Wrong Face in the Mirror: A Time Travel Romance (Medicine Stick Series) by Barbara Bartholomew Page A
Authors: Barbara Bartholomew
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started to pound. Almost she recognized that voice, that hoarse voice calling to her. Something about it rippled in her being like fear. Quickly she raced upstairs, closed the door behind her and locked it.
Then, instead of doing something sensible like calling the sheriff or even the Mountainside constables, she crawled into bed and buried herself under the covers. What could she tell them? That she was being haunted by a ghost from the past?
No repeat came of the clamorous noise from downstairs and she lay, stiffly awake for most of the night, only falling asleep when a cloudy gray dawn began to enter the world.
After breakfast she felt a great reluctance to go out her own door, but managed to eventually get up enough courage to open the door and tiptoe down the stairs. The evidence of her visitor from the night before was left in a number of overturned chairs and a small table lying on its side. Dishes lay broken into pieces on the hard floor.
The door, however, was locked and she had to unlatch it to get outside.
It seemed like it would be easier to explain over the phone than in person so she gave the sheriff a call once she was at work, told him what she’d heard, including the fact that someone had called out for Stacia from the darkness below her stairs.
“Don’t go back there until I’ve had a chance to check out the place,” Alistair said grimly.
“But you can’t get in. It’s locked and I have the key.”
“I’ll manage,” he said. Then he asked her what time she usually got home and said he’d be waiting there when she arrived.
The day passed slowly and several times she came close to falling asleep on her feet. Mr. Jeffers, her most dependable customer among the prisoners, asked if she was feeling well and she smiled and said, “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”
He nodded as though he understood, then went back to hunch over the latest Stephen King novel he was reading.
Hart, who had dipped into Salem’s Lot , thought she didn’t need to read scary stories because her own life contained enough spooky stuff. All day that almost familiar voice whispering her name had replayed in her mind, but still she couldn’t think of who it was and when she’d encountered it before.
By the time she drove into Mountainside’s brief downtown to her home, the day was already darkening with fat gray clouds that would have the local farmers hoping for rain and when she stepped out to where Alistair, clad in a heavy coat, waited in the doorway for her, she felt a continued sinking of spirits that had been low all day.
He was taking this seriously. It wasn’t something that had only happened in her imagination.
He greeted her with a nod, pushed open the door and followed her as she wove the way through the contents of the main floor, avoiding the area of recently tumbled furniture and dishes.
“Pack what you need,” he said. “You’re spending the night at your brother’s. It’s not safe here.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she kept going. “No,” she said with a dry mouth. “Not Tommy’s. Not right now.”
He didn’t ask for an explanation. “Then you can bunk out at my place for a few days while we figure out what’s going on.”
She didn’t look around this time. “I couldn’t do that,” she said in a tight little voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Look, we found footprints and fingerprints enough in the dust of this place, though so far no IDs on the prints. But somebody got in here last night and that somebody had a key. They could come back tonight.”
She led the way into her apartment, feeling safer once the door closed behind them. “Who could have a key?”
“Most anybody. Cully down at Pizza Plus said Mrs. Harris’ keys hung on a hook back in the kitchen. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to take them somewhere and make copies. I’ve got a locksmith coming out to change the locks, but he can’t get there ‘til tomorrow.”
She drew in a deep
Then, instead of doing something sensible like calling the sheriff or even the Mountainside constables, she crawled into bed and buried herself under the covers. What could she tell them? That she was being haunted by a ghost from the past?
No repeat came of the clamorous noise from downstairs and she lay, stiffly awake for most of the night, only falling asleep when a cloudy gray dawn began to enter the world.
After breakfast she felt a great reluctance to go out her own door, but managed to eventually get up enough courage to open the door and tiptoe down the stairs. The evidence of her visitor from the night before was left in a number of overturned chairs and a small table lying on its side. Dishes lay broken into pieces on the hard floor.
The door, however, was locked and she had to unlatch it to get outside.
It seemed like it would be easier to explain over the phone than in person so she gave the sheriff a call once she was at work, told him what she’d heard, including the fact that someone had called out for Stacia from the darkness below her stairs.
“Don’t go back there until I’ve had a chance to check out the place,” Alistair said grimly.
“But you can’t get in. It’s locked and I have the key.”
“I’ll manage,” he said. Then he asked her what time she usually got home and said he’d be waiting there when she arrived.
The day passed slowly and several times she came close to falling asleep on her feet. Mr. Jeffers, her most dependable customer among the prisoners, asked if she was feeling well and she smiled and said, “Just didn’t sleep well last night.”
He nodded as though he understood, then went back to hunch over the latest Stephen King novel he was reading.
Hart, who had dipped into Salem’s Lot , thought she didn’t need to read scary stories because her own life contained enough spooky stuff. All day that almost familiar voice whispering her name had replayed in her mind, but still she couldn’t think of who it was and when she’d encountered it before.
By the time she drove into Mountainside’s brief downtown to her home, the day was already darkening with fat gray clouds that would have the local farmers hoping for rain and when she stepped out to where Alistair, clad in a heavy coat, waited in the doorway for her, she felt a continued sinking of spirits that had been low all day.
He was taking this seriously. It wasn’t something that had only happened in her imagination.
He greeted her with a nod, pushed open the door and followed her as she wove the way through the contents of the main floor, avoiding the area of recently tumbled furniture and dishes.
“Pack what you need,” he said. “You’re spending the night at your brother’s. It’s not safe here.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she kept going. “No,” she said with a dry mouth. “Not Tommy’s. Not right now.”
He didn’t ask for an explanation. “Then you can bunk out at my place for a few days while we figure out what’s going on.”
She didn’t look around this time. “I couldn’t do that,” she said in a tight little voice she didn’t recognize as her own.
“Look, we found footprints and fingerprints enough in the dust of this place, though so far no IDs on the prints. But somebody got in here last night and that somebody had a key. They could come back tonight.”
She led the way into her apartment, feeling safer once the door closed behind them. “Who could have a key?”
“Most anybody. Cully down at Pizza Plus said Mrs. Harris’ keys hung on a hook back in the kitchen. It wouldn’t have been a big deal to take them somewhere and make copies. I’ve got a locksmith coming out to change the locks, but he can’t get there ‘til tomorrow.”
She drew in a deep
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