Tymber Dalton Read Online Free Page B

owner killing his family, or disappearing, or something. No one quite knew for sure. Jill said she’d read about it when organizing the old newspaper archives at the library.
    Shelly rolled to her side and stared out the window. Maybe the baby made her nervous. Her hand drifted to her still-flat midsection. Only two months along and fortunately not getting sick, but she didn’t need any extra stress. If it hadn’t been for the cheap price and excellent terms, they never would have bought the place. Jim insisted they’d be able to turn around and resell it at a huge profit with very little investment. She trusted his judgment. He promised her she would only have to do what she felt like doing, that he’d shoulder most of the work. She felt guilty, and he was so good-natured about it, but he reassured her about his dreams for the house and how much money they would make.
    The ceiling above them creaked, startling her. It came from the turret overhead. Jim made a noise in his sleep and continued snoring.
    He could sleep through an explosion.
    Shelly sat up, wide awake. Outside, whip-poor-wills called back and forth to each other while a symphony of crickets harmonized in the bushes below their second-floor window. It wasn’t warm enough to need a fan yet, and the screen kept the bugs out. She kicked off the sheet and tuned her ears.
    Another creak, farther away, over the hallway ceiling.
    Intellectually, she knew there was no one upstairs, but the sound still unnerved her. She went to the window and looked out over the pasture where movement at the edge of the woods caught her eye. She strained until she made out the ephemeral sight of several men escorting a young woman or a girl, maybe in her teens. God, what are they wearing? They look like something on TV!
    She turned to get Jim’s attention when her eyes fell on the open doorway. A man, wild-eyed and dangerous-looking, stood there with a whiskey bottle in one hand, a knife in the other.
    “Jim!” she screamed.
    Before she fainted, she swore the intruder simply vanished.
    When he brought Shelly around, Jim was forced to slap her to stop her hysterics.
    “What is wrong with you? Shelly, calm down!”
    She looked at him and sobbed. “I saw them, outside, dressed like Spanish explorers! And in the doorway—” She looked where she saw the man standing. “I saw him, Jim! This wild man, he had a knife and a bottle of booze!”
    “Shelly, there’s no one here.” He tried to soothe her. “Sweetheart, it was a bad dream, that’s all.”
    She frantically shook her head. “No, it wasn’t! I know what I saw! I want to go to Jill’s, right now. I’m not sleeping in this house!”
    By the time they arrived it was three o’clock in the morning, and Shelly felt foolish. Jim gently chided her, blaming it on her condition.
    When he returned to their house—alone—about an hour before dawn, he made himself a pot of coffee and waited until light. The tall, dewy grass soaked his pant legs but he trekked across the pasture to the path where Shelly saw the figures.
    There were no tracks.
    He followed the path and found the clearing he’d heard about. There was a stone grave marker for George Simpson, a few rotting wooden markers, and some piles of rocks. Supposedly an old burial site, Spanish or Indian or something. Definitely creepy but no signs of recent visitors.
    He returned to the house. In the kitchen he noticed a smoky odor, like he’d been close to a campfire. He sniffed his clothes, but it wasn’t him. The smell wafted through the room. He worked his way around the kitchen and stopped in front of the basement door. He didn’t have a flashlight, but the bulb over the stairs was working. Wouldn’t be too bad if he left the door open. He went down the stairs and threaded his way around the various piles of their belongings, stored until they could get them sorted, and to the back wall and the shelves full of books.
    The smell originated in that area, but he