The Uninvited (Krewe of Hunters #8) 3

“A lieutenant who fought in the War of 1812 came here when he was wounded, and he died soon after. Another soldier on the Union side in the Civil War also died in that room. And yes, one of the Dandridge girls died there in 1890—she took poison to commit suicide.”

“And a few years ago, one of you was found dead in the room, right?” Todd asked her, wide-eyed.

“I’m going to give all this information when the tour gathers again,” she told him.

“Right?” he persisted. She felt acutely uncomfortable. Every old house had its history. Naturally some of it was sad and even distressing.

“Angela Wilson did die in that room. She had a heart attack while locking up one night.”

Todd regarded her solemnly. “She died sitting at Angus Tarleton’s desk, didn’t she?”

“Yes, Todd, she did. She sat down—she must have been winded. Like I said, she died there of a heart attack.”

“And somebody else died in the house, too,” Todd said. “A couple of years ago.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “Yes,” she admitted. “It was really a tragedy. A young college student decided to hack into the alarm system. The police believe he was pledging for a fraternity. He tried to break in and did something wrong with the alarm, and he was electrocuted. Everyone involved with the house was appalled, but—”

“And there was another guy. The woman on our ghost tour told us. One of the curators or guides or whatever you’re called.”

“That was in 1977. He fell down the steps and broke his neck,” Allison said.

“Fell? Or was pushed? I bet Beast Bradley pushed him!”

“Oh, Todd. Beast Bradley’s been gone for over two centuries. He’s not hanging around here trying to kill people.” Allison shook her head. “The house has been here for a long time, and over time, bad things happen.”

Todd frowned at her. “I think he is. I think he wanted to stay in Philadelphia, and he wanted to marry Lucy Tarleton, but she hated him. So he killed her, but he still didn’t want to leave the house. It was supposed to be his house. So he came back here when he died. And now he kills people!”

There was something about the boy’s insistence that made Allison uncomfortable. She loved the house, and she loved working here. She didn’t need this job; she’d gotten her degrees in history and was a college lecturer who also wrote articles and was currently doing research for a book. She worked at the house because she loved the people part of history, loved understanding the realities and nuances of everyday life far more than dates and figures. She’d grown up farther down on Chestnut Street and had admired this place all her life, and as a result she could answer questions that few others could. She’d respected the house, and she’d never wanted to sensationalize it by writing ghost stories. Like any historical place, it had an aura about it. She felt that same aura standing next to the Liberty Bell or when she went into Independence Hall, or any of the sites around the world where people had once lived and passionately taken part in the shaping of destiny. She couldn’t believe that Todd was suddenly making her afraid of this house.

“Like I said, bad things happen, Todd, and they happen everywhere. That’s why we go through life trying to drive properly, cross the street only when the light is green and take care of our health—because human beings are fragile.” She smiled. “I work here three days a week, and sometimes more, and nothing has ever happened to me. I usually close up by myself, too, and I’m just fine. And I’ve never seen a ghost.”

Todd looked at her oddly. “He likes you. He might not always like you, but he likes you right now. He likes women.”

The way the boy spoke was unsettling, and she told herself he was heading back toward being a raunchy preteen, acting in a manner that was natural for his age.

His mother walked up to them a moment later. “I’m Todd and Jimmy’s mom, Haley Dixon,” she said. “I’m so sorry if the boys have been bothering you. As you’ve probably heard, we did the ghost tour last night. There are all kinds of stories about this place, and they’re boys, and…” Her voice trailed off.

“Mrs. Dixon, Todd’s been asking me about the house, and he’s a good listener,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon smiled at her son. “Todd, I’m glad you’re curious, but we have to leave Ms. Leigh alone and allow her to give everyone her information at the same time.”

She seemed a pleasant woman, and a good parent, slightly at a loss as to what to do with a couple of boys. Her husband, viewing some of the portraits on the wall, turned. Grinning, he came over to join them, slipping an arm around his wife. “Artie Dixon, Ms. Leigh. You do a wonderful tour. Forgive my sons, please, if they’re too inquisitive.”

“No such thing in this house,” Allison assured him. But she stepped back to include her whole group. “All right, everyone, gather around and I’ll give you all the grisly details on some of the sad and tragic occurrences here, since it seems the ghost story guides are beating us to it.”

She told them about the soldiers, then reminded them, “In the past, many women died in childbirth. It was the norm to have your baby at home, so several of them died here. Many family members died of illness or simply of old age. Remember, all human beings are mortal and leave this world in some fashion!” She tried to speak lightly, looking at Todd. “Now, we’re going down the rear steps to the old food preparation room, and then we’ll head to the back to see the outbuildings.”

Allison managed to get her group out to the yard. The property still consisted of about an acre, with the majority of the grounds in the back. The kitchen stood off to her left, behind the dining room, with a covered path between them. It was a one-room kitchen, large with a massive hearth and spit and a multitude of rafters from which pans and cooking utensils hung. Glass-frosted cupboards showcased the family’s fine china and several sets of silverware, and one of her group murmured that it was probably the most complete example of an upper-class Colonial kitchen she’d ever seen.

They went across another, broader path to the carriage house. There were no horses now, but there were stalls and tack and three eighteenth-century carriages. As Allison let the group look at them more closely, Haley Dixon came up to her.

“There’s a ghost horse here, too, or so they said last night,” she told Allison, sounding a little apologetic.

Allison sighed. “Firewalker. He brought Stewart Douglas racing back to the house, heedless of the British after he heard that Bradley had threatened Lucy. Stewart was the man she really loved. She’d urged him to take the horse after he snuck into the city to see her once, because Firewalker was such an exceptional stallion he could sail through enemy lines. Firewalker was born and bred on the property, and carried Lucy Tarleton on many of her journeys in the middle of the night, when she rode out to bring information to the Revolutionary troops. He survived the war and lived to a ripe old age, then died here in the arms of Lucy’s sister, which means, of course, that we have a ghost horse. We have a ghost hound, too. With the imaginative name of Robert. He was Lucy’s, and when Bradley went to kill her, the hound tried to kill him. Naturally, the dog died, as well. We probably even have haunted squirrels,” Allison said.

Haley Dixon laughed. “I guess. It’s strange. The house is strange because so much happened in it. I’m not sure I could hang around here alone at night.”

Allison shrugged, smiling. “You get used to it, really.”

She announced to her group that she’d show them the graveyard next.

The family burial ground was a popular destination. Lucy Tarleton herself lay in a handsome private Tarleton crypt in a beautifully sculpted tomb. Allison described the workmanship and explained that it was common for wealthy families to have their own graveyards. She noted that Todd didn’t want to be in the cemetery; she was shocked to realize that she was anxious to end the tour herself.

It was finally time to usher her people out, but Allison was still disturbed by the way Todd looked at her as he left with his family. They were the last ones out the back gate, and he lingered. “A ghost can’t follow you home, can it?” he asked in a whisper.

“I don’t think so. I mean, if we do have ghosts, I imagine they’d just hang around here. Have fun tonight! Pinch a tavern wench somewhere, okay?”

He grinned at her. “You don’t mean that.”

“No. She’d slap you. But go forth and have fun and be a kid!”

When they were gone at last, she hurried into the house through the back door. She found Jason Lawrence in their small employee quarters behind the main pantry.

He had removed his Colonial garb and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that promoted his favorite band.

“Hey, you holding up okay?” he asked her.

“Yes, but it’s nice when four people actually work on the busy days,” Allison said. “We could’ve used Julian. I understand why Annette had to go—poor thing. She looked like she was in so much pain.”

Jason was an attractive young man, about three years her junior at the ripe old age of twenty-four. They’d been friends since they’d met, and although they had great chemistry together, it wasn’t sexual. They were friends. He raised his brows and let out a sigh. “We may all love him for being a clown and a prankster, but Julian can also be a total pain in the ass,” he said. “He thinks he’s going to get rich and famous—and that we’re all going to be grateful just to have known him. But you have to speak to him or to Sarah or someone else on the board, because this isn’t fair.”

“I’ll try talking to him first,” Allison said. “And then, if he doesn’t start acting more responsible, I will talk to Sarah.”

Jason nodded. “Mind if I scoot?”

“Hot date?”

“I hope so.”

“Go.”

“I hate to leave you alone…”