Lifestyles of the Rich and Undead by Katie MacAlister

Author:Katie MacAlister
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Romance, Fiction, Paranormal, General
ISBN: 9781451697186
Publisher: Pocket Star
Published: 2012-09-03T21:00:00+00:00

UNDEAD SUBLET

BY MOLLY HARPER

There it was again!

The soft thump down the hall had me sitting up in bed, blinking into the black quiet of my room. My sleep-blurred brain tumbled to George, his stories about poor, lovelorn Mr. Lassiter and the possibility that said deceased bachelor could be wandering around my house in spectral form.

This was what I got for going to bed so early. My internal clock was all wonky. Thoroughly chastised and toting Tupperware and a bowling ball–sized chunk of monkey bread, I’d found myself back in my house with nothing to do. No dishes to prep. Nothing to chop or sauté. No pans to wash. No knives to sharpen. The highlight of the evening was falling flat on my face as soon as I walked into the living room. The coffee table seemed . . . off. I remembered it being a little farther away from the couch. Then again, I was still adjusting to, well, everything, so who was I to think I’d already mentally mapped the living room?

I settled for more sleep. It seemed the more I slept, the more I needed to sleep. My body had been running on fumes for so long it was as if it was soaking up all the rest it could because I couldn’t be trusted to sleep decently again when I went back to my life. The house was so quiet, a far cry from the traffic noises and sirens that bounced around my city apartment. I didn’t need a white-noise machine here. The silence of the house seemed to wrap around me like a sweet cocoon, helping me ignore my ailing stomach and table bruises.

The only hitch in my “sleep the month away” plan was that the extreme quiet made every creak, every groan of every board echo like a gunshot. I didn’t know much about old houses, but it seemed like this one spent a lot of time settling. At times, it almost sounded like footsteps falling softly against the hardwood floors—ridiculous, as I’d triple-checked the locks myself, a habit I’d carried with me from Chicago.

The Clemsons’ debris was strewn across the house like broken toys. Lindy left a bunch of men’s plaid flannels and Clemson Construction T-shirts in the closet. A manly bar of plain yellow Dial still occupied the little soap dish in the master bath. When I opened the coat closet, I had to dive out of the way to avoid the avalanche of blueprints and graph paper that came tumbling from the top shelf.

And now, on top of these depressing relics, I had to deal with things that went bump in the night? I tilted my head, like a dog listening for its master, and it happened again. The weird noise echoed down the hall. It didn’t sound like the house creaking. This time, it really did sound like footsteps, distinct movements on the floor. As if someone was walking around in the kitchen.

Slowly, my hand slid down the side of the mattress, reaching for the Louisville Slugger I kept under the bed in my apartment.

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