herself to filter through all that had happened.
As she padded along the gravel path, she realized her steps were taking her in the direction of the old sugar mill. Had it been her imagination, or had she heard a bell tolling in the middle of the night? She’d bolted upright in bed, but her foggy brain had processed the sound as a dream. Curious to revisit the site, she considered that haunted ruins would be a good place to hide an item of value. If she dug around, maybe she’d unearth Andrew’s wealth—or Polly’s letters, which could prove to be more valuable. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to look.
As she approached the crumbled stone structures, her ears picked up an eerie whistling, as though the trees issued a warning. Dead leaves crunched underfoot while she skirted jagged chunks of coral embedded in the dirt. A rodent scampered up a nearby cabbage palm, and another small creature of some type slithered around a clump of crotons.
Drifting on the breeze came a faint clanging. Marla twisted her neck to see if someone was ringing the bell outside the boiling bench, but the bell was not the source of the sound. Rather, it ebbed and flowed from the interior of the single standing structure, which housed vast pits.
“Is anyone there?” Marla called, listening intently. Open windows gaped like mouths waiting to devour anyone who ventured inside. The stone building, dark and cool, beckoned to her.
As she crossed the threshold, she thought she heard a girl’s voice humming a plaintive song. Her breath quickened. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here alone. But even as her pulse beat a rapid rhythm, she scoffed at the notion that the place harbored ghosts. She’d prove no one was here: neither a real person nor an ethereal body.
Marla took a few steps toward one of the depressions in the floor. Lined with rock made from crushed marine shells, it was first in a row that stretched to a far archway. Smells of stale sweat mingled with sickly sweet molasses, and she pictured slaves laboring in the heat from the fires while sugarcane juice boiled and frothed in huge copper kettles. Their voices seemed to surround her, accompanied by the crack of a whip, then a scream…
She screamed herself as a force shoved her from behind. For a moment, she was airborne, flailing her arms and legs. Then she was falling, falling, her shoulder hitting against a hard surface with a painful jolt before her head banged into a solid protrusion.
White lightning flashed before her eyes. Then blackness absorbed her.
Chapter Eight
“Marla heard a moan escape her lips before her mind allowed consciousness to seep in. Throbbing pain in her left shoulder brought her fully awake. Blinking, she studied her surroundings without comprehension. She lay at an angle on her side in some sort of bowl made from knobby concrete. No, not concrete…coquina. She’d fallen into one of the pits inside the sugar mill.
With realization came fear. She had definitely felt a push from behind, meaning whoever had propelled her might still be around. She dare not cry for help. Testing first her arms, then her legs, she was gratified to find her limbs intact. She’d have to deal with a sore shoulder for a few days, that’s all. She knew that bumping her head hadn’t produced a concussion because she didn’t feel dizzy. She must’ve been merely stunned.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she wondered if the intent had been to cause bodily damage or just to scare her. Ghosts didn’t shove people. Someone at the resort intended harm, whether physical or emotional. Had this same person thrust the painter’s ladder from the wall of the condemned wing?
Her neck prickled when she heard the bell tolling outside. Listening acutely, she caught no other sound except the rustling of dried leaves and the harsh cry of a seagull. Was it the wind swaying the bell, or someone’s hand?
An urgent need to escape the sugar mill forced her to her feet. Stretching her arms
As she padded along the gravel path, she realized her steps were taking her in the direction of the old sugar mill. Had it been her imagination, or had she heard a bell tolling in the middle of the night? She’d bolted upright in bed, but her foggy brain had processed the sound as a dream. Curious to revisit the site, she considered that haunted ruins would be a good place to hide an item of value. If she dug around, maybe she’d unearth Andrew’s wealth—or Polly’s letters, which could prove to be more valuable. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to look.
As she approached the crumbled stone structures, her ears picked up an eerie whistling, as though the trees issued a warning. Dead leaves crunched underfoot while she skirted jagged chunks of coral embedded in the dirt. A rodent scampered up a nearby cabbage palm, and another small creature of some type slithered around a clump of crotons.
Drifting on the breeze came a faint clanging. Marla twisted her neck to see if someone was ringing the bell outside the boiling bench, but the bell was not the source of the sound. Rather, it ebbed and flowed from the interior of the single standing structure, which housed vast pits.
“Is anyone there?” Marla called, listening intently. Open windows gaped like mouths waiting to devour anyone who ventured inside. The stone building, dark and cool, beckoned to her.
As she crossed the threshold, she thought she heard a girl’s voice humming a plaintive song. Her breath quickened. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here alone. But even as her pulse beat a rapid rhythm, she scoffed at the notion that the place harbored ghosts. She’d prove no one was here: neither a real person nor an ethereal body.
Marla took a few steps toward one of the depressions in the floor. Lined with rock made from crushed marine shells, it was first in a row that stretched to a far archway. Smells of stale sweat mingled with sickly sweet molasses, and she pictured slaves laboring in the heat from the fires while sugarcane juice boiled and frothed in huge copper kettles. Their voices seemed to surround her, accompanied by the crack of a whip, then a scream…
She screamed herself as a force shoved her from behind. For a moment, she was airborne, flailing her arms and legs. Then she was falling, falling, her shoulder hitting against a hard surface with a painful jolt before her head banged into a solid protrusion.
White lightning flashed before her eyes. Then blackness absorbed her.
Chapter Eight
“Marla heard a moan escape her lips before her mind allowed consciousness to seep in. Throbbing pain in her left shoulder brought her fully awake. Blinking, she studied her surroundings without comprehension. She lay at an angle on her side in some sort of bowl made from knobby concrete. No, not concrete…coquina. She’d fallen into one of the pits inside the sugar mill.
With realization came fear. She had definitely felt a push from behind, meaning whoever had propelled her might still be around. She dare not cry for help. Testing first her arms, then her legs, she was gratified to find her limbs intact. She’d have to deal with a sore shoulder for a few days, that’s all. She knew that bumping her head hadn’t produced a concussion because she didn’t feel dizzy. She must’ve been merely stunned.
Pushing herself to a sitting position, she wondered if the intent had been to cause bodily damage or just to scare her. Ghosts didn’t shove people. Someone at the resort intended harm, whether physical or emotional. Had this same person thrust the painter’s ladder from the wall of the condemned wing?
Her neck prickled when she heard the bell tolling outside. Listening acutely, she caught no other sound except the rustling of dried leaves and the harsh cry of a seagull. Was it the wind swaying the bell, or someone’s hand?
An urgent need to escape the sugar mill forced her to her feet. Stretching her arms
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