Chapter One

Flames engulfed the cottage and taunted the leaves of the old apple tree, forcing its sap to the surface to help ease the scattered damage to the charred bark. The hot, dry air seared her lungs. She’d never experienced heat of this nature. Her skin hurt to the touch. She could see the evilness in Dominic’s eyes as he prowled the parameter of the dwelling. His bellowing pierced through the chaos, “I want you Tara. If I can’t have your body, I’ll have your soul!”

Tara’s firelight curls fell over her shoulders and down her back in wild abandonment as she shook free memories of that horrible, fateful night. Sliding her hands up the sleeves of her oversized lamb’s wool sweater she hugged her tall, slender body against the chill both from the air and her thoughts.

Leaning her head against the window pane, her dark green eyes peered at the blanket of frantic white snowflakes as they billowed toward barely visible outbuildings. The howling gales of winter echoed throughout the rolling Pennsylvania valley with a resemblance of a collective of musical instruments paying homage to old man winter while they shook the one-hundred-eighty-year-old house; rattling its windows with such force that one might expect the antique dwelling to be swept into the Land of Oz. 

The nor’easter had arrived with a vengeance, showing no mercy for the impuissant inhabitants of the land. She’d focused so hard on preparing the grand old house for the oncoming winter that the equally grand stable hadn’t received the attention to insure its strength for a season of storms such as this.

The storm made it easy for her to come to terms with her decision to find a handyman to finish the needed repairs. She filled her lungs with the crisp air that managed to find its way through her newly caulked windows and hoped the outbuildings were sturdy enough to make it to spring in one piece; after which she’d give them the attention they required.

She snugged beneath the afghan her Aunt Eva gifted her at Christmas. The roaring fire in the newly renovated fireplace illuminated the rustic red bricks that spoke of days gone by. She missed her aunt and was eager for her next visit. Her loneliness was accentuated not only by her missing Eva’s vibrancy, but Dennis was on vacation down south and her father had called her last minute full of excitement about his archeological find and begged to be excused from the holidays because he didn’t dare abandon the dig and risk vandalism.  Tara understood, but was still saddened by his absence.

The warmth emanating from the dancing flames struggled to evade the draw of the chimney that permitted it to merely hover within feet of the open hearth, leaving the rest of the room prey to the icy air that crept steadily through the badly insulated walls and windows. The dilapidated steam radiators that were installed throughout the house soon after their invention provided little assistance. She stood up and pushed the sofa closer toward the fire, being Her daydream was so real, her lungs actually felt singed. She drew in as much cooling air as she could one more time and then released it slowly, focusing on the light mist that formed from the moist warmth of her breath on the cold window pane.

She was always active and outgoing. Finding herself snowed in with limited connection to the outside world for over a week took its toll on her mood. It gave her far too much time to think. It ripped at her soul to know that because of her and her stupidity in summoning the dark side -followed by her poor choice in men- many had suffered loss and heartache.

She walked over to the large, overstuffed horse-hair sofa she recently had restored and snuggled under the thick multi-colored blanket, being careful not to get so close that a stray spark might damage its rich, newly applied tapestry upholstery. Resuming her spot under the afghan, she passed the dismal afternoon hours in cozy slumber.

The setting sun crept over the distant mountain top before Tara roused herself from her blissful snooze. The fire needed attention. She debated whether to add more wood and stoke it back to its former level or let it die out for the night. The house had eighteen fireplaces and, although she enjoyed the ambience of her downstairs study, surely, she could find a room more protected from the outdoor elements and start a warming fire there. Deciding it was best to close the room off until its leaks were tended to, she pushed the glowing remnants of heat under a pile of thick, lifeless ashes and felt the last hint of warmth trickle away.  Satisfied, she rubbed her upper arms against the impending cold of the night yet to come and left the room.

The antique grandfather clock that stood regally at the far end of the second-floor hallway chimed six o’clock.  It was time for Sugar’s nightly feed.

She pulled on her heaviest hooded sweatshirt and thick insulated socks, followed by her goose down parka, insulated gloves, fur lined rubber boots, thick woolen neck scarf, and a pair of snowmobile goggles. True warmth spread through her chilled body for the first time all day. She was sorry to have to ruin it by going out into the cold, but she had responsibilities that were unavoidable.

 Pushing the solid oak exterior door -that she was told was an original part of the house- open against the elements that were raising havoc wasn’t an easy feat. Gusts of pelting ice mixed with snow still dominated the atmosphere. Pulling her woolen neck scarf over her nose, she plunged forward. It took all her strength to forge her way down the one-hundred-yard path to the stable. She could hear the crunch beneath her well protected feet as she broke through the mid-calf high seemingly endless sea of crusted snow.

Even with all the layers of warmth on her body, she felt the cold. Her moist breath left tiny frozen crystals along her lips and in her nostrils. She focused her flashlight in all directions while she checked for unwanted creatures lingering in the night, a habit she developed after her encounter with Dominic’s demon beasts.

Time dragged as she plunged her way through the blinding blanket of white. When she finally reached the stable, she stared in breathless dismay at the amount of ice and snow that needed to be removed before she could slide the door far enough to pass her slender body through.

The sudden realization that she left the snow shovel on the opposite side of the door resulted in one of the loudest wails of frustration she could recall ever emitting. The urge to kick the door was overwhelming, but her legs were held hostage in the ever-deepening heavy snow. The best she could do was lean her body against the side of the building and slam her heavily mitted fist against it. Sugar’s whinny had a calming effect on her and she relaxed enough to think how to get into the stable.

Thin, icy tree branches lightly brushed her head as a gust of wind whisked a thin layer of the tree’s burden off into the night.  She would have found the spindly boughs of an ancient apple tree, that were laden with a thick coat of snow atop icicles that reached low to the ground, wonderfully marvelous to gaze upon under better circumstances. Wiping the excess snow from her face, she studied the tree and its position to the building. Its thick trunk indicated it was much older than the stable.

The thud of the branches scraping against the wooden door to the hay loft added percussion to the melodious whistling of the wind. She shone her flashlight to inspect the situation as best she could. Even laden with snow, the branches looked sturdy enough. If she was careful, she could climb up and enter through the loft. Under the best of circumstances Tara would have been hesitant to climb a tree, but she saw no other option. Once inside she’d be sure to grab that darn shovel and keep it in a place of easy access.

Tucking her trusty flashlight in the inside pocket of her coat, she wiped the melting snow from her goggles and gripped the lower branch of the ancient and gnarled apple tree.

“Here goes nothing!” she shouted into the night.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the lack of the flashlight’s helpful beam, but soon she was maneuvering with confidence. Although her slender frame was in prime physical condition, heaving her heavily clad body out of the deep snowy wells that sucked at her legs like quicksand felt almost unattainable. The exertion left her body wet and clammy with perspiration. She felt laden with damp, cumbersome, and smelly fabric. She was just about to give up when she found reserved strength to pull her out of the snow and make her way from one branch to the next.

 Now that she was up the tree, the door was further from the branch than it looked when she was on the ground assessing things. She hadn’t realized the actual extent of the ice on the branches either.  She was higher than she thought she’d be when she first started this venture and, from her present position the branches felt dangerously feeble. The gnarled and rickety limb that she just hoisted her weight from threatened to rot away from the ancient, gnarled tree trunk. The new branch that she balanced carefully on felt like it might be a little too thin to hold her much longer. Looking closer, she realized that the old fruit tree was actually in need of serious TLC. She cursed the darkness. If she’d accessed the situation in the daylight, she wouldn’t have climbed the tree to begin with.

As she stretched her body as much as she could, she caught a glimpse through the pelting snow into the endless darkness below. Climbing back down the prime candidate for the wood pile looked even more precarious than making her way to the loft door from her not-so-sturdy perch. She grabbed the frame of the loosely hinged door and from a crouched position, flung her body hard against it.  It all happened as if she’d performed a choreographed stunt in a movie. Her body hit its mark and the door flung open.  She landed unceremoniously onto a pile of old, dusty hay.

Bits of sharp, dust riddled straw sent her into a fit of sneezing as her nose did its best to cleanse her nasal cavities, stopping only when it succeeded in flushing the majority of it out and leaving her sadly in need of a handkerchief. Rummaging through her pockets and coming up empty handed, she shrugged and used the sleeve of her down jacket; shuddering at her own actions. She grabbed a fist full of snow from the door frame and wiped her sleeve with it.

The ache on her rib cage reminded her of the location of her flashlight. Wincing, she reached in and pulled it out by its thick barrel and clicked on the beam. She’d been in this part of the loft only once and had never really taken the time to inspect it closely.  Sugar’s quarters were on the far end of the building. Shining the flash light’s beam through swirling particles of dust and bits of hay that rode the occasional gusts of winter through the loft door, she was surprised to come upon a group of portraits leaning against the interior wall.

Looking closer, she saw they were of people dressed in eighteen and nineteenth century attire. Interestingly, one man was in a confederate soldier’s uniform. She was no expert, but after a more in-depth examination of the paintings, she was certain that they weren’t recently painted. They were surprisingly well preserved, but clearly quite old. Tara felt certain the artist managed to portray a very strong likeness to the people in the paintings. She wasn’t sure how she knew this. It was just something she felt.

The sound of her mare’s stomping below brought Tara back to matters at hand. Making certain to securely latch the loft door, she searched for the ladder that would take her to the main floor and carefully picked her way down it. Once her footing found the concrete base of the stable she relaxed. She was on familiar ground now and, although the flashlight came in handy, she could actually accomplish what she needed to do without light if the situation called for it. Fortunately, the electricity hadn’t been interrupted by the brutal storm and she was able to light up her surroundings with a flip of the switch.

Sugar’s excitement in seeing her was barely contained. There had been no telepathic communication between them since the night of Maggie’s brutal murder, but there was no need for Tara to understand her four-legged friend’s greeting. The mare was happy to see that her owner and care taker had arrived, and her needs would be tended to.

The mare’s part of the old stable was fairly well protected from the storm. Tara lowered the scarf from her face and removed her thick mittens, so her hands could maneuver more comfortably. The heat of Sugar’s breath as she nuzzled her affectionately was a welcome sensation. Working as quickly as she could, she refreshed the water bucket, put a wedge of hay in the hay rack, a scoop of grain in the feed bucket and made certain the mare’s blanket was secure before she reached for the pitch fork to remove the soiled hay.

She thought nothing of the piercing cold on her cheeks and continued pitching hay, hoping to finish quickly and get back to the comfort of a hot bath and a snug blanket. When the cold grew bone chilling, she couldn’t ignore it any longer. This part of the stable was too well protected for this type of cold to be assaulting her. She checked around for its source. Her breath caught in her throat and her chest constricted as she found herself staring into the large, brown eyes of the old man who hadn’t appeared in months.

Unlike the other times when he was there and then gone almost as quickly, he stood zombielike and as three-dimensionally opaque as any human would be. The only thing differentiating him from Tara was the hazy glow around his body. Every nerve stood at attention while she debated what to do. Running away was her first inclination, but a ghost could pop in and out whenever and wherever it desired, so running would be futile.  Besides, how far could she possibly get in that blizzard? She longed for Maggie. Maggie would know what to do and Maggie wouldn’t be so frightened.

With trembling hands, Tara moved the pitch fork in front of her and continued to clean Sugar’s stall. Perhaps, if she ignored him, he’d go away.  Sugar scraped her hoofs and snorted her disapproval. The air bursting from her nostrils created tiny clouds that floated into nothingness. The ghost wasn’t going to go away, but it wasn’t saying anything either. As if seeing a ghost wasn’t frightening enough, his staring was creepy.

She was about to confront him when he uttered “Lucy”, in an almost inaudible voice that held a distinct and thick brogue and then faded into nothingness.

Tara was dumbfounded. It took a stinging slap across her face by Sugar’s coarse tail to bring her back to reality. Her body trembled, but at least the air warmed up to the point where her breath was barely visible. She recalled that the book Maggie gave to her explained why the air got so cold when a ghost appeared, but she couldn’t remember the details. She’d forgotten a lot of the teachings Maggie had worked so hard to instill within her along the way. They were locked up tight in the recesses of her mind; too painful to remember, for by remembering them she remembered Maggie. She shook her head. Did the reasons why the air got cold when a ghost appeared really matter after all was said and done? She thought not.

“It’s for the best,” she said aloud, “I don’t need to know all of that mumbo jumbo. Look at what it got me. Not to mention what it got Maggie. It’s just as well that I forget it all.”

She hurried to complete her chores. The encounter with the ghost was quickly pushed into the back of her mind, along with the other memories she wanted to diminish and, hopefully, forget.