of their brothers had to check under her bed for monsters every night.
A shiver betrayed the slight shake of her head. “Not on purpose, I don’t think. But if you don’t believe in ghosts, why are you a part of the haunted-town project?”
“It’s commercial—not faith. Besides, people like to be scared. It’s why haunted houses go up around Halloween and horror movies are so popular.”
Tension tightened the lines around her eyes. “So you really don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Not at all,” he said, but he tried to keep his tone light. They’d been having a good conversation; he didn’t want to ruin it. “Ghost stories, witch tales, it’s all a way to explain the dark and our natural, human fear of it. There are no such things as ghosts.”
Mac leaned forward and rested her elbows on her
He checked the railing—solid—before leaning on it. The house, like the woman in front of him, seemed fraught with contradictions.
“So, what other stories about my house do you know?” She crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward on the swing, her expression rapt.
“Just the local lore, really. The Summerfield Curse—if you can call it that. Don’t you know any of the stories about the house?”
“A few. I’m aware of the family side of things and what I read in the books I picked up.” She shrugged. “With the deadline, I haven’t really had time to go through Katherine’s things to learn more about her personally. She was my grandmother’s older sister, one of four sisters. All the girls married but Katherine. I called my mother after the lawyer notified me of the inheritance, and she seemed as surprised as I was that I ended up with the place.”
“Any idea why Katherine would have left Summerfield to a relative she barely knew?”
“No idea. I only met her once.”
She didn’t quite look him in the eye when she said that; instead, her gaze slid past him to the gazebo beyond. It didn’t mean she was lying—but he definitely had the sense that she held something back.
“I have these vague images from a visit here when I was seven,” she continued. “You know, the bland, ordinary, everyone-is-there sort of half-memory of a lot of old people sitting around, and you’re the kid who has to sit on the carpet and hush because the adults are talking.” She hunched her shoulders up. “I feel awful saying that because she gave me this great opportunity. I need to get to know Katherine better. There’s a box of old diaries I’ve left in the kitchen since I moved in that I haven’t gone through yet. It seems a violation of her privacy to read her journals.”
Rubbing a hand against the back of his neck, he stretched. “Well, to get the whole story, I recommend heading down to the diner or the beauty shop. Mrs. Cartwright and Mrs. Beagle are the collective memory of the whole town. The pieces I know are that the house was built for a wealthy landowner’s mistress in the mid-to-late seventeen hundreds. It was all a great scandal. Everyone knew, but most pretended not to. The rumor is the wall was erected to keep the mistress in rather than others out.” A chill curled up his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“That’s creepy. One of the books Andie recommended talked about a love spell gone wrong. Think maybe the landowner had some black magic to go with his mistress?” Mac shivered and stared past him to the wall.
“Witch legends are about as popular as ghosts in these parts. We use them to scare the kids onto the straight and narrow.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I can’t imagine using a horror story to scare a kid into behaving.”
“No?” He shrugged. “You’ve never covered your feet with the blanket in case the boogeyman reached out to grab you? Or made sure the closet door wasn’t shut because of monsters?” For most of Jock’s childhood, either he or one of their brothers had to check under her bed for monsters every night.
A shiver betrayed the slight shake of her head. “Not on purpose, I don’t think. But if you don’t believe in ghosts, why are you a part of the haunted-town project?”
“It’s commercial—not faith. Besides, people like to be scared. It’s why haunted houses go up around Halloween and horror movies are so popular.”
Tension tightened the lines around her eyes. “So you really don’t believe in ghosts?”
“Not at all,” he said, but he tried to keep his tone light. They’d been having a good conversation; he didn’t want to ruin it. “Ghost stories, witch tales, it’s all a way to explain the dark and our natural, human fear of it. There are no such things as ghosts.”
Mac leaned forward and rested her elbows on her
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