stepped out again, the flush gurgling down the pipes, a light came on downstairs.
Fear gave way to reason. "Probably on a timer," he told himself. In the dim light, he glanced at the clock in the bedroom. Just past two in the morning.
Who the hell would set the lights to come on so late?
He answered himself right away: Someone without a proper alarm clock, that's who. Someone who wanted to get up in the dead of the night to go diving. Someone like Lori.
The light downstairs dimmed, then brightened again.
"Lori did this," he said. Downstairs, the light dimmed and brightened once more.
It's your imagination. A trick of light, like the shadow in the shower. The light's not dimming—or maybe it is, but not because of… It's faulty wiring. Happens all the time. Don't mistake poor craftsmanship with paranormal activity.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," he said aloud, though he didn't sound convinced, even to himself.
The light dimmed and brightened.
"Screw it," he said, and peered over the railing to the living room. The light by the chair at the bookshelf was on, barely enough to brighten the darkest corners of the room. Under the table, behind the sofa, anyone could be hiding.
"Hello?" he called out. Another flicker of the reading lamp seemed to answer him.
The darkened windows made him uneasy as he crossed to the lamp. You can look in , he thought, but you can't see out . He reached for the light switch. The bulb dimmed with a buzz. Brightened again.
That happened. Not my imagination. Gotta screw it in tighter .
Taking a tissue from the box on the end table to protect his fingers from the hot bulb, he reached up under the lampshade—
POW!
The bulb shattered, sharp little bits striking his fingers, plunging the house into darkness. Owen jerked his hand free, cursing under his breath. It hadn't cut him, but it had scared the living bejesus out of him, and now he couldn't see a thing.
What are the odds of that happening, huh, Mr. Home Inspector? You didn't even touch the bulb and it bursts like that?
"I don't know," he said, the wavering in his voice fueling his terror in the dark. He stood perfectly still, waiting for his heart to slow. Floorboards creaked and groaned, probably the house settling. Something tinkled to his right, at the bookshelf—not broken glass, but a small metallic sound. At least he could see through the windows now, black branches swaying in the cool night breeze. Cold comfort.
Can't stand here forever.
Finally his eyes adjusted to the dark enough to move. The main light switches were near the front door, so he headed there, careful of his footing, aware there was a low table around here some— there it is . He felt his way around it, bending to touch the tabletop. Past the table, you're home-free all the way to the door .
He bumped into something tall and fuzzy, and nearly stumbled back in fright of a shadow the size and shape of a man. He threw up his hands to defend himself from the intruder, and then squinted into the gloom.
Just the coat rack, idiot.
Chuckling nervously, he reached past it, slipped his fingers along the rough log wall until they grasped the light switch. He flicked on the overhead lights.
In his bare feet, he remained mindful of the glass, turned off the lamp and unplugged it, worried it might short circuit and shut out all the power in the house. He crossed to the kitchen, got the broom and dustpan, and swept up as many shards of the light bulb as he could find. He dumped them in the trash before returning to the lamp.
"Piece of crap," he said, looking down at the pale yellow-brown lampshade, decorated with dark brown beavers using logs as toothpicks. "Probably been here since they built the place."
Again, the delicate metallic tinkling came from the bookshelf. Curious, he moved toward it. Dozens of books lined the shelves, mostly mysteries—though likely not the same Mystery that Brother Woodrow spoke of—with titles by Agatha Christie, James M. Cain,
Fear gave way to reason. "Probably on a timer," he told himself. In the dim light, he glanced at the clock in the bedroom. Just past two in the morning.
Who the hell would set the lights to come on so late?
He answered himself right away: Someone without a proper alarm clock, that's who. Someone who wanted to get up in the dead of the night to go diving. Someone like Lori.
The light downstairs dimmed, then brightened again.
"Lori did this," he said. Downstairs, the light dimmed and brightened once more.
It's your imagination. A trick of light, like the shadow in the shower. The light's not dimming—or maybe it is, but not because of… It's faulty wiring. Happens all the time. Don't mistake poor craftsmanship with paranormal activity.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," he said aloud, though he didn't sound convinced, even to himself.
The light dimmed and brightened.
"Screw it," he said, and peered over the railing to the living room. The light by the chair at the bookshelf was on, barely enough to brighten the darkest corners of the room. Under the table, behind the sofa, anyone could be hiding.
"Hello?" he called out. Another flicker of the reading lamp seemed to answer him.
The darkened windows made him uneasy as he crossed to the lamp. You can look in , he thought, but you can't see out . He reached for the light switch. The bulb dimmed with a buzz. Brightened again.
That happened. Not my imagination. Gotta screw it in tighter .
Taking a tissue from the box on the end table to protect his fingers from the hot bulb, he reached up under the lampshade—
POW!
The bulb shattered, sharp little bits striking his fingers, plunging the house into darkness. Owen jerked his hand free, cursing under his breath. It hadn't cut him, but it had scared the living bejesus out of him, and now he couldn't see a thing.
What are the odds of that happening, huh, Mr. Home Inspector? You didn't even touch the bulb and it bursts like that?
"I don't know," he said, the wavering in his voice fueling his terror in the dark. He stood perfectly still, waiting for his heart to slow. Floorboards creaked and groaned, probably the house settling. Something tinkled to his right, at the bookshelf—not broken glass, but a small metallic sound. At least he could see through the windows now, black branches swaying in the cool night breeze. Cold comfort.
Can't stand here forever.
Finally his eyes adjusted to the dark enough to move. The main light switches were near the front door, so he headed there, careful of his footing, aware there was a low table around here some— there it is . He felt his way around it, bending to touch the tabletop. Past the table, you're home-free all the way to the door .
He bumped into something tall and fuzzy, and nearly stumbled back in fright of a shadow the size and shape of a man. He threw up his hands to defend himself from the intruder, and then squinted into the gloom.
Just the coat rack, idiot.
Chuckling nervously, he reached past it, slipped his fingers along the rough log wall until they grasped the light switch. He flicked on the overhead lights.
In his bare feet, he remained mindful of the glass, turned off the lamp and unplugged it, worried it might short circuit and shut out all the power in the house. He crossed to the kitchen, got the broom and dustpan, and swept up as many shards of the light bulb as he could find. He dumped them in the trash before returning to the lamp.
"Piece of crap," he said, looking down at the pale yellow-brown lampshade, decorated with dark brown beavers using logs as toothpicks. "Probably been here since they built the place."
Again, the delicate metallic tinkling came from the bookshelf. Curious, he moved toward it. Dozens of books lined the shelves, mostly mysteries—though likely not the same Mystery that Brother Woodrow spoke of—with titles by Agatha Christie, James M. Cain,
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