together. She was sure of it.
“You’re right,” she said. “Nothing weird has happened. It must have been my imagina—”
The sound of floorboards creaking overhead as if someone were running down the hallway interrupted what Maggie had been about to say.
She glanced at Sam, who was frowning.
“Wind?” Maggie asked. Her voice was just above a whisper.
“Maybe,” Sam said. His voice sounded grim.
A door slammed. The creaking floorboards sounded again. A soft moan broke through the quiet, making Maggie’s skin prickle. The lights went out.
“Or maybe not,” Sam said.
Chapter 7
Maggie shivered. The only light in the room came from the candles they had lit in the fireplace. As if sensing her upset, Marshall Dillon left his cocoon in the sleeping bag and jumped into her lap.
Sam went over to the light switch on the wall. He flicked the switch. Nothing happened.
He crossed over to his bag on the floor and rifled through it until he pulled out a flashlight. He switched it on and the beam illuminated the dark corner of the room.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Do you even know me?” she asked.
In the candlelight, she saw him grin.
“Yeah, what was I thinking?” he asked. “Come on.”
Maggie tucked Marshall Dillon under the crook ofher arm and followed Sam. Instead of going upstairs, however, he headed for the door that led to the basement.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She balked. “The noise came from upstairs.”
“Yes, but the fuse box, where we control the electricity, is downstairs,” he said. “I’m sure the wind just tripped a circuit breaker or maybe we blew a fuse. Either way, wouldn’t you rather investigate upstairs with the lights on?”
“Good point,” she said. “Lead the way.”
The basement was unfinished. They had toured it in daylight, and Maggie remembered the dank smell and rough floor. It had been empty except for the oil furnace, a shelf of old empty canning jars and a collection of rusty tools that were now relics more than anything else.
Sam led the way. The wooden steps groaned beneath his feet and it made Maggie wonder how a ghost, who would conceivably weigh nothing, could make a floor creak. Did that mean there was a person in the house with them? Maybe someone didn’t want them to buy the house and was trying to spook them out. This didn’t make her feel much better than the idea of a ghost being in the house, but at least if it was a person, Sam could arrest them.
The thought of someone terrorizing them made Maggie mad. If someone else wanted the house, they should have bought it and not tried to scare the snot out of people, namely her.
Marshall Dillon wriggled in her arms as she followed Sam down the steps. With a yowl, he sprang from her grasp and bolted back up the steps into the house.
“Marshall Dillon!” she cried.
Sam turned on the steps and shone the flashlight after the cat.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Marshall refused to go into the basement,” Maggie said. “I think he’s headed back to his sleeping bag.”
“He’ll be all right,” Sam said.
“Do you think he senses a presence?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Sam said. His tone was dry. “I’m betting he sensed a draft and decided his sleeping bag was much more comfortable.”
As if to emphasize Sam’s words, a chill wind blew through the basement and Maggie shivered.
“Come on, I’ll need you to hold the flashlight for me.” Sam put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the far end of the basement.
He handed the flashlight to Maggie and she shined the beam at the rectangular gray metal box. Sam flipped it open and began to study the switches. Maggie had been on her own long enough to know what all the black levers meant. Still, she preferred to call an electrician when she had issues since she had a healthy fear of electrocuting herself.
“Huh,” Sam muttered as he examined the box.
Maggie shifted from foot to foot. She glanced over her shoulder. Was something
“You’re right,” she said. “Nothing weird has happened. It must have been my imagina—”
The sound of floorboards creaking overhead as if someone were running down the hallway interrupted what Maggie had been about to say.
She glanced at Sam, who was frowning.
“Wind?” Maggie asked. Her voice was just above a whisper.
“Maybe,” Sam said. His voice sounded grim.
A door slammed. The creaking floorboards sounded again. A soft moan broke through the quiet, making Maggie’s skin prickle. The lights went out.
“Or maybe not,” Sam said.
Chapter 7
Maggie shivered. The only light in the room came from the candles they had lit in the fireplace. As if sensing her upset, Marshall Dillon left his cocoon in the sleeping bag and jumped into her lap.
Sam went over to the light switch on the wall. He flicked the switch. Nothing happened.
He crossed over to his bag on the floor and rifled through it until he pulled out a flashlight. He switched it on and the beam illuminated the dark corner of the room.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Do you even know me?” she asked.
In the candlelight, she saw him grin.
“Yeah, what was I thinking?” he asked. “Come on.”
Maggie tucked Marshall Dillon under the crook ofher arm and followed Sam. Instead of going upstairs, however, he headed for the door that led to the basement.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” She balked. “The noise came from upstairs.”
“Yes, but the fuse box, where we control the electricity, is downstairs,” he said. “I’m sure the wind just tripped a circuit breaker or maybe we blew a fuse. Either way, wouldn’t you rather investigate upstairs with the lights on?”
“Good point,” she said. “Lead the way.”
The basement was unfinished. They had toured it in daylight, and Maggie remembered the dank smell and rough floor. It had been empty except for the oil furnace, a shelf of old empty canning jars and a collection of rusty tools that were now relics more than anything else.
Sam led the way. The wooden steps groaned beneath his feet and it made Maggie wonder how a ghost, who would conceivably weigh nothing, could make a floor creak. Did that mean there was a person in the house with them? Maybe someone didn’t want them to buy the house and was trying to spook them out. This didn’t make her feel much better than the idea of a ghost being in the house, but at least if it was a person, Sam could arrest them.
The thought of someone terrorizing them made Maggie mad. If someone else wanted the house, they should have bought it and not tried to scare the snot out of people, namely her.
Marshall Dillon wriggled in her arms as she followed Sam down the steps. With a yowl, he sprang from her grasp and bolted back up the steps into the house.
“Marshall Dillon!” she cried.
Sam turned on the steps and shone the flashlight after the cat.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Marshall refused to go into the basement,” Maggie said. “I think he’s headed back to his sleeping bag.”
“He’ll be all right,” Sam said.
“Do you think he senses a presence?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Sam said. His tone was dry. “I’m betting he sensed a draft and decided his sleeping bag was much more comfortable.”
As if to emphasize Sam’s words, a chill wind blew through the basement and Maggie shivered.
“Come on, I’ll need you to hold the flashlight for me.” Sam put his arm around her shoulders and led her to the far end of the basement.
He handed the flashlight to Maggie and she shined the beam at the rectangular gray metal box. Sam flipped it open and began to study the switches. Maggie had been on her own long enough to know what all the black levers meant. Still, she preferred to call an electrician when she had issues since she had a healthy fear of electrocuting herself.
“Huh,” Sam muttered as he examined the box.
Maggie shifted from foot to foot. She glanced over her shoulder. Was something
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