I posted this on my blog yesterday, and my son's girlfriend said it scared her.  Well, the weird happenings at my new house scared me.  I was beginning to wonder if I'd gone crazy or if I believed in ghosts...

            It began three nights ago.   Since then, I have felt the shivery feeling of someone watching me, day and night.
            That first night, I was standing in the bathroom getting ready for bed.  There came a loud thunk like a body dropping in the attic.  That was the beginning of three days of being frightened of the dark, which I never was before.

The episodes occurred at night.   The second night, I was awakened by lights flashing in the living room.  I leapt from bed, ran into the room bordering my bedroom and skidded to a halt.  The hair at my nape prickled.  The lights in the entertainment unit were blinking on and off.   I knew there was a short in the system that required a new power box.  I fumbled behind the unit, unplugged the wrong box (the modem for my Uverse services) and finally found the right one.  I turned to go back to bed.

The tall metal sculpture, each branch like a tall flower, started ringing as the pieces quivered.  Another eerie shiver crawled over me.   My cat Spencer could possibly have skidded on the wooden floor and crashed into the sculpture but he sat several feet away, staring at the vibrating limbs.  The thing shook until I placed my hand on it to quiet the awful noise.  Totally creeped out, I returned to bed but slept fitfully, waking early with the unwanted feeling of being watched.

Last night after I came home from having Buffalo wings with friends at a bar, I was reluctant to come in the house.   I only moved into this house on September 9^th, living here for a little over a month.  When I first moved in, I didn’t feel this way.  I loved my new house.  During washing my face and brushing my teeth, I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone was behind me.   No one, of course.  Or at least no one in human form.

Exhausted from several sleepless nights, I fell into a deep sleep immediately.  Later in the night, I heard strains of music in the living room when there should have been only silence.  Frightened now, I stayed in bed, calling my cat when he began to meow like a soft cry.

Today, I drove about 50 miles round trip to Whole Foods to buy a white sage smudge stick.  Being part Cherokee, my first thought was white sage.  I saged the entire house, chanting, Leave, you are not welcome here.  I was going to say that I don’t feel shivery or watched, but as I typed it, the feeling came back.   We’ll see what tonight brings.  Peace I hope.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

The spirits played rough with this post, so I'll apologize for weirdness in the spacing, font size, etc. By the time I get it up on the blog, I will have gone through at least a dozen different "fixes" to make it work! Hang in for some great stories today.

Before we get started, I have to ask...Have you got your candy ready for the little ghosts and goblins?...or did you have to sample it all to "make sure it was still fit to give out?"



We NEVER have Trick-or-Treaters. I miss seeing all the kids in costumes. Going out to Trick or Treat through the neighborhood is a good childhood memory for me.

Well, it's time for part two of my ghost stories. The ones for today are really good. I hope you enjoy them...and maybe get a little thrill.

First up is Shada Royce

My daughter see's dead people...

Ok, maybe not literally, but she says enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. My daughter, Madison, just turned three years old this July. She’s everything a mother could ever want in a daughter - loving, smart, and beautiful (I’m not biased, really). But when I say ‘smart’ I’m not talking about the ability to read and do math. My child can talk with the best of any thirteen year old at a slumber party. That’s right; I was blessed with a storyteller.

Now her teachers say she’s ‘special’, which to me translates to ‘we can’t shut her up, she talks all through nap time’. My mom, her MeMe, tells me she’s gifted, which I am sure is grandma talk for ‘she’s a jabber mouth’. And my friends say things like “Oh, she just cracks us up with what she says.” Yes, she does do that. Most of the time I have no idea where she gets her mind wonderings from, such as her latest tale about an alligator, a unicorn, and an ogre. Mixing fairytales I suppose.

Now at this point you are wondering why I say my child sees dead people. Well, ever since she could walk and talk she has REFUSED to go into our guest room. She says “There is a mean witch in there”. Madison tells us where the mean witch is sitting in the room, about how the mean witch throws sheets over her head at night, about how she stares at her from the curtains in her window. She is very adamant about ‘the mean witch’, to which we refer to as our first resident ghost.

That’s right, I said our first ghost. Although the mean witch is a great story to tell, I have one much more heart-warming I’d like to share.

Let me stop here and talk about my belief in afterlife. I do believe that sometimes our souls get trapped on earth, that we wonder around places or people we loved, longing for just another glimpse. I think the deceased miss us just as much as we miss them, and why wouldn’t they?

My grandfather, Charles William Johnston, my mom's dad, was a fantastic grandfather. He was my hero and I think about him every week. He was a great bear of a man with a huge booming laugh and laughing eyes. He wore cowboy boots until the day he died (actually think he was buried in them), a western string tie, and a button up dress shirt. He could two-step with the best of them and he hunted or fished just about every day he could. He also always carried a buckeye (for good luck) and a pocket knife everywhere he went. Also a retired master drill sergeant from the US Air Force, he never went into ‘drill sergeant’ mode with his grandkids. We always made him laugh, and he did the same. He was big on practical jokes, my favorite being the one where he’d hide a plastic spider in the Yahtzee cup because he knew I’d find it when we played. Some might think this was mean, but his great, boisterous laugh always took the fright out of any practical joke.

My story starts many years ago, a few weeks after my much loved PawPaw passed away. I remember huddling under my blankets one night, afraid to stick my head above the covers. I always felt safe with my grandfather so I remember saying out loud, “PawPaw, if you are near, I’m scared.” I don’t think I felt any sudden sense of peace or anything, but I did eventually fall asleep. The next morning, while dressing for school, I found the words “PawPaw” etched into the wooden door frame of my closet. I never had trouble falling asleep after that because I always knew he’d be near.

Now fast forward to a few weeks ago. My daughter, the storyteller and future Hollywood actress (I kid you not), was in my room drinking milk from a straw while I got ready to take us shopping. I was putting on my make-up and she was sitting on her little stool in my bedroom 'admiring' herself in the full length mirror on my closet door. She's batting her lashes; talking in the mirror, etc. (Did I mention she just turned three). Well, she starts blowing bubbles in her milk, which is fine since the cup has a lid, but all of the sudden she spits the milk bubbles in the floor.

I run and get a towel, screaming “Madison! Why did you do that?”

She looks at me kind of funny and says, “That man told me to spit it out.” She points toward her stool.

“What man?” I ask, looking over at the stool where she was just sitting.

She says "That man who I was sitting with. Charlie."

I'm sure at this point I had the "dumb-struck" look, mouth agape, mind reeling. All I could think about was my grandfather and the possibility that he was with my daughter, protecting her. I finally managed, "Who are you talking about?" just to clarify.

My daughter looks back at the stool and points again. “That man. Charlie.” She says.

“Why did he tell you to spit out your milk?” I asked, thinking maybe I gave her bad milk or something and my grandfather was really looking out for her.

She says, “He said there were bubbles in there and that I should spit it out and make you get me more milk."

I was floored. A joke, my three-year old daughter had just spit out milk because she’d blown bubbles in it. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry, so I cleaned up the rest of the milk and immediately called my mom and told her the story. She starts laughing as I finish and says "That is exactly something my dad would do to you. You know how he loved practical jokes."

Now to clarify, my daughter has seen maybe one picture of my grandfather and she has never met him, considering he passed away close to 12 year ago. And even if she’d seen more than one picture, where would she come up with the name like Charlie after I just yelled at her for spitting out milk? She’s three!

Needless to say, I’m convinced. My grandfather, always so protective of me, has moved on to his great-granddaughter, teaching her all the practical jokes and laughing ways that he taught me all those years ago. And all I can say is I’m grateful he decided to hang around.

I have slept in this room (I think it was this room) at Shada's house. No grandpa. No rocking chair. Of course, my deep sleep could have been related to Peach Bellinis! Thanks Shada.

The next story comes from Rita Scott, one of my buddies from another blog.

The entity where I'm living now, her name is Leona. After I moved in, I would smell things cooking, even if I hadn't even eaten anything here in a week, much less cooked! I would find the back porch door open in the morning, when I knew I had locked both the storm & inside door the night before. I started asking the neighbors questions and found out Leona was always cooking something and went out to tend her flowers early every spring & summer morning. She never had children but was 'grandma' to all the neighborhood kids. She died in this house when in her 70's. She gives a very peaceful feeling.
It's a different story when my brothers and husband are around! The lights blink on & off,in sequence! And the aroma of pot is in the air! (some things don't change! LOL)

I LOVED this story when you told me this in August. I knew right then that I want to share it! Thanks Rita.

Another blog buddy, Becky Hutchison volunteered this story:

I'm a believer. I've taken photos of the undercroft at the church in Baltimore where Edgar Allan Poe is buried, and some strange things appeared on the pictures..more than just orbs. I also have some eerie photos I took at Fort McHenry (also in Baltimore). While there, the guide of the ghost hunter group I was with set up an audio device in the officers' quarters. We all left but made sure no one went in the building. When we went back and played the audio, we could hear cannon fire and men talking...very weird!

I've had someone talk in my ear, and I've had strange things happen in my house. My dining room hutch has a locked section that holds my mom's china. A few years ago, two Fridays in a row, I left for work with all doors to the house closed and locked. When I came home, the doors to the locked portion of the cabinet were wide open. Both times I fiddled with the lock to make sure nothing was wrong and stamped on the floor to see if it would dislodge the doors. Everything was okay.

Just last week I took my laptop computer down to the kitchen, along with its headset, wireless mouse and power cord. I walked out of the room for something, and when I came back the headset was missing. I went upstairs to double-check if I left it in my bedroom, but I didn't see it anywhere. I checked downstairs again...nothing. I went back upstairs and noticed a lump under my bedcovers...that HADN'T been there when I made the bed. I pulled back the sheets and saw my headset! I was surprised to say the least!!

I do believe you have a poltergeist living with you!

And finally, a touching story from a good friend, Teresa Reasor
My grandfather passed away when I was 10 after a prolonged battle with lung cancer. My grandmother was by herself at the house about 4 weeks after his death. She'd laid down to rest and dosed off. She woke to the feeling that someone was lying beside her in bed holding her hand. She said she lay there for about 10 minutes waiting for the sensation to go away but it didn't. She got up and went into the kitchen. About that time we (my mother, brother, and I) pulled up in the car. The front door openned and closed on it's own, like someone was stepping out of the house to greet us. Then a minute later we I came in.

I would sometimes wake to the same sensation after that. And I always knew it was my grandfather just holding my hand to let me know he was there.

I was home by myself with all the televisions and stuff around the house turned off so i could have some quiet time. My father had just passed away and I had really had a hard time with it.I still am. I was reading a book and just trying to relax. Daddy always called me doll. He'd always say, "Where you goin', Doll or What you been doing, Doll? In fact in the hospital the last words he spoke to me were to ask where I was going. My grandmother was ill with bladder cancer and I was going across the street to her house to check on her. He said, " Where you goin', Doll?" And I told him I'd be back in a few minutes. He was never able to speak after that.

Anyway, while sitting in a completely empty house, I distinctly heard my father say, "What's wrong, Doll?" And sat there for the longest time just waiting for him to say something else, but he didn't. I just said, "I miss you, Daddy?"

Now that you've read all these ghost stories, see how steady your hand is with this little maze. Can you keep the dot between the lines and make it to level 4? Thanks to the Scarlet Pumpernickle for the link.

Click here

I hope everyone had a good time yesterday and today. And to my new blog buddies...I'm so glad to be here!

Until Next Time here or visit me on either of my other sites

Cyndi
http://cynthiadalba.com/ or Cynderella's Castle

Hello Pink Fuzzy Slipper Writer Blog Readers! I'm the newbie on the block. I'm Cynthia D'Alba, sometimes known around the blog (and the internet) as Arkansas Cyndi. As you have figured out by now, I live in Arkansas. I won't fill up the blog with all my personal bio, but please visit my website (http://cynthiadalba.com). I have some wonderful pictures.

For my first blog post here, I grabbed the Halloween dates. I'll be here today and tomorrow sharing ghost and scary stories. Hopefully some of the backbloggers can add some of their own stories. I've heard from the regulars that this is one of our backbloggers. Wonder if he'll visit today? I asked friends and collegues to some good scary stories to get us all in the mood for Halloween and they came through! Hope you enjoy their stories.

The first story is from Keri Ford:

The other night I was alone with the baby because my hubby was having to work all night long. I did all the window and door lock checking and took my boy to bed. I thought I saw lights flash on the house (note, I live in the middle of nowhere, so if I see lights, someone's coming to my house), but when I peeked outside, nothing. Thought it must have been my parents getting home (they live a little past me). I put my little boy to bed like normal and was getting geared up for a late night writting session. I crossed back through the house and went in the bedroom and found a man standing in there! I shreiked and then cursed my husband for not calling to tell me he got off work!

I have so been in Keri's shoes! When I'm writing and am totally "into my scene" and he walks into the room, I'll scream! And I'm not writing scary stuff.


The next story comes from jj Keller:

My first encounter with a ghost/vision happened a little over three years ago. Brad, my son barely out of his teens, had been diagnosed with a cancer which attacks young people, Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I had gotten to the point where I was working one-way deals with an entity beyond. Any super-being which had the ability to grant life and health I tried to reach.

Each time my son had chemo he had to be watched to make sure a temperature didn’t spike for the next 24 hours. I didn’t sleep. I don’t recall sleeping until my body on its own accord fell onto the bed, and then my mind continued to work.

At a space of time between the dark of night and early dawn I glanced at the paisley overstuffed chair beside my bed and I saw him. An instant calm overwhelmed me, and when he spoke in a softly melodic Scottish voice I experienced love. He only said a few words and I didn’t even center on them as I evaluated each piece of his body as it came into focus. He was gorgeous, light brown hair pulled back and tied with a band. A white flowing shirt like Seinfeld wore on his comedy show. Black tights highlighting strong well-defined thighs and boots cupping his knees.

He narrowed his blue eyes, a tick appeared on his jawline, and he disappeared.

I used my non-sleep time and wrote about my ghost/vision/guardian and titled it The Watcher.

I would not have been as calm as jj apparently was!

The next story comes from Judith Gilbert:

Do Ghosts Really Exist?

If someone had asked me that question before the age of ten, I would have laughed and said, "No."

What happened to make me a firm believer?

My fifty-three-year-old grandfather loved me more than anything in this world. My grandmother always described me as 'his heart". She often went to her kids' houses and babysat her grandchildren overnight, while her kids worked nightshifts.

If my grandmother had been home that particular night, she would have met the same fate as my grandfather.

He died in the hospital from injuries suffered when their home in Columbus, GA. exploded about 2:00 AM. A gas jet had been accidentally turned on and the concrete block house blew up after he walked into it, shut the door and struck a match to light a cigarette. A nine-inch-thick wall was buckled by the force of the blast. He suffered first, second and third degree burns over 85 percent of his body. The entire time he lay dying in the hospital, he asked for me. Because of my age and the nature of his injuries, I wasn't allowed to see him.

One night, the same day he was buried, I was trying to get my mind off everything. I was watching TV, completely alone, when I felt a hand on my right shoulder. The hand was firm, solid and large. I screamed and dove to the floor, hoping to escape whoever had ahold of my shoulder.

While I crouched there, I glanced up and recognized the person as my grandfather. He wasn't burned as they'd told me, but looked perfectly healthy.

Well, if you think I was glad to see him, think again. I was terrified.

He tried to speak, but I kept shaking my head and saying, "Go away. You can't be here. You're dead. They buried you today. You have to go to heaven." I even prayed for God to take him to heaven now.

My grandfather never said a word. He smiled, rose upwards and disappeared into the ceiling.

Since that experience, I've seen other ghosts, often when I least expect them, but, even though my grandmother and mother saw my grandfather a lot after he died, I never saw him again.

I wish I could say I'm receptive to ghosts, but I've never been able to shake that first experience as a child, one of utter fear. I know they won't hurt me, I sense that, but when telling them to go away or putting up mental shields to block them doesn't work, I run like hell, which is what I did when we visited the Alamo.

If you have any ideas on how to overcome that fear, I'd like to hear them. Thanks.

Judith writes contemporary romances as Judith Gilbert. Currently out is A PERFECT AFFAIR.

She also has a vampire/witch paranormal series started under J Gilbert. BLOOD HUNT THE LEGEND, the first book in her paranormal series is currently a bestseller for The Wild Rose Press.

Thank you to Keri, jj, and Judith for sharing their stories. Come back tomorrow for more tales sure to get your Halloween off to a scary start.

Until then, share your story with us.

Thanks for visiting. I look forward to hearing from you!

Cyndi
(You can also find me at CynthiaDAlba.com or Cynderella's Castle)

By Beth Trissel

I’ve read that Virginia has more ghost stories than any other state in the Union, not necessarily because we have a more fertile imagination, but sadly because the Old Dominion has seen more bloody battles over the centuries than any other. Think back, Jamestown (1607) was the site of the oldest successful English settlement and its history is a violent one. And on we go to the many heart-rending wars fought with the usurped Indians, a number of them waged on Virginia soil. March on to the Revolution; anyone heard of Yorktown, to name just one famous battle? And let’s not forget that horrific most uncivil of wars, much of it fought in, you guessed it, Virginia.

And yet, this multitude of hauntings doesn’t only feature soldiers caught in an endless fray who haven’t gotten word the war’s over, although there are legions of tales that do and entire companies of ghosts said to battle on. Many tales feature the myriad of people, great and small, who dwelt in our richly historic state. The old Virginia homes and plantations have accumulated a wealth of such stories.

Thus, it was while touring some of these English styled manor homes that I conceived the idea for my paranormal romance, Somewhere My Love. Not from the movie, Somewhere in Time, which I only vaguely remember and then only after prompting. Nay, lay that notion to rest. Added to this meld of vintage Virginia is my own heritage, a vast source of inspiration from my childhood. On my father’s side, I descend from old Southern gentry, now impoverished after the Civil War, Great Depression, and various other misfortunes, including the untimely death of my brilliant grandfather. But the gracious Georgian home his ancestor built, called Chapel Hill (circa 1816) still stands outside the historic town of Staunton.

I was ever determined the family home place was haunted and wove stories through my fevered mind, along with my continual search for Narnia which entailed frequent treks into the old wardrobe. But I digress. The magnificent ancestral portraits in my family and on display in Virginia homes held me transfixed, wondering. And it was just such a portrait of a striking dark-haired gentleman who embedded himself in my thoughts. Who was he? Why did he die so young? That other painting of the fair young lady...did she love him?

Often, the guides at these old homes are brimming with tales. But other times we are left to wonder...and ask ourselves are these folk who’ve gone before us truly gone, or do some still have unfinished business in this realm? And what of the young lovers whose time was tragically cut short, do they somehow find a way? Love conquers all, so I answer ‘yes.’


Somewhere My Love is coming soon to the Wild Rose Press! For more on this and my other works, please visit me at http://www.bethtrissel.com/

SOMEWHERE MY LOVE (Coming soon to the Wild Rose Press!)
By Beth Trissel

CHAPTER ONE
June 2006

“He was Captain Wentworth, but we call him Cole.”

His name sent a shiver pulsing through Julia Morrow like a ripple from the past. Perhaps it was only her awe of Foxleigh, one of the most exquisite old homes along the James River in Virginia. Julia felt out of place among the Persian carpets and sumptuous mahogany pieces in her white sandals and pink-floral sundress. Foxleigh had been intended for satin slippers and ball gowns with sweeping skirts that swirled around her ankles.
Covered in goosebumps, she eyed the tour guide.

Mrs. Hensley’s round face was flushed beneath a white cap, her plump figure swaddled in a shapeless blue gown and checked petticoat that looked straight out of Colonial Williamsburg. Pale blue eyes alight, she laid her dimpled hand over an ample chest. “Such a gallant gentleman he was and handsome. Cole’s portrait makes my old heart flutter.”
Cole. The odd tremble inside Julia only grew.

Despite the air conditioning, Mrs. Hensley plucked a handkerchief out from under her white apron and mopped her beaded forehead. “His room’s just ahead.”

A mounting sense of expectation quickened Julia’s steps down the wide hall and she forced herself to slow in order to accommodate Mrs. Hensley’s waddle. Already intrigued by the prospect of a summer working at Foxleigh, home to the Wentworth family for eight generations, her wonder was enhanced by a sudden, almost aching need to throw open the bedroom door.

“Go on and open it, dear,” Mrs. Hensley said, catching up to her with a wheeze. “You’ll see we keep it like a shrine. But it’s such a lovely room. Mind you don’t lean on the walls. The paint was recently touched up.”

Julia closed her fingers around the white marble knob. A strange tingle coursed through her hand. Giving a small gasp, she drew back. “Is the wiring sound in here?”

“We had the electricity checked out for insurance last month. Why?”

“I felt a sort of current in the knob.”

Mrs. Hensley’s puckered creases relaxed in a smile. “You’re just more connected than most.”

“To what?”

She looked pointedly at Julia. “To the people who’ve gone before you, of course. The departed.”

Julia quivered with another prickling shiver. “I’ve always been a bit clairvoyant.”

Mrs. Hensley studied her closely. “Is this second sight what led you to Foxleigh?”

“Perhaps. But I see only in part.”

“The glass is cloudy, eh?”

Julia nodded and dropped her eyes from the mature woman’s scrutiny. She stared hard at the amber door. The wood was darkened with age and a slashing scar marred the oak. She slid her fingers over the deep scratch, more of a groove, really. A black one, at that. Some malevolence had scored the wood like an ancient burn.

“There’s a story in that mark,” Mrs. Hensley said. “In everything, it seems. These old homes accumulate tales. Come in and I’ll tell you Cole’s.” She grasped the doorknob, opening it without a qualm, and stepped inside.

Suspecting her life would never be the same, Julia walked in behind her. The deep-set window had been cracked open to chase away the lingering odor of paint. Bees hummed outside in white-flowering hydrangeas. Sunshine slanted through the wavy antiquated glass and washed mellow light over the colonial furnishings.

Along one nutmeg-colored wall, Julia saw a magnificent four-poster bed overhung with an ivory canopy. The counterpane covering the box mattress was a tapestry of blue and crimson flowers patiently embroidered by fingers long since idle. An inexplicable urge stirred in her to lie on that bed as if to keep a long held appointment.
Stranger still, was the faint scent of spice, like the whiff of a man’s cologne. She had breathed in this tantalizing fragrance before, but couldn’t remember when, or tell where it came from. Seeking the source, she drifted past a heavily carved armoire.

“There he is,” Mrs. Hensley said with whispery reverence as she gestured at the full-length portrait on the wall across from the bed. “Painted shortly before his death. His father, Charles Wentworth, was married to Lady Pembrook, the daughter of a British Earl. And Mr. Cole looks a true nobleman, doesn’t he?”

Julia halted. His presence was a soft breath on her neck that warmed and chilled her at the same time. The current running through her strengthened tenfold as she looked up at the young man and his gaze projected eerily back as if he knew she were there.

The artist had captured the intensity in Cole’s dark brown eyes allowing the force of his personality to shine through. His smooth forehead, slightly long nose, and clean-shaven chin balanced the three elements perfectly. He even had a small cleft in his chin as she’d imagined a nobleman would and his mouth was captivating, full, yet not too full.

Wavy chestnut hair met the white cravat circling his neck and made her want to reach out and touch it. She felt like a schoolgirl sighing at the poster of a film star, only this was so much more than that. Her awe at the house paled in comparison to the wonder rising in her as she ran her eyes down the length of the masterful portrait.

She couldn’t be certain of Cole’s height, but he appeared tall standing beside a splendid thoroughbred, his stunning figure clothed in an elegant scarlet coat fitted across his broad shoulders and cut away in front to reveal creamy white breeches molded to his thighs and long legs. He held a plaited leather whip with a crooked handle of carved ivory or bone like a stag’s horn and the thong looped in his left hand. The reins were casually circled around the tapered fingers of his right.
Maybe it was the sheltered life Julia had led, but it seemed to her that Cole embodied everything a man should.

“I see his appeal’s not lost on you,” her companion said.

She’d nearly forgotten the woman was there. “No. Cole Wentworth is––was––remarkable. What do you know of him?”

“He was passionate about horses and unbeatable in a race.” Mrs. Hensley nodded her capped head at several smaller gilt frames displaying portraits of hunting dogs and horses so beautifully done they appeared lifelike. “He was a gifted artist, as well. We have other paintings by him in the house, but most are here, where he was killed. Tragic.”

A cold finger laid its icy touch on Julia and ran down the length of her spine. “How did it happen?”

“He’s said to have been run through by the very man who made that mark on the door. A Mr. Cameron. Scottish fellow he was, back in...” Mrs. Hensley pursed her thin lips, blue eyes distant. “Ah, yes, 1806. Some fuss over a woman.”

“How dreadful. What about Mr. Cameron?”

“The friend of a neighbor, I believe. He escaped and was never found. No justice was ever done in the matter.”
Julia hesitated, then asked, “And the woman?”

“Heartbroken, poor thing. She returned to England. She was a guest of the Wentworth family and greatly enamored of Cole. All the young ladies were, but he had a particular fascination with this girl.”

“Why was she so special?”

“Apart from her legendary beauty? She had an angelic quality about her. Or so the story goes.”

An irrational jealousy twanged a jarring note in Julia. In the space of a few short minutes she’d fallen in love with the man in the portrait––typical of her impractical nature and unlikely to advance her nonexistent love life. And yet, she couldn’t help plunging into this sweet madness.
She tore her eyes from the portrait. “Do you recall the lady’s name?”

Mrs. Hensley gave a little laugh. She tapped a finger to her furrowed forehead. “Isn’t that odd? It was Julia something...hmmmm.”

Was Mrs. Hensley teasing her? She had to know.

“I’ve got it. Julia Maury,” the guide continued and arched graying brows. “You’re from England, aren’t you, Miss Morrow? Tread with care here, my girl. We don’t want you stirring up any ghosts. Foxleigh has enough already.”

“No,” Julia said, reaching out to the dresser to steady herself. Without meaning to, she suspected she’d already stirred up some force beyond her understanding.

A man spoke from the hall. “Charlotte, I need to speak to you about the new staff. Ah––I see she’s arrived.”

Julia startled at the low, uncannily familiar voice and whirled around to find none other than Cole Wentworth poised in the doorway.
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http://www.bethtrissel.com/