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Welcome to my world of eerie, yet romantic, October, 2009. I’m so glad you are visiting from Petit Fours and Hot Tamales. Now sit back and enjoy the ghostly ride.

The Ghost and Mr. Mallory

 Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Against the night’s inky blackness, faint outlines of tree branches bending over the one-lane path mimicked long limbs of death reaching out to snatch him into their lair. The road through the Louisana bayou was long and silent. Oppressive heat settled in around the car, negating any artificial cool air the vehicle dished out.

Cain Mallory, New York cop for ten years, slowed to a stop, illuminated the map with his NYPD-issued flashlight he’d failed to turn in and reaffirmed his status. He didn’t trust GPS’s, especially the ones with female voices. Female voices tended to take one down the wrong path; certainly every female voice in his life: mother, girlfriend, immediate superior on the force. Now, it looked like the woman of his dreams had the same thing in mind.

 Cain let the dim beam scan the hard-copy map -- written by a man – and retrace his steps since exiting Interstate 10 to his present spot deep in the land of marshes and moss-laden trees. He questioned his rash decision to leave New York and head south. He’d made the correct turn at the twelve-mile marker, but had he made the right choice to come chasing after the confusing dreams he’d had over the past twelve months?

Didn’t matter now. Second-guessing didn’t belong in a cop’s thinking pattern. He was here, sixty miles west of New Orleans, and his badge lay on Lt. Kate Jamison’s desk, thirteen hundred miles northeast, in New York. There was no going back.

 Curse words cluttered his mind as he tossed the map and flashlight on the seat beside him. She’d haunted him for 364 days, laid waste to his peace of mind. He’d find the transparent siren from his dreams tomorrow, one year to the day when she’d entered his life.

 Four more miles down the eerie path still rendered him empty-handed. Nothing but trees, rotting stench from the dark bayou waters, and shivers up the spine. For a New York street cop who had seen it all – or thought he had – those shivers were a rare event, unnerving him. He didn’t like that one damn bit.

 Just when the thought of turning around took a steely hold in his brain, a faint light flickered through the foliage. He blinked several times, then squinted to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. The shimmering radiance didn’t fade.

Finally.

He stepped on the gas, gripped the steering wheel and let the shaft of light pull him in. The glow sparkled through the leaves and moss, grew brighter as he approached, guided him to the drive and through the rusted iron gate.

 A sign, Magnolia Marsh Estate, hung crooked on the right side, pitiful and dying in the glow of his headlights, eerily identical to the one in his dream. A cold blanket of air smothered him for a mere second then lifted and allowed him to breathe again.

Cain clinched his teeth. He’d never been scared a day in his life, fought every battle thrown at him head on and defeated the enemy in each one. This would be no different. He inched the car forward to the steps in front of the wide veranda. The sidelights flanking the front door shown brighter, showered the entry with welcoming illumination – just as she’d told him they would in his dreams.

 He shut the engine off and stared. Waited. The large, blood-red door remained closed, standing out against the white brick walls surrounding it. Black shutters stood as sentinels on either side of the ten long windows lined along the front edifice. Columns, wider than oak tree trunks, braced the roof covering the veranda.

Old South charm from the heyday of the eighteen hundreds, now abandoned and alone. A dinosaur dying a slow death.

 Cain exited the Camaro, grabbed his Glock from the door’s side pocket and stuck it between his back and belt. He adjusted his jacket, then climbed the steps, never taking his eye off the door he headed toward, but aware of his peripheral vision. He pulled the key from his pocket, the key she’d referred to in his dreams, the key he’d found in the cubby hole of the desk at his apartment.

He shook his head. Maybe he’d been shot by an assailant and lay comatose in the hospital. Could any of this be real?

 “Stop second-guessing yourself.” His words shot into the stifling night air as he fingered the brass, then pushed it into the lock and turned. A click and the door moved from its position against the frame. Cain pushed the heavy wooden barrier farther inward with the tips of his fingers. He stood still, looking for movement, straining for sound, but neither materialized.

 A musty smell emanated from the opening. A single candle stood in its brass holder on a table against the stairwell, flickering with placid yellow light. Cain stepped over the threshold, stiffened again, waiting, waiting. Nothing. He brought the cold metal from against his back and pointed the gun out ahead of him in one direction, then another. Suddenly, the sweet scent of magnolias accosted his sense of smell, the same cloying scent from his dreams.

She was here.

~~~~~

 Cain awoke to intense brightness. The sun’s rays beamed through the milky panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows, striking his face and continuing along the dusty mahogany floor toward the foyer. He rose from the sofa he’d used as a bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and surveyed his surroundings. White sheets lay on mounds around the room like so many ghosts still in repose after a night of haunting.

The scent of magnolias still wafted throughout the room, reminding him of last night and the unfruitful search for the evocative image from his myriad dreams of the past year. He stood, stretched, and reached for his gun on the side table. The painting over the mantel drew his attention. He’d tried last night to study her image, but the faint light from the candle didn’t give him clear access to her beauty.

In the morning light, she sat regal in the winged-back chair, hands folded in her lap, eyes piercing his with a knowing smile illuminating her face. Ilsa Cameron Mariseau, only daughter of Charles Mariseau, land owner and Southern gentleman immigrated as a child from southern France in the late 1700’s and the genteel lady, Lyla Grace Cameron, of the Naughton Camerons, well-established in the new country since its beginning.

When Ilsa had come to him in his dreams for seven nights in a row, he knew she wasn’t a figment of his vivid imagination. He had taken to the internet in search of the woman who’d whispered her name to him as they made love, who’d begged him to return to her. He had no choice as the dreams and lovemaking continued every night, every week, every month.

Mona Lisa’s smile paled in comparison to the graceful curved lips of Ilsa Mariseau, those tantalizing lips that did strange things to a tough beat cop from Compton, New York. His gaze slipped to the slim fingers resting on the yards of material surrounding her familiar thighs and calves. Fingers that caressed his face, his back, his chest, his . . . . He couldn’t think the next word, for his breath had completely abandoned his chest and his mind fought to revive his lungs into working order. His head swam with dizziness.

He forced himself to step back toward the sofa before he fell to the solid boards beneath his feet, but couldn’t command his eyes to relinquish their hold on her exquisite beauty. She’d put a spell on him long ago, over a thousand miles away and the magic charm had certainly not surrendered it’s hold now that he stood in her home, gazing into her piercing blue orbs of pure lust.

Lord, have mercy on his soul.

~~~~~

Cain fumbled in his duffel bag for a Fiber One bar. The quick burger he’d had last night just before hitting the New Orleans city limits was long gone. He needed a little sustenance before continuing his ghost hunt. He tossed the wrapper back into his bag after the last bite and swallowed half his water from one of the bottles he’d brought along. Now for purpose of his visit.

Ilsa Mariseau pulled at his heartstrings and he meant to see her, other than in her portrait, today. Meant to hold her in his arms, to meld his body with hers. He’d had enough of life in this realm.

After his mother had abandoned him at age ten, he’d been leery of the female sex. Meeting the love of his life had changed his outlook for all of about ten months. He hadn’t been the love of her life. She’d burned him and he dove into his job with ferocity and lack of caring if he lived or died in pursuit of every perp. His boss didn’t alter his opinion one iota, rode his ass at every turn.

Now, here he stood chasing after another illusive female. Her offers were stronger than his will. He wanted what she’d promised:  a life with her in her world.

He climbed the staircase for the first time since he’d arrived. Last night, he’d been too tired to branch out from the main floor, especially with only one small candle and his flashlight to lead the way. He wanted to conserve both, in case of an emergency. Today the sunlight would provide all the luminosity he’d need.

At the head of the stairs and to the right, stood the door – narrower than the surrounding doors – he’d anticipated from his first step. He turned the knob and met with a slim set of steep steps to the next floor. Armed with his gun and light, he took the stairs two at a time, anxious, ready to come  face to face with Ilsa.

At the top of the thirty steps, another narrow door stood waiting. He opened it into a large attic, filled with cobwebs and furniture, trunks and mannequins covered with vintage clothing. Three small naked windows allowed sunlight. Dust motes danced in the air through the beams, swirled and floated when he stepped forward, then made him sneeze.

He aimed the flashlight to every corner, taking inventory, searching for the proper trunk. The floorboards groaned as he moved toward the closest trunk. He pressed down, lunging with his weight and heard a crack. Jerking back, he stepped around the weak board and tested another, then another until he felt solidity. He didn’t need to fall through the floor and ceiling and break his neck. Each subsequent step continued to give him pause until he met with the desired article:  a black leather trunk with bronze edges and latch.

He fished another key from his pocket, the second of three she’d sent him searching for on a scavenger hunt through his apartment. This one had been behind a baseboard in the bathroom. The latch clicked, thundering in his ears. He took a moment before lifting the lid to calm his anticipation of the contents.

A folded, dark green jacket lay neatly on top. Next to it, a white, somewhat effeminate-looking shirt with ruffles at the wrists. Not something he saw himself wearing. The guys at Station 42 would laugh their asses off if he showed up in an outfit like that.

But they wouldn’t see him. And he wouldn’t be with her if he didn’t wear the frills and fashions of her time. He would get used to it.

He lifted the coat and shirt out and laid them aside. A gold waistcoat glimmered in the pale light. Fawn trousers and highly polished black knee boots completed the trousseau. Only one more item. He knew, when he saw the small black velvet bag in the bottom corner, he had the final piece of his ensemble.

A gold signet ring tumbled into his palm when he untied the drawstring, a scripted M etched into the smooth surface. His heart did a double-pump. He’d expected it, because she’d told him so, but yet, he couldn’t quite fathom how each portion of his dreams came to fruition.

The gold in his hand was weighty, glittering, almost magical. His fingers tingled as he ran the tips across the engraved initial. Her family name’s initial, and his initial, too. He laid it aside and began stripping. His naked body shivered as he pulled off his boxers, even as the suffocating heat of the closed attic stifled his breathing.

Seconds later, he had donned the multiple layers of eighteen hundreds clothing, but surprisingly, felt no warmer than he had standing there in his birthday suit. He picked up the ring, stared for several seconds at the jewelry, then slipped it onto the third finger of his right hand. The fit was perfect. Another surprise, since he’d always had larger than average hands.

He turned and searched for the freestanding mirror. Another choice piece of information she’d given him.

Stepping over some crates, he shined the flashlight across the room and around the sides. Nothing. He rounded the brick chimney shooting through the middle of the room and the light reflected back at him. The tall, oval mahogany-framed mirror stood in the corner, his unfamiliar image starring back at him. He lowered the flashlight, stared at himself, straightened the waistcoat and pulled the outer coat together. Not bad – except for the ruffles.

The floor boards behind creaked. He spun around, reaching for his sidearm, but it wasn’t there. His blood ran cold as he remembered laying it aside to change. It sat several yards away along with his jeans. Surveying his surroundings, he saw no one, nothing frightening or detrimental to his health or life.

He took a deep breath and made his way back to his gun. The Glock slid nicely into the waistband of his skin-hugging trousers. Just as he began to relax another ominous creaking occurred behind him. He returned the gun to his hand, but this time, he didn’t have the flashlight. It lay next to the mirror.

“Damn, Cain. Can’t you think of anything?”

The dim light from the windows cast gray shadows all around him. He would feel better with the flashlight and made a mad dash to retrieve it. As he flipped the switch, another heady scent of magnolia perfume swirled around him, making him light-headed.

He turned around, inspecting every corner, every wall, every object filling the room. “You can come out, Ilsa. No one else is here.”

He waited, watched, strained to hear the rustle of her movements. Dead silence. Maybe the light frightened her. He shut it off and laid it aside. Then he tucked the gun at his back and stood frozen again, waiting for her appearance.

Clearing his throat, he tried to encourage her. “I’m here, Ilsa. Just as you requested. I’m dressed and waiting for you. You have nothing to fear. Our dreams were just a prelude to our wonderful meeting. Don’t hesitate; don’t be frightened.”

He clawed agitated, impatient fingers through his hair. Come on, he thought, what are you waiting for? Why wouldn’t she come?

~~~~~

Cain stood on the veranda, a cigar smoldering between his fingers as the smoke curled skyward. His intolerance of waiting around had gotten the best of him and he’d left the confines of the musty room after thirty minutes. A walk around the grounds in the daylight lifted his spirits a little, but he’d not come here to take in the beauty of the landscape. He wanted what his dreams had revealed to him. He wanted Ilsa . . . in his arms, in his bed, in his life for eternity.

She’d promised him that and he’d given up his career, his normal existence to follow the dreams and assurances she’d whispered in his ears. Now, hours had passed, nearly the entire day, and he didn’t care to spend another night alone questioning his sanity.

He watched the sun melt into the trees and the distant marsh, it’s disappearance rapidly painting the sky with pinks and purples, then oranges, then dusky blue until the night settled in. He sighed, tossed the cigar away and returned to the main room of the antebellum behemoth. Her portrait taunted him, her smile now smug. “Why, Ilsa? I’ve done what you said, came here, dressed just for you. Why keep me waiting?”

A chilling breeze wrapped around him and he couldn’t help the shiver running through him. Unintelligible whispers moaned throughout the corridors until he made out the words, “Tonight, my love.” Spinning around at her portrait again, he was awestruck as her blue pools returned his stare, her smile once again gripping. “Tonight, my love.” He’d swear her lips mouthed the sound. “The candelabra.”

The candelabra! He smacked his hand against his forehead. He’d completely forgotten the candelabra and took off on a dead run back to the attic where he’d left his clothes. The third key hid in his jeans pocket. How could he have forgotten?

In the attic, he tripped over various objects in the darkness, having left his flashlight up here, along with his senses. He was insane, letting those dreams, that woman, take over his life and muddle his mind. As a cop, he’d never let anything scramble his brains like this, especially a woman. He stumbled over an unseen mound and tumbled to the floor. “Damn!” His ankle throbbed inside his boot. Tugging to pull the right one off, he let out a string of curses as it refused to budge. He could feel the swelling, struggled harder to get the damn thing off.

After several minutes in a fierce battle, the boot finally relented. He stood to test his weight and the pain shot up his leg and spine as bad as the time he’d broken his arm trying to subdue a perp. He couldn’t have broken it. He couldn’t have. But the pain told him differently every time he put weight on it.

He hopped on his left leg toward his jeans and pulled out the third key, then grabbed the flashlight. He fumbled over every mound of junk, every piece of furniture heading toward door. Now he faced thirty steps down a narrow passage. He’d break his fool neck and would deserve it.

With no rail to hold onto, he braced his hands on each wall after shoving the flashlight in his front waistband, ready to hop. He decided that would be an automatic killer and sat down on the top step. He had one choice:  slide on his ass to the next floor. At the bottom, he dusted his butt as he stood and balanced on one good leg, then hopped to the third door to his right.

The final brass key, larger than the one to the attic, felt warm in the palm of his hand. He’d found this one behind a loose brick in the fireplace of his apartment’s living room. He pushed the key into the keyhole and turned. The door opened silently.

With flashlight in hand, he perused the room before stepping inside. A bedroom. Ilsa’s bedroom. The tall, four-poster canopy bed caught his eye first, then the equally tall armoire opposite the bed. The candelabra sat on a table next to the immense fireplace, pale tapers standing at attention, unlit. He didn’t have matches. How would he light the candles?

Before the thought drifted away, fire instantly spurted from the wicks. Cain flinched. A frisson of uncertainty wriggled up his spine. He’d come this far, no time for backing out. He killed the flashlight, then hopped over the threshold.

He took up the heavy metal candelabra and held it high. Shadows bounced off the four walls and light beamed back at him from an identical mirror to the one in the attic.

Her image quivered in the glass, transparent at first, then opaque, then solid. Her beauty in the pale light struck him hard: long flowing, full-bodied tresses, sensuous ruby-red lips. She reached out for him from the mirror.

“Come, my love.” The whisper caressed his ears and melted his heart.

“I’m here, Ilsa. I’m here.”

“No, my love. You must come.”

“Where? How?”

She didn’t answer. Continued to beg his presence at her side with outstretched arms.

He stepped forward, at first forgetting his injured ankle, then remembering two steps into his journey toward the mirror. He could walk without pain shooting up his leg. He stared at her image. Did she have the power to heal him? Her pleading arms pulled him toward her.

He stood mere inches from the glass’s slick surface. Now what? The double light from the candelabra and its mirror image made him squint.

“Come, my love.” Her fingers rippled in the air to encourage his forward progress. He reached out for them and found his hand disappearing into the glass. Stunned, he pulled away and stepped back.

“No, dear. Do not retreat.”

Cain labored for air, then reached out again. His hand disappeared; he moved closer. His arm disappeared. He took two more steps and felt the ripple as his body passed through the solid surface.

Ilsa took the candelabra, set it aside and gathered him into her arms. Her lips grazed his for the briefest of seconds before descending full force. He came alive in her arms.

~~~~~

Deidra Hamilton opened up the entry and ushered her potential buyer through the red front door.

“You’re going to love this place,” she said, sweeping her arm in an arc. “Such charm and grace. When you pour your money and sweat into this old icon of the South, it will come alive once more.”

Lyla Wheeler smiled. “I do believe you are right. I’ve had an itch to own this place for some time now.”

She waltzed into the parlor to the left of the grand foyer and stared at the portrait above the oversized fireplace. Their eyes gazed intently at her and she found she couldn’t look away. Ripples of the strangest nature washed through her body.

“Who are they? she asked the realtor.

“The original owners, Cain and Ilsa Mallory.”

Lyla stiffened.

“Her family’s been here since practically the beginning of this country, but no one seems to know a thing about him.” Ms. Hamilton strode toward the fireplace. “He suddenly popped into her life and it was love at first sight, so the story goes. Her papa demanded papers from the young man, but Ilsa told him right out that Mr. Mallory’s background didn’t matter. She reminded her father he’d come from humble beginnings in France and if he was good enough for her mother then Mr. Cain Mallory was good enough for her. They were married within the month.” Ms. Hamilton turned from the portrait to Lyla. “You know, dear, you look remarkably like Ilsa Mallory.”

Lyla smiled.

The dreams hadn’t been just dreams. The couple who appeared to her every night for the last year smiled down at her now. She recalled all the times they had begged her to come to Louisiana and find her place in the world. She hadn’t known what they meant then, but she’d finally heeded their words and was glad. She pressed the pamphlet revealing the home’s history and ancestry to her chest. Her great-great-great grandparents.

Lyla Cameron Mallory Wheeler shivered as the words, “Welcome home,” swirled and echoed through the air.

Now let’s test your reading knowledge:

 Where were the three keys Ilsa revealed to Cain found?

 ~~~~~

I hope you enjoyed this little romp through the strange and supernatural world I created. Please watch for excerpts from my other tales of ghosts, time travel, reincarnation and parallel worlds/alternate history.

I also hope you will return to Petit Fours and Hot Tamales to see what the rest of my blog sisters turn up in this wonderful Halloween Hunt.

CiCi