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Set in an old abandoned haunted mansion, The Haunting is the terrifying tale of two women stranded there for days, chased by ghosts and a psychotic killer who’s determined to make them his next victim.
For several more minutes we continued making our way down slowly, me stepping down a stair first, then holding onto her hand, letting her lean on me as she followed. But the lower we went, the more tense her expression became. The way her green eyes clouded, the way her lips were tightly compressed and turned down at the corners, I knew something was wrong, but attributed it to the strain of the physical exertion of going down the dangerous steps.
With only three more steps to go down, she stopped me completely. "I’m sensing something besides Mrs. Johnson’s spirit," she urgently whispered in my ear, so low I could barely hear. Her breathing was haggard and laborious.
"There’s another spirit down there, too?"
She shook her head. "The problem is, I don’t think it’s a spirit at all. I mean, yes, Mrs. Johnson’s down there, but I think there’s someone else, too." She licked her lips several times, her eyes wide. "A human."
Oh, dear God! I eased the derringer out of my shoulder bag. "We’re going back," I ordered, putting my hands on her shoulders to turn her back around to face the top of the stairs. "Now!"
Before I knew what was happening, she somehow slipped out of my grip and, with her head held high, shakily went down the remaining steps on her own with an astounding burst of speed. "This is my chance to meet someone I’ve wanted to all my life, Jessica!" she hissed. "I’m not going to miss the opportunity." Keeping her gaze pinned on mine, she took the Glock semiautomatic out of her pants pocket. "I only told you about what I’m sensing so you wouldn’t be taken unaware. Whatever it is, we can fight it together."
Quickly, she rounded the wall, the soft thumping sounds of the soles of her shoes unnaturally loud as she descended further. Boy, she was fast! Worse than a two-year-old spoiled child! And just as stubborn! With great misgivings, I swallowed my fear and reluctantly followed after her.
By the time I turned left at the wall and got down the five remaining steps, Emily was standing in the huge, gray cement room, just ahead of me, her head turning this way and that in the dark, gloomy, cavernous area.
Soundlessly, I shut off my flashlight to keep us from being easy targets. I’d gotten enough of a glimpse to see we were in a huge makeshift bedroom with a small, narrow metal bed which was neatly made and covered with a cheap, dark blue cotton bedspread. A small, pristine white pillow was on the furthest side, indented as if it had been slept on. Close beside the bed was an old-fashioned dressing table with a light blue ruffle and a small bench, the seat covered in the same shade of blue. Scattered around the edges of the circular area were small alcoves holding various appliances. A rusted hot plate sat in one alcove on the floor. An old-fashioned white porcelain bathtub was in another recessed alcove. A small television set was on the cracked green plastic seat of a metal chair in yet another alcove. Two open cabinets full of dishes, with silverware in open containers on the floor were in the largest alcove beside a larger cabinet full of linins and towels. And just beyond that was an expensive looking Chippendale china closet, all it’s shelves filled with what appeared to be priceless crystal glassware.
Off to the other side of the vast area, just beside the wall we’d rounded, was an outdated red and white patterned, oversized cotton curtain strung on rope over an area roughly four feet in length. That, I suspected, had been Mrs. Johnson’s closet. And, I realized as my hair suddenly stood on end, it was an ideal place for a human intruder to hide.
Instinctively I trained my small gun in that direction, trying to silently will Emily to turn around quick, instead of facing the opposite direction. I shivered in the still silence, strongly aware of the sudden temperature dip. But Emily, I realized as my eyes adjusted to the inky blackness, seemed totally unaware of the change. Unlike me, she seemed ca
Ayn Hunt is a Texan whose ghostly obsession has turned into a career of writing Gothics and Mysteries with Gothic elements. With her goal of wanting to be a published writer ever since she can remember, she reads extensively about the marketing and publishing business. In addition to reading, she enjoys taking long walks and listening to an eclectic mix of both Goldie Oldies and light classical jazz.
Book Publisher: Wings e Press
No. of Pages: 206
Paper Weight (lb): 9.0