This excerpt is a work in progress for Book 10 in the Voice of the Wind: Shadows of Time series.
Noah over imbibed that evening, but he deserved it after the trying day he had spent dealing with Grange and his two hired idiots, Burl and Jag Longnecker. Something was going on with the two laggards. The Longnecker brothers acted mighty shifty, squinting at each other, even as they handed over the evidence of having carried out his orders and bundled it all up in the filthy and bloodied shirt of their victim to present to him as if delivering a present.
He certainly paid them more than enough coin. If either brother had the temerity to demand more payment from him, or even consider blackmailing him for their silence, he would have Grange deal with the fools, preferably by tossing them off a cliff into Kilmere. It was time for the Midnight Mugger to disappear.
Plus, the winter’s frigid temperatures made his joints and hands ache, and the pain soured his temperament. The rich flavor and bouquet of the heady Cloisters’ brandy he enjoyed lessened the pain, especially after the third snifter, followed by a leisurely smoked chunk of golden hashish.
He finished his smoke and was settling into following his dreams, when a tapping at a window roused him from enjoying his late night revelries.
Ignore it, he thought. Tomorrow he would have someone trim the tree branches the wind rattled against the windowpanes of his study.
He sank deeper into his armchair and closed his eyes. He was once again on the verge of sliding into euphoria when…
Tap… tap… tap…
He cracked open one eyelid, squinted at the tall windows covered in heavy curtains. Outside, the wind whistled about the chimney and eaves. He listened for a moment, and hearing nothing, he settled deeper into his armchair and closed his eyelid.
Tap… tap… tap...
“Confound it!” he cursed and shoved out of the armchair.
He strode across the thick carpet and drew aside the drapery to reveal the dark night. He pressed his nose against the cold windowpane, his breath fogging the glass. He rubbed the fog away, clearing a small patch, and peered out through his reflection. Nothing. The trees were not even close enough to the house for the wind to knock or scratch their branches against the study windows.
He shifted his gaze farther into the yard, where he thought he saw movement among the trees, but it was only moonlight and shadows. He was about to close the curtain and turn away when a definite movement caught his attention.
Was that someone drifting across the yard, stirring up puffs of snow? Who the blazes would be outside wandering about in the snowy night? He leaned closer.
He jolted when the apparition appeared, for that was only way he could describe the otherworldly white figure floating above the snow-covered ground toward the window, doubtless drawn by the light his study lamps shed.
A snowball splattered against the glass windowpanes. He reared back as if struck, but was drawn to look out again.
There in the moonlight, the apparition hovered, surrounded by the iridescent luster of swirling snowflakes sparking in the moon’s pearl glow. In the rising wind, tendrils of long, pale hair snaked about the spectral figure. White robes as insubstantial as gossamer floated like scarves of seaweed adrift on water.
He blinked, distrusting his vision as a trick of his mind or the hashish he had smoked, but upon looking again, the wraith remained, drawing closer.
“Nooo-aaaahhhh―”
He froze, recalling another night and hearing the unearthly voice moaning his name. Who would dare haunt him?
“Nooo-aaaahhhh―”
He narrowed his eyes. “Jarutia? Is that you?”
Impossible! Jarutia Fayerfield-Tourney was dead, having drowned in Kilmere years ago.
A thump struck the window, sounding like a bird hitting the glass. Startled, he jumped. He cursed softly and chuckled at himself.
He did not believe in ghosts. Someone was playing tricks on him.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. But when he looked again, the apparition remained, floating in the night, the wind swirling its hair and robes about its transparent form.
But the wind was not blowing he noticed when he came to his senses. The night was eerily calm, except for the ice-laden clouds racing across the moon.
“Nooo-aaaahhhh!”
From the trees, the ghostly form drifted closer.
“Nooo-aaaahhhh! Where is my son?”
He swallowed hard. Shaking his head in denial, he stepped back from the window. He was having a bad dream, nothing more.
The hovering apparition lifted its diaphanous hand and beckoned to him.
“Nooo-aaaahhhh! What have you done to my son?”
He spun on his heels and dashed from his study, pausing only long enough in the foyer to retrieve the lantern on the entry table before he threw the front door open and rushed outside into the yard.
“There are no such things as ghosts!” he muttered. Just wait until he caught the culprit.
He lifted his lantern and checked the snowy ground, looking for footprints, certain that a ghost would not leave their footprints for him to track.
“Where are you? Show yourself to me!” he shouted into the night, his heart racing in his throat and pounding in his ears.
Hearing a noise behind him, he spun around. He saw no one. A preternatural silence greeted him.
“What do you want? Answer me!” he shouted.
An owl swooped from the trees, winging silently across the moon, encircled in a halo of rainbow clouds.
“Murderer! You murdered my son! Murderer! Murderer!” the apparition wailed.
“Show yourself, you coward!”
“Nooo-aaaahhhh!” A whoosh of snow hit his uplifted lantern and doused its yellow flame. He cursed and hurled the lantern toward the direction of the disembodied voice. But the apparition melted into the night, shredding into tattered wisps.
***
© 2022 E.A. Monroe
eamonroe 