Haunted by Tamara Thorne

locals.
    Quickly, he made the bed, so that Mrs. Willard wouldn't discover his embarrassing secret. After the washer and dryer arrived, he'd launder the sheets himself. Gathering together his day's clothing, he wondered if the bedding was on loan from Theo or her agency or if she'd purchased it for him. He'd have to find out.
    He padded across the hall to the bathroom. He'd been so exhausted last night that he'd barely noticed the room, but now he looked around, exhaling air through his teeth as its garishness sank in. The room was a virtual twin to the green and rose one downstairs, but here the primary tiles were a disturbing shade of crimson--sort of a bloody cherry--with pearlescent pink trim. The other way around would have been much easier to take. Examining the shower fixture, which was ornate brass that matched the nouveau faucets and spindles quite well, he thought that it had probably been added in the late thirties, when Drake Roberts, a popular matinee idol, acquired the place as a weekend retreat. Though it wasn't apparent in his films, the actor was only five-foot-two, and the showerhead was mounted just high enough to hit six-foot-two David in the chest. Amber, at five-seven, probably got it square in the face. Another eighteen inches of pipe, plus a massage head, would remedy the situation. As for the rabid red tile, perhaps a ceiling full of fluorescents would cheer the place up for now.
    He showered and shaved, happy to see that the bruise on his forehead was barely noticeable, then, uncomfortable in the room, tucked a towel around his waist and carried his clothes back across the hall. He pulled on a pair of khaki Dockers, a T-shirt, and an Irish wool sweater. July or not, the weather was evidently always cool here, so far out on the headland. Sitting down to pull on his shoes and socks, he wondered why he disliked the bathroom and concluded it was purely an effect of the color. It depressed him.
    Too, Drake Roberts had probably died in that particular bathroom, if David recalled correctly. The actor had had a heart attack in a bathroom not long after he'd moved in. All that red, David thought, probably set it off.
    He smoothed the bed, then went to the window and released the latch on the casement windows and pushed the upper pane down. Inhaling deeply, he savored the freshness of the damp salt air. Stratus clouds etched the blue sky and gulls cried over the muted roar of the ocean. Pleased, he thought these sounds would be the perfect background music to write by.
    The lighthouse, ominous and imposing last night, now looked as scenic as a photo on a travel brochure. As he watched, Amber appeared from behind the structure and started back toward the house. He remembered that she'd said something about breakfast and his suddenly growling stomach ordered him to go downstairs immediately.
    But when he reached the stairwell, he decided to first take a peek in the third floor room that had hosted the spectacular phenomena the previous night. He only hesitated an instant before trotting quickly up the stairs.
    A little thrill of excitement wormed through his belly as he opened the door on the dormer room. Everything looked the same as it had last night, though the heavy atmosphere had dissipated. The light switch, he noted, had been switched off, which was a much more interesting phenomenon than the light bulb merely burning out. He flicked the switch and found that the bulb was fine.
    He walked into the center of the small room, then, hands out, walked in a spiral, feeling for cold spots. "Gotcha," he whispered, when he finally found a small slimy-feeling area near the west-facing window. Calmly, he pushed the fingers of his right hand into the orb and, as he expected, it slowly oozed further onto his hand, like a cold glove. These spots, he theorized, were akin to miniature black holes, and he always wondered what would happen if a bolt of lightning struck one. That, in fact, had been the subject of Dead Ernest,