Copyright © Katherine Kingston, 2016
Mary Sullivan stared at the bathroom faucet that had just come off in her hand. “I don’t believe it,” she muttered. “I wonder if lemon laws apply to beach house rentals? This place is falling apart.” So far her efforts at quiet contemplation time had been thwarted by broken door hinges, a non-functioning stove, and a coffeemaker that insisted on blowing the breaker each time she plugged it in. Now a broken faucet.
“This place is cursed,” she told the rental agent who answered her call. “Every day something else breaks!”
The agent was apologetic and promised to let the owner know about the issues as well as sending someone out to fix the faucet right away.
She’d just hung up when a soft, female voice came from an empty corner of the room. “It isn’t really.”
“What the hell? Who’s there?” She looked around but didn’t see anyone else in the room. No one else should be there since she’d rented the place for herself alone.
“It’s just me.”
Was that a bit of fog in the far corner of the room? Weird, but the voice seemed to be coming from that direction.
“Is this a joke? Or a prank?” She had no idea who could be messing with her, though. Only her mother knew she was here, and wacky as Mom might be, this wasn’t her style.
“Not a joke,” the disembodied voice answered. “And the place isn’t really cursed. There’s a reason for all the problems. I just can’t tell you what it is yet.”
Danged if the fog didn’t appear to be moving a bit, swirling gently.
“Not all that helpful,” Mary said.
“It is, though. You’ll see.”
“Not if it means sticking around here.”
“Please, don’t go. It’s all right. Truly.”
Mary sucked in a breath. “On top of everything else, now I’ve either got a ghost, a prank, or a figment of my imagination haunting me. Why would I want to stay?”
“If I promise that nothing more will go wrong, will you stay?”