Chapter Six
That night i fell into bed exhausted and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, only to come awake with a gasp and a start in that darkest of hours just before the sun appears on the horizon.
My heart was thudding so hard my straining ears could hear nothing but ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump .
What, if anything, had woken me?
I’d lived alone in Philadelphia; I shouldn’t be freaking out about being the only living soul inside Rising Moon.
Except Philly was home. New Orleans was a strange place, with an emphasis on strange.
Something scraped across the floor above me. I sat up; my neck creaked when I lifted my chin toward the ceiling and squinted. I don’t know what I expected to see. I didn’t have X-ray vision.
Holding my breath, I waited, but I didn’t hear anything else.
Still, something had woken me, made me nervous, even in dreamland. I wasn’t an easily spooked person, but I doubted I’d be able to sleep again until I made certain all I’d heard was a mouse, or a loose shutter, or the wind rippling through the eaves.
A few moments later, dressed and creeping barefoot up the back steps, I wished like hell for a flashlight, but there hadn’t been one anywhere in my room.
A scrabble, like fingernails against wood, sounded just ahead.
“Hello?” I called.
Something shot down the stairwell, something dark and small that screeched like the banshees of legend.
I flattened myself to the wall as it flew by.
Only when it had disappeared into the well of black below did the sound the beast had made register.
“A cat,” I managed. “Only a cat.”
Thunk.
My eyes lifted. “Or not.”
A cool breeze seemed to swirl in from nowhere, turning the sweat on my body to ice, and along with the breeze traveled an all too human whisper.
I’d never believed in ghosts; I was too practical for that. Of course, I’d never been confronted with one either. Seeing has always meant believing in my book.
Sullivan had referred to Rising Moon as “that cursed bar.” He’d said there were rumors the place was haunted, though from his manner he didn’t believe it. I hadn’t either.
However, standing in the whispering night all alone, I was forced to rethink my opinion.
I had to know the truth, so I took the remaining steps to the door at the top, turned the knob and walked in.
Despite my wide and staring eyes, I saw nothing, the darkness so complete it surrounded me like a velvet curtain. In the depths, something growled.
I flung out my arm, fingers groping along the wall. One flick and light glared down on the tiny room from the single bare bulb in the ceiling.
Near the heavily shrouded window stood a bed. In it a figure tossed and turned, moaning, muttering.
John Rodolfo seemed caught in the grips of a nightmare. He’d thrown off the covers; he wasn’t wearing any clothes.
I couldn’t help but see; I wasn’t blind. I couldn’t help but admire; I wasn’t dead.
His skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, which only emphasized the rippling muscles and smooth olive skin. For a musician he sported some mighty nice pecs and a decent set of abs. Had he been bench-pressing pianos?
Embarrassed to have walked in on him like this, I started to back out of the room, but he continued to thrash and moan as if in horrible pain and I hesitated.
I couldn’t leave him like this. I’d had nightmares—a lot since Katie disappeared—and I knew I’d rather be woken than forced to finish one.
“Rodolfo?”
The only response was another moan.
“John?” I spoke a little louder as I stepped a bit farther into the room.
“No!” he shouted, thrashing and straining upward as if someone were holding him down.
Now what? The sound of my voice seemed to be making him worse.
I stood in the doorway, uncertain. Should I shake him awake? That seemed forward, even for me. I bit my lip, shuffled my feet, sighed, and he stopped thrashing, turning his face toward the door. “Anne?”
I considered escaping to my room and saying nothing, but that would be cowardly, and I refused to allow it.
“Sorry,” I said. “I heard a noise. I didn’t realize you lived here.”
He sat up, reaching for the sheet, then drawing it across his lap. The motion only caused my gaze to slide there ahead of the white cotton, and I got an eyeful of something else that was mighty nice. I needed to get laid—soon—before I did something, or someone, really stupid.
“I—uh—” He put a hand to his forehead; he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. This was the first time I’d seen him without them, and he looked younger, even with his eyes shut.
Strange. Why keep them shut? Unless—
Before I could stop it, my mind flashed on an image of him opening his eyes to reveal gaping sockets. I winced and turned away. Just because the man couldn’t see me didn’t mean I should stare at him while he was undressed and dopey from sleep.
“I get headaches,” he said. “I come up here to lie down.”
“Migraines?” I glanced back as he patted the night-stand, found his glasses, slipped them on.
“Mmm.”