Ghost Hunt 2: MORE Chilling Tales of the Unknown (16 page)

Angie turned on the lamp next to her bed and reached for her pen and notebook.

I’ll do what the doctor said, and this one won’t come true,
she vowed.

Angie hoped the doctor was right. She really, really did. Because tonight’s dream had been the scariest one of all.

The shadow woman was in the dream tonight.

That’s the first thing Angie wrote down.

The shadow woman. Angie thought of her that way because she never saw the woman’s face. All Angie could tell was that she wore long dresses. And sometimes Angie saw something sparkling near her neck—maybe a necklace. Lately, the shadow woman appeared in Angie’s dreams more and more. She seemed to follow Angie wherever she went—watching and waiting.

What does she want from me?
Angie wrote in her journal.

Suddenly, Angie realized she was shivering. When did it get so cold? She pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Then Angie choked back a cry of fear. She remembered now.

Feeling cold.
That’s exactly how the dream had started. She was in her bedroom, sitting up in bed. She was writing in her journal, and she realized she was cold.

And in the dream she had pulled up her blanket. It was all happening exactly the way she’d dreamed it.

No!
she thought.
No, no, NO.

Angie knew she couldn’t stay in bed one minute longer. She threw off the blanket and got out of bed. Beneath her bare feet, the wooden floor was icy cold.
I closed all the windows before I went to sleep. I know I did,
she thought.

She glanced over at the windows. Sure enough, they were
shut tight. But still she felt cold air sweeping through the bedroom.

That meant the draft was coming from another room. Angie took a step toward the bedroom door, then stopped. She had done this in her dream, too! She had gone out into the hall to see where the cold air was coming from.

She didn’t want to do that now, but she was so cold that her teeth were chattering. She felt as if her blood were turning to ice. She had to find the open window or she would freeze. She
had
to go out into the hall.

The upstairs hallway was long and dark. Angie blinked. She couldn’t believe it. Before she went to sleep, she’d put night-lights in every outlet. They should have been shining, lighting the hall. But every single light was out. The hall was so dark, she couldn’t see a thing. She didn’t know where the wall was—or the railing for the stairs. Slowly, carefully, Angie started down the dark hall.

She stayed close to the wall on her right. She brushed her fingers against it to keep her bearings. The air was even colder now. Angie could see her breath making white clouds—even in the deep darkness of the hall.

She stopped abruptly, a sob trapped inside her throat.

This was in the dream, too,
she realized. And then she realized something else.

In the dream she’d been here, feeling her way along the pitch-black hall. And the shadow woman had been right behind her.

Angie’s fear turned to pure panic. She wanted to turn around and look. She needed to see the shadow woman’s face. But she was terrified of what she would see. And she was sick of being so scared.

Maybe I’ll turn my head, just for an instant,
Angie told herself.
Maybe there’s no one there after all.

She heard a soft, rustling sound. Like long skirts brushing against the floor.

Angie could feel the shadow woman there, standing just behind her. She dared a quick glance back over her shoulder. She saw only darkness—and something glittering, like a dark gem on a necklace.

“No!” Angie screamed. She tried to run—and felt her knees buckle under her.

Angie stumbled and fell. She hit the floor hard, landing on her side. Her hip hurt. She knew she should get up and run. But she was so terrified, she couldn’t get her muscles to move.

That’s when she heard the sound. It started low, then swelled until it seemed to fill the house.

Horrible, mocking laughter. A woman’s laughter.

Frantic now, Angie pushed herself to her feet. Her legs felt weak, as if they were made of rubber bands. She stumbled down the last few feet of the hall, still using the wall as her guide. The rustling sound came closer. The laughter grew even louder.

Without warning, Angie’s right hand met open air. She
teetered, windmilling her arms to keep from falling down the stairs. Her right hand smacked hard against the banister. Bright spots of pain danced before Angie’s eyes. But she gripped the banister and held on tight.

The laughter stopped, as if it was a recording and somebody hit the off switch.

Angie started down the stairs.
One. Two. Three.
Clinging to the banister, she counted the steps as she made her way down. The house was silent now. The only sounds Angie could hear were her own breathing and the pounding of her heart.

At the bottom of the stairs, Angie could see an eerie glow.
That’s the living room,
she thought. She started toward it.

She gave a little cry of fear as she remembered. In the dream she’d gone into the living room—to find out what had been causing the strange glow.

Do something else,
she told herself.
Do
anything
else.

But somehow she couldn’t. It was as if there were a script that Angie had to follow and she couldn’t change one line. In the dream she’d gone into the living room. She knew that was exactly what she had to do now.

Angie walked to the living room, then stopped in the doorway. The big sliding doors were open. The window shades were up, even though Angie always pulled them down at night. Light from the big streetlamp flooded into the room, bathing it in a cold, white glow.

Just a streetlight,
she thought.
Not so scary.

In fact, she didn’t remember this from her dream. Angie felt herself relax a little. Maybe the nightmare was over. She could turn on the lights. Check out the rest of the house, and maybe even go back to sleep.

Then Angie’s eyes were drawn to the fireplace. That’s where the light was strongest. Above the mantel hung a portrait of a woman. Angie’s friend Ellen, who owned the house, said that the woman in the painting was named Eloise Cavanaugh. Angie knew that Eloise was the first owner of the house.

Angie stared at the portrait. And she noticed something she hadn’t before. In the painting, Eloise Cavanaugh was wearing a pin. It was a spot of color on the high collar of her black dress. The gem in the pin looked like a ruby, sparkling at her throat.

The shadow woman wasn’t wearing a necklace,
Angie realized.
She was wearing a pin.

Just like the one in the painting.

Angie made a strangled sound.
That’s her,
she thought. Angie remembered now. She remembered the pin. She could see it in her mind’s eye. Pinned to the front of the dress the woman wore in the dream.

The shadow woman, the woman in Angie’s dreams, the woman who
haunted
her dreams, was Eloise Cavanaugh.

Slowly, Angie walked to the fireplace. She gazed up at the portrait. Eloise’s sharp blue eyes seemed to glare down at Angie.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Angie whispered. “You’re the one in my dreams. You hate me, don’t you? But why? What have I ever done to you?”

CRASH! BANG!

Angie whirled around at the sudden explosion of sound.

CRASH! BANG! BANG! CRASH! BANG!

The sliding doors at the entrance to the living room slid open and closed with terrifying force. They smashed together, then hurtled back along their tracks to slam into their hiding places inside the walls. The whole room shook. The windows rattled.

And over it all, Angie heard laughter once again. Eloise Cavanaugh’s laughter. Angie clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Why are you doing this? Please, please, stop!”

CRASH!

With a final explosion of sound, the doors slammed shut. Silence filled the house once more.

Angie crossed the room until she stood before the closed doors. What would happen when she tried to slide them open? Was Eloise Cavanaugh waiting for her on the other side of the door?

Angie curled the fingers of her right hand into the little groove that was the handle for the door, then tugged. The right door slid open without a sound. Angie darted through it.

She ran as hard and fast as she could for the kitchen. She knew what she was going to do now. There wasn’t a sleep doctor on Earth who could help with what was going on inside this house.

But Angie thought she knew who could.

She skidded into the kitchen. Her fingers grabbed the wall switch and turned it on. Angie blinked in the bright light. There! The newspaper article was on the kitchen table, right where she’d left it.

Angie snatched up the phone. She punched in the number listed in the article. Who cared if it was the middle of the night? Everybody had voice mail or an answering machine. They’d get the message. They’d come and help.

“Thank you for calling The Atlantic Paranormal Society,” a pleasant young woman’s voice said in Angie’s ear. “Please leave a message, and we’ll be in touch as soon as possible.”

“Help,” Angie said into the phone. “You’ve got to help me. I have these dreams… these terrible dreams. You’ve got to make them stop.”

Lyssa Frye tossed her purse into her desk drawer and sat down. The light on the TAPS answering machine was blinking off and on.

Time to find out who needs our help today,
Lyssa thought. She pressed the button to play back the messages.

There was only one.

Lyssa listened to the message once, twice, then started on a third time. And still she didn’t write down a single word. Instead, she sat, her eyes wide open, tingles running up and down her spine.

As she listened to the message for the third time, Jason and Grant came into the office.

“Hey, Lyssa,” Grant said. “How’s it…” Lyssa swung around to face them, and Grant got a good look at her face. “Whoa.”

He crossed the room quickly, with Jason right behind him.

“It’s okay, Lyssa,” Jason said. “Just tell us what came in.”

“You guys,” Lyssa said, finally finding her voice, “you really need to hear this one for yourselves.”

“This team has a decision to make,” Jason said a little while later. “We got a disturbing phone message overnight. It’s clear the woman who called us, Angie Larson, is very upset.”

“She’s more than upset,” Lyssa put in. “She’s terrified.”

“No doubt,” Jason agreed. “But she says she’s having bad dreams. The question is, is that really a case for us?”

“You spoke with Angie this morning, right, Lyssa?” Grant asked. “Did she explain why she called TAPS and not somebody else?”

“Yes.” Lyssa nodded. Quickly, she looked at her notes. “For the past few months, Angie Larson has been having really scary dreams.
They began soon after she started living in her friend Ellen’s house. She’s staying there for a year while her friend is overseas.”

“What kind of disturbing dreams?” Mark asked.