Page 35 of The Curse of Redwood

“Children,” Z said distastefully. “They are too curious. Much like you.”

“I’m not a child,” I whispered back, before creeping toward the window and peering out.

Z appeared beside me.

“I dare you to go inside,” one of the boys said, pushing the smallest of them toward a window. “Or are ya too chicken? Bawk, bawk.”

“I’m not scared,” he responded, grabbing the crow bar. “I’ll break in and steal something to prove it.”

“Do it then, hot shot.”

“Just be careful,” the other boy said, grinning. “The woman in black’s gonna get you! I heard she has a pale, white face and sharp teeth that she uses to tear open your throat.”

The one being pushed closer screamed and fell back on his ass. “Screw this! I’m not doin’ it. I’m out.” He took off running back around the house.

Z chuckled under his breath as the other two looked at each other and fled the backyard as well. “Many come snooping around the property, but none are ever brave enough to come inside.”

“Never?” I asked.

His smile fell. “Charlie Michaels came inside. Look what happened to him.”

“He was hit by a train,” I said, recalling what Florence had told me and Ben. “It was a freak accident.”

“An accident, yes.” Z stepped away from the window and headed toward the hall.

I hurried after him. “Didyoukill him?”

“Christ, no. What gave you such an absurd idea?”

“He was writing a book about Redwood. I didn’t know if anyone here thought he was a threat.”

“Quite the contrary.” Z turned right into a room and I trailed behind him like a little duckling. Art hung on the walls and an old radio sat in the corner—things left over from past owners. Z slowly spun an antique globe on a large oak desk. “William adored Charlie.” He paused. “So did I.”

“You did?” I asked, taken aback.

Z ran his hand over a leather-bound book. “Charlie used to sit right here and write. I liked to watch him.” He drifted toward a shelf and touched the spines of the books, a solemnness to his expression. “Charlie wrote detective stories and wanted to be one himself, but he said he was much better as a writer. So, he wrote about the things he wanted to do. He came across Redwood by chance. He heard about the axe murders and was interested in writing a true crime story detailing the events of the dinner party tragedy. One night, he came to investigate.” Z looked at me. “That’s when he learned of the hauntings.”

“Is that why he wrote the book of people who lived and died here? For his own research?”

“Precisely,” Z answered. “He never intended to publish it. It was part of his investigation of the curse. The mystery of it possessed him. Drove him part mad.” Sadness clouded his eyes. “Then, Charlie saw her. And I knew his fate.”

“Her?”

“You called her Lady Death.” Z came over and took hold of both my hands. “You see, she doesn’t kill anyone. She’s an omen. She is, perhaps, the most cursed of us all.”

“But Charlie saw her and then died. Doesn’t that make her evil?”

“It’s my belief that he killed himself,” Z said, squeezing my hands tighter. “The mansion played with his mind, Carter, just as I fear it will do to you. With each second you’re here, those vines sink deeper into your head, into your soul. Trapping you here, even when you leave.”

I felt those vines, ones that slowly pulled me back. I wonder if Charlie had nightmares too. If I tried staying away from Redwood, the nightmares got worse until I returned. Had that been what drove him mad?

“Did you love Charlie?” I asked. The way Z spoke of the writer with such softness in his voice made it fairly obvious.

“No,” he answered, slowly backing me up against the door. “However, I cared for him a great deal. Just as I do for you. I grieved when I learned of his death, yet death is such a common part of my world now. After him, I told myself I’d never get attached to a living person again. It’s much too painful.” He leaned in closer, ghosting his lips over mine. “And then you came here. Right when I saw you in that ballroom, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away. You captivated me, Carter. You still do.”

“You captivate me too,” I said, my face heating. “I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Is it desire or bashfulness that causes that endearing blush on your cheeks?” he asked, moving a hand along my jaw.