The Witch and the Gentleman Read Online Free Page A

of the Lauries were good people. I shivered as I walked past the picture.
    Down the long hallway—and past an enormous study with a leather-tooled surfaced desk and a chair fit for a king—or at least a vice president of a bank—we soon came upon a row of bedrooms. Six to be exact. Damn big house, although not as big as that island resort I’d had the displeasure of nearly dying in. Or, rather, of being possessed in.
    But that was another story.
    At one such door, Peter stopped, looked at the handle for a heartbeat or two, then reached for it, turned it and pushed open the door. It swung open silently enough, only squeaking when it reached the end of its arc.
    “This was Penny’s room,” he said, stepping aside and allowing me to enter ahead of him.
    As I did so, I got a psychic hit, or a knowing, as I called it. “You don’t come in here very often.”
    “ Only a few times, and not for a long time,” he said behind me. Peter no longer seemed surprised by my knowings ; at least, he didn’t question them anymore.
    The room was enormous, and dusty. I suspected that Peter had instructed even the maids to stay away. As I stepped into the dark room, he flipped on the lights. Dust motes swirled. I left actual footprints along what had would have been a beautifully polished hickory floor.
    The room was a typical girl’s room...a little rich girl’s room, actually. There were posters on the wall: cartoon characters, Justin Bieber looking quite young and intense, and horses. Lots of horses. The poster closest to me was slightly faded along its edges. Rust from the thumbtacks had stained the corners a little. In the center of the room was a small bed for a small girl, with lots and lots of floor space around it. A big rug covered some of it and I had an image of a little girl playing with her dolls and reading and even talking on a cell phone, right here on the floor, on the rug. I even had an image of her sleeping on the rug...with her mom. A sort of campout in upscale sleeping bags that had never been used for outdoor camping, only slumber parties. I kept these impressions to myself.
    After all, Peter didn’t seem to be holding up very well and, as I stood in the center of the room, soaking it in, absorbing the energies, reading the energies, and, in essence, tuning into another world, another place, hell, even another time, Peter stayed back by the door, looking away, looking down the hallway. Mostly, he looked miserable and like he wished he had never opened her bedroom door and looked inside.
    The daughter could have been here, or not. I did sense a younger energy nearby, but it was vague. It could be what some psychics called residual energy . In effect, I could be sensing her past energy, not her present energy. Not all spirits came back. Not all spirits hung around. Many moved on, and if some of my psychic friends were correct, many were re-born as well, into other bodies, other places, perhaps even other times.
    It was, of course, all a big mystery to me. And yet, the mysteries were trickling down to me in dribs and drabs. The more Samantha Moon drank from me, the keener I got as a psychic.
    I was becoming quite adept at remote viewing. In fact, I was scarily adept at it, so good that I might as well have been in the room with the other person. But that was only if I was “tuned into” them, like I had been when I had Peter on the phone.
    I’d never tuned in to the dead. Hell, I’d never even tried. I didn’t know where to begin, truth be known, but I had some ideas.
    As Peter continued standing near the doorway, dealing with his hurt and loss as best as he could, I moved through the big room. A busy room, too. Stuffed animals crowded under the window, a dollhouse that was as big as my bathroom stood in one corner, and dressers overflowing with trinkets collected from a short life. But in the corner closest to the bed was something different. A painter’s easel.
    “ Your daughter painted?” I