A door slammed. It amused him now, these endless little dramas. Footsteps and creaks, whispers and weeping. It was almost as though he were part of it all. A caretaker, he decided. Making the house livable for those who could never leave.
He thought it was too bad none of the permanent residents ever made an appearance. It would be quite an experience to see, as well as hear. An involuntary shudder worked up his back, as if fingers had trailed along his spine.
And feel, he thought.
Footsteps echoed down the hall outside as he moved to the next sheet of drywall. To his surprise and curiosity, they stopped just outside the door. He watched the knob turn, just as the work lamp behind him went out, plunging the room into darkness.
He'd have suffered torments from hell before admitting that his heart skipped several beats. To cover the lapse, he muttered oaths under his breath, rubbed his suddenly damp palms on his spattered jeans. From memory, he fumbled his way toward the door. It swung open fast and caught him full in the face.
He wasn't muttering oaths now, but spewing them. Stars were revolving in front of his eyes. And, with disgust, he felt blood trickle from his nose.
He heard the hoarse scream, saw the ghostly figure in the shadows of the hall, and didn't hesitate. Pain and fury had him shooting forward like a bullet. Ghost or not, anything that gave him a bloody nose was going to pay.
It took him several furious seconds to realize he had warm flesh wriggling in his arms, and little more to recognize the scent
She was haunting him all right, he thought bitterly.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Rafe?" Her voice squeaked out. In the dark, she threw up her arms, one flailing hand catching him sharply on the chin before she managed the wholehearted embrace. "Oh, my God, you scared me to death. I thought— I don't know. I heard... I came up. Oh, it's you."
"What's left of me." Swearing, he set her firmly aside. There was enough light from the lamp hooked at the top of the stairs for him to see her pale face and hugeeyes. "What are you doing here?"
"I picked up some things at auction and thought I'd put them— You're bleeding."
"No kidding." Scowling at her, he swiped a hand under his nose. "I don't think you broke it again. Quite."
"I—" She rubbed a hand over her heart to make sure it hadn't exploded from her chest. "Did I hit you with the door? I'm sorry. Here." She dug in the pocket of her jacket and found a tissue. "I'm really sorry," she repeated, and began to dab at the blood herself. "I was just..." Helpless, she tried to disguise a laugh as a hiccup. "I didn't realize." She gave up, wrapped her arms around her aching stomach, and slid to the floor.
"It's a real laugh riot."
"I'm sorry. I can't stop. I thought—I don't know what I thought. I heard them, or it, or whatever. I just had to come up and see, well, if I could see. Then you came barreling out."
"You're lucky I didn't punch you," he said, with relish.
"I know. I know."
His eyes narrowed as he watched her fold with mirth. "I still could."
"Oh, help me up." Still chuckling, she wiped at her eyes. "Let's get some ice on that nose."
"I can take care of it myself." But he took hold of her wrist and hauled her, none too gently, to her feet.
"Did I scare you?" She tried to keep her voice meek and apologetic as she followed him to the stairs.
"Get real."
"But you heard—you heard it, didn't you?" She braced, held her breath as they passed through the cold spot.
"Sure, I heard it. Goes on every night. A couple times during the day."
"And it doesn't... bother you?"
It boosted his ego to be able to flick a disdainful glance over his shoulder. "Why should it bother me? It's their house, too."
"I suppose." She looked around the kitchen. It was all but bare, and still grimy. There was a small, dented refrigerator, a stove that was down to two working burners, and an old door propped on sawhorses that served as a table. Rafe went directly to the pitted cast-iron sink and ran cold water. "Do you have a clean rag?"
In lieu of an answer, he bent over and scooped icy water onto his face. Adopting a shamed pose, Regan folded her hands.