Page 41 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
She screamed again, slapping the hands that gripped her arms.
“Shea.” Pete’s voice broke through her panic.
Shea began to calm.
“—the heck?” Pete’s frown was barely visible in the dark inner room of the house.
Without another thought, Shea flung herself against him. Pete wrapped his arms around her, just as he used to do when they were younger. Only now it wasn’t for romance. It felt necessary for her survival.
Shea knew she looked a fright, but she didn’t care. Her spiral hair was springing in directions altogether reminiscent of attempting to catch a radio wave. Her hands were jammed into the pocket of her blue hoodie, and her flannel pants touched the tops of her bare feet, which were shoved into flip-flops. She was bordered by two men, one her husband, one her landlord, and both were investigating the window. They all stood outside, Holt’s large flashlight illuminating the area. Pete had insisted they call Holt after calling the police, who were half an hour away in Ontonagon. Holt would want to know, Pete had stated blandly. He was altogether unbothered by the event.
“Looks like blood.” Holt held the light at an angle to see the smears left behind on the glass.
“Itisblood,” Shea insisted, warding off a shiver. “I saw it on the hands when they slapped the window!”
“Maybe,” Pete said. “Corn syrup and food coloring can make good fake blood.”
“Why don’t you taste it?” Shea snapped sarcastically. Both men eyed her, and she dipped her head. She was scared. Freaked out. If either of these two guys had been standing in the oil room when the ghoulish invader had slapped their hands on the glass—well, they’d be more agitated too.
Holt crouched and shone the light on the ground below the window. “The grass isn’t even trampled.”
Pete squatted beside him, and Shea decided to join them, not wanting to be left out. Holt was right. The grass showed no signs of anyone ever having stood there.
“Where did you say this person went after hitting the window?” Holt asked Shea over his shoulder.
“The person sank,” Shea answered.
The guys both twisted to look at her.
“Sank?” Holt frowned.
“Yes, sank down below the windowsill and justdisappeared.” She knew she sounded a tad bit off-center from normal.
“So whoever it was bent down to get out of sight?” Holt clarified.
Shea winced. “I mean, if I was to say what itlookedlike? It looked like a hooded phantom with human, bloody hands that simply dissipated as they sank into the earth.”
“Oh,” Holt said.
Pete sniffed and nodded. “The ground is dry, so I suppose someone could have stood here and not left any indentation.”
Headlights swept across the yard as a vehicle came up the highway and turned onto the gravel drive.
“That’s the police.” Pete stood and went to greet them, still clad in his cotton sleep pants.
Holt stood also, but he lagged behind and looked down at Shea, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right?”
She drew in a steadying breath and nodded. “Scared,” she admitted, “but I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry about all this,” Holt stated.
“It’s not your fault.” Shea shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, if stuff like this happened when Jonathan Marks lived here, then I can see why the man went off his rocker.”
Holt’s hand gave the middle of her back a quick rub of reassurance, and Shea took strength from it, even as Pete and a police officer made their way toward them.
“Officer Ford.” He gave a short nod.
“Can you fill me in on what happened?” The officer retrieved a notepad and pen.
