July 1, Monday

"Josephine Vanguard?"

I turned to see a gray-haired man smiling through the open window of a shiny blue sedan.

"Yes."

"I'm Bill, your driver."

I doubled-checked the ride share app to make sure the model of the car matched up, then rolled my bulging suitcase toward the car. I was sweating profusely in a pungent humidity I hadn't known existed and was coming to the conclusion I'd packed poorly for my journey. Overhead an airplane was taking off to parts unknown and I suddenly wished I was on it.

Because I was beginning to think I'd made a gigantic mistake.

Bill jumped out to wrestle my luggage into the trunk of his car that was crowded with an odd assortment of yard tools. Proof, I assumed, that in the new gig economy, people were cobbling together all kinds of jobs.

I climbed into the back seat, still pinging with apprehension. My flight had been delayed and I'd missed my connection in Atlanta, so it felt as if even the universe was doubting my decision. As dusk descended, my energy and confidence were sagging.

The driver slid behind the wheel, then adjusted the rear-view mirror until he could see me. "First time in Birmingham?"

I dabbed at my hairline. "Yes."

"Where you from?"

Hadn't I noted in my app profile that I preferred "limited conversation"? "Um… all over."

"I don't get many calls to drive to Irving. You got family there?"

"Um, no."

"Vacation?"

"Not really." I reached for my purse to rummage for ear buds, hoping to curb his string of questions, but I couldn't find them.

"Vanguard… your name sure sounds familiar."

I froze.

"Are you famous or something?"

I shifted in my seat. "How long will it take to get to Irving?"

"An hour, give or take. That's a pretty rural area and you never know when you're gonna get behind a tractor or someone on horseback. And it'll be dark when we get there, so that'll slow me down."

I held up the notebook I managed to find. "Pardon me, but I need to work."

His mouth morphed into a frown. "Got it."

I ignored his wounded look and opened my blank notebook. It wasn't a lie—I did need to work. I was months behind on delivering the next book in a historical romance series that had been unexpectedly popular. My writing had been interrupted by the romantic drama of my own life.

Anxiety squeezed my chest, and I closed my eyes to keep it at bay. Over the past few months I'd learned to box breathe, meditate to binaural beats, take warm baths, do cold plunges, and a host of other techniques to deal with the stress, all with limited success. I suspected because the events had been self-inflicted, my conscious wasn't ready to let me off the hook.

A few minutes into the trip, I glanced up to see the driver staring at me. He quickly averted his gaze. From my vantage point I could see his phone mounted on the dash of his car. On the glowing screen was my author headshot and the covers of some of my racy books. He had Googled me, and no doubt had seen the salacious headlines.

Romance author falls for romance con man.

Romance novelist robbed of her happy ending.

Writer of bodice-rippers gets ripped off by fiancé.

A hot flush burned up my neck. True, all of it, painfully so. I'd gotten swept up in the fictional emotions I wrote about, had convinced myself that my hero and my happy ending had arrived. Instead I'd been brainwashed by lust and had given Curtis Raeburn free rein to empty my bank accounts and to leverage my credit to alarming sums.

It was the oldest con in the books, and I'd fallen for it. So I was dealing with it the best way I knew how—by hiding.

I doodled on a blank page in my notebook.

Since I was no longer able to afford my Manhattan apartment and I'd wanted to disappear, I'd spent hours on rental sites searching for an affordable place to escape to. The listing for a six-month housesitting stint in the small town of Irving, Alabama had seemed like the perfect solution. I reasoned I'd have privacy to write the manuscript I was behind on and by the time I re-emerged, hopefully the social media trolls would have moved on to someone else.

When I'd called about the listing for The Whisper House, I was informed by a bored agent that in return for staying at the property, I would be responsible for my own transportation, food and incidentals, and for maintaining the house and the grounds.

"And it says here," the agent intoned, "that the house is located in a remote setting, with the nearest neighbor a half-mile away. Oh, and the cell phone and internet reception is quote, ‘spotty,' unquote."

"I'll take it," I'd said.

"Fyi, if you leave before the six-month stint is up, you'll be charged a fee for the house to be relisted."

I'd instructed the agent to email the contracts and I'd sent them back the same day. I'd sublet my apartment to my friend Frida who needed a place to stay while her building was being fumigated. She was appreciative, even though she thought I'd lost my mind—again.

"You're moving to a freaking farm?"

"Temporarily. And it's not a farm—it's a farm house ."

"In the middle of freaking nowhere."

"I need some peace and quiet."

"Sounds like the freaking setup for a horror flick."

I took in the landscape outside my window that seemed to grow more wild with every passing mile. Indeed, the sign announcing "Irving, population 995" was nearly obscured with some kind of green curly vine that appeared to be virulent here in the South. The car rolled through a tiny downtown area that consisted of three or four blocks of vintage buildings. Quaint, ornate streetlamps illuminated empty sidewalks and old-fashioned parking meters.

We stopped at a single redlight, then proceeded straight through town. Once the buildings were behind us, Bill made too many turns for me to follow onto increasingly narrow and harrowing roads. The app froze on my phone and Bill's, indicating reception was indeed "spotty."

"How much farther?" I asked, gripping the armrest as the car lurched over a pitted one-lane road poorly lit by the headlights. Tall trees encroached on either side of us, brushing against the windows. My pulse was thudding in my ears.

"Almost there," he said. "Just at the end of this road."

A few seconds later the landscape opened to reveal the house whose lines I'd memorized from the photos online. The Whisper House. With a crescent moon hanging in the background, the two-story gothic farmhouse did resemble something out of a movie. Two chimneys pushed through a many-angled roofline. The deep wraparound porch was hemmed with decorative railing. And most of the tall, narrow windows featured a Juliet balcony. The house sat in a clearing of tall grass, which made it seem more foreboding.

"Pretty spooky, huh?" Bill said.

His comment rankled me even as a shudder passed over my shoulders. The house was shrouded in darkness except for a flickering light next to the front door. I assumed it was left on as a welcoming gesture, but the strobe effect was unnerving.

"You staying here alone?" he pressed.

Fear seized my heart. I was staying here alone, which now seemed exceptionally foolish, but it occurred to me that I shouldn't share that information with a relative stranger.

"No," I lied. "My friend—I mean, friends —will be here soon."

"That's good. You sure wouldn't want to be out here all by yourself."

I swallowed. "Of course not."

He pulled the car to the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, then jumped out and ran around to the trunk. While he grappled with my bag, I stepped out and stared up at the sprawling, sinister-looking structure. I made myself move forward and climb the wooden stairs. They creaked and groaned beneath my feet. My heart thrashed in my chest. Everything in me wanted to run.

Bill followed, staggering under the weight of my bag. "Where do you want this?"

But coming here was part of my way back. "Here is fine," I said, pointing to the welcome mat that looked brand new in the blinking light. From a pocket in my purse, I retrieved the key I'd been sent through the mail and inserted it into the lock. I gave it a turn and the door swung open easily. Darkness yawned on the other side.

He parked my suitcase, then gave me a nervous look. "You want me to wait until your friends arrive?"

I shook my head. "No thanks, I'll be fine. They should be here any minute."

"Okay. Good luck." He seemed relieved and practically jogged back to the car.

I looked back to the doorway, then turned on the flashlight app on my phone to see wide plank wood floors on the other side. With my heart in my throat, I stepped over the threshold and scanned the walls for a light switch. I found one a few steps inside and flipped it, sending a dim light over the room from an overhead fixture. But it did little to calm my nerves.

The large room with high ceilings appeared to be a sitting room. The furniture was covered with pale sheets, giving the space a ghostly feel. The air in the room was stagnant and muggy.

And The Whisper House was deathly quiet.

Shaking off the heebie jeebies, I backtracked to haul my suitcase inside, then closed the door and turned the deadbolt. The house extended beyond the light to other rooms, and I could make out a staircase. But I wasn't about to explore tonight.

Exhaustion pulled at my limbs. I lifted a sheet from a sofa and decided it would make a passable bed for tonight, which seemed borne out by the presence of a folded quilt at one end. I turned off the overhead light, then toed off my sandals and climbed onto the sofa fully dressed. But in the cavernous blackness of the room, I could feel my heart trying to vacate my chest. I was terrified and I felt utterly exposed to the elements inside the house and out.

On the other side of a window, an animal hooted—or was it a growl?

And was it an animal?

I pulled the quilt up and over my head and blinked into the complete darkness. The quilt smelled faintly of a floral perfume and the heat was stifling, but at least I felt safe… er. Still, as my eyes grew heavier, one thought lapped itself in my brain.

What had I done?