Giving Up the Ghost

By

Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon
2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of
the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-134-9
ISBN 10: 1-60174-134-0

Giving Up the Ghost
Copyright © 2012 by Marilyn Levinson

Cover design
Copyright © 2012 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in
whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter
invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the
FBI and is punishable by up to five (5) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

Gabbie stepped out of her car and regarded the place she was to call home for the rest
of the school year. In the gloom of early nightfall, the weatherbeaten cottage held as much charm as
the House of Usher.

Her shivers came from the raw January wind as well as from her sense of isolation.
Woods on either side separated her from her nearest neighbors--both summer people, according to
the real estate agent--and the overgrown bushes hid the cottage from anyone driving down this
godforsaken road. Why, a gang of ruffians could commandeer the place and no one would hear her
screams.

She let out a humorless bark of laughter as she realized the pièce de
résistance--the spectacular view of the Long Island Sound that had driven her to haggle with
Mary Hanley until she lowered the rent to one Gabbie could afford--camouflaged a potential danger
as well. Beyond the straggly row of scrub oaks bordering the back lawn, the land fell away. A thirty
foot drop to the beach.

Where was her common sense? Her grasp on reality? By taking this teaching job, she'd
allowed herself to follow another rash impulse like the one that had led her to marry Paul
Montebello. And that had proven to be the most egregious mistake of her life.

"Enough," she scolded aloud, refusing to fall prey to the pattern of negative thinking that
always left her spent and depressed. She had to put distance between herself and everything
connected to Paul. Get away from Westchester County, Paul's sphere of influence, even though
currently he resided in prison. She'd been lucky to find a district in need of an English teacher in the
middle of the school year, one whose administrators were willing to hire her though she hadn't
taught in years. As for this cottage, it was a better choice than her only alternative, a
hole-in-the-wall apartment above a dry cleaning establishment in a neighboring town.

If only it wasn't so dark. Grabbing a suitcase in each hand, Gabbie inched cautiously
along the snow-covered path to the front door. Once inside, she switched on the light in the small
hall and wrinkled her nose at the dank smell.

Mary had claimed the odor would disappear once the place was aired out. "It had
better," Gabbie muttered as she turned up the thermostat. The heating system came to life, followed
by a blast of warm air from a nearby vent. At least she wouldn't freeze.

The living room was crowded with musty old furniture. It's only till the end of June, she
reminded herself, and focused on the fact that her drive to school was seven minutes flat.

She'd retrieved the rest of her things from the Volvo and was about to carry them
upstairs when a shudder ran up her spine. She wasn't alone.

Someone was watching.

Gabbie spun around to peer into the darkened den across the hall. "Who's there?"

Silence.

You're doing a great job of scaring yourself. Get a grip or you'll be a total wreck
in no time. Everything feels weird because it's a strange house and new surroundings.
She
grabbed all she could carry and went upstairs, as fast as she could climb.

In the larger of the two bedrooms, she made up the queen-sized bed and put her clothes
in the closet and bureau. She was setting her toiletries on the bathroom counter when she heard
someone whistling. Freezing in place, Gabbie took two deep breaths, grabbed the only weapon she
could think of--hair spray--and went to the head of the stairs.

"Who's there?" she repeated, fear turning her voice harsh. Had Paul hired someone to
follow her and kill her? He considered disloyalty a sin, and her turning him in to the authorities had
to strike him as the most grievous sin of all.

A bantam-sized man in his late sixties came into view. He wore workman's boots, a plaid
flannel shirt and a deerstalker hat that left his face in shadow.

"Hello, there." Was he smiling or leering? "Didn't mean to frighten you, but I knocked
and knocked and nobody answered. I'm Reese Walters, by the way. I own Walters' Floor and
Appliances, half a mile east of town."

Gabbie descended two steps. "How'd you get in?"

"With a key." He held it up. "Mary Hanley said to come look over the kitchen and see
what needs doing. It's in pretty bad shape."

Relief and irritation vied for dominance. Irritation won. "She had no business giving you
the key after I signed the lease."

Reese Walters held out both palms in a conciliatory gesture. "Now don't go blaming
Mary when all she wants is to see you comfortable. Besides, Roland Leeds gave me the key. He
asked me to keep an eye on things after... Well, after."

"After what?"

He waved away her question. "Here's what I'll do," he said as if he was trying to
convince her he was cutting her a special deal. "Tomorrow I'll have my men replace the microwave
and oven and measure for new kitchen flooring. I should've taken care of it months ago, only I
didn't expect anyone would be renting so soon. Not since--" He cleared his throat. "I should say, not
till the spring."

Gabbie eyed him warily. "Is something wrong with the cottage? Something I should
know, like the roof leaks?"

"No, ma'am, the place is sound enough. Roland's grandfather built it with his own two
hands. The thing is, not many folks come here in the dead of winter."

She descended to the hall and offered her hand. "I'm Gabbie Meyerson." she said,
pleased to be using her maiden name again. "I've come to teach English at the high school."

Reese's grip was firm. "Pleased to meet you, Gabbie. Mary mentioned you'll be taking
over for Lydia Ketchem while she recuperates from her operation."

Gabbie pursed her lips. Had the agent repeated every single word of their
conversation?

"Welcome to Chrissom Harbor. They're sure lucky to have found you."

"Why do you say that?"

He gulped, before saying rapidly, "Because half the school year's over, isn't it? Hard to
get replacements. Anyway, your kitchen and living room lights are all working. No burned-out light
bulbs. Want me to take a look upstairs?"

"No, it's fine." A thought occurred to her. "But I noticed there's a TV in the den. Would
you mind making sure it's connected?"

Reese darted a glance at the den, and then peered quickly at his watch. "Is that really the
time? I best be going. My wife expected me home half an hour ago." He edged toward the door.

"Tell you what," he continued, before she could squeeze in a word. "I'll have my men
look at the TV tomorrow to make sure it's in working order."

"Well, all right."

He tilted back his hat and looked at her from narrowed gray eyes. "Make sure you keep
your doors locked. People around here are decent and hard-working, but times are different now, if
you get what I mean."

"Of course."

Not certain if he meant the warning as a general caution or that a rapist roamed the
woods, Gabbie heeded his advice and double-locked the door behind him. My first visitor, she
mocked as she climbed the stairs to finish the business of settling in. Still, now that she'd been
promised a working kitchen, she found herself more kindly disposed toward the cottage. And Reese
had been friendly enough, though his insinuations of danger and problems left her a bit
uneasy.

He's probably one of those gossipy people who likes to come across as mysterious and
knowing. She set a pile of her favorite novels on the night stand and put him out of her mind.

A crash sent her flying down the stairs. Nothing seemed to be out of place in the kitchen
or the dining room. She stood in the entranceway to the den and looked about. A large ashtray lay at
her feet. Gabbie gasped. It hadn't been there before. It must have fallen, but how?

Reese Walters probably brushed against it when he was here. It's the only logical
explanation. But how to explain the scent of male cologne? Leave question mark.

Gabbie told herself to stop imagining things, and went upstairs to finish putting away
her clothes.

Half an hour later, her possessions in place, Gabbie realized her stomach was growling.
For good reason. Her last bit of nourishment had been a muffin and a cup of coffee before noon. She
went to the kitchen and began opening cupboards. Plenty of cooking and eating utensils but nothing
to eat. Of course there wasn't any food. Why would she expect to find food in an empty house?

She considered driving into town, but felt too exhausted to make the effort. Instead, she
finished off the crackers and package of cheddar cheese she'd brought, and boiled water for tea.
Tomorrow she'd stock up at the supermarket.

A wave of exhaustion nearly knocked her off her feet as she cleared the table. It had
been a long and arduous day of transition, but eight-thirty was too early to crawl into bed.

The den was the perfect place to veg out. In the warm glow of lamp light, the room had
an inviting appearance. Still, a tingle at the nape of her neck made her pause before entering the
room.

Silly. There's nothing to be afraid of.

A cold draft, strong enough to ruffle her hair, sent her to the sliding glass door to make
certain it was locked. It was, but as an added precaution Gabbie closed the vertical blinds and shut
out the night. Even so, a chilly current seemed to stir the air. To offset her uneasiness, she
scrutinized the room.

The den was apparently a recent addition to the cottage. It had been furnished for
masculine comfort, judging by the brown leather couch and recliner. A bronze Roman soldier stood
on a shelf of the wall unit, guarding the TV, DVD player, and stereo.

Built-in bookcases on either side of the entertainment unit were half-filled with books. A
few suspense novels were among the many dealing with finance and the economy.

This was her home for the next few months, she reminded herself. She placed her most
cherished possession--the snow scene paperweight Aunt Matilda had given her when she'd gone off
to college--on the oversized desk in the far corner. The simple act seemed to dissipate the tension in
the room.

She sank into the recliner and clicked her way through channels without finding
anything of interest. Not surprising, since she couldn't remember the last television program she'd
seen. But it was nice to know the TV worked. Which meant the DVD probably did as well. And the
telephone would be connected in a day or two.

She turned off the set, closed her eyes, and burrowed deeper into the oversized chair.
Mmmm, comfy. The leather, buttery-soft and well-padded, lulled her into languid relaxation.
Considering all she'd recently accomplished, Gabbie allowed herself a moment of
self-congratulation. She'd found a temporary job and was on her way to putting her past behind
her.

Half asleep, she murmured. "This place isn't so bad."

An amused male voice intruded on her satisfaction. "Think so? I wouldn't bet money on
that, honey."

Gabbie shot up from the chair, a hand pressed against her thumping heart. "Who's
that? Who's there?"

She glanced about the room, peering sharply into the corners, but saw no one.

"The police. I'll call the police!" As she reached for the phone, she remembered the line
wasn't connected. No doubt she was the only person in America who didn't own a cell phone. In her
efforts to pare down expenses, she'd given hers up.

Even if she reached the police, what would she say? That she was drifting off to sleep in
her new rental and heard someone--some invisible male--make a wise-crack comment? She had a
pretty good idea the officer would suggest she was dreaming or letting her imagination run
wild.

A man's voice coming from her bedroom sent her scurrying toward the stairs. Then she
heard music. Relieved, Gabbie turned off her clock radio. "That's what I heard. It has to be."