I tried to decide if he was still trying to pull one over on me. I mean, we were talking about ghosts, things that went bump in the night, things that I was afraid of as a kid. But that sort of stuff was exactly that—kids’ stuff. None of it was real. “So you’re telling me you believe in ghosts?”
He shrugged again but seemed a bit ill at ease with the conversation, almost like he wasn’t sure what he believed, or maybe he felt uncomfortable admitting it. “Let’s just say I don’t disbelieve.”
For a few moments, I quietly started to consider whether or not I’d simply been visited by someone from the beyond. In lots of ways, having a ghost made sense—well, if ghosts actually existed. I faced Ryan again and sighed, not liking where the conversation was headed or that I was about to recite some facts that might support his observation, but I couldn’t help it. “I’m not saying I agree or believe in anything we’re talking about right now, but just in support of your argument, even though I am definitely, one hundred percent, not convinced…”
“I get it, Peyton,” Ryan said with the hint of a smile.
“Right before I heard the footsteps, the temperature in the room became arctic.” I shivered, remembering how cold it was. “It got so cold in that room, I could see my breath.”
Ryan nodded but didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “Sounds pretty haunted to me.”
I was quiet for a few seconds as I reconsidered it. Wasn’t that what all those ghost encounter shows touted? That spiritual manifestations caused the temperature in the room to freeze? I threw my hands in the air and shook my head, immediately forcing the ridiculous notion right out. “Oh my God, this is completely crazy! We’re trying to convince ourselves that my house is haunted!”
Ryan didn’t seem fazed though. He simply continued studying me before he shrugged. “Well, last I heard, burglars can’t magically control the indoor climate and drop the temperature until you see your own breath.”
I frowned and then sighed. “Maybe it was just a cold wind. This is an old house and, no doubt, drafty…”
“A cold wind?” Ryan repeated, with a raised brow expression that said he wasn’t buying whatever I was hawking.
“Yes, it could have been a breeze.”
“That blew into the guest room, when no windows or doors were open in your entire house, and the place doesn’t have air conditionin’?” Ryan interrupted, this time raising his other brow.
I frowned because I didn’t have any rebuttal. He was right. There was no reason for the temperature to plunge so low, much less so quickly.
“If it looks like a ghost, smells like a ghost, sounds like a ghost,” Ryan started. He had that dimpled, winning smile on his mouth, making him look like a thirteen-year-old boy after stealing a kiss.
“One other point that I did find interesting…” I interrupted, consciously ignoring his dimples, as well as the idea of kissing him.
“Yes?”
I cleared my throat, momentarily forgetting what I was about to say. “Um,” I started, shaking my head as I ordered my mind to get back into gear. Luckily, my previous thought reentered my head, sparing me from looking even more stupid than I already did. “I never heard footsteps going up the stairs in the first place. It was like they just materialized in the master bedroom, directly above me.”
“Maybe that’s where your haunt spent his last moments of life?” Ryan asked in a level tone, like he wasn’t surprised in the least that my house might be haunted, but rather, like he was already convinced it was.
I stared at him with a vacuous expression for the span of a few seconds before shaking my head. “This is absurd, Ryan! We’re talking about a haunted house! We’re actually considering that everything that just happened was because of a ghost?”
“Haven’t we already established that?”
“No!” I shook my head, still trying to wrap it around the idea that the footsteps belonged to someone deceased, someone ethereal, someone ectoplasmic. “But…but you called the cops, Ryan! You don’t call the cops on a ghost!”
He shrugged, seemingly nonplussed by the conversation. His expression revealed so little surprise, we might as well have been talking about the weather. “I didn’t realize it was as simple as a hauntin’ when I called the police,” he replied. “But, now, I’d say your problem isn’t an intruder, but rather a specter.”
“I’m not there yet,” I admitted. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
Ryan grinned. “Then, honey, it’s probably about time you started!”
Sitting in my bed at the Omni hotel, I tried to persuade myself to sleep. It was now one a.m. and despite my exhaustion, my mind continued racing. Thoughts about my house beleaguered me—specifically, whether or not it was haunted. Had I encountered something not of this earth? And if so, how could I tell said ghost to leave? Should I host a séance? Get a priest to bless or cleanse the place? And more importantly, how in the world did one go about doing either of those things? It wasn’t as though they taught Séances 101 in school, or like you could buy an exorcism kit from Target. Lastly, I didn’t know the first thing about contacting, let alone evicting, the dead!
My mind wasn’t only centered on the idea that I was now roomies with the dead. My thoughts alternated back and forth between ghosts and Ryan. I kept wondering if I should have taken him up on his offer to stay in his house. Passionate, erotic sex was probably the best antidote to getting one’s mind off the idea that her house could very well be haunted. Of course, who was I really kidding? It’s not as though sex was sitting on the table between Ryan and me.
That, my dear, is called wishful thinking, I said to myself.
Whatever it’s called, go to sleep! I barked back angrily.
Feeling slightly offended, I closed my eyes and tried to count sheep; but once I got to fifty, I figured it wasn’t working. Allowing my mind to travel where it would actually ended up being a good thing because, before I knew it, I woke up only momentarily to roll over and change position before I fell asleep again.
I was in the master bedroom of my house. Even though there wasn’t a doubt in my mind where I was, the room looked completely different. My attention was first drawn to the dark walnut floors, which I instantly recognized, only now they were less faded and worn. The richness of the wood grain seemed restored somehow—newer, fresher. My eyes followed the length of the floor to where it met the wall. Then my gaze shifted up to three floor-to-ceiling windows. I knew the view outside these windows well—a sprawling green and white mansion on Eighth Street. Except when I glanced outside the window now, my neighbor’s house was blue and white, and the oak trees surrounding the house were much smaller.
I shook my head, finding it hard to figure out how or why everything appeared so different. Then my attention fell on the heavy, navy-blue curtains beside the row of windows. They corresponded nicely with the charcoal-gray walls. But the walls in this room were covered in old ivy wallpaper. And where did the navy-blue curtains come from?
“We meet at last, ma minette.”
I twirled around so quickly, I felt dizzy. Or perhaps the faintness was caused by the increased blood flow to my heart, which suddenly pounded apace.
“Y-you!” I said, hardly recognizing my own voice as extreme shock grasped my brain and wouldn’t let go. I didn’t know why or how, but I recognized the man instantly. It was his intense eyes, which I now realized were dark chocolate. A slight smile made his sculpted cheekbones more pronounced. His nose was just as chiseled as his square jaw, and his tanned olive complexion revealed an affinity for the sun. Staring at the physical embodiment of the policeman I’d seen in the newspaper clippings lining the guest bedroom downstairs, it suddenly occurred to me that his hair was just as dark as the walnut floors.