Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

LILITH

Being the child of a horror writer and the author of gothic romances myself, I don’t find myself getting spooked very easily. So, imagine my fucking surprise when I look down from the balcony of the master bedroom to see headstones and larger monuments going back as far as the eye can see. There is a black wrought iron fence separating the house from the cemetery, but the space between the two can’t be much more than a few feet.

The ad photos taken of the backyard were straight forward, catching the stunning view of the ridges that give Magnolia Ridge its very name. The ad very conveniently failed to mention that the cemetery was a stone’s throw from the house. I’ve already paid the rental fee for two weeks and there’s a deposit hold on my account in case I want to extend the homestay. There isn’t a confrontational bone in my body, but I pick up the phone and make a call to the property management company.

Voicemail. Of course.

“Hello, this is Lililth Sharpe. I rented the Crowden Manor in Magnolia Ridge. If you could return my phone call as soon as possible, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Mid-rattling off my cell phone number, my phone drops the call.

No service. Of course.

I might as well make the best of my time, however long that will be, while I’m here. As I continue to explore, there’s a sense of gratitude for the daylight sun peeking through the curtains. As I pass by windows, I stop and push open the heavy velvet panels.

“Be brave, Ladybug.”

My mom’s voice echoes in my head as I look out the sitting room window. A glorious magnolia tree stands tall. It’s only May so not all the creamy white flowers have unfurled, but it’s beautiful. If only that beauty transcended to the back of the house. Not to say cemeteries aren’t beautiful – in a hauntingly tragic way – but the thought of all those souls being so damn close while I sleep isn’t exactly comforting.

Sleep sounds like a wonderful idea right now. I will have to make the drive back into town in a bit to get cell service, but I’m sure it won’t hurt to take a little nap. After all, it’s broad daylight. I don’t imagine anything is going to pop out from the cemetery and get me before noon.

Retreating back to the master bedroom, I sigh as I climb into the four-poster bed. I’m not sure if my head hit the pillow before my eyes began to close.

Darkness fills the room as my eyes flutter open. Groggily, I pull arm up to check the time on my watch. I do a double take when I see that it’s just after nine o’clock. I’d lost an entire day. Clearly, my body needed the sleep, but I’d only meant to take a nap. An hour or two, tops.

A grumble from my stomach gets me up. I highly doubt there is any food in the manor, so I will have to drag myself back out to Kitty’s. At this point, it’s the only place left open in town. I should probably run a brush through my hair and change my clothes before going considering I’ve been wearing these since before I left Maine yesterday. Grabbing my phone for the flashlight, I turn it on the brightest setting.

A cold chill shoots up my spine when I turn the light in front of me. A little boy, maybe seven or eight years old, stares back at me. His little face is covered in dirt and the clothes he’s wearing are worn and tattered.

“Are you okay?” I ask him. “Where are your parents?”

My heart slams against my chest as I step forward. As I get closer to him, I begin to see the translucency of his figure. The hair the nape of my neck lifts as I point to the door.

“I’m going, I’m just going to go get my things from the car,” I manage to stutter out.

Gulping down a breath, I slowly walk out of the room, my eyes peeled on the ghostly figure. He hasn’t moved, but his lifeless eyes are still locked on mine. The moment my body is over the threshold, my calves tighten as I break into a sprint.

Just as I step out the front door, something crashes to the floor behind me. Fear consumes me as I let out a scream, immediately regretting it.

“Try to avoid being a cliché.”

My dad’s infamous words of advice come back to me. Whether it be in movies or books, he always shook his head when the pretty girl was always the first to die because she either screamed and let the killer know where her location was or she tripped and fell, usually hurting herself, and making herself an easy target. At the time, it was writing advice, but I’m beginning to think I may need to start implementing it for real. Because guess what fucking idiot left the car keys inside?