unsettled the creature. The dog cringed away from her, whining more loudly.
“You must have been the runt of your litter,” Serena said, using both hands now to pet and scratch as the dog tried to scoot away from her ministrations.
“Awooo-woo-woo!” Otto howled in distress, and tried to squeeze himself under Woding’s couch, bumping the man half out of his seat. Serena drifted into insubstantiality and went to lean against the parapet and enjoy the show.
“Otto! Good Lord, boy, what is it?”
“Woo woo wooooo!”
Woding got out of his chair and crouched down beside it, peering at Otto. “Here, now, what’s frightened you?”
“I have heard, sir,” Underhill said with a touch of diffidence, “that dogs are especially sensitive to…”
Woding stuck his head farther under the couch, making soothing sounds. “Yes, Underhill?” came his voice. “Sensitive to what?”
“To the presence of ghosts, sir.”
Woding was silent for a long moment, and then he slowly came out from under the chair, the sounds of Otto’s whimpering unabated. “Is that what you think made the noise in my bedroom, rather than, say, a particularly vivid dream?”
“I do not know,” Underhill said, now sounding almost embarrassed. “When I opened your door, I felt a terrible sensation of cold, such as I have heard described by those who have been in the presence of spirits. When I checked the room after finding a light, the covers and pillows on your bed had been slightly disturbed. They were neatly made when I checked before retiring, sir.”
Woding stood, still looking at the chair where his dog cowered. “If there is a ghost, then judging by Otto’s behavior I would say it has followed you.”
“Sir?” Underhill said, his voice cracking. Serena clapped her hands in delight.
“I find it much more reasonable, however,” Woding said, turning to look at Underhill, “to assume that the noise you heard was no more than the settling sounds of an unfamiliar house, distorted perhaps by sleep. Otto, for his part, has obviously been having a hard time adjusting to his new home, but I expect he should calm down in a few weeks’ time.”
“But the covers…”
“Otto likely made himself comfortable for a few minutes, when I went to fetch a heavier coat.”
“And the cold, sir?” Underhill asked, his voice filled with mingled doubt and hope.
“You had just arisen from your warm bed. Naturally my room felt cold in contrast.”
Serena made a moue, not at all pleased. She did not like having her efforts reasoned away.
“Of course.” Underhill all but sighed the words. “I apologize for being so foolish, sir. I should not have listened to the stories going around, or at least should not have allowed them to affect my imagination.”
“Stories? What stories?”
“Various, sir. Some of the men we hired from the village have said that the Briggs family moved out because of a ghost, and they relate the legend of a woman by the name of Serena, who went mad and killed her husband on their wedding night.”
“Liars!” Serena screeched, coming away from the wall. How she hated that story! She kicked the table leg with her insubstantial foot, producing no effect on the motionless table. She kicked it again.
Woding pressed his fingertips to the table, as if to keep it still, and turned toward her.
Serena stopped, looking carefully at his face, feeling anxiety rise up in her. He seemed to sense she was there, in a way that went beyond the fleshly chill she caused in many people. She kicked the table leg again. He blinked; then his eyes narrowed.
This was not good. She didn’t want him knowing she was nearby except when she decided he should know. Her invisibility was one of her greatest weapons, and he was showing signs he might be able to take it away.
“That story has been around for years, no doubt getting more gruesome with each telling,” Woding said. “My cousin tried to scare me with it when we were children,
“You must have been the runt of your litter,” Serena said, using both hands now to pet and scratch as the dog tried to scoot away from her ministrations.
“Awooo-woo-woo!” Otto howled in distress, and tried to squeeze himself under Woding’s couch, bumping the man half out of his seat. Serena drifted into insubstantiality and went to lean against the parapet and enjoy the show.
“Otto! Good Lord, boy, what is it?”
“Woo woo wooooo!”
Woding got out of his chair and crouched down beside it, peering at Otto. “Here, now, what’s frightened you?”
“I have heard, sir,” Underhill said with a touch of diffidence, “that dogs are especially sensitive to…”
Woding stuck his head farther under the couch, making soothing sounds. “Yes, Underhill?” came his voice. “Sensitive to what?”
“To the presence of ghosts, sir.”
Woding was silent for a long moment, and then he slowly came out from under the chair, the sounds of Otto’s whimpering unabated. “Is that what you think made the noise in my bedroom, rather than, say, a particularly vivid dream?”
“I do not know,” Underhill said, now sounding almost embarrassed. “When I opened your door, I felt a terrible sensation of cold, such as I have heard described by those who have been in the presence of spirits. When I checked the room after finding a light, the covers and pillows on your bed had been slightly disturbed. They were neatly made when I checked before retiring, sir.”
Woding stood, still looking at the chair where his dog cowered. “If there is a ghost, then judging by Otto’s behavior I would say it has followed you.”
“Sir?” Underhill said, his voice cracking. Serena clapped her hands in delight.
“I find it much more reasonable, however,” Woding said, turning to look at Underhill, “to assume that the noise you heard was no more than the settling sounds of an unfamiliar house, distorted perhaps by sleep. Otto, for his part, has obviously been having a hard time adjusting to his new home, but I expect he should calm down in a few weeks’ time.”
“But the covers…”
“Otto likely made himself comfortable for a few minutes, when I went to fetch a heavier coat.”
“And the cold, sir?” Underhill asked, his voice filled with mingled doubt and hope.
“You had just arisen from your warm bed. Naturally my room felt cold in contrast.”
Serena made a moue, not at all pleased. She did not like having her efforts reasoned away.
“Of course.” Underhill all but sighed the words. “I apologize for being so foolish, sir. I should not have listened to the stories going around, or at least should not have allowed them to affect my imagination.”
“Stories? What stories?”
“Various, sir. Some of the men we hired from the village have said that the Briggs family moved out because of a ghost, and they relate the legend of a woman by the name of Serena, who went mad and killed her husband on their wedding night.”
“Liars!” Serena screeched, coming away from the wall. How she hated that story! She kicked the table leg with her insubstantial foot, producing no effect on the motionless table. She kicked it again.
Woding pressed his fingertips to the table, as if to keep it still, and turned toward her.
Serena stopped, looking carefully at his face, feeling anxiety rise up in her. He seemed to sense she was there, in a way that went beyond the fleshly chill she caused in many people. She kicked the table leg again. He blinked; then his eyes narrowed.
This was not good. She didn’t want him knowing she was nearby except when she decided he should know. Her invisibility was one of her greatest weapons, and he was showing signs he might be able to take it away.
“That story has been around for years, no doubt getting more gruesome with each telling,” Woding said. “My cousin tried to scare me with it when we were children,
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