Read Online The Master by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page A

guilty conscience—but what if he was wrong? Just how destructive might his psyche be?
    Maybe he should leave, turn back, try to drive on. The elevation was dropping. The ice was bound to disappear as the temperature warmed.
    As if hearing this thought, the hail doubled and then redoubled. Thick fog closed in around the car, shutting out the moonlight in a thick white curtain. The hair rose on the nape of Nick’s neck.
    â€œDamn it. How can there be fog up here in the mountains, and in a hailstorm? This only happens on the valley floor.”
    Better not try to go on. It’s too dangerous with this mist.
    He didn’t like to agree with the ghost, but it was right. One would have to have a real death wish to go on in this weather.
    Nick fumbled for his cell phone, praying he could get a signal. His sister wouldn’t like it, but he was going to be late for his first Christmas visit in several years. Probably very late.
    â€œI should make
you
explain this to my sister.”
    I would if I could. Come on. Cheer up, Nick. You didn’t want to go there, anyway. This will be way more fun. We’re going to have an adventure.
    â€œQuiet now. I’m on the phone.”
    Adventure? Nick disliked that idea only slightly less than he did Christmas.

Chapter Four
    True to the ghost’s prediction, a dilapidated cabin appeared at once, rather like those witches’ cottages in the grislier fairy tales where someone got eaten or shoved into an oven. Of course, though this old cabin looked almost magical with the light of a hearth fire flickering on the paned windows and smoke billowing from the crooked chimney pipe, it would not contain any such wonderful or horrible things that those gruesome children’s stories provided. Or so Nick hoped.
    He parked his car under a thick stand of trees and turned off the engine. Looking about carefully before dousing his headlights, he found no sign of a garage or another automobile. And yet, plainly someone was at home. Fires didn’t light themselves—not indoors.
    Except in fairy tales,
said the grinning old ghost looking back at him from the reflection in the Jag’s window. The image was exceptionally strong now that the headlights were doused.
    â€œIt could be cross-country skiers.”
    I don’t think so.
    With a muttered curse, Nick unbuckled his seat belt and threw open his door. He stepped out into ankle-deep slush. Not having expected to meet with rough weather, he was wearing loafers with light socks; both were soaked within two steps. His lightweight coat and shirt were also promptly drenched when a wet accumulation of snow slipped off the pine branches and landed in his open collar. Hail plonked him on the head. He could swear that the wind was laughing.
    Feeling very put upon, Nick hurried toward the cabin door, dodging hail and hoping he wouldn’t startle the occupants if they were settled in for the night—or for the winter. He was also hoping that they weren’t the sort who had their own moonshine still that they protected with heirloom shotguns, though the state of the property didn’t leave him feeling terribly hopeful of finding anything else.
    He needn’t have worried about disturbing anyone. As advanced as the hour was, the occupants were apparently awake and had heard his arrival. Three small white faces took a hurried look at him through a frosted window and then the front door was opened, spilling more orange light onto the wet snow.
    â€œCome in—quickly!” said the loveliest voice Nick had ever heard, and an angel stepped into the doorway. She gestured urgently as she looked at the sky. “The storm is about to—”
    He didn’t hear the rest. A bright bolt of eye-searing lightning, followed almost immediately by a huge clap of thunder, drowned out her words. The world turned a funny shade of neon green, and then a million invisible ants boiled over Nick’s skin and warned him