Excerpt:
With the sun’s rays shining between the green leaves of the trees surrounding the windows of his glass house, Plymouth Crest was enchanting. Gilded light shone through the leaves and branches creating yellow prism-like effects. And with all the green moss and thrush, it was enchanting—as if Alec lived in an English fae forest or Camelot, which he loved as a writer.
That was what happened during the day. But upon nightfall, all those large windows turned black. And then those same leaves and branches that covered the sunrays blocked moonlight. Then his house became very dark.
But not so quiet…
By the second week, he started hearing noises. At first, it was just stray creaks and cracks from the wood, and Alec figured it was simply the sound of an old foundation. But as time passed, he heard unexplainable things. Stray shouts and screams that sounded as if they were coming from the terrace outside. Doors opening and slamming shut downstairs. Kitchen cabinets left open. Plates and glasses being rearranged on the kitchen table. Doors left open all night. One morning, he even found the couch in the living room had been moved a couple feet. That was the creepiest. On yet another night, he awoke shivering. The glass balcony door of his bedroom was wide open. He was certain he had locked it.
As days passed, the noises only grew louder. One night a wooden chair tipped over downstairs in the dining room. Then another night, a plant was thrown from one of his tall cabinets in the foyer into the living room.
He began to not sleep. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he couldn’t deny the noises.
Tonight, for hours, he had just stared at the white ceiling over his bed in silence. He had stared long enough for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And after a while, the darkness made the faint moonlight that shone through openings in his dark mahogany velvet curtains seem bright.
His body jumped. His muscles reacted mechanically before he recognized the noise. It was glass shattering. Something had broken into pieces downstairs. It was so loud that he leapt out of bed and his hands scrambled along the walls to switch on the light. But the light wouldn’t switch on. That was weird because his old clock on the nightstand still read one-thirty-two in red digital letters, and the clock didn’t have back-up power. Electricity was another quirky thing about his house.
He opened the drawer in his nightstand by the bed. In his old house, he had always left a small flashlight by the bed. But the flashlight wasn’t there. It was probably still in one of the boxes in the garage. And he had left his cellphone downstairs.
There was more opening and closing of cabinets and drawers. This time, it wasn’t just stray noises, it seemed to be every few seconds. This didn’t sound like the usual cracks and creaks of some phantom haunting his place. He was worried there was an actual intruder.
He rushed along the inner balcony. Most of his downstairs could be seen from here, but his furniture—his couch, end table, and chairs—were cast in shadows by moonlight.
“Who’s down there?” Alec cried. “Show yourself.”
He was answered by another crash. That made him move faster, darting across his dark, empty living room and running straight to the source of the noise—in the kitchen.
He was wearing only underwear and felt a breeze before seeing the open kitchen door. After doors being left open frequently over the past week, he was sure he had checked the lock on this door before going to bed. He rushed over to shut it.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was home.”
Alec whirled around. That made the intruder on the other side of the kitchen island cover her mouth and snicker.
They stared at one another. Then she drew the apple up to her nose.
“What are you doing here?” Alec snapped.
“Eating an apple.”
“No, what are you doing in my house?”
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A.L.
Hawke is the author of the bestselling Hawthorne University Witch Series. The
author lives in Southern California torching the midnight candle over lovers
against a backdrop of machines, nymphs, magic, spice and mayhem.
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